Sneak Preview of WHERE THERE'S A WITCH

That's right, my lovelies. It's preview time for my July release, WHERE THERE'S A WITCH, #5 in The Bewitching Mysteries. Which means, of course, that I am in deep deadline mode . . . hence my absence. I did have a terrific time at Paranormacon in Fort Wayne the weekend of the 15th--the In Nomine group did a fantastic job at organizing the event, and I got to spend the entire weekend sitting next to one of my most favoritest people in the whole world: my best friend, Kristy Robinett. We gabbed, giggled, took silly pictures, and of course, went ghost hunting with a really cool group of people. Fun!

Heads up: Kristy and I are planning another of our fun "Putting the Normal Back in Paranormal" events, this time in Traverse City, Michigan on July 25th. This will be a ticketed event. For more information, please see www.tangledwishes.com.

Without further adieu . . . the preview. Enjoy!

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Chapter One

When a person has spent her entire life in the same small town, she starts to think she knows everything there is to know about it. That she has seen and heard and done it all, and no matter what happens, it is nothing that hasn’t been seen or heard or done before.

I believed that about my Indiana hometown. I did . . . right up until the day I met my witchy boss, Felicity Dow, and began to discover the truth about Stony Mill’s not-so-hidden dark side. Along the way, I also unearthed a few truths about myself.

My name is Maggie—Margaret Mary-Catherine O’Neill, actually, but I’m not a formal kind of girl—and one of my personal truths recently discovered is that I am an empath. A bona fide, natural-born intuitive capable of sensing emotion, both past and present, in the air around me. This means that I have a tendency to pick up strong emotional memories that linger near people, places, and things, whether those feelings are in the physical world or the world of spirit. Memories perhaps better ignored, or even forgotten. Too bad I didn’t understand all of this sooner. It would have saved me from internalizing a lot of emotional heartache growing up that wasn’t even my own.

And that was only the beginning, as I had been discovering. When I looked back over the last several months, I realized my abilities had been expanding. Whether I liked it or not—which also appeared to be a moot point. And the spirits who were making themselves known to me? I used to think ghosts and hauntings were no more than the products of an overly imaginative mind. Now, I’m not saying I’m psychic. But I will acknowledge that there is something more going on with me. No more sleepwalking through life, blissfully ignorant of the truth about the world around me.

I didn’t have that luxury anymore. Things were changing. I was changing.

And I wasn’t the only one experiencing oddities in my hometown. There were the other N.I.G.H.T.S., of course, a motley crew of ghost-hunting sensitives/intuitives I counted among my closest friends. But pay no attention to all the old stereotypes. You’ll find no scarf-wearing, crystal ball–gazing pseudo-mystics here, only normal people living somewhat extraordinary lives. To me, that juxtaposition was part of my friends’ charm. It proved one thing—that if none of us were quite “normal,” at least we weren’t alone in the experience. I, for one, couldn’t have done it without them.

My name is Maggie O’Neill—empath, sensitive, and ordinary girl, and this is my story.

# # #

Dragon’s breath. Well, that’s what it felt like, anyway. The air, I mean. The month of June had baked us straight on into July with little respite in the way of rain, and my temper was slowly beginning to fray. Make that fry. Maybe that’s why I was in such a black mood as I awoke that Sunday well before the alarm clock’s bleeping beeps, the damp sheet wrapped like bindweed around my ankles. The remnants of a dream were still clinging to my cobwebby brain. A stone building, water surrounding it . . . sunlight streaming down, warm and golden in the crisp air . . . the sky so blue above, as vivid as I could remember seeing it . . . and the eyes . . . oh God, the eyes, paler blue with just a hint of green . . .I knew them well. Whose were they?

It was that dream again, the one I had been receiving in tantalizing snippets. Bits and pieces, flotsam and jetsam drifting through my consciousness time and again. Sometimes months separated the fragments, and sometimes they would be close enough together to actually almost, kinda, sorta make sense. “Almost” being the operative word. The bits and pieces seemed to connect, without being consecutive in any way. More like variations on a theme. It was only after years of having the same recurring dreams that I’d started to put it all together, the narrative of the story my mind was telling. Even then, I didn’t believe what it was telling me. Couldn’t believe. They were just dreams—what our minds liked to do for entertainment when the rest of the body was shut down for the night. SnoozeTube. They didn’t really . . . mean . . . anything.

Of course, that didn’t keep me from trying my darnedest to catch a glimpse of the face those eyes belonged to. It also didn’t keep me from feeling desperately disappointed every time that I failed in my quest.

But that didn’t matter. Because . . . “Dreams are nothing to worry about. Dreams are just dreams. Right?”

I posed that very question to my witch of a boss, Felicity Dow, the moment I set my things down and slid into my usual place at the gourmet tea and coffee bar I haunted at my place of employ. For several reasons: one, because as the proprietor of Enchantments, Stony Mill’s best darned gift shop and secret witchy emporium, Liss had the best grasp of all matters that lay beyond the realm of normalcy of anyone in town; two, she had voluntarily served as my mentor in all things metaphysical since the moment I walked—er, fell—through the store’s front door; three, because a part of me worried I was making too much of things; four, because another part of me worried that I wasn’t making enough; and last but not least, five: because if Liss didn’t know, who would? A rhetorical question, surely. Especially in this town.

I mean, what was the sense of working for a real, honest-to-goodness witch if you couldn’t get the inside scoop on matters otherworldly—or not—when they presented themselves to you?

Lucky for me, Liss didn’t seem to mind answering a never-ending stream of semi-intelligent questions from a struggling would-be sensitive. Liss personified grace under pressure. She was the kind of woman who never failed to take life in stride, even when she wasn’t wearing the right shoes for the job. This morning she took one look at my pale, washed-out face, dark circles, and the wavy light brown hair that sprang out in all directions no matter what I did to tame it, and immediately set to work pouring out a demitasse of her favorite medicinal potion for sleepwalkers and talkers: Espresso, steaming hot, ultracharged, and guaranteed to vaporize any remaining vestiges of cobwebs still clinging to overtired brains.

“There you are, ducks. This should do you some good.” There was something about her British accent that made me feel all cozy inside. It was like an instant shot of the warm-and-fuzzies.
Unlike her espresso. One sip of the stuff was more likely to give me a case of the nervy-and-janglies. I eyed it warily, took a deep breath, and wished it would magickally turn into a cup of Earl Grey on the spot. Still, I took it in hand and lifted it to my lips, determined to give it a try.

“Thanks,” I muttered around stiff lips—the stiffer, the better with this stuff.

