“You new here?” the bartender asked as he mopped up a spill and refilled Daegan’s glass when it was only half empty. The Plug Nickel Saloon was doing a banner after-work business. A small crowd was huddled near the television set watching the World Series, others were scattered at tables, talking, joking, and drinking. Cigarette smoke hung heavy despite the fans whirring overhead. “Y ep,” Daegan said, deciding to reveal as little about himself as possible. “Lookin’ for work?” “Nah. I rented the old Mc Intyre place.” “That scrap of sagebrush?” Daegan’s grin was slow. “Y ep.” The barke ep chuckled. “Well, I’ll be. Gonna do some ranchin’?” “Hope so,” Daegan drawled, “if I can fix the fence line to ke ep the cattle in. Wouldn’t want ’em wanderin’ down the road or into the neighbor’s place.” The bartender stopped the fluid motion of his towel on the counter, and his face, big and pockmarked from a bout with acne, creased. “You met your neighbors yet?” Daegan shook his head and lifted a shoulder as if it didn’t matter much even though he was trying to learn as much about Kate Summers as possible. He’d sift through fact and fiction later. “Well, there’s a widow livin’ to the south of you.” “She alone?” Daegan asked, as if the conversation bored him though his fingers tightened over his mug. “Nope. Lives there with her boy.” Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, the barke ep added, “She’s a looker, that one. Young—probably thirty, maybe thirty-five, good shape and smart. Teaches over at Western Cascade, that’s a local two-year college in Bend. Ke eps to herself a lot, but then I can’t blame her.” “Why?” Daegan asked, though instinctively the muscles at the base of his neck tightened. “Well... it’s her boy... he’s...” The bartender sighed loudly and his eyebrows slammed together. Leaning closer to Daegan, he said, “Well, the kid’s an odd duck if ya know what I mean. No other way to describe him. He never has really fit in and there are stories about him.” “Yeah?” Daegan displayed only mild interest, though he was hungry for any scrap of information about the woman and her son. “She’s got her hands full with that one.” “Hey, Ben, how about a refill?” a burly lumberjack ex-football type at the far stool demanded. Unshaven, with sprinkles of sawdust in the hair that was visible beneath his hunting hat, he motioned to his glass. “You talkin’ about the Summers boy? Goddamned freak, if you ask me. A bonafide retard.” “Takes one to know one,” another wiry man with leather-tough skin added. His laugh cackled through the saloon and an unlit cigarette jabbed in the corner of his mouth bobbed. “Shut up, Spencer,” the giant returned glumly, and Daegan, glancing in the mirror, caught a glimpse of Kate Summers walking out of the local dress shop.
“Thanks,” he said, climbing off his stool and leaving more than enough cash to pay for his beer. So now for phase one, he thought grimly, and the thought settled de ep in his craw. He’d never liked playing games and detested lying, but he was about to do both. “It’s now or never,” he reminded himself, shouldering open the door and walking briskly to ke ep up with her pace. She strode along the dusty sidewalk as if she were a woman on a mission, her sun-streaked hair bouncing against the shoulders of a faded denim jacket decorated with silver studs. She was small, not more than five foot four inches, and she didn’t look to the right or left. Her keys were clasped firmly in one hand, the strap of a large leather purse thrown over one shoulder. She must’ve heard him because, as she paused to unlock the door of her station wagon, she tossed a look his way. Eyes the color of aged whiskey gave him a quick once-over. His gut clenched unexpectedly as she looked away and he climbed into the cab of his truck. Y ep, she was the same woman in the photograph. Her face had thinned in the past few years and there were a few tiny lines near the corners of her eyes. Her skin was more tanned, her hair streaked by the sun, and there was an air to her—the way she carried herself—that he hadn’t expected. As if she were a woman to be reckoned with. She opened the door and threw her purse on the passenger seat when he rolled down his window, then jabbed a finger in the direction of her right front fender. