"FINE," I SNAPPED, and wondered what the question had been.

"Yes," said Escott. "Now hold still."

He was kneeling over me, undoing my collar button. Only an instant ago he'd been sitting across the room. Not even Barrett could move that fast.

The ceiling, which seemed very far away because I was flat out on the floor, twisted every time I blinked. I shut my eyes hard against the effect.

"This is getting to be a very bad habit with you," he chided. "Are you the sort who goes in for self-punishment, or are you just naturally stupid?"

There was no reason to answer that one. "Where's Barrett?"

"Halfway home by now. You provoked him into a fine temper by that last display." He punched at my tender forehead with a dripping washcloth.

"Ow!"

"Serves you right. I was going to talk with him and get him to see reason, but you've effectively canceled that gambit."

"So buy me a hair shirt."

He dropped the cloth smack onto my face and got up in disgust. I rolled to my left side, using my arm for a pillow.

That damned hammer and anvil were at it again, and some thick, viscous liquid was sloshing messily around between my ears--probably what was left of my brain.

"What time is it?"

"After two."

Not late at all; five whole hours to sit around, stare at the walls, and wish I'd stayed in Chicago. Maybe I'd conk out regardless if I crawled into my trunk earlier than usual. Suppressing a moan, I eventually sat up, putting my back to the wall. It really wasn't as bad as my initial awakening in the morgue. I'd had worse hangovers when I'd been alive.

Mentally I did want a drink, something 150 proof and painless till morning. I toyed with the idea of finding some animal, getting it stinking drunk, and then with all that booze in its bloodstream Someone rapped on our door.

Escott glanced at me. "Can you disappear for a moment?"

Why not? It was easy enough. No movement was required and therefore no real concentration; I was there one second and gone the next. The body with all its hurts was gone, gone, gone. Too bad I couldn't do the same for the mind and its memories. It was tempting to stay this way forever; floating, formless, and insulated from all the ills caused by living, simple living.

The rap came again, and Escott answered. His visitor sounded diffident but official. "heard a crash and asked us to check on things."

The neighbors had complained to the manager about the noise. At two in the morning, you could hardly blame them.

"frightfully sorry, my own clumsy fault. I tripped rather badly."

"You're not hurt?"

"It's really nothing, bang on the shin. More din than damage."

"We just wanted to be certain" And the man apologized for the intrusion and expressed sympathy for my tragic death, and had the police found out anything?

"They said to expect some new developments anytime now."

Which was a diplomatic way of describing my body being absent from the funeral parlor. Tomorrow's paper would make interesting reading unless Chief Curtis decided to keep it all quiet out of sheer embarrassment.

"Can we expect you to be staying with us much longer?" He was not overly enthused, even less so at the affirmative answer. It's bad for business when guests get themselves murdered. Escott bade him good night and locked the door. Reluctantly, I faded back into reality. The aches returned, but they weren't as sharp as before.

Escott dropped onto his bed and pinched the bridge of his nose. For the first time I noticed the blue circles under his eyes and the general slow-down of his movements. He'd been up most of the night because of the storm, and then spent the day fending off the police and waiting for me to wake up, either as myself or as a brain-damaged responsibility he didn't need. The last twenty-four hours had sucked the energy from him.

"Sorry about all this," I said lamely.

He considered my own forlorn form, shrugged, and accepted the apology.

"We're both tired. Tell me, was that show pure temper, or had you a purpose in alienating the man?"

"It was temper, but I had some idea it was the only way to reach him, to get him to see her through our eyes."

"There are subtler ways of doing it," he pointed out.

"I'm not so good at that."

"Evidently."

"What now?"

"Some rest. I want to give Barrett a chance to cool down."

"What's to keep him from skipping town between now and tomorrow?"

"That is not too likely, as it would be an admission of guilt and leave Emily and Laura undefended. I believe the man has a streak of honor in him."

"Or he could skip with both women and we never hear of them again."

He shook his head. "I don't read that off him at all."

"That streak of honor?"

"Exactly. I believe that once he realizes the truth for himself, he will want to do the right thing. He only needs the time to think it all over."

"You figure he'll talk to Laura?"

He had a look in his eye that made me feel cold inside and out. "I am absolutely counting on it."

"I'll go out to the estate tomorrow and see what's happened."

"May I come along?"

"Yeah. I might need you to scrape me off the pavement again."

