“Got me a real good deal on the watch and rings,” he told her. “Bought you a bag of sugar, that was what you wanted.”

  She nodded and reached out to him. He put the sugar in her hands, a big thick bag of it, but then the seams busted open and the sugar poured out, white and fine, and she couldn’t hold on to it and he laughed and laughed, right up until she threw the bag at him and got sugar all over his good clothes and he dragged her back in the house—

  “Where are you?”

  “On the couch.” Her voice sounded smeary and deep and strange. He held her face down in the dusty cushions. Teach you, missy, teach you good.

  “What is he doing on the couch?”

  It hurt, it hurt so bad, she begged him to stop, voice choked with dust and tears, but he didn’t stop, and he didn’t say a word, never a word.

  In the distance that noise went on, an animal crying.

  When he was gone she lay on the couch alone in the oppressive heat, dress twisted up around her waist, and when she licked her lips she tasted sugar and sweat. The pickup rattled like a cough and sputtered away.

  And the noise went on and on and on, until she grabbed her head with both hands and screamed for it to stop, stop, stop.

  “What does the noise sound like?”

  “Dog,” she muttered, and battered her fists against her skull. “Dog barking. Dog.”

  “Is it your dog?”

  “Dead.”

  “Your dog is dead?”

  She remembered the mound of dirt in the back, Daddy shoveling and stamping it flat.

  “Everything’s dead now.”

  She sat up and smoothed her dress down over her legs, tugging the rough faded cotton into place. Her underpants were filthy. She washed them out in the tiled bathroom in lukewarm water, scrubbed with soap until her hands turned red.

  The telephone rang, one short, two long, her party line code. She left the panties to dry on the side of the sink and hurried to the kitchen where the black, heavy phone sat. She held the receiver to her ear.

  “Who’s talking to you?”

  It was Dora Jean Garrison. Terrible, just terrible. Sheriff Parker’s out there now.

  “What’s Dora Jean telling you about?”

  Found the body. Found the body.

  She let the telephone slide out of her fingers and thump back on the cradle, cutting off Dora Jean’s buzz in midword.

  She went to the door at the end of the kitchen.

  Darkness.

  “Abby?”

  She looked up suddenly, surprised at the creak in her muscles, and saw Dr. Urdiales sitting tensely on the edge of the armchair across from her. He relaxed and leaned back but she’d seen the anxiety on his face and wondered what the hell had happened.

  “Yes?” The room was dark and quiet, only the reassuring tick of the grandfather clock to mark time. She glanced over and saw the gleam of the gold clock face.

  Six forty-five.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Fine.” Now that she thought about it, better than fine. Relaxed. She smiled and said, “Very good. But that was a lot longer than I thought we were going to be—we started at four-thirty, right?”

  “Closer to five, I should think, but yes, it was a long session. I didn’t want to stop you.” He was looking at her very strangely. “What do you remember?”

  That was a good question, and she wasn’t sure she had an answer. She shut her eyes and saw a flash of red sunset, a face, tasted sugar.

  “I’m not sure.”

  He looked as if he intended to ask another question but shook his head and stood up instead. She stood, too, hearing a creaking protest from knees locked too long in the same position.

  “I need to review the videotape before we discuss the session, Abby, if that’s all right with you. May I make an appointment with you for later this week?”

  He opened the office door and stood politely aside while she walked out to the empty reception area. He slid into Carolyn’s chair and inspected the appointment book, tapping the paper with a sleek Mont Blanc pen.

  “Do you believe me now?” she asked him as he wrote her in on Thursday. The pen froze for a second. He finished what he was doing, sat back in the chair, and met her eyes. “Or do you just think I’m crazy?”

  “Do you want my honest assessment?” At her nod, he crossed his arms over his chest and said, “I think it is very likely that what you interpret as having occurred in a past life may be repressed and heavily fictionalized memories.”

  She stared at him for a long time, then reached out for the appointment card he held out.

  “In short,” he said, “I believe you. And I think it is more important than ever for you to stay away from the Jordans and Fall Creek.”

