Four missing-person reports-photocopies, taken from various police departments-lay across her breakfast bar. There were names typed across the tops, and they all had three-by-five snapshots attached with paperclips: Samantha Carlson, Vivian Marie Patinski, Kathy Somerfield, Cynthia Stone.

Mary looked at the typed pages and tried to ignore the pretty, smiling faces of the women, the life in their eye. "New Jersey, Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut-they all vanished from different states"

"All in the northeast," he said. "As in Maine."

"Okay. So he's a traveling stalker/"

"Read the reports."

Swallowing heard, she tried to focus on the pages instead of on the intensity of Michael's gaze or the disturbing tingle generated by his nearness. And then she didn't have to, because he narrated for her, maybe too impatient to wait.

"All four of them reported anonymous phone calls and feelings of being watched for a week or two prior to their disappearances. Each of them reported a break-in. Each of them vanished during the full moon."

A little shiver raced up her spine.

"Did they find... any of them?"

He lowered his head. "He dumps them in various places. Samantha's body was found by some fishermen in Crosswicks Creek. Vivian turned up in a city dump, underneath a mound of trash. Kathy ad Cynthia are still missing."

She pressed her lips together and looked again at the photos. Then she glanced at their birthdates. "All under thirty."

"That's not all they have in common, Mary."

She closed her eyes, not sure she wanted to know this, but certain that she had to.

"They all share a very rare blood antigen, known as belladonna. You have it too."

She looked up at him fast. "How do you know that?"

He held her gaze. "The same way I know so many things about you. I feel you, Mary. Sometimes it's like I'm inside you."

She closed her eyes, suppressing a shiver. She had expected his so-called evidence would expose him as a fraud, or maybe a sincere but misguided do-gooder. Instead, he was convincing her. "How were they...?"

She didn't have to finish the question. "It's not important how they died. Only that they were killed in the same manner."

"The two that were found, at least."

"All four," he said. "But there are only autopsy reports on the two that were found."

Her gaze shifted to the brown leather case, which lay on the counter, its flap open. Then corner of a manila envelope was visible inside. Then Michael took the case, on the pretense of returning the police reports to it. He closed it and set it beside him. He really didn't want her to know how the women had died which told her it must have been horrible.

"Did you try to warn them, too?" she asked.

He shook his head slowly. "I didn't know about them until after they were killed. And then not from a vision but from casual conversation among... some of my peers."

"Your psychic friends?"

"He tried to smile. "Something like that. I heard about these four women, murdered, all of them bearing the antigen. I don't expect you to understand why, and I can't explain it to you, but among people like me, this was a topic that generated a lot of discussion and concern."

"People like you..."

"And then I saw you-in a dream. I felt you. And I knew you'd be next."

"How did you know where to find me?"

He looked at the floor, gave his head a shake. "It's difficult to explain. Besides, I'm afraid you already think I'm deluded."

"So you have nothing to loose."

He drew a breath. "Once I had seen your face, sensed your aura, even though it was only in a dream, I was able to home in and track you down.'

"Kind of like a bloodhound on he gets the scent?"

"Something like that."

She licked her lips and wondered why she wasn't afraid of him. He could be the killer, for all she knew. But if he was, why was he trying to warn her? And how had he managed the trick of calling her on the cell phone while sitting beside her in the car?

Tricky. But not impossible. There were deices, recorders, timers. She'd seen her share of spy films.

And yet she wasn't afraid of him. He was odd. Different. She'd never met a man like him. But there was no sense of fear. Which might be exactly what he wanted. Want it or not, though, there was no way he could held responsible for the storm of desire raging inside her. No way. That was all her. He couldn't have planned that.

He was watching her now, studying her face. Then he nodded toward his coat, which hung on a rack just inside the apartment door. "There's a gun in the left pocket of my trench coat. Extra bullets in the right. I brought them for you, to protect yourself."

She blinked. "I don't... like guns."

"I don't, either, but we're talking about your life here. Go on, take it. And while you're there, search the other pockets. Assure yourself that I'm not hiding any other weapons."

Pursing her lips, she slid off the stool and went to the coat, doing what he told her. The gun was a small black revolver. The bullets were in a red-and-white box. The other pockets were empty.

When she turned, he was standing beside her, though she hadn't heard him cross the room. He stood with arms out from his sides. "Go on. I want you to be sure of me."