We'd planned to leave for the Franchers first thing, but he wasn't in the room when I woke up. It looked like the start of another disastrous evening.

I quickly dressed and stepped out to look for him, but being officially dead put a hell of a crimp into things. Walking up to the desk clerk to ask a simple question would only put the man into hysterics. While I dithered in the hall someone behind me said past.

"This way," he whispered.

The top of Escott's head was just disappearing down the backstairs. He'd gotten the car back and had left it in the gravel lot with the motor running. We piled in and he ground the gears to get us moving again.

"Glove box," he said, before I could ask what was going on. His eyes were fever bright and there was a new tenseness to his body.

I opened the box and thankfully resumed ownership of my wallet, watch, and other junk. "This isn't the road to the Franchers'."

"I know, but something's happened." His lips had thinned to a single grim line and there was a brick wall behind his eyes.

"What?"

He tossed a folded paper in my lap. "The story's there. Emily Francher died today."

And he didn't say anything while I gaped first at him and then at the paper headline. The words swam. I couldn't make any sense of them. "What happened exactly?"

"I don't know, I've only just found out. There was some kind of an accident early this afternoon--a fall down some stairs."

"Shit. Where are we going?"

'The funeral parlor. For obvious reasons I daren't make myself too noticeable there, but you can get inside for a quick look."

"I'm not sure I want to. What am I looking for?"

"Any sign of Emily Francher's resuscitation or resurrection, or whatever you call it."

"Oh, Jesus."

"No need to be blasphemous, I only want your opinion on her condition."

Maybe he thought I was some kind of a vampire expert, which was true in a way, but I was not overconfident. "What if she has changed?"

"Then she might require assistance from someone who's been through it before. You said your own experience left you in quite a state of shock."

That was for damn sure. The night I had woken up dead, it took a hit-and-run murder attempt with a Ford to finally jolt my mind back into full working order. "What if Barrett shows up?"

"Tell him the truth of why you're there."

"And maybe ask if he's spoken to Laura yet?"

"I'll leave that to your discretion."

He dropped me in the street behind the parlor and promised to swing back again in fifteen minutes.

They'd replaced the window Escott had worked on with his glass cutter, but I had no trouble slithering through the cracks between the sash and the sill, emerging out of the air onto the sanitized floor of the morgue. I recognized the place with an uneasy twinge and was thankful it was empty. The adjoining office was also unoccupied, but not the whole building. Voices were coming from somewhere out front and I followed the sounds, tracing them through a bare linoleum hall.

Two wide doors opened onto a plusher room filled to the ceiling with the ultimate in vampiric cliches. They were stacked three high, and the ones on the bottom were tilted slightly with the lids up so that you could appreciate the linings. I counted nearly two dozen coffins, each with different styling, details, and prices.

I'd had no idea so much choice was available, from a simple native pine to a mirror-polished ebony with gold-plated handles. The one with scenes from the Sistine Chapel painted all over it with porcelain angels on the comers seemed overdone, but to each his own. I wanted none of it, preferring my cramped and homely trunk to such a constant and forceful reminder of death. The sight of a child-sized coffin and a tiny baby casket in a corner raised a sudden lump in my throat and I knew I had to get out of there.

The opposite set of doors led to a wide hall, this one with a white-and-gold carpet leading to the main chapel, or whatever it was.

The walls were presently devoid of religious symbols, though I'd noticed a number of crosses, crucifixes, and even a Star of David leaning against a wall in the office. They were ready for all comers.

The voices originated from this room, where a man and woman were setting up folding chairs in neat rows. They were careful to stagger them so everyone would see the show up front. The line of chairs closest to the speaker's podium were fancier and non-folding. Painted white, with gold velvet upholstery, they were obviously reserved for the family. On a low, gold-draped platform left of the podium was a coffin.

The two people, apparently husband and wife and owners of the business, were busy discussing personal economics.

I'd expected them to be quiet or reverent or something as they worked, but life goes on, even for funeral directors.

Clatter.

"I don't see how another dime will really hurt us," said the wife. "It's only one more dime a week."

Clack-clatter.

The man shook his head. "That makes for five-twenty a year on top of what she already charges. You've got to look at the whole picture."

"Four-eighty at the most, dear. There are no lessons on the holidays."

"It's still four-eighty."

"But think of the savings later, when she can play during the services.