Liss waited politely and made sure that I downed every last, bitter drop. “Now, then. What dreams are we talking about here?”

“Weird ones,” I confessed. “Dreams where I’m not me—I mean, not the me that I am now, here, today, but another me. And yet it’s still me. Only that doesn’t make sense, does it.” A statement, not a question. I knew it didn’t.

“That depends. Have you been having these dreams often?”

She poured herself a cup of tea. Simple, neutral, nontraumatic tea that soothed one’s system more than jolted. I gazed at it longingly as I shook my head in the negative. “Not often. Every once in a while, I guess.”

“Is it a recurring dream? One that you have over and over again?”

“Well . . . I have had it—I mean, them—more than once. It seems to be part of a string of dreams that somehow feel as though they belong together if I can figure out how to put them in the right order.”

That faint, neutral smile still hadn’t left her lips. “And are you always the same you in them, this string of dreams?”

I bit my lip, remembering. “Always. A young woman. Blond, I think, with my hair in a long braid. Only it doesn’t seem to take place in the here and now. And that’s the crazy part.”

“Not crazy. Not if you’re remembering yourself from before this life.”

That brought my chin up sharply. Not a good idea, when one was nursing a migraine and fighting sleep deprivation. “You mean . . .”

“You suspected it yourself, didn’t you? Another lifetime? Another existence? Unless we’re speaking of spirit contact through dreams here,” she amended, her brow charmingly furrowed in deep thought. “It can at times be tricky to tell the difference.”

Another surprise gift from the Great Beyond. Was I ready for this? I didn’t even have a handle on the first ones yet. Wasn’t being empathic and occasionally telepathic and newly aware of the spirit world enough? “Hm. I’m not sure I like either option. Do I get a choice?”

Liss laughed softly and reached out to cover my hand with her own. Her rings flashed in the focused beams of light from the recessed lighting, tastefully hidden in the rafters over our heads, which made the coffee bar glow like an oasis in the middle of the overflowing aisles. “I rather think we are the chosen ones,” she told me, “not the other way around.”

I’m afraid the face I made swung a bit toward the wry side of the spectrum. “So that’s a no, then.”

“Take heart, pet. Perhaps it is nothing more than dreams after all. Maybe there is no hidden meaning. Go with what your instinct is telling you.”

That was just it. There was something different about these dreams, something very vivid and compelling that made me remember the details. Enough to recognize the fact that I’d had them before, more than once, and enough to fit them together like so many puzzle pieces. Something about them felt . . . important.

From the floor beside my bar stool came an insistent, chirruping Merch! that made me jump. “Minnie!” I leaned down to reach for the soft-sided pet carrier that was my constant companion these days. “I’m sorry, sweet pea. I wasn’t thinking. I should have let you out first thing.”

“I was wondering when you were going to let our dear girl out of there.”

“Our dear girl” would be my beautiful kitten, Minnie, who had found her way into my life mere weeks ago and had instantly taken over. It wasn’t just me, though—Liss seemed just as charmed by the little fireball of black fuzz, and had insisted that, as she was too young to spend her days alone in my apartment, Minnie should be the store cat while I was working. She didn’t have to ask me twice. Minnie had accompanied me every morning since then and really seemed to be settling into her role. She spent her days learning how to walk on shelves without bumping things out of the way, which windows were best for viewing the birds and passing pedestrians, and, most important, where I hid her litter box. All the vital things in life.

I unzipped the carrier. With another funny meow Minnie scolded me for my forgetfulness as she climbed out onto my lap, all righteous indignation as she arched her back in a long stretch. I ran my hand down her back by way of apology, smoothing the gleaming fur and then scratching behind her ears. My reward was a motorboat purr, larger than life, as she lifted her face toward me. Her bicolored eyes, one blue, one green, sparkled like gems beneath the lights before she took a flying leap from my lap to the middle of the aisle and walked nonchalantly toward the back office.

One blue, one green . . . “Maybe that’s what it meant,” I mused, half to myself. Maybe Minnie’s spirit or energy was coming through in the dream as the mystery individual. Maybe the dreams were simply an entertainingly symbolic confirmation that the two of us belonged together, she and I.

“What’s that, dear?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Nothing important, that is.”

I was saved from having to answer any more questions when Evie Carpenter and Tara Murphy, our two young protégés and both sensitives in their own right, strolled through the front door.

“Hi, Liss! Hi, Maggie! What do we have on the plate for the day?” That was Evie, an angelic blond ray of sunshine with a lightness of being that could rival any daisy blowing in the summer breezes.

“Cool it with the sweetness and light, wouldja, E-Vil?” Tara groused, shuffling around the corner of the bar and snatching at the first cup she could find. “I mean, jeez, it gets a little hard to take at the ass crack of dawn.”

Evie just smiled and started to hum as she reached down to pet Minnie, who had reversed course the moment she heard the girls’ voices and was now circling around Evie’s ankles and gazing up at her intently.

The longer I knew the two of them, the funnier I found their differences. Tara was the yang to Evie’s yin. It showed in her every aspect. Where Evie’s hair was blond, Tara’s was dark; Evie’s long and free-flowing, with a sweep of bangs over one eye, Tara’s shorter and chunky, almost as though she’d taken the scissors to it herself, and actually, I wouldn’t put that past her. Evie was a morning person; Tara would sleep ’til two if no one woke her—and would still bite heads off until she got her shot of caffeine. Evie always looked on the bright side of things; Tara viewed the world-at-large as an adversary, ready to be squashed. Evie was all things Light; Tara, her polar opposite, right down to her quasi-emo makeup and predilection for Screamo Rock. But don’t get the wrong idea. Tara also had a softer side to her that she hid behind all the hard-edged bluster. She just didn’t want anyone else to know about it.

Tara plunked herself down on the nearest stool and rested her head on her hand and her elbow on the scarred wooden surface as she blankly stirred her iced mocha, heavy on the whipped cream. “Late night, sweetie?” I asked her soothingly. She barely lifted her glance in my direction and continued stirring.

“She had an argument with Charlie last night,” Evie filled us in as she scooped Minnie up into her hands and settled on the stool to my right. “Because he’s not spending enough time with her. I keep telling her that he’s just got a lot on his mind right now, what with signing up for college classes next month and work and everything.”

Teenage dramas. Boy, was I glad I had grown past all of that.

Tara glared at her. “Thanks for the spill, Evil. Jeez. Like they want to know about my man trouble.”

Man trouble. Hee. Oh, if she only knew . . .