Swallowing hard, she set the gun and bullets down and put her hand on either side of his left arm, drawing them along it slowly, all the way to his wrist. She repeated the action on the other arm. He turned so she could run her palms over his back and shoulders, and she wished to God the shirt wasn't in her way. Then, as she prayed he hadn't heard that thought, he turned again. She ran her palms across his chest and belly.

Her heart was pounding so hard she thought he had to hear it. He was reacting, too; she knew he was. His eyes had closed, and his jaw was clenched tight. She moved her head to his sides, up and down them. Then she bent her knees, hunkered lowered, to rub a path along his outer thighs, to his calves. She felt him shiver when she worked her way back up the inside

Finally she straightened. "No weapons. The words came out hoarse; she had to clear her throat.

"No deadly ones, anyway."

She looked away quickly. "What is this thing, Michael? Why do I feel so...?" She couldn't finish. She just let the words trail off into silence.

"I don't know. But it's... not just you."

She looked at him and saw it clearly in his eyes: he wanted her. As badly as she wanted him. But he broke eye contact to pick up the gun and bullets from where she had placed them, then put them into her hands. "Keep the gun with you," he said. "And keep it loaded. There's no safety to worry about, and it's fairly simple to operate."

She played with the catch on the side, because it was something to do to take her attention away from her body's demanding cries. He wouldn't say no if she invited him to her bed. She wouldn't even have to ask him. She could just take his hand, lead him into the bedroom. He would understand.

She made the gun's cylinder fall open, so she could see the holes where the bullets would go. Then she clapped it closed again and thought about loading it where to keep it while she slept and whether or not she could shoot someone-thought about anything but having sex with Michael Gray.

"Between that and your stun gun, you should be able to defend yourself," he said.

She nodded

"I wouldn't supply you with a gun if I mean to hurt you, Mary."

"You think I don't know that at this point?"

He nodded, glancing at the clock. "It'll be awn soon. You should get some sleep."

He was right. It had been about 3:00 a.m. by the tie she' left the bar. "So should you." Go on, say it. Just invite him to stay!

"I will. We have one more thing working in our favor, Mary. He always strikes at night. Always."

"So far, you mean."

He nodded.

"And how is that in our favor."

"I can protect you by night."

She frowned not sure what that could mean. Then she felt a lightbulb go on. "You have a day job." Then she sighed. "So you plan to work by day, then stay up all night watching my back? That's crazy, Michael. How long do you think you can keep up a schedule like that?"

"As long as I have to. And it's not as crazy as you think it is." Again he glanced at the clock. "But time is awfully short. I really do have to leave you now."

He got to his feet, went to the door. An suddenly she felt panic nipping at her heart. She ran to the door behind him. "Michael-"

He stopped, turned and placed a gentle palm on her face. "He's nowhere near here. Not now. I'd know if he was."

She closed her eyes. "Besides," she said, "then moon's not full."

"Look the door behind me."

"I will. But... when will you come back?"

"I'll be at the bar right after sundown. You make sure you get there before dark. That way you'll be safe. And keep your weapons with you."

She nodded. "All right." Swallowing hard, she took his hand in both of hers. "Thank you, Michael. I have no idea why you're doing this. Why you even care, but... thank you."

"I'm doing it," he told her, "because I can't not do it"

"I don't understand what that means."

He smiled gently. "Let's just say you have some kind of power over me. I don't think I could resist it even if I wanted to. And to be honest, I don't want to." He cupped her cheek with his palm and leaned down to brush his lips over hers. "Get some rest, Mary."

She nodded, and he stepped out the door. Mary closed it and turned the locks. Then she moved to the window and pushed the curtain aside to watch him go... but he was already gone.

As if he'd simply... vanished.

* * * * *

Mary slept until the ringing of the doorbell woke her. Her eyes didn't want to open, but the ringing was rapid and repetitive and stubborn as hell. She didn't want to get up. I didn't seem she was going to get a choice in the matter, though.

Rolling to one side, she pried her eyelids apart just enough to see the luminous red digits on her alarm clock-10:00 a.m. She'd been asleep for about five and a half hours-Michael had pulled his disappearing act around four-thirty. The doorbell was still firing away.

"I'm coming, already!"

She pushed back her cover and let gravity pull her legs until her feet hit the floor. Feeling around while yawning, she found her slippers with her toes and burrowed her feet into them. She stood up, finishing the yawn, and then she went stiff as the fog in her brain finally thinned enough to let her fear shine though.