Then we won't have to hire Mrs. Johnson to do the music. This is actually a kind of investment. Besides, the extra business we've just gotten more than covers the expense for"

Clatter-squeak.

The last chair finally went up and they left by a different door, still talking. I slipped across the room.

Escott had jumped the gun on things. The body in the casket wasn't Emily Francher, but John Henry Banks.

Sometimes they look like they're asleep, but sleeping people usually have some kind of an expression. Banks looked the way he was--dead.

They'd cleaned him up and there was no visible sign of injury, but he wasn't going to smile or exclaim over a generous tip ever again. The responsibility stabbed at me as it had at Escott, and I was torn between sorrow for Banks and anger at the person who'd killed him.

I paid what poor respects I could and left before the man and woman returned.

Escott rolled up and I got in. He found my report a disappointment, but got us moving in the right direction, toward the Francher estate.

"I expect that she left very clear and specific instructions concerning the disposal of her remains," he said.

"You can make book on it. I want to know exactly what happened and to see how Barrett is taking all this."

"Yes, and Laura as well."

I had some very private plans for Laura and saw no reason to tell him anything about them yet. "You don't figure Emily's death to be from natural causes?" He could tell that I didn't.

"I've no hard data yet to incline my opinion one way or another, whether it was an accident, act of God, or murder. However, it does look very odd, especially coming right after our interview with Barrett last night."

The town faded behind us and the trees drew right up to the road and closed overhead. Escott made the correct turning to take us to the Francher house.

"He might have questioned Laura," I said.

"Which is something else I need to know about."

"He may try to protect her."

"Protect her?"

"Not everyone is as justice minded as you, Charles. Like it or not, those two have become his family. A man will usually try to protect his family no matter what they've done. I'm just saying this as a warning.

Barrett's got a hell of a temper and it couldcould get away from him."

"As it has with you?"

I nodded, staring at the rush of gray shadows outside the window.

"Is that why you wanted to stop me last night?"

"Yeah, something like that. All I could see then was one big messy can of worms being dumped out."

"And what do you see now?"

"John Henry Banks lying in a box forty years too soon."

He drove quickly and absently, with most of his concentration directed inward and not at the road. He almost passed the gate by except for my warning.

May fair was just inside sitting on a camp stool, ready to handle the incoming traffic. He had orders that only officials of the law and family were allowed in, but Escort's investigator's license placed him nominally in the former category. That and a generous tip persuaded the Cerberus in baggy pants to let us through, and he even parted with some minimal information.

"She died from a fall down the stair in the front hall," Escort repeated, slamming his door and shifting gears. "One of the maids found her and thought it was a faint until she saw the blood. Dr. Evans was called out and he brought in Chief Curtis."

"Why the cops?"

"Mayfair didn't know."

"So maybe it wasn't an accident. Are they still here?"

"Left hours ago, but the relatives from Newport have arrived in force."

"How much inheritance do you figure is involved?"

He gave out with a short, cheerless laugh. "You and I think along similar lines. I've no idea, but it is bound to be quite a lot. I'd give a lot for a look at her will and how she may have allowed for things in the event of her return."

Cars were parked haphazardly along the drive and on the grass, and the garage exit was choked. Almost every light in the house was on, and faces appeared at the windows to inspect the latest arrivals.

A different maid let us in. She'd left off the white starched collar and cuffs of her uniform and wore unrelieved black. Her round mouth was crushed and her eyes were red lined and puffy from her own grief. I recognized her as one of the two women who shared rooms over the garage.

She didn't bother to get our names, taking it for granted that Mayfair had kept out the undesirables.

Emily had a lot of relatives. Some of them might have been there out of genuine concern, but none were readily apparent. A lot of booze was flowing, so it was starting to resemble an impromptu wake.

"You see Barrett?" I asked him.

"No. Do you see Laura?"

"Nope. Let's split up."

"Right."

Escort melted away into the crowd and I lost sight of even his tall, distinctive form in a few seconds. The big front hall didn't look so big anymore; it was literally a case of all the world and his wife showing up. I started to push my way through a sudden opening when a thin, hard-faced woman with gingery hair focused her sharp eyes on me and came over.

"Are you family?" she demanded sweetly.

"No. Friend."

"Then you shouldn't be here," she quickly said. "It's family only until the funeral."

"How are you related?"

"Poor Emily was my cousin."