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a flat.” “What?” she said, but her face fell. Quickly she walked around the front end of her car and her lips tightened in disgust as she spied the deflated tire. “Oh, great. Just great!” “Need help?” He slid out from his truck’s cab. “Oh, no, I couldn’t—” Shaking her head, she turned to face him and again their eyes met. The breath caught in the back of his throat for a second at the d epth of her gaze—intense and suspicious. “I’m used to this,” he said. He motioned to her trunk. “You got another tire?” “Yes, but...” She eyed him with more than a glimmer of distrust. “I’ve changed a tire before.” “Just an offer.” “But I don’t even know you—” “Daegan O’Rourke,” he said, managing a grin as he extended his hand. She clasped his palm briefly. “I’m Kate Summers, and thanks, it’s nice of you to offer, but if worst comes to worst, I can always run down to the service station and—” “No need,” he said and leaned a hip against the back fender. “I do this kind of thing for a living.” “You’re a mechanic?” Again the tone of sk epticism. She stood, hands on her hips, glaring murderously at the car. Black jeans, matching belt and boots, white blouse, and a scowl that was all business. “No, I’m just a rancher—new around here. But I’m used to fixing broken-down equipment. Afraid it comes with the territory.” “Fine, Mr. O’Rourke—” “Daegan,” he cut in. She hesitated a beat. “Daegan, then.” Still wary, she used her key to open the trunk, shoved some books and paper bags aside, and pulled off the mat to uncover a dusty whitewall that looked underinflated as well.
“Wonderful,” she mocked, blowing her bangs out of her eyes and checking her watch. “It might hold,” he said though it was all he could do to concentrate on the conversation when he had a hundred questions he’d rather ask her—a hundred questions about her and her son. Gritting his teeth, he hauled the jack and spare tire from the trunk. “Nothing worse than a car hassle.” “Look, you don’t have to—” “No problem.” He flashed her a half-smile. “I’m not in any rush.” Nervously, she waited and he assembled the jack, secured the wheels, loosened the lug nuts with a wrench from his toolbox, and eventually raised the front quadrant of the car. Within ten minutes the Buick was resting on the soggy spare, the jack and flat tire were in the trunk, and Kate was groping for words. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, squinting against the lowering sun. A dry wind blew down the dusty street, scattering a few leaves and papers and lifting her hair from her shoulders. A few people hurried past, casting only mildly interested glances in their direction. “No thanks needed.” “But...” Shading her eyes, she stared at him as if memorizing the planes of his face. “These days a Good Samaritan is hard to find.” “Believe me, I’m not that good.” At least that wasn’t a lie. A pang of guilt twisted his gut as he slammed the lid of his toolbox closed and set the battered metal crate in the bed of his truck. “If it would make you feel any better, someday you can buy me a cup of coffee—or a beer. Whatever.” A rattletrap of an old truck passed, windows down, heavy-metal music throbbing. A couple of teenage boys, three sheets to the wind from the looks of them, laughed over the pounding beat of hard rock. Kate watched them drive by and her lips clamped a little tighter. “It’s a deal,” she said, glancing back to him. “Good.” He managed half a smile. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” “Maybe,” she r eplied as if she didn’t mean it, her intense eyes scrutinizing his for an instant. “Thanks again.” “Anytime.” She climbed behind the wheel of her station wagon, slid a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose, and after one quick, intense glance in his direction, drove off in the same direction as the loud teenage boys. Daegan was left with a gnawing in his guts. “Damn you, Bibi,” he muttered under his breath. Knowing he was about to make a mistake that would follow him for the rest of his life, he climbed into his old Dodge pickup and headed toward the cheap cinder block motel on the edge of town. “I heard you call out last night,” Kate said at breakfast the next morning. Jon, distracted, was pushing a burnt corner of his toast through the glop that had been the middle of a fried egg. “Bad dream,” he mumbled, heavy strands of dark hair tumbling over his forehead as he avoided her gaze. “Another?” She tried to sound casual when inside she was dying. The scream she’d heard had caused her to sit bolt upright in the bed and fling off the coverlet. She’d been halfway to the door of her bedroom when she’d forced herself to stop and listen over the thudding of her heart and the rush of adrenalin that had pumped through her blood. She’d closed her eyes, counted to ten, and listened, ears straining.