What if it was the killer at her door right now?

But Michael had said he only struck at night. And during the full moon. It was broad daylight now. Still...

She opened the drawer in the bedside stand and took out the revolver. She'd loaded it and put it there before going to sleep last night. Where the hell to carry it, though? There was no pocket in her flannel pajamas. Licking her lips, scanning the room, with the doorbell pinging the entire time, she spotted a bathrobe on the back of a chair and snatched it up. As she pulled it on and dropped the gun into its deep terry pocket, the doorbell changed to rapid pounding, and a voice yelled, "Open up Ms. McLean. It's the police."

Police?

She frowned, tugged the sash around her waist and tied it as she scuffed to the door and peered through the peephole. Two me in police uniforms stood at her door. Beyond the parking-lot gate, she could see a black-and-white car with all the right emblems and lights attached.

She unlocked the door, but left the chain on, and opened it just a little. "Look, I don't want to piss you guys off, but I'm gonna need to call the station and verify that you're really cops, okay?"

One rolled his eyes. He was heavyset, with a face that reminded her of a panda, dark circles around the eyes and heavy on the jowl.

The other one was younger, a blue-eyed blonde who belonged on a tanning-oil commercial. "That's understandable, considering the nature of the complaint you filed you last week, and then the break-in," he said.

She blinked. "Why are you here? You're not the cops who where handling that for me."

"Well, there have been some developments, ma'am. Your case might overlap another one we're working, so-"

"Do you know something about this maniac who's been stalking me?"

"Maybe. Do you?" asked the older one.

"Wait here." She closed the door, turned the locks, glanced again at the car to see that they were city cops, then flipped open the phone book and found the number for headquarters. She got a fast answer and a quick verification that yes, two officers by the names of Strickland and Dunst were currently standing at her door.

"Thank you," she said, and hung up the phone. Then she took the little gun from her pocket and tucked it beneath the huge leaves of a houseplant. Finally she opened the door.

"I'm Officer Dunst," said the boy. "This is Officer Strickland. We need to ask you a few questions, ma'am. Do you mind if we come inside?"

"Of course not. Sorry about the delay. You'll be happy to know you're legit." Neither of them so much as cracked a smile at her little joke. She stepped aside and let them precede her in; then she closed the door again, not bothering with the locks. She shouldn't need locks with two cops and a gun in a potted plant nearby. She waved them toward the sofa and took a seat in the chair opposite them. "So what is this about?"

"Tommy Campbell," Strickland told her. "You know him?"

"Of course I know him. We worked together at The Crypt-that's a bar, not an actual crypt, of course."

"We know." Dunst's voice was softer. "Can you tell us the nature of your relationship with him, ma'am?"

Little chills were racing up and down her nape. "What's going on here? Is Tommy in some kind of trouble?"

"Just answer the questions, ma'am. Are you involved with Tommy Campbell?"

"Involved? No, I'm not involved with Tommy. We're friends. We work together." She licked her lips and the cops stared at her, waiting. As if they knew there was more. "He... he may be nursing a little crush on me."

"What makes you think so?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. He's never acted on it, never asked me out or anything, but he just gives off that vibe, you know?" Great, she thought. Now she sounded like Michael.

"When was the last time you saw him, Mary?" Dunst asked.

She frowned, a sudden fear gnawing at her gut.

"Last night. I gave him a ride home from the bar. It was raining, and he didn't want to walk, so-what is going on?"

"What time did you trop him off?"

She closed her eyes, thought back. "We closed at two. It probably took us twenty minutes or so to get the customers out of there, and then we had clean-up. He only lives a few blocks-I don't know. It must have been close to three."

"You're sure about that?"

"Yes."

"Anyone else who can verify that?"

She frowned. "Can't you just ask Tommy?"

The police officers exchanged a look. It was Dunst who finally spoke. "Ms. McLean, Tommy Campbell was murdered last night."

She felt herself go numb, and her mind seemed unwilling to process the words. It was if he'd spoken in some other language. Then they came blear, and she shook her head in denial. "No, that's not possible. Tommy is... Tommy is..."

"Dead, Ms. McLean," Strickland said.

She closed her eyes, squeezing them tightly as if to block out the man's words. "But how? Why?"

"Someone tied him to his bed, doused him with gasoline and set him on fire."