Evie pretended to be wounded. “I just thought maybe they could help. Give you some input. A shoulder to cry on. You know.”

“Like I need advice from older ladies.”

Older? Well, for heaven’s sake, I was only twenty-nine. At least for a little while longer. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, trying not to be insulted. “It’s not like I don’t remember what it’s like to be seventeen. It wasn’t that long ago, you know.”

Tara gave me a sidelong glance that wasn’t so much annoyed as it was completely and utterly dismissive. Which somehow made it worse. “No offense, Maggie, but, um, well, you aren’t exactly a shining example in the relationship department, ya know.”

Evie had just taken a sip from her cup of tea and spluttered into it. Liss turned away toward the cash register, but not before I caught the twitch of her lips that she was trying so valiantly to hide.

“Exactly what is that supposed to mean?” I bristled, really insulted now.

Tara had the decency to at least appear apologetic. “I’m sorry, but . . . well . . . you know.”

And that’s all she had to say. That was the trouble. I did know. It wasn’t a secret that my most recent foray into the dating world with Tom—Fielding, that is, duly appointed officer of the law and recently named Special Task Force Investigator for the local boys in blue—hadn’t exactly been the raging hot success that I had so hoped for. It wasn’t even lukewarm. There just hadn’t been time. He was busy. I was busy. We both had busy, busy, busy lives . . .

And I was making excuses. And what’s more, I knew it. Because every girl in the world knows that a relationship needed to be made a priority in its early days if it was ever going to get off the ground.

And then there was Marcus. Marcus, who had become such a close friend, and whom I had been struggling so valiantly to keep at arm’s length. Well, my efforts had been valiant, if not particularly successful. It had been easier when I’d thought him Liss’s romantic property. Now, though . . . hm. I guess it was fair to say I was feeling more conflicted than ever. Why had I been struggling so, you might ask? I was beginning to wonder that myself. What was it about Marcus that made him the Kryptonite to my Superwoman attempts to resist my own weakening resolve? Was there something special about him? Or was it more that he represented everything that Tom did not?

Was I being played by my own mixed-up sensibilities?

I turned away so that I couldn’t see the sympathy—not pity, never that—in their eyes. Give me liberty or give me death, but for heaven’s sake, don’t give me pity. I’m much too proud for that. “So, what’s on the calendar for today?” I said, changing the subject and making my voice light and carefree.

“Before or after work?”

“After, obviously. Since we’re all already here, for actual work, mind you, and Liss is such a slave driver.”

“So sorry, ducks,” Liss sang out good-naturedly without a shred of contrition as she sailed toward the front door to turn the sign over to Open.

“Well”—Evie climbed down from her bar stool and grabbed Tara’s now empty cup for a refill before the wannabe-Goth cutie could even register the need—“here’s the thing. Tara’s all up in arms about Charlie not having time for her—”

“With good reason,” Tara interjected in her own defense.

“He’s working construction this summer, you know,” Evie continued without missing a beat. “So, what we thought we’d do is head on over to the Baptist church out on Wayne Road for the fundraising carnival.”

I was following along word for word, but obviously I had missed something somewhere. A fundraiser instead of face time with the boyfriend didn’t seem like an acceptable trade-off to me. Because I couldn’t stand being the only one who didn’t have a clue, I let my bewilderment get the better of me. “Wait, why the church?”

Tara sighed and gave me a look. You know the kind. One that said, Do we have to spell everything out for you? “The fundraiser is for the new wing they’re adding on to the church,” she said, as though I should already have known that.

Still missing something in translation. “Oookay.”

Evie leaned over the counter and looked into my empty demitasse, grabbed it, then slick as a whistle turned to the espresso machine, refilled it, and had it back under my nose before I could say Timbuktu. Or even, no thank you. Urg.

“Charlie’s working as a dirt laborer for the construction firm that’s doing the job for the church,” Evie supplied, helpful as always. “They’re all supposed to show up there for the cook-off, and then there’ll be a groundbreaking ceremony while everyone else is invited to watch. Most people there will be parishioners, but the fundraiser’s open to the public, so it’s okay if we show up, too.”

Church fundraiser, huh? That hardly seemed like Tara’s first choice for a fun Saturday afternoon’s hijinks. “So, you’re going to check up on Charlie, then? Make sure he’s doing what he said he’s doing?”

Liss coughed discreetly. “I’m sure the girls wouldn’t dream of spying on Tara’s boyfriend, ducks.”

No, of course they wouldn’t. Our strong, hard-as-nails Tara would never stoop to that kind of weakness. Our Tara would kick ’em to the curb at the first sign of anything untoward. Go, girlpower.

“We’re going,” Tara said tartly, with an angry toss of her head, “to make an appearance. To show Charlie that he’s not the only one with a life.”

A life that still managed to revolve around someone else’s schedule didn’t quite qualify . . . but hey, who was I to judge? I made my tone neutral as I said, “Sounds like fun.”

I soon forgot all about the girls’ plans as I served a few early customers and Liss and I set about changing the window display at the front of the store. Liss had cooked up a fab idea for something fresh and different that involved switching out the antique furniture and adding in new, wrestling it into place between the two of us, draping and swathing and polishing it to perfection, and sprinkling it with clear white Christmas lights. Tiny fairies, diminutive masterpieces crafted by an English High Priestess of the Fey (known to us only by her Craft name of “Titania of the Woodland Green”), were strung from above, not so much elements to be viewed as discovered. Pretty little treasures. What we were left with was an enchanting Victorian fairyland, more than enough to bewitch anyone whose head was still filled with sugarplum daydreams. And really, what was wrong with that? A little fairy tale never hurt anyone.

We stood back, each gazing in satisfaction at the fruits of our labors. “Well. That turned out even better than expected,” Liss said with only a hint of smugness as she wiped her dusty hands on a damp bar towel.

“I most heartily concur, Ms. Dow,” I said, finishing off the round of back patting. “How do you do it?”

“I was, shall we say”—Liss cast her gaze playfully heavenward—“inspired.”

“What do you think, girls?” I asked as Evie and Tara came up behind us.

“I like it,” Evie offered.

“You like everything,” Tara complained.

“Well, I do. I can’t help it.”

“It needs more sparkle. Another strand of lights or some glitter or something,” Tara assessed casually. “Want me to put the sign on the door?”

“Sign?” I was tilting my head and squinting at the display, trying to see it through Tara’s eyes. Did it really need more?

“The Closed sign. The noon siren went off ages ago. Didn’t you hear it?”