Jon resented her intruding into his life. The last time she’d dashed into his bedroom, she’d been met with quiet hostility that had simmered for two days. Jon had accused her of babying him, of overreacting, of smothering him with her motherly attentions, so last night, she’d stood in the middle of her room, silently counting off the seconds. When he hadn’t cried out again or come knocking on her door, she’d gone back to bed and lain awake until the alarm on her digital clock had gone off at six. “What else would it be?” he charged as she took a sip of her t epid coffee. “You tell me.” He looked past her to stare out the window, past the oak tree where the leaves were turning color, to the craggy mountains on the horizon. His eyes narrowed, as though he wasn’t seeing the sun-bleached fields or stand of pines that s eparated this patch of land from the Mc Intyre place. “Okay, so it wasn’t just a dream.” She leaned her hips against the counter and clutched her cup more tightly. “A premonition?” “Yeah.” He bit his lower lip as he always did when he tried to puzzle something out. “Maybe.” “Bad?” “Have I ever had a good one?” Kate’s heart sank. Oh, Lord, now what? “Tell me about it.” Lifting a shoulder, he said, “There’s a man in volved and there’s gonna be trouble.” “What kind of trouble?” she asked, her voice steady, her heart beating a million times a minute. He squeezed his eyes shut as if forcing the vision. “I—I don’t know. I can’t see anything else.” She reached for the coffe epot on the stove, burned her fingers, and sucked in her breath. Don’t blow this, stay calm, she warned herself as she added warm coffee to her cup, though she hardly knew what she was doing. Jon was worried; she could see it in the strain on his face. “How long have you sensed this?” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Just a little while. A week, maybe two. But last night... last night it was more than a feeling.” He shoved his plate aside and stood. Houndog scrambled out from under the table as Jon picked up his backpack and slung it over one shoulder. “You might be wrong. You’ve been wrong in the past. You know, as a little boy you thought you saw angels.” His head turned swiftly. He glared at her with such intensity, she nearly winced. “I never saw angels, Mom, okay? Never. Don’t tell anyone about the angels or the ghosts or any of that shit—” She raised her eyebrows and he caught himself. “Any of that stuff.” “Watch the language.” He started to say something, then changed his mind. “Look, I shouldn’t have said anything about the danger or—” “You didn’t say danger,” she cut in quickly, fear touching her lungs with cold, damp fingers. “You said trouble.” “Same difference.” “I don’t think so. Trouble is a bad r eport card, or losing your keys, or making a mistake in your checkbook. Danger is different. It usually means life-threatening or incredible pain or...” “I meant trouble, okay?” He muttered, but he avoided her eyes and picked up a dishtowel on the counter. Wadding the towel into a ball, he tossed it into the sink.
“Jon, what’s going on?” “I don’t know, I just get the feeling that... that somebody—a man without a face—is after us. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. “Do you know who he is?” Jon shook his head, but his face drained of color and his pupils dilated despite the brightness of the day. Snatching a tennis ball that he’d left on the counter, he kneaded it nervously in his fingers. “But I ke ep hearing the word father. I told you.” Her insides curled in on themselves and she gripped the back of a kitchen chair for support. The criminal. If only Jon’s dreams could be haunted by some other beast. She’d been dodging the truth, and now it was getting to be a problem. Jon didn’t know he was adopted; she’d promised not to ever confide in him, but that seemed impossible in today’s technology of blood typing and DNA testing. Fortunately Jon had never hurt himself badly enough to need blood or been ill so that he needed an organ or bone marrow or anything else that would require tissue typing and a match. Kate prayed that her luck would hold until he was an adult. Then, if the subject ever came up, she might confide in him. But not now. Not when he was still young and vulnerable. There were other reasons as well. She was afraid that if Jon found out the truth that his natural parents hadn’t wanted him, the knowledge would scar him, shake the underpinnings of his self-esteem, and... she had to face it, she was scared of the truth and that he’d want to leave, to search out