  She dialed Terry’s number one-handed as she stared out at the sunset. When he answered, she said, “I want to talk to Custer Grady.”

  After a long pause, he said, “I want to bump hips with Cindy Crawford. What’s your point?”

  “You can get me in to see him. You’re a cop.”

  “I ain’t seen you do anything for me yet,” he said. She let the blinds snap closed and sat down on the couch, pulled her legs up underneath her. On the other side of the room a sitcom played without sound. Carlton lay watching it, head on his paws, doggy eyes lazy with boredom.

  “What exactly do you want me to do?”

  “Stay away from him.” His voice went deeper, raspier. “You want a good fuck, you could sure do better than that little half-fag.”

  “Do you want me to tell you all about it, Terry, is that what you want? You want to hear about me and John Lee in that big iron bed, is that it? Why is that? It’s not because you’re jerking off to the sound of my voice, is it? More likely John Lee’s.”

  “Shut up!” She’d finally gotten under his skin. She heard the rage shimmering right out of the telephone receiver. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Then tell me.”

  Silence, His breathing was rough. In the background she heard a shadow of laughter that matched the silent pratfall of the sitcom on her television. “Will you take me to see Grady?” she pressed.

  “You making some kind of an offer here?” he asked, the edge still in his voice. She swallowed a throat full of ache.

  “Maybe. Will you take me to see Grady?”

  The silence was very long. The sitcom gave way to a bright, chirpy commercial.

  “You better not dance around with me,” he breathed. “I mean it, now. You want to see Custer Grady, I’ll take you to see him, but I’m gonna want something in return.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said. “I know.”

  “Day after tomorrow. I’ll hook it up. You be ready at eight A.M. sharp, I’ll pick you up.” He didn’t give her time to say anything. The irritated click of the phone chewed at her ear until she hung up.

  Carlton turned his head to look at her. She smiled at him with trembling lips and said, “Good dog, Carly. You’re a very good dog.”

  He whined and put his head back down,

  The Christmas season was always light, as far as lessons went—kids got lazy, got sick, or got excused. After all, there was always next year.

  Her one shining exception was Delilah Kimble. Del never missed a lesson, unless she was so sick her parents refused to let her out of bed. She never blew off the lesson. She practiced.

  And, most importantly, she had the fire. Abby closed her eyes and listened as Del blazed her way through the opening, deceptively simple phrases of the Debussy Clarinet Concerto—a little too loud, a little too rough, but those were things that time would smooth out. Del had an almost uncanny feel for texture. The notes she played had a clear beginning, middle, and end, and she never played throwaways. Not bad at all for a seventeen-year-old. Del no longer worried about getting into the Texas All-State Band—hell, she’d done that in her sophomore year. She was now worried about what chair she was in the All-State Band, and whether she’d end up as one of the eight All-State Orchestra clarinetists or only as a dreaded alternate.

  Abby wished all her kids had such problems. As Del finished the first section, she intervened and had her play a couple of rough spots again, for confidence. Del’s pale, angular face tightened with concentration, but there wasn’t any fear in her. She didn’t dread performance; she lived for it.

  The tougher the material, the better.

  “Miz Rhodes?” Del asked when she’d reached a breathing spot. Abby blinked and looked over at her. Del dropped her eyes. “Do you think I can—can really do this? I mean, for a living, later?”

  Abby regarded her very seriously, the slender, fragile-looking hands, the tensed body. “It’s tough. It’s very, very tough, I’m not going to lie to you about that. Performing is the most competitive thing you could do with your life. Every audition, you’ll go head to head with three hundred other players just as good as you are, and maybe better, and half the time it’ll come down to politics and favors as to who gets a seat. You’ll have to deal with arrogant jerks, and that’s not even mentioning the conductors.”

  Del’s fingers worked the keys of her instrument, a fluid, graceful dance, and she shook her head. “My mom says I should go to college and get a real job. You know, something secure. She says music’s no good.”