I hadn’t. I had been otherwise engaged, blissfully immersed in the artistic process. I glanced at wall of antique and restoration clocks. Twelve fifty. Goodness. “Well, what are you waiting for? Don’t you have places to go? People to see? A boyfriend to put in his place?”

Tara didn’t need to be told twice. She was already grabbing her bag and heading for the door. Evie hesitated, torn between following her friend and her devotion to duty. “Don’t you need our help shutting down and closing up the shop later?” she asked.

I waved away her concern. “We’ve got it covered. You two go on and enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

The smile that spread over her face was as sudden as a ray of sun breaking through the clouds, and just as brilliant. “Thanks, Maggie. We owe you one.” With a last scratch under the chin for Minnie, who was once again hovering underfoot, Evie waved at us and headed off to emulate her friend’s disappearing act.

Liss removed the cash drawer from the register for counting. I headed toward the front door to turn the lock with Minnie scampering along at my heels, bat-bat-batting at me all the way. Little minx. I locked the door and scooped her up for a good ear rubbing as I carried her up the aisle . . . or, I would have returned up the aisle if a harsh rapping at the glass door behind me hadn’t stopped me in my tracks. I turned to look, only to find Evie and Tara with noses pressed against the glass and hopeful and even, dare I say it, ingratiating smiles on their faces.

“Uh-oh.”

I unlocked the door. “What’s up?”

Evie and Tara rushed across the threshold. Evie turned me around and inserted herself under one arm, wrapping her arms around my waist, best-girlfriend style. Tara looked as if she might be thinking of doing the same thing, though in the end she decided to play it cool and let Evie handle all the sweet stuff while she fended off Minnie’s relentless barrage of attention-grabbing tricks.

“Maggie? Do you think . . . oh, I know you’re busy,” Evie fussed, “but maybe do you think you could . . . oh, gosh, it just doesn’t seem fair to ask, and if we had any other option at all, of course we wouldn’t bother you, but . . .”

“For cryin’ out loud, Evie, spill it, wouldja? It’s not like Maggie’s gonna bite our heads off or anything.” That was straight-up Tara, proponent for the fast and dirty approach toward most things in life.

“Oh, I know. Maggie would never do that.”

“Right. I try to reserve that for bats and old bosses. And old bosses who are bats,” I quipped, laughing.

Liss scurried past us toward the coffeemakers. “What bats are those, dear?”

“Present company most definitely excluded!” I sang out, grinning at her.

“Can we get back to the really important things?” Tara interrupted. “Like whether or not Maggie can give us a ride over to the Baptist church.”

Evie sent Tara a reproachful glance for her lack of tact. “What Tara is trying to say is that her scooter ignition is messing up. Again.”

“What can I say? Big Lou said it was fixed.”

“Which means that we don’t have a way to get there today. I don’t suppose you’d want to tag along with us, would you? It might be fun . . . Just think. Brats. Elephant ears. Hot fudge sundaes. Frozen lemonade. Cotton candy. All the good stuff.”

What did it say about me that all of Evie’s offered inducements were food related? Probably not as much as the fact that they were actually working.

Hot fudge. Hmmmmm. Talk about food for thought.

“First sundae is on me . . .” Tara just had to up the ante.

“Well . . . I do have Minnie here with me,” I hedged, glancing down to where Minnie was playing with the ties on Tara’s backpack.

“If you’d like to go with them, I’d be happy to keep the little dear here with me,” Liss offered as she wiped down the outside of an oversized coffee vessel.

“Well . . . all right. I’ll take you. But no complaints from whoever has to sit in Christine’s barely existent backseat.”

Evie and Tara looked at each other. “Shotgun!” came the simultaneous cry.

Evie grinned. “I called it first.”

“Like hell, Evie. I called it before you did.”

Before World War III broke out at my feet, I held up my hand. “One of you gets the passenger seat on the way there, and the other gets it on the way back. Easy peasy.”

Tara raised her brows. “Easy peasy? News alert: No one says that anymore, ya know, Magster.”

“Stuff it, Tara!” I said cheerily. Then to Liss, “You’re sure you don’t mind kitty-sitting?”

Liss scoffed. “Would I ever mind having the little sweetheart around? Go on and have fun. I have a million things to catch up on here. How does that sound, little one?” she asked, scooping Minnie off her feet. Minnie just gazed up at her with trusting eyes, seemingly entranced by Liss’s face.

“Good. Great! Thanks, Liss!” Tara grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the office and the back door that lead to the alley parking before I could even give Minnie a departing chin scratch, with Evie bringing up the rear. I pulled my arm free with just enough time to snag my purse and car keys, and within moments the motor of my old VW Bug (long ago endearingly, if not originally, christened Christine) puttered into action and we were on our way. Evie and Tara had played an amazingly speedy game of rock-paper-scissors, a test Evie won to much grumbling on Tara’s part. Evie took the front seat without further ado, leaving Tara to crowd into the diminutive backseat with her knees drawn up to her chin. I avoided looking in the mirror, because I could feel the thundercloud emanations rolling from her and I was afraid I would laugh. It’s not that I couldn’t sympathize, but . . . well, Tara on a rant could be very entertaining.

As we drew closer to the destination du jour, Tara forgot her annoyance with the heat and the tight quarters, even with the jarring ride over bumpy country roads. Her whole demeanor changed with every corn or soybean field we passed, becoming sharper, more focused, more intent as the sky-stabbing heights of an old church steeple loomed between distant treetops on the horizon. The sighting was soon followed by a series of handmade signs along the roadside that heralded the fundraiser one tantalizing word at a time:

You’re . . .
Almost . . .
There! . . .
Who, Me? . . .
Yes, You! . . .
Ice Cream! . . .
Games! . . .
Godly Fun . . .
For The . . .
Entire . . .
Family!

The fallow field next door had been roped off to provide parking, since the majority of the church’s regular lot had been taken over by construction crews and heavy equipment. The makeshift lot was filled to overflowing with old-fashioned sedans, a few SUVs, and an extraordinary number of pickup trucks parked willy-nilly in the choppily mown field grass, almost all of them displaying the ultra popular “In God We Trust” specialty license plates to the world at large. Dodging jutting bumpers, I drove slowly through the chaotic disarray of vehicles, searching for a place to berth Christine for the afternoon that would still allow me a way out later, when the girls were ready to make a departure. Behind the roped-off area I could see a number of open-sided tents and tables, even a raised platform with bales of straw set around it in radiating half-circles for a makeshift open-air sermon hall. Fancy.