"Second or third and only by marriage," an eavesdropper put in helpfully, and got a drawn-daggers look for his trouble.

"We were very close years ago," she defended smoothly to me. "And that makes up for a lot."

"But never as much as you hope," added the heckler.

She turned her back on him to face me. "Anyway, you'll have to go. It's family only, as I said. The maid will show you out." She waited expectantly with her hands neatly folded and her chin up and I struggled not to laugh in her face. Someone else did, loudly, and was immediately shushed. This made us the brief center of attention and my reluctant hostess went very pink, but held her ground.

Someone else latched on to my arm and I thought for a second that I really was about to be evicted.

"Why, Cousin Jules! I haven't seen you since the war, how you've grown!"

A younger woman in dark blue tugged hard and led me from the scene.

"Yeahit's been a while," I loudly agreed.

Once out of immediate earshot she said, '"Don't mind her, Abigail is just your average inheritance vulture like the rest of us. Her trouble is that she pretends so hard she isn't."

"Thanks, Mrs., Miss"

"Clarice Francher, Miss." We shook hands. "I'm a vulture as well, but then I'm more honest about it."

"How's that?"

"I admit that I never liked Cousin Violet and hardly knew Emily. I'm here for appearance' sake and so I can hear what people are saying about me behind my back."

She was a pretty woman in her middle twenties with intelligent eyes and a nicely rounded-out figure. She gave me a once-over as well and seemed to like what she saw.

"And who are you, Mr"

"Jack Flynn," I stumbled out, mindful that John R. Fleming was officially dead and had to stay that way for the time being. She picked up on the hesitation, so I changed the subject. "Look, I only just heard about this, can you tell me exactly what happened to Emily?"

Her big eyes had narrowed. "Are you a reporter?"

"No, only a friend."

"Whose?" She was evidently aware of Emily's hermitlike life.

"Emily's secretary."

This got me a second and much harder look. "Really? So the mystery man has a friend?"

I glimpsed Abigail from the corner of one eye, straining to catch every word. "Acquaintance might be more accurate." Someone caught Abigail's attention and she darted off to harp at them.

"Might it?"

"Yeah, we've got some business dealings in common. Now, about the accident--"

"Maybe you should talk to Mr. Barrett."

"I'd be glad to. Where is he?"

She shrugged. "Around, I suppose. I haven't seen him."

"I understand the police were called out here."

"Yes, they were, but it was just routine."

"Where did it happen?"

Clarice rolled her eyes, but with a hint of a smile. "You don't give up, do you?"

"It's what makes me so charming."

The smile became more pronounced. "All right. As I heard it, one of the maids found her at the foot of the stairs here in the entry hall. They called the doctor, but she was already dead--cracked her skull on all that marble. The doctor called in the police to look things over, but they didn't find anything funny. I think it was for show more than anything else. They probably wanted Laura to know they were on the job."

"Where is Laura? How is she?"

"Who knows? That tame dragon, Mrs. Mayfair, has been guarding her all day."

"When did it happen?"

"Sometime before two, because that's when the maid crossed the hall and found her. Good thing she did, or poor Emily might still be lying there."

"Where is she now?"

"They've put her in one of the side parlors." She nodded her head in the general direction.

"Would you mind taking me there, Miss Francher?"

"There're dozens of Miss Franchers here, you'd better call me Clarice."

Somehow, despite her friendly smile, she made it sound like a threat.

She linked her arm in mine again and we worked slowly through the hall.

I got a look at the spot at the foot of the stairs and kept my eyes peeled for Barrett. The spot told me nothing, but the knot of people near it were entertaining and Clarice stopped to listen. Abigail was in the center of things, being her own sweet self.

"If you ask me, the little brat pushed her." She was obviously more candid and open with her opinions within the family.

"No one's asking you, Abby."

"Then you should. You don't know her, the stuck-up little bitch."

"Careful, Abby."

"What's the use? You know we're not getting anything from this because of her. If only cousin Violet were alive."

"We still wouldn't get anything, Emily's the one who got all of Cousin Roger's money."

"And she'll have left it to Laura or that man. He's nothing more than a gigolo, a fortune hunter."

"And what does that make you, dear Abigail?"

This brought about a furious response from Abigail. No one noticed as Clarice and I passed on to the parlor.

"They really shouldn't bait Abby so," she commented. "It's just too easy."