  “That’s true.” Abby let it lie there, cold and brutal, until Delilah looked up at her. “It’s not good at all for making money. You’ll never have a big house and nice car and money in the bank. If you do it, you do it for the love of it. That’s all.”

  “Should I go for it? Do you think I should?”

  Abby hesitated, then reached out and patted the girl on one bony shoulder. “Play. Play as much as you want. You’ve got a shot, Del, I’m not lying to you. If you keep working, keep practicing, you’re going to be good enough. The question is, do you have enough desire? Because that’s what you must have to go the distance.”

  “You didn’t,” Del said, and put her hand to her mouth in horror that she’d blurted it out.

  Abby grinned. “Yeah, you might end up like me.”

  Del blushed and said, “I think that’d be just fine, ma’am.”

  Abby hugged the warmth close for a few seconds, staring at the kid, and then said, “Buttering me up isn’t going to get you out of playing this again, you know. Start here.”

  She sat and listened to Del’s beautiful music for one uncritical moment, and wondered how in the world the girl would ever get out of Midland, Texas, with a drunk for a father and a hardworking, lower-middle-class mother who wanted to keep her child safe. Maybe she could make it, though. Enough talent, enough sheer dumb stubbornness, and she might just make it somewhere.

  A tap on the door interrupted both Del’s playing and Abby’s thoughts. Harris stuck his head in and said, “See you a minute?”

  Abby nodded and eased past the metal stand to join him out in the hall. He closed the door, looked at his shoes, and said, “We’ve got to tell her some bad news.”

  “What kind?” Abby frowned. He heaved a sigh and looked around the band hall with its jumble of plastic chairs and matte black metal stands, its busy emptiness.

  “Her dad crashed his car head-on into a concrete abutment out on 1-20. He’s on life support but it doesn’t look good. Her mother’s coming to pick her up.”

  They both knew what it meant—huge medical bills, emotional trauma, no money for Del’s college and even less to indulge anything as unnecessary as music. Abby bit her lip against a surge of tears and said, “I’ll tell her.”

  “No, that’s my job,” Harris said. He had a frown grooved between his eyebrows and rubbed at it in distraction. “Damn it, why her? Of all the kids I’ve ever taught, she’s the one I’d pick to make it. Now this.”

  Abby took a deep breath and shook her head. She stood to one side as Harris opened the practice room door, and waited while his voice, hushed and quiet, delivered the news.

  Del was too bewildered to cry. When Abby looked in she saw Harris sitting uncomfortably next to her as Delilah methodically broke down her instrument and put it away, swabbing each section carefully. Her hands were shaking but her face looked rigid and blank.

  “Your mom will be here in just a little while,” Harris said. She nodded and stowed the swab in its plastic bag, folded it carefully, and put it in the proper slot. “Can I get you something? A Coke?”

  “Thank you, sir, I’m all right.” Del looked up at him, then past him to focus on Abby’s face. Her brown eyes were so desperately empty. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Maybe we can have a makeup lesson.”

  Abby bit her lip and turned away as tears bloomed in her eyes.

  Morning dawned dull and cheerless. She woke and stared up at the darkened ceiling and tried to remember what it was she was waking up for—no lessons today—no school—

  Terry. Terry was taking her to see Custer Grady, and he’d be ready to go at eight.

  She showered and dressed in plain, sturdy, warm clothes, and waited at the window as a few mournful-looking neighbors wandered out to their cars and drove away. At 7:58, a pickup truck made the turn into her apartments and pulled to a stop beside her own car.

  He honked.

  She locked the door behind her and hurried across the yard toward him—and even though she was on her way, he laid on the horn again. She saw curtains and blinds twitch as neighbors peered out. She opened the passenger door and climbed inside without looking directly at him, slammed the door, and belted herself in strict compliance to state law.

  “Morning,” Terry said. She shot a quick glance in his direction. He looked different without the uniform, less imposing. He wasn’t looking at her, either. “Coffee in the thermos if you want it.”

  He put the truck in reverse and put his arm across the back of the seat, close enough that it brushed her hair and felt warm across her neck. She kept facing forward and watched her apartment recede in the headlights.