The old Baptist church that was hosting the afternoon’s event was your stereotypical small country church that stood at one edge of what had once been a Depression-era crossroads community that grew up on the fringes of Stony Mill. Time had not been kind to the once-upon-a-time village—homes had fallen into disrepair, the corner store was gone, and the defunct gas pumps looked like something out of Pleasantville—but the need for the church had not dissipated in the same way. Instead, the pocket of Stony Mill Baptists had grown by leaps and bounds over the years. Some had stayed faithful to the old-style Baptist preachings of a vengeful God fond of fire and brimstone, and some had split off into other, more lenient factions, but the overall size of the congregation had grown incrementally, thanks in part to the charismatic tent gatherings spreading The Word back in the day. It was a universal truth that people might move from home to home around the county, but few felt comfortable in leaving their church behind and would travel miles, despite the price of gas, to attend with their old tried-and-trues. And there was nothing more tried and true than a country church of stark white clapboard, double doors spread wide in welcome at the front, while the bell loomed, little more than a shadow in the towering steeple high above.

“I guess we’ll park . . . here,” I said, looping into a spot at the very end, which seemed easiest to manage. I had barely shifted the car into park before Tara was pushing against the back of Evie’s seat.

“Come on, Evie!” She nudged the seat forward the teensiest bit again.

“Hold on and let me get out of the way. Sheesh!” Evie waited, standing dutifully aside as Tara climbed out. “Wait, don’t you want your purse?”

Tara shook her head. “Nah, it’ll just get in the way. I’ve got my cell and some cash in my pocket.”

The two headed off like a shot toward where all the action was without even a wave or a backward glance, leaving me to shake my head after them. Ah, youth.

Left by the wayside, I dislodged my purse from the floor behind the passenger seat, dropping my keys into its depths before reaching across the car to roll up the window to within four inches of the top to keep the heat outside from baking the interior and lock the door. More from habit than because I honestly thought there was a chance anyone might be inspired to steal my beloved, if slightly ragtag, VW Bug. Outside I spritzed myself liberally with aerosol sunblock, then slung my bag over my shoulder and set off idly toward all of the activity myself.

It was hotter than hot out. Hotter than Hades is what my Grandma Cora would have said with one of her trademark grim glances at the sky. The sun was beating down, the few clouds doing little to dispense it. I hurried over to where the tents were set up, not caring what entertainments would be found there so long as they were under cover. First things first: I found a frozen lemonade at a stand right by the edge of the parking lot and handed my money over with gratitude. It tasted a little too much like the kind of powdered lemonade you get out of a can, but the extra-large cup of smoothly ground ice was worth it. I sipped it slowly as I moved around the widespread gathering, indulging my favorite pastime of late: people watching.
And there was plenty of it to be had. One thing about church functions that I always found intriguing was the fact that people remained their usual, stressed-out, over-the-top, unlovable selves, despite the churchy goings-on, which one would think would ensure everyone’s best behavior. Good, church-going families, all; and yet everywhere I turned, I saw more than one meltdown in progress. Some of them were even by the kiddos.

Was it the heat that was fraying tempers all over town? Because it definitely seemed to be a trend on the upswing. Just yesterday morning on my way into work, two men at the gas station I’d stopped by had nearly come to blows in front of me. Not over the astronomically rising prices at the pump, but because one didn’t move his pickup out of the way fast enough to suit the other waiting his turn. And then there was the flustered call from my mom the day before. Seems she had gone to the grocery store only to witness a woman she knew from her own church group roughly handling her oldest daughter. A woman she had known for years to be the soul of grace and patience. Now, everyone knows that anybody can have a bad day. And teenagers have a tendency to push both boundaries and buttons. But this was harsh, even borderline abusive behavior, and it upset the applecart that was my mother’s comfortable, small-town existence.
Because these were not isolated incidents. Because it was happening over and over again, between people not known to be violent. Longtime Stony Mill families that were displaying the first signs of splintering and dysfunction. Normally that kind of thing, when it did happen, would have been kept quiet. Family secrets better left to sleeping dogs. Even the Stony Mill Gazette sometimes agreed with that philosophy, burying select newsworthy but scandalous local items behind the farmer’s report on page seven . . . but it did publish the police call report religiously. Everything that was called in to Dispatch showed up on those reports. Who, what, when, where, and why-dunnit, even if it was as minor as rescuing a cat stuck in a tree. The information it conveyed was better than a gossip sheet.

Lately, the call reports had been running . . . long. Very long. And not with lost pets. Filled with incidents similar to the one my mother described, like the one I had witnessed myself. So many people, already on short tethers, snapping for no good reason. Not to mention the deaths—murders, actually. No wonder I rarely saw Tom these days. He still had his regular duties in addition to serving as leader of the special task force that had been created to integrate between law departments. That promotion had guaranteed that any kind of a personal life Tom might have been wanting to have would have to be put off for later.

Oh, Tom denied this. We’d talked about it before. But even though he’d said mostly the right things, and even though he had more than hinted that he would like our so-called relationship to go somewhere—although the somewhere in question was clearly open to interpretation—the two of us never seemed to achieve liftoff status.

Maybe it was too much to ask right now. Timing, as everyone knows, is everything. History proved that particular Nugget o’Wisdom over and over again. Knowing it was one thing. Accepting it, well, that was another matter entirely.

It was a sore subject with me, growing sorer by the day. Was it any wonder Marcus and his gentle but compelling flirtatious ways had held so much intrigue for me? Tom told me time and again that he’d like to deepen our relationship, but it was beginning to feel like lip service. And Marcus? Marcus went out of his way to make me feel I was important, without demanding a single thing in return. Everything he did said that he wanted me. But what did I want? I was starting to wonder if I knew. All the more reason to steer my thoughts out of treacherous waters and channel them into more calming venues.

But deep within me was the sense that change was on the horizon, must be on the horizon.

It would come whether I was ready for it or not.

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Copyright 2009, Madelyn Alt. All rights reserved.

Event: Mad & Kristy Put the Normal Back in Paranormal

Madelyn Alt and Kristy Robinett
~~ Putting the Normal Back in Paranormal ~~

National bestselling mystery author Madelyn Alt and internationally renowned Psychic Medium Kristy Robinett are just your average, everyday girls . .. . who share a unique approach to life that includes dealing with the supernatural. But they like to think that's part of their charm!

Have you ever been curious about the paranormal, but are put off by subjects and/or presenters that don't fit into your comfort zone? Want to know if what you've experienced fits into the psychic realm? Have you lived with ghosts and want to know a little bit more about how to live comfortably with them? Or are you perhaps interested in writing the paranormal, and want tips or advice from a successful author in how it's done? You won't want to miss this event.