A corpse puts a damper on any party. As crowded as it was, no one was in the parlor when we entered. Clarice's fingers tightened very slightly on my arm as she reacted to the presence of death, and then let go.

Emily looked like Banks, dead. She wore some kind of white gown and held a white rose to her breast. They'd done a good job on her makeup; if she'd sustained any facial injuries or scrapes, they were well hidden. I looked long and hard, because her face did appear younger than I remembered, but she was lying down, and that would make a difference in the pull of the skin against the bones beneath.

The fine lines were still there under the powder, though. The mortician's artistry was simply undisturbed by movement or expression and gave only the illusion of youth. I touched her hand and said her name, but nothing happened.

She was cool, not cold; she'd been dead only a few hours. Her hand was still flexible. Rigor hadn't yet set in, but that wasn't unusual. It could occur anytime within ten hours of death starting in the jaw and neck, but I had absolutely no desire to test those areas.

"You liked her, didn't you?" asked Clarice.

I'd forgotten she'd been standing behind me and withdrew my hand from the casket. "I barely knew her, but I guess I did."

"A lot of us can say the same thing. Maybe if we hadn't been so blue nosed about that man she had" She shrugged self-consciously.

"Yeah?"

"I don't know, maybe she wouldn't have been so alone in other ways."

"Did anyone in the family really dislike her?"

She was mildly surprised. "Not that I know of. There's jealousy, of course, but only because of the money. I think if she'd had a lot less of it, no one would have taken any notice of her at all."

"What about Laura?"

"What about her?"

"What's she like?"

She shook her head. "I saw her once as a kid at her parents' funeral. I really don't remember her. You sure you're not a reporter?"

Not anymore. "I'm sure. Thanks for taking me around."

"Leaving so soon?"

"I gotta look for a friend."

She smiled once more, her slight disbelief lending an interesting curl to the corner of her mouth. "Watch out for Abigail, cousin."

I craned a neck through the press outside for Escott or Barrett, and listened to bits of conversation as I made a way to the stairs again.

"call it a holiday? I tell you she had a complete breakdown and never got over it."

"wonder how much money she wasted on these trashy paintings?"

"the two of them carrying on with the girl right here in the same house."

"years younger than her, the poor thing, and it's not as though she didn't have a chance to find someone her own age." "vicious old hag.

Getting burned alive was only what she deserved. That's what they used to do with witches, you know."

A lowering of the general hubbub spread out from the center of the hall and heads swiveled toward a young woman descending the stairs. I didn't know her at first, but then the last time I'd seen her she'd been naked.

Now she wore a severe black dress, and her lush blond hair was parted in the middle and drawn back into a demure bun at the base of her neck. She wore no makeup; her tanned face was drained and her eyes red.

"Laura, you poor dear!" exclaimed Abigail, and the thin woman rushed up to be the first to take her hand. Laura looked at her blankly, forcing her would-be and now-embarrassed comforter to introduce herself. "But of course you must be exhausted," she concluded, to excuse the lapse of memory.

Mrs. Mayfair appeared and without seeming to, managed to disengage Abigail, and led the girl down to the main hall. As soon as there was space, whether by accident or design, several people closed ranks behind her, cutting Abigail off from further contact.

Laura didn't notice and was busy collecting comforting hugs and murmurs of sympathy from her more recognizable relatives. Once the "hello dears"

and "we're sorrys" were out of the way, one of them voiced it for all.

"What are you going to do now, Laura?"

Laura shook her head and shrugged. "I have a lot to think about, but Mr.

Handley is taking care of all the legal matters for now."

"We hate to bring this up so soon, but one has to be practical about such things. What arrangements did Emily make?"

"I-I don't understand," the girl faltered, looking very young and vulnerable.

"Cousin Robert is talking about Emily's will, dear."

"Oh. I hadn't thought about it. Mr. Handley--"

"Is a stranger. We're your family. You need someone you can trust"

They weren't making it easy on her. Mrs. Mayfair stepped into the breach. "Miss Laura is still very much shocked by the accident. She really should be upstairs resting."

Laura drew herself straight, remembering why she'd come down. "I-I just wanted to thank you all for coming. It is a great comfort, but I don't feel well tonight. Mr. Handley is here and he will answer your questions onon things."