his “real” parents, to find out why he was different from the other children, if there was a reason, a genetic trait that had been passed from one generation to the next. She’d thought that he might somehow divine the truth, that with his ability to see into the future, he’d know that she wasn’t his blood relative, but over the years, when he’d said nothing, asked no questions, seemed to acc ept her completely as his mother, she didn’t have the heart to tell him. Sooner or later, she would have to, but she wanted to wait until their relationship, so shaky recently, was strong again. Coward. You’re just afraid of losing him! He was staring at her with confused blue eyes. “Your... your father’s dead,” she said, feeding the lie that had seemed so small and innocent nearly fifteen years ago. “Is he?” God, help me. “You know it, Jon. Your father was killed—” “I know the story that you told me, but there’s more, isn’t there? Things I don’t know. What is it, Mom? Was there another guy? Someone you were in volved with after James died?” “No!” she nearly shouted, her fingers curled over the top of the chair in a death grip as she lowered her voice. “There’s never been another man.” Still holding the ball, Jon lifted his hands to the side of his head. “I know it sounds weird, but I get this... feeling that somehow... my father... he’s alive. I know it’s stupid.” He shook his head, and Kate bit her lip. This wasn’t the time to tell him there was the other man, the man who had given Jon life because that man, the one who had been in prison, didn’t know where Jon was, didn’t care, probably didn’t even know that he had a son. Or did he? Was he on his way? The tr epidation that had followed her around like a deadly shadow for the past fifteen years crystallized into something real and tangible and terrifying.
“See, crazy, huh?” Jon threw the tennis ball down the hall and Houndog took off in a frantic, scrambling streak of black and white. “Maybe Todd Neider’s right. Maybe I am a freak.” “Of course you aren’t,” she said, her mouth feeling dry as cotton. She walked over and tried to give him a hug, but he shrugged her off. “Don’t. Don’t treat me like a little kid.” “You are—” “I’m fifteen! I can get a driver’s license in less than a year!” He took a st ep away from her. “Too old to be kissed and hugged by my mom.” She wanted to protest. A part of her cried out inside, but she didn’t say a word and tried not to look hurt. He was right. He was growing up, growing away from her. He probably did need a father. But not the man in Boston. Never him. Houndog, tennis ball firmly in his mouth, rounded the corner, jumped up on Jon’s legs wildly, his bark muffled before he dropped the ball on the floor. The pup’s tail wagged furiously as he stared up at the boy, almost daring Jon to toss it again. Jon didn’t notice, just shifted his backpack to his other shoulder. Kate tried one more time. “Look, Jon, I didn’t mean to bug you about your dreams, but—” “Just stop, okay?” His jaw worked in anger and he plowed a hand through his hair. “Everything’s going to be all right,” she said, as much to convince herself as him. Inside she was falling apart. Was it possible? After all these years? Could Jon’s father have found out about him? The safe little shell she’d built around them was cracking. Finally Jon saw the dog whining at his feet. In one swift motion, he shot the ball down the hall again. “I don’t think so, Mom. Everything’s not gonna be okay. I don’t want to scare you, but I think we’re in for some heavy sh—stuff around here.” “You do?” Her heart knocked crazily. He nodded. “It’s starting. Today.” “What?” She swallowed back her fear. His eyes narrowed as he stared through the open window again, to the distant mountains and the black clouds that rolled across the sky. The smells of dry grass, dust, and faded wild flowers filtered into the room, and far away a tractor engine rumbled, but Jon, looking into a distance only he could see, seemed unaware of the noises and odors. Absently he rubbed a hand over the muscles of his other forearm. Kate felt cold as death. “The danger,” Jon said slowly in a voice that was an eerie whisper. “It’s coming.” “Oh, God, no.” This time he hadn’t tried to soften the blow by calling it trouble. This time he had admitted the peril, the unnamed danger that was stalking him. He swallowed hard, then looked at her, his gaze bright and focused again, as if he were back in the moment. But his grim expression didn’t change. “It’s coming, Mom,” he r epeated hoarsely, “and there’s no way to stop it.”