In celebration of the upcoming release of the 4th book in Madelyn's Bewitching Mysteries, NO REST FOR THE WICCAN, we invite you to join Madelyn and Kristy for a spooktacular event that will include Madelyn speaking about her National Bestselling books and Kristy discussing an array of topics, including that of growing up in a haunted house and what you can do if you are haunted. She will also conduct an audience reading where she will relay messages from the other side.

When: November 8, 2008 from 4:00 p.m. - 6:00 p.m.

Where: South Lyon Hotel
201 N Lafayette St
South Lyon, MI 48178

The South Lyon Hotel was built on a cemetery…now how spooky is that?

Who: Madelyn Alt and Kristy Robinett

Cost: $35.00 per person

Visit http://www.kristyrobinett.com to purchase tickets via PayPal.

(Food and Drinks are NOT provided in the ticket purchase, but available at a reasonable cost).


Madelyn Alt

Madelyn Alt is the national bestselling author of the witchy and hip Bewitching Mysteries, published by Berkley Prime Crime. These Bewitching books features small town single girl and fledgling empath Maggie O'Neill, her witchy boss, and an unlikely circle of ghosthunting friends, the N.I.G.H.T.S., as they investigate an increasing level of paranormal disturbance–not to mention a series of unrelated murders–in Maggie's hometown of Stony Mill, Indiana. In other words, they are: "Mysteries…. with Hex Appeal.."

A late-blooming sensitive/intuitive, Madelyn writes from her home, an 1870's era Victorian in northeast Indiana, which she shares with an extraordinary number of persons of the male persuasion of assorted ages and sizes, two Siamese cats who rule the roost, and a Shepherd-Lab sweetheart who is only too happy to let them.

So what's a nice girl like me doing writing about ghosties, ghoulies, and things that go bump in the night? Truth is, I've always been intrigued by the paranormal. I've experienced many things throughout my lifetime that have fueled that interest, not to mention experiences shared with me by others, people whom I trust. Isolated incidents can be explained away; these are not isolated incidents. They are also not the kind of things that can be proven easily by scientific methods. While that might sound like a pat answer, I've never been convinced that science has enough technology to have the right to pooh-pooh everything away. It seems the height of arrogance to say that we have all the answers.. The fact is, people are experiencing things that their logical minds want to explain away, but can't. That's not to say that science and the mystical won't some day coexist happily and sensibly, but until that day I think it's possible we're not meant to understand everything. Not yet.

The most important thing about life is the journey. Only at the end should we be able to look back and make sense of the lot of it. Part of the beauty is in the mystery.



Kristy Robinett

There's no flowing gown. There's no crystal ball. There's just Kristy Robinett, Psychic Medium and Life Counselor - an 'Abnormally Normal' all American girl that talks to the dead.

Kristy's involvement with the paranormal began at the tender age of 3 when she began playing and speaking regularly with spirits, labeled "imaginary friends" by her parents. This behavior was unacceptable in her household as her family was very religious. This however did not curb her curiosity for the paranormal and the unknown.

Today, Kristy is an internationally renowned Psychic Medium. Her clientele ranges from young to old, law enforcement, clergy, politicians, celebrities, domestic goddesses, to every day people. Her dedication and passion to her work is performed with honesty, integrity and humor, which sets her apart from the rest.

Kristy donates her time assisting law enforcement agencies with investigations involving missing persons, murder, suicide, arson and psychically profiling criminals. She has earned a solid reputation for Spirit Releases, psychic home inspections for homebuyers and haunted house investigations, lecturer at special events and owner of Encharming Events LLC.

Kristy has the gift of bringing warmth and love when using her gift of insight to help clear the cobwebs of confusion along with helping people embrace their own intuitive gifts. Not always serious, Kristy has a wicked sense of humor that she likes to bring to her readings.

How did I get a gig talking to the dead? It definitely wasn't the profession that my parents were at all thrilled with. Going to parochial school from kindergarten through high school graduation, I was taught that anything to do with psychics were evil, as if I didn't already have a low self-esteem like most kids! It was neat, however, knowing when the pop quizzes would be or when I could shut off the alarm because I knew that there would be a snow day even before the weather men predicted it. So after trying the 'real' world for a long time, I screamed 'Uncle' and gave in to my talent and here I am, day after day, talking to the dead and chasing ghosts.

I believe that we create our own reality. By being passionate about life, you can achieve not just anything, but everything. I mean, it gets boring and depressing waiting for that winning lottery ticket, right?!

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Madelyn's books will be available for purchase at the event, but you are also welcome to bring your own copies for signing and personalizing.

Again, to purchase tickets, please visit: http://www.kristyrobinett.com

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Sneak Preview of NO REST FOR THE WICCAN

Since I am on deadline and will be noticeably quiet for the next couple of months, I thought I would post an early preview of NO REST FOR THE WICCAN, 4 in The Bewitching Mysteries. NRFtW will be released November 4, 2008 {although you're likely, as always, to find it on bookstore shelves a little earlier than that}, and is available for pre-order now on Amazon.

Also, a side note for my Ohio fans: I will be signing books at the Meet the Spirits paranormal expo near Cleveland, Ohio on June 29, 2008. I'd love to see some of you there. You can read all about the event here: http://www.meetthespirits.com/events.php

Without further ado . . . the snippet. Hope you enjoy!

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NO REST FOR THE WICCAN
#4 The Bewitching Mysteries ~ ISBN# 0425224562
To be released: November 4, 2008

My name is Margaret Mary-Catherine O'Neill—Maggie, please, only my mother goes the long way 'round the bend—and I am a lifelong resident of Stony Mill, a mostly uninteresting small town in Indiana.

Mostly.

I used to think that living in a small town meant boredom, monotony, and slim pickin's in the way of potential male companionship. On the other hand, I also used to think a belief in magic, ghosts, and witches was a symptom of an overactive imagination, wishful thinking, and possibly even outright insanity.

Kind of funny, when you think about all that has happened here in the last eight months.
And all in this sleepy little town.

Except you won't find me laughing. Would you, if you discovered within yourself a previously unacknowledged ability to discern, and even feel, the hidden, secret, most private emotions of others? The ones they don't want anyone to know about? It's a little unnerving. Unfortunately there are no twelve step programs for empaths. No magic pill to make it all go away. Just like all the other intuitive souls out there in the world, we empaths are on our own, for better or for worse.