It had the sound of a memorized speech and generated some muted tones of disgruntlement. The girl was no fool and did indeed know where to place her trust. At this official statement, Handley came downstairs; a stocky man in a vested suit with a stubborn mouth and Teutonic jaw. He had the fixed smile of a hard professional and slicked his pale blond hair back with Vaseline.

"Lawyers," hissed a woman, and made it sound like a curse.

"I know, darling," agreed another woman. "You can guess who's getting the lion's share out of this."

"Then there's no need for you to stay, is there?"

Handley said, "There are many arrangements to be made yet. Nothing can possibly be settled tonight, or at least until the poor lady has been laid to rest."

"He means we have to stick around till after the funeral to find out anything," a woman confided to her husband. She wrinkled her upper lip as though smelling a bad odor.

"When's that? Tonight?"

"Shh, Robert."

"This whole business is fishy--dead this afternoon and in her box by evening."

"Did you expect them to just leave her on the floor?"

"Miss Laura sincerely thanks all of you for coming and respectfully requests that you all return home until the funeral."

Objections rippled through the crowd. It was perfectly obvious to some that Laura's respectful request certainly did not apply to them. My sympathy went out to the hired help, who would have their hands full trying to evict them all.

Laura started upstairs for some peace, but Abigail had bided her time and darted in fast.

"My dear child, you really shouldn't be alone in this big house and you know that I--"

"Excuse me," I broke in, loud enough to distract even Abigail. "Miss Laura?"

"Yes?" Laura had a very kissable mouth and light blue eyes. Her pupils were dilated; Dr. Evans may have given her something to bolster her up for the mob.

"My name's Jack Flynn, I'm--

"He's not family," Abigail put in suddenly. "He said so and he told Clarice he was a friend of that--of poor Emily's secretary."

The information woke Laura out of her daze, or seemed to. Much of it might have been assumed as a protection against the emotional clawing and tugging from all the people around her. She studied me with guarded interest and not the least sign of recognition, but then whoever had slugged me on the road had done it from behind. "You're a friend of Mr.

Barrett's?"

"A business acquaintance," I clarified. "I came to offer my condolences and see him, if I may."

"What business?" Her tone was dull, but now I was certain it was faked because of her question. She was interested and not content to fob this off onto her lawyer.

"Nothing to bother you about, you're quite busy enough." I was acutely conscious of all the curious eyes and cocked ears around us. "Is he around?" Her answer was slow, as if she interrupted her inner flow bf thought to remember my question. "No. Actually, I haven't seen him all day. Sometimes his duties require him to leave on short notice."

The hackles went up on my neck at her easy tone. "When did he leave?"

"I really don't know."

"Does he even know about the accident?"

She blinked a few times, as though confused. "Why, of course he does."

"Has anyone tried to find him?"

Her blank, frozen look was back. "Mr. Handley has. Perhaps you should talk to him. Would you please excuse me?"

Mrs. May fair got between us and took the girl upstairs.

Handley came forward, his smile still fixed in place, but not at all neutral. "What business do you have with Mr. Barrett?" he asked.

Again I was conscious of the audience all around us. "It's personal. Any idea where he is?"

"None at all, I'm afraid. It's very inconvenient for him to go off like this just when he's needed the most."

"And even Laura has no idea where he's gone?"

"None. He left no message, but Miss Laura has told me that it's not unusual for him to do so."

"I need to find him. Would the servants know?"

"You may ask them. Excuse me."

A dozen steps up, I caught him again. We were still very much in full view, but no one was in immediate earshot. "Don't you think it's odd, him being away like this?"

"A little."

"A little? The woman's private secretary takes off the same day she makes a permanent dive down the stairs, I think it's pretty damned odd."

"Are you suggesting some sort of connection?"

"Possibly. Did you know that they were lovers?"

He was quite properly shocked. "Mr. Flynn, I find your question to be extremely tasteless. To defame the character of my late client--"

"It can't be defamation if it's the truth. I want to talk to you about this."

His hard face got harder and the fixed smile twisted to express his distaste. "This way," he said in an acid tone, and continued up. I followed him to Barrett's office.

The rolltop desk was open now and littered with papers and ledger books.

The French windows were also open to let in a faint breeze. Mindful of the veranda's connection to Laura's room farther down, I went out for a quick look. I was on edge not knowing where the hell Barrett had lost himself, and this was just routine paranoia--I really didn't expect to see the figure hiding in the deep shadows cast by the roof overhang.