Ten hours before Mary Terror's converstation with the dead, Laura rang the doorbell of a red brick house four miles west of ann arbor, Michigan. It was a sunny day, huge white clouds moving slowly across the sky, but the air was bitterly cold. Mark had his hands buried in his fleece-lined jacket, and puffs of breath plumed from his mouth. Laura and Mark had left Chattanooga on Friday morning, had driven to Dayton, Ohio, and spent Friday night there before continuing the rest of the way. They had driven through the sprawling University of Michigan, once a hotbed of student dissent in the late sixties and early seventies, and now better known for its Wolverines.
The door opened. an elderly man with a pleasant, leathery face and sun freckles on his scalp peered out. "Yesi"
"Hello." Laura offered a tight smile. "We're trying to find Diane Daniells. Do you know where she might bei"
He took a long look at her, another long look at Mark, and then he squinted toward the other side of the road, up at the stone cottage surrounded by oaks and elms at the end of a long dirt driveway. "Diane's not at home," he told her.
"We know. We were wondering if you had any idea where she is." This house and the one belonging to Diane Daniells - once known as Bedelia Morse - were the only ones on this stretch of road.
"Gone on a trip," he said. "Not sure where."
"When did she leavei" Mark asked.
"Oh, Thursday afternoon, I suppose it was. Said she was goin' north, if that's any help."
Laura had a knot in her throat, and she had to struggle to clear it. Being so close to where Bedelia Morse lived and being unable to find her was pure torture. "Did she say when she might be backi"
"Weekend trip, she said. You folks friends of Diane'si"
"I'm an old friend," Mark answered.
"Well, I'm sorry you missed her. If it's any help to you, I think she's gone birdin'."
"Birdingi" Laura asked.
"Yep. Diane asked to borrow my binoculars. See, my wife and I are bird-watchers. We belong to the society." He scratched his chin. "Diane's a solitary kind of woman. Be a real good birder if she put her mind to it."
Laura nodded absently, turned, and looked at the stone cottage again. The mailbox had a peace sign painted on it. In front of the cottage stood an abstract clay sculpture, all sharp angles and edges.
"Diane's a real popular lady all of a sudden," the old man said.
"Whati"
"Real popular," he repeated. "Diane usually don't have no visitors. She comes over and plays chess with me sometimes. Beats my socks off, too. Other fella was askin' about her yesterday."
"Other fellowi" Mark frowned. "Whoi"
"Friend of hers," he said. "Fella with a bad throat. Had to plug a doohickey into his neck and talk through a speaker. Damnedest thing."
"Did Diane tell you who she might be going to visiti" Laura asked, getting the conversation back on track.
"Nope. Just said she was goin' away for the weekend. Headin' north, she said."
It was obvious the man didn't know anything else. "Thank you," Laura said, and the old man wished them a good day and closed his door.
On the walk back to Laura's BMW, Mark kicked a pinecone and said, "Sounds weird."
"What doesi"
"about the guy with the bad throat. Sounds weird."
"Whyi Maybe he's one of her pottery students."
"Maybe." Mark stood next to the car and listened to the wind roaming in the bare trees. "I've just got a funny feeling, that's all." He got into the car, and Laura slid behind the wheel. Their drive up from the South had been, for Laura, an education in radical philosophy and the teachings of Zen. Mark Treggs was a fount of knowledge about the militant struggles of the sixties, and they had gotten into a long discussion about the assassination of John F. Kennedy as the point when america had become poisoned. "So what do we do nowi" he asked as Laura started the engine.
"I'm going to wait for Bedelia Morse to come home," she told him. "You've done your part. If you want, I'll buy you a plane ticket back to Chattanooga."
Mark deliberated as they drove back toward ann arbor. "Didi won't talk to you if I'm not there," he said. "She won't even let you in the door." He swept his long hair back over his shoulders and watched the countryside pass. "No, I'd better stick around," Mark decided. "I can get Rose to call in sick for me on Monday. No problem."
"I thought you'd be eager to get home."
"I am, but... I guess I'd like to see Didi. You know, for old times' sake."
There was something Laura had been meaning to ask, and now seemed the time. "In your book you dedicated a line to Didi: 'Keep the faith and love the one you're with.' Who were you talking abouti Is she living with someonei"
"Yeah," Mark said. "Herself. I talked her out of slitting her wrists last summer." He glanced quickly at Laura and then away. "Didi's carrying a lot of heavy freight. She's not the same person she used to be. I guess the past eats at her."
Laura looked at her hands on the steering wheel and realized something that almost startled her. She was wearing no fingernail polish, and her nails were dirty. Her shower this morning had been a speed drill. The diamond of her engagement ring - a link to Doug - looked dull. Before this ordeal she'd been meticulous about her manicures and her ring cleaning. Such things now seemed incredibly pointless.
"a dude with a bad throat," Mark said quietly. "asking for Didi. I don't know. That gives me the creeps."
"Whyi"
"If he was one of her students, wouldn't he know she was going out of town for the weekendi"
"Not necessarily."
He grunted. "Maybe you're right. But it still sounds weird to me."
Laura said, "This okayi" and motioned to a Days Inn coming up on the left. Mark said it was fine with him, and she turned into the parking lot. The first thing she was going to do when she got to her room was call the FBI in atlanta and check with Kastle, but she had no intention of betraying either Mark or Bedelia Morse. She knew she was going to be climbing the walls until she got a chance to talk to Didi face-to-face.
as Laura and Mark were checking into the Days Inn, the tall, gaunt man who had parked his dark blue Buick on a dirt road a half mile from Bedelia Morse's cottage walked back to his car through the woods, his boots crunching on dead leaves. He wore brown trousers and a gray parka with a hood: colors that helped camouflage him in the winter-gnawed forest. around his neck was a Minolta camera with a zoom lens, and over his shoulder was a camouflage-mottled bag that held a small SuperSnooper listening dish, earphones, and a miniature tape recorder as well as a loaded.45 automatic. The man's face was hidden by the hood, but his breathing rattled.
When he reached his car, he unlocked the trunk and put the camera and shoulder bag into it, next to the black leather case that held a Valmet Hunter.308 rifle with a telescopic sight and a nine-round magazine.
His own house was about fifteen miles northwest, in a town called Hell.
He drove there, his black-gloved hands tight on the wheel and his grin demonic.