And actually, come to think of it, there was also nothing boring or monotonous about the strange disturbances that had been popping up all over Stony Mill, either. Turbulence of a sort in the fabric of energy and matter that makes up the reality the rest of us see and feel and experience. Ripples that seemed to have opened a door and put out a great, big welcome mat for all sorts of weird phenomena. In the beginning, only sensitives noticed the change in the tides, and only those sensitives with a deeper familiarity with matters esoteric understood the significance of what they were feeling.

That chaos energy was on the move.

Dark energy.

That's where the N.I.G.H.T.S. come into the picture. The Northeast Indiana Ghost Hunting and Tracking Society, that is. Headed up by my witchy boss Felicity Dow (at Enchantments, of course--Indiana's finest mystical antique shop), my band of ghost-hunting buddies have been a big help to me in learning to understand more about myself, and to gain some much needed confidence while together the lot of us plumbed the depths of the mysteries of Stony Mill—mysteries both dark and light combined.

For as any good metaphysician will tell you, one cannot exist without the other. I took comfort in that knowledge. That dark could never overpower light. That light would always exist, no matter what. As long as that was true, there was always hope.

A girl needed to have hope. Especially when all the signs pointed to the weirdness in town getting worse.

Scoff if you will. I know how strange this all must sound. A year ago I would have scoffed, myself, but all that I've experienced has since opened my mind. I'm still not convinced that's necessarily a good thing, but I am learning to deal with it. My way.

As for the charge of slim pickin's, it seems I might have been too hasty. A girl with two very different men vying for her attention can hardly complain. What to do with the two of them, well, that's another problem entirely.

My name is Maggie O'Neill, and this is my story.

In researching my newly recognized "talent," I'd read that many empaths tend to be unusually susceptible to the weather, reacting to it on more than just a physical level. Perhaps there was something to that theory, because there was something about a hot, sultry night that never failed to set my nerves on edge, and this summer had had no shortage of them. Summer . . . that's the thing. Summer, it wasn't. Not yet. Not quite. The formality of the summer solstice was still a little over a week away, but already we'd seen enough searing heat to brown the grass and drive people indoors to the cool relief of overworked air conditioners. Between the hot sun and a shortage of rain, the green lushness typical of mid-June in Indiana had thus far failed to manifest. Fields of soybeans and corn that should be beginning to flourish struggled valiantly to deepen their root systems in the crumbling soil, while above ground their growth had faltered, their yellowing leaves coated with the gray dust that was raised from gravel roads with every vehicle that traveled them. Local farmers eyed the sky beneath glowering brows, searching for a hint, any hint, of the much needed moisture.

How it could be as steamy as it was without rain, I had no idea, but it was enough to try the patience of a saint. And Saint Margaret, I was not. Not even close. I was actually beginning to be glad I lived in the basement apartment in the old Victorian on Willow Street rather than on the upper levels. Home to the occasional shadow creature my dark little apartment might be, but at least the surroundings were always a temperate (if damp) seventy degrees, and without the monstrous electric bills my best friend Stephanie Evans, better known as Steff, endured in her apartment two floors above me.

Still, a girl started to go stir-crazy if she stayed home too often. Which was one reason why I had allowed Tom—Fielding, that is, my on again, off again, not-quite-boyfriend—that steamy, Saturday evening, to sweet-talk me into a moonlit drive down to the sunken gardens in the old limestone quarry. The other reason being that I was still trying to make up to him, at least in my mind, for my unplanned lapse in ethical judgment six weeks ago, when I'd allowed Marcus Quinn to kiss me. Marcus Quinn, the delectable male witch I had once mistakenly written off as being attached to my boss. Marcus Quinn, who'd let me know in no uncertain terms that he was most definitely interested in me. Marcus Quinn, who with his shoulder-length dark hair, blue eyes, and laughing demeanor had teased his way into the illustrious position of Temptation No. 1 in my life.

Marcus, Marcus, Marcus!

Forgive the Jan Brady moment, but I will hereby confess to a general state of man-centered confusion. At least Tom was a known commodity. There were variables when dealing with Marcus. Unknowns. Call me a wuss, but unknowns made me nervous. He made me nervous.
Wow, did he ever.

I'd been avoiding him ever since. Or trying to.

Tom, on the other hand, I'd been doing my best to get to stand still. It had been six months since he'd told me he wanted to date me. I'd been trying ever since to figure out what exactly that meant to him. A lot of things had been implied, but never anything definite. There are just some things that a girl needs to get clear in her mind. Like, were we an item, or weren't we? Enter Steff, my very own bona fide Love Guru. She would just shake her head at me and remind me that love was all about the heart, not the head, whenever I voiced my concerns. But then, Steff had an innate confidence I'd always wished for but had never quite managed to acquire.

Back to my Saturday night interlude . . .

Closed to business long ago, the quarry had found new life in years past as one of the top make out destinations in Stony Mill. Not, perhaps, the usual haunt of a couple of non-teenagers, but desperate times called for desperate measures. We'd been there all of ten minutes, trying to get into the experience, when I remembered why desperation was such a necessary part of the equation for an illicit summertime visit to the local Lover's Lane: overheated lip-locks, a steamed-up windshield, hip bruised by a badly positioned seatbelt, bloodthirsty mosquitoes, and the constant embarrassment threat of seeing someone you know stroll past did not make for full-blown seduction.

What had I been thinking?

To make matters worse, Tom was "on call," which as an officer of the law and Special Task Force Investigator was a nice way of saying he was really on duty, but allowed to do things he wanted to do unless his attendance was required elsewhere. Which also meant that the occasional squelch and squawk of the police radio was our romantic accompaniment. Which also meant that Tom's attention was—how shall I say?—diverted.

When I first realized that he was pausing to lend an ear to the portable police radio he carried as part of the job, I almost thought I must be mistaken. After all, his eyes were still closed; it could just be the heat getting the better of my imagination. With the second lull, though, I frowned and concentrated on putting more effort into keeping his focus on the business at hand . . . so to speak. But by the third breather, when he'd actually lifted his lips from mine and put our proceedings on hold while he trained his ears to the numerical call codes and details that followed, I was starting to feel a bit peevish, pent up, and put out. Between the heat, the steam, and the inevitable hurt feelings, any willingness to participate on my part had evaporated in a way that the sweat dampening my frizzing hair would not.

I extricated myself slowly and began to untwist my clothes. Tom shifted to make way for me, but his body was still on high alert, his eyes focused hard on the red power light on the radio as the call detail concluded with a noisy squelch. I don't think he'd even noticed the loss of our romantic evening mojo.