  After Terry had turned the truck onto highway blacktop, she twisted the top off of the thermos and breathed in the earthy smell of fresh, hot coffee. He handed her a small Styrofoam cup—clean; she checked—and watched her pour. She blew on the steaming surface and watched the road.

  “Might as well get comfortable,” Terry said. “Mind pouring one of those for me?”

  She silently found another cup and poured. When she passed it over he handled it with smooth confidence, never taking his eyes off the road, sipped and pulled a face.

  “Damn, I never did learn to make decent coffee. Should have made you bring it.”

  She decided the bait was too obvious, shook her head, and turned to stare out at the dim, hazy countryside. The sun was fighting to get up but the clouds weighted it down. They wouldn’t be passing through Fall Creek, which was a mercy; she didn’t think she could stand the guilt of driving past John Lee’s house just now.

  “What do you want to talk to Custer about?” he asked. Radio stations gabbled and hissed as he began dialing for choices.

  “John Lee.”

  “Hell, might as well turn around right now. He can’t tell you anything about him.” Terry settled on a station playing old country favorites, slide guitar and nasal-voiced cowboys. “You want to know about John Lee you just ask; I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

  “No offense, Terry, but I don’t think you could exactly call yourself unbiased. You guys have hated each other for so long you don’t really even see each other anymore, just a target. Even the insults have gotten old.”

  Terry nodded. “Until you came along.” He seemed strangely pleased. “Never knew he was vulnerable like that. He always had a steel stomach and an iron ass, but when I had you spread-eagled on the car, damn, the look in his eyes. I think he might’ve shot me if he’d had that damn shotgun of his.”

  “And you’re happy about that?”

  Terry shrugged, yawned to show wide white teeth. He slurped coffee. He smiled crookedly at her when he saw she was staring.

  “Tell me why you’re with him,” he said. She immediately looked away, out the window. “And don’t you tell me he’s a good fuck or I’ll smack you one.”

  He was half joking, but only half. She said nothing, staring out at West Texas, thinking how dry it was, how unforgiving. Maybe that was what had made Terry so bitter. The view.

  “Fuck you, then,” Terry muttered, and turned up the radio.

  She fell into a light, uneasy doze and woke up when the truck lurched to a stop. Terry opened his door and got out while she was still blinking away sleep, and she caught sight of the rank of square sunfaded pumps out of the driver’s-side window. Terry saw her watching, opened the door, and said, “You’re paying for the gas.”

  She nodded and dug in her purse for her wallet. Once she’d found it she stared stupidly at it, convinced for a second that it wasn’t hers, because hers was brown leather, wasn’t it? But the moment faded and she opened the blue zippered wallet and checked her cash supply. She handed Terry a twenty. He took it without comment and walked toward the leathery old man behind the counter. She couldn’t help noticing that Terry’s jeans fit well—not as well as John Lee’s, maybe, because Terry had more of a linebacker’s build and thick, muscular legs. She caught herself staring and slumped back against the seat. The sun visor was down, revealing what a car salesman would have called a vanity mirror. She looked at her pale skin, the dark circles under her eyes, the unruly mess of her hair, and thought vanity was probably the wrong word.

  “What are you doing?” she asked herself. Mirror-lips asked the same question. “What do you want?”

  She shook her head and flipped up the sun visor, cutting off the questions. Terry came back and climbed in the cab and turned the engine over.

  “How much farther is it?” she asked. She started to unscrew the top of the thermos.

  “We’re here.”

  Coffee sloshed, barely in the cup as she flinched.

  “Huntsville?” she blurted. “But—”

  “Huntsville’s a goddamn ten-hour drive. Do you think I’m insane? I never said I was taking you to Huntsville, and anyway, you didn’t say you wanted to go to Huntsville.” Terry was enjoying her freak-out. He’d put on his aviator glasses, his cop face with them. “You said you wanted to talk to Custer Grady. Custer left the prison weeks ago, and he left the town proper yesterday.”