"Strickland, don't-" Dunst warned.

Too late, though. She'd heard the horror, and her stomach heaved. She shot to her feet, lunging through her bedroom into the bathroom, and vomited. She sank to her knees in front of the toilet.

Dunst came in behind her. "Are you all right?"

"I don't... understand this. Why? Why would any one hurt Tommy? He's gentle-he's harmless."

He reached past her, flushed the toilet, and then he wet a cloth in the sink and handed it to her. Mary wiped her face and hands and got to her feet.

"You were the last one to see him alive, Mary," Officer Dunst said.

She met his eyes and shook her head side to side. "No, I wasn't. The person who killed him was." The man averted his gaze, ad then she knew. "My God, do you think I had something to do with this?"

"We have to question you. It's standard procedure." He took her arm, led her back through the bedroom toward the living room, his eyes scanning, seeming to take in everything. "We need to know everything that happened last night, up to when you dropped Tommy off."

She stopped walking when she reached the living room. The other cop was on his feet, waiting. "I've told you everything. Tommy needed a ride. I gave him one. He got out and went into his building, and I came home."

"And that's all?"

She nodded.

"You didn't see anyone strange hanging around outside his place when you dropped him off?"

She shook her head slowly. "It was pouring rain. The streets were empty."

"What about at the bar?" Dunst asked. "Anyone new been hanging around? Maybe paying extra attention to him?"

She thought of Michael. She should tell them about him. He could verify her story, confirm that Tommy had been alive when she had left him and account for her whereabouts for the rest of the night. But something told her that would be a mistake, so she just shook her head.

"After you came home, what did you do?"

She blinked slowly. "I went to bed. I didn't get up again until you two woke me just now."

"You didn't leave again? Say between four-thirty and 5:00 a.m.?"

She shook her head. "Is that... is that when it happened?"

They didn't reply. It occurred to her that telling them about Michael wouldn't do either of them any good anyway. Tommy had been killed after Michael had left here.

Tommy was killed after Michael left here.

She sank onto the sofa and looked up at them.

"Someone must have seen something. Someone must know who did this."

Dunst nodded. "If someone does, we'll find out."

She sighed and lowered her head. "I hope to God you do."

The cops looked at each other again. Dunst shrugged. "We may have more questions for you later on, once we learn more. Don't leave town for a while, all right?"

She lifted her head sharply. "I'm a suspect, aren't I?"

"Everyone's a suspect until we rule them out. We haven't rule you out yet," Strickland said. He went to the door, opened it and stepped outside.

"I'll be right out," Dunst called. "I'm gonna get her alternate telephone numbers so we can reach her."

With a nod, Strickland left.

Officer Dunst knelt in front of the sofa. "Mary, this is between us, all right? We think Tommy might have been your stalker. Strickland thinks you found out and murdered him. I don't."

"I appreciate that."

"There was some evidence found at his place that links him to... some other cases. Unusual cases."

"You're being awfully vague, Officer Dunst."

"I'm sorry. I have to be." He took a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "Theses people can help sort all this out. I know them. They're good people."

She glanced at the card. It had the stylized initials S.I.S. across the top, and underneath, in smaller type, it read Supernatural investigations Services.

"Supernatural?"

"You didn't get it from me, understand? This conversation never happened."

She nodded slowly. "What the hell is going on, Office Dunst?"

"I don't know." He averted his eyes when he said it, as if maybe he did know at last a little more than he was telling her. "Give me your other numbers in case Strickland calls me on it."

She recited her cell phone number, which he scribbled quickly. Then he gave her a reassuring smile and left. She stood in the doorway, shocked ad trembling, until he got into the car with his partner and drove away.

Then she closed the door, turned the locks and sank to the floor, shaking.

Michael could have done this.

Michael didn't have anything to do with it, and you know it.

He had time, after leaving her. He hadn't seemed to like Tommy. But why? Why would he do such a horrible thing?

What if he were the stalker after all?

He's not. He can't be.

But there was a stalker, and it couldn't be Tommy. The police were wrong about that. What if the real maniac had killed Tommy because he know of Tommy's crush on her? Was it a jealous rage of some kind? Had this so-called evidence been planted at Tommy's place just to make him look guilty?

Her mind whirled with questions, and one gruesome image she couldn't erase from her mind-that of poor Tommy Campbell, burning alive in his bed.