That hurt my feelings even more.

I tried not to let it. His job meant the world to him, and the last thing I wanted was to be one of those needy, self-absorbed women who have to be the primary focus of their man's life. But, geez. Call me high maintenance, but in her more intimate moments, didn't a girl deserve a little priority?

"Maggie." Tom was already buckling himself in on the driver's side as simultaneously he started the engine. I knew what it meant. Without a word I reached for my buckle. "Maggie, we're going to have to go. Both of the guys on duty are in the middle of things right now, and there's been a report of trespass and possible break-in at the feed mill in town." As he threw the truck into gear, he glanced over at me and added as an afterthought, "Sorry."

I sighed. Sorry he might be, but this seemed to be happening more and more often on what little time we managed to find together. Not that it was always Tom's fault; life at Enchantments, Stony Mill's answer to an upscale gift shoppe and secret witchy emporium, was keeping me busier than I ever would have imagined. Business, as they say, had been booming.

"It's all right," I told him, trying hard for magnanimity. "You've gotta do what you've gotta do."

He reached out and squeezed my hand. "That's my girl."

As we left the old quarry, I wondered how many couples had been startled out of their clinches by the bouncing headlights that identified our hasty departure. Then again, would I have noticed, had I been suitably enthralled? Hmm, probably not.

I turned my attention to Tom, keeping my expression neutral and my tone light. "Are you dropping me off, then?"

He shook his head. "No time, not if we want a chance in hell of catching whoever is there. Might be nothing, but better to be safe than sorry. You'll stay in the truck and lock the doors."
It wasn't what I'd wanted to hear, but it was all part and parcel of seeing a cop. Whether I liked it or not, there would be times he would be called in to duty, and whether I wanted it or not, there would be occasions where I would be with him when the calls came in and circumstances would necessitate my being taken along for the ride. Such was life.

I really didn't like it, though. I'd seen enough danger in the previous eight months to last me a lifetime, and none of it had been by choice.

We were traveling indecently fast up the bumpy county roads, slowing only a little before blowing through stop signs at the crossroads. My heart made a scaredy-cat dip every time. I managed to stifle any squeaks of distress, but I feared my fingers would make permanent dents in the soft parts of the doorframe by the time we drew near to the edge of town, where the pseudo-skyline of the feed mill loomed on the horizon, backlit by security lights in the steamy night air.

The Turners had owned the feed mill, the largest collection of grain elevators in the county, as far back as I could remember. A small village worth of silos of varying diameters and heights, the tallest stretching as high as a ten-story building, this hub for the farming community had changed drastically from when I had visited with my Grandpa Gordon as a child. Back then, it had been little more than some old silos, a dusty roundabout, and outlying holding pens for hogs heading for slaughter. Now the new-and-improved array of silos were interconnected by an extraordinary number of ramps and conveyer systems, the hog barns looked pristine—at least on the outside—and the very air itself whirred and buzzed with the noise from drying fans that looked big enough to drive a truck through. I remembered seeing an article in the Stony Mill Gazette about major renovations at Turner's and how they were costing a pretty penny, but this was the first time I'd been out this way in quite a while. Technology, it would seem, had arrived at last in the farming sector of Stony Mill.

As fast as we'd traveled through the surrounding countryside, now that we were drawing nearer the feed mill, we were creeping by comparison so as not to broadcast our approach. Next to me, Tom had gone instantly, perhaps even reflexively, into police mode, his entire body on high alert. His eyes grew sharp, moving here and there, taking in all the shadowed coveys, the many pockets of quiet where a person could easily be hiding.

"Jesus," he said under his breath. "Where to start? The guy could be anywhere."

I watched as he unlocked the glove compartment and withdrew his ankle holster, his eyes still on the quiet scene in front of us. Without a word, I reached behind the seat and grabbed the heavy utility belt and bulletproof vest he always kept at the ready like the Boy Scout he was, and handed it to him.

"Thanks." He opened his door and stepped out cautiously, drawing the vest over his head and securing the thick leather belt around his waist with a quick and practiced motion. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his jeans, withdrawing a big pocket knife, which he tossed onto my lap. "Here. Just in case. Stay put. Lock the doors behind me."

He closed the door firmly but quietly and moved away from the pickup with all the grace and danger of a panther on the prowl. His plain white T-shirt and blue jeans stood out all too easily beneath the bright glow of the security lights. A sitting duck, if anyone was out there with a serious reason for not wanting to be caught. Remembering what he'd told me about taking precautions, I punched the Lock button, feeling far more secure as the solid ka-chunk of the tumblers crunched into place. The weight of the folding knife in my hand reassured me even further—not that I'd need it, but its presence eased my mind anyway. At least, for myself; for
Tom, well, that was another worry altogether.

This was the hardest part of dating a cop. One never knew from day to day whether his health and well-being would continue. I found myself leaning forward on the truck's bench seat, staring out the windshield at the pockets of darkness as Tom darted in and out of them, hugging close to the walls. Why didn't he take a flashlight? I wondered, fretting. Maybe I should turn on the headlights . . .

I forced the thought from my head and made myself relax back against the seat. There was no way Tom would see that as anything other than interference, and I'd promised him months ago to keep my nose out of police business. Not that I had ever intentionally intervened. Like my mom had a fondness for saying, trouble just seemed to have a knack for finding me.

I fidgeted anxiously. Nine forty-two on the clock, glowing bright green on the dashboard.
At nine forty-three another car scuffed to a halt beside the truck, red and blue lights flashing, but no siren. I turned my head, but the officer who had been driving had already leapt from its confines and was standing outside my window, face stern, one cautious hand on the butt of his gun as with the other he motioned for me to open the window. Far be it from me to get in the way of the law. I pressed the Down button, posthaste.

Recognition registered suddenly on his face—Jed Something, I remembered just as suddenly, an older, thicker version of Tom, whose gunbelt served only to emphasize the middle-age drift.

"Oh, it's you," he said. "Thought I recognized the truck. Tom already here?"

I nodded. "Out there somewhere. I've lost track of him."

"Right. You stay here." He cut the flashers.

“Be careful. I haven’t seen anyone yet, but—”

He had already turned away from me. Just then the misty clouds that had been obscuring the moon shifted. I glanced up at the movement. My breath caught in my throat as the glow from the half-moon silhouetted a silo with its system of conveyers and chutes and ladders . . .

“Oh, my God. What is that?”

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Copyright 2008, Madelyn Alt. All rights reserved.