Silent Prey

By TM

Unable to bear the daily reminders of her grief any longer, Dr. Channing Drury travels a thousand miles north to seek a new life. Almost as soon as she arrives, she realizes she chose wrong. She's unable to save the child rushed to the clinic amidst the falling snow — a little girl the age her own daughter would have been, had she lived.
Nothing Keoman Thunderwood tries can restore the gifts that are the most important part of his life. When a supernatural entity rises and ruthlessly destroys everyone who tries to thwart its quest, Keoman is determined to at least protect Channing from trying to discover why the entity is targeting her for help.
The Ojibways believe the only way to serve justice on Nenegean, the monster of lore who frightens children, is to destroy her. But another malevolent monster is preying on the precious little ones, a human one. The tribe believes there is no lesser of these two evils, and both must be eradicated.
Silent Prey is the second book in the Northwood Prey series, the intertwined stories of Keoman and Channing. Each has an inner battle to overcome, and perhaps they can help one another. First, though, the second entity to prowl the Northwood rises from her grave to stalk the land. Nenegean cursed the people who thwarted her journey three hundred years ago. Now she seeks to mete out her own reprisal on the malevolence in this beautiful land.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TM
• Release date: Oct 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310725388

TM

For over twenty years, I have been chasing, and finding, ghosts and other paranormal entities. For even longer, I have been publishing fiction and non-fiction. I delight in scaring myself silly, as well as anyone else I can corner with my verbal or written tales.

Book preview

Chapter 1

She had no idea what instigated the stir toward reality — the birth of her return to actuality. At first, she was nothing but a wisp of memory, her own memory of the being who once walked the earth. The being who mourned long before her final dying day.

Now, she began to physically congeal, a body forming from the elements. Bones calcified first, then muscle, a thin layer of fat beneath protective skin.

Soon, in addition to thought, other senses joined in:

Smell: the dank, musty odor of earth pressing around her.

Sound: the faint noise of worms digging through soil.

Touch: the resistance as arms moved hands upward, fingers clawing away clods of damp earth, at last tunneling through cold snow and grasping air.

The body followed, easily dislodging the disrupted dirt from its path. With one final thrust, she emerged from the ancient grave, clods falling from the fully-formed body.

Sight: eyes opened to stare at tall trees, pines, birch, and hardwoods towering beneath a brilliant blue sky. Snow piled high in banks and drifts.

Taste: tongue flicked out to savor the zest of pine-flavored air that flowed in on a deep breath and activated the sluggishness into awareness.

She frowned. Every part appeared to be functioning except one. She could not feel her heart beat, nor did her chest rise and fall, air flow in and out through her nose and mouth.

She stroked down her body, then stared at as much of it as she could see. A slender figure, high breasts beneath a ragged doeskin dress. Knee-high makizins on her legs and feet, lined with a soft animal skin and beaded in a remembered pattern her fingers had sewn eons ago. Hair long and tangled below her waist, held back by a band. Her fingers traced the design, the same as on the moccasins.

It appeared to be a zigwun month, one of those when the world was on the verge of opening to the growing and mating season after so long dormant. Maybe bobakwudagimegizi, the month after onibinigezis, the snow-crusted month. Where the frozen snow covering broke, slicing the asubikagun on the agim, the netting on the snowshoes. Though deep evening, nearing dibiguk, the sun was still a few minutes away from totally surrendering to darkness. The snow indeed had a hard layer, as though it had thawed some during the day, then refrozen as night approached. Icicles hung from tree limbs, formed when the sun hit snow-laden limbs and the melt dripped downward.

What had brought her back? Her thoughts remained listless, her movements lethargic as she took a few steps, then more. She had no idea where the trodden path led, yet kept moving as her senses awakened. As memories returned. At first, it was only wonder at being again. Then long buried pain surfaced … and the reasons for it.

She shrieked in misery and raced through the wilderness.

Chapter 2

Keoman Thunderwood clenched the pickup steering wheel in shock as the sensation stole over him. For weeks the spiritual rituals he attempted had fallen flat, the results beyond his grasp. He'd longed for the stir of touch from his ancestors ever since he woke from the coma three months ago, his abilities vanished and his confidence dwindling. It didn't take an Elder to conclude his lack of faith thwarted the ceremonies.

Yet now a small spiral of the missing awareness flickered deep inside.

He pulled over and turned off the engine. He'd been driving mindlessly, as he did at times lately. Now he sat on Harbor Drive, a residential street on the edge of Neris Lake, the small, lightly populated town located near the Ojibway casino.

Keoman glanced out the driver's side window through the falling snow. He didn't recognize the house across the street or the ones on either side of it. He knew quite a few of the townspeople, but nowhere near all. Still, he didn't think the sensation had originated there. On the other side of the truck, a brick walkway on a vacant lot crossed a drainage ditch over a creek. Following his instincts, Keoman got out of the truck and walked around it to look down the bank, beneath the walkway.

No! he cried, then frantically scanned the homes across the street. None looked occupied. Driveways were empty, garage doors closed, no lights on inside during this overcast day. He braced himself and slid down the steep bank toward where the tiny foot stuck out of a snow bank.

Heart pounding in both grief and anger, Keoman dug out the toddler's body. It was a tiny Native American girl wearing only a miniscule pair of panties. Tears blurred his eyes. What sort of monster could do this to a child? For an instant, the thought that he was disturbing a crime scene crossed his mind. The sheriff, Pete Hjak, wouldn't be happy with him. But Keoman brushed the little girl's hair back from her blue-lipped face, then shrugged out of his heavy jacket. He would not let her lie there naked.

He tenderly wrapped the child in his jacket, already shivering in the near zero temperature himself. As he cuddled her in his arms, he gasped. Had he felt a whisper of breath? Keoman pushed aside the jacket to examine her face again, but her eyes were closed, her features slack. Surging to his feet, he half-stumbled, half-crawled up the bank and jerked open the passenger door to lay the child on the seat. There was no hospital in town, but the local clinic was only three blocks away.

He raced around the pickup and into the driver's seat, hand reaching for the ignition key even as he slammed the door behind him. Instead of a reassuring roar of an engine engaging, the click-click of a starter on its last legs filled the air.

Damn! Keoman pounded the steering wheel with a fist. He'd known the starter was going bad, and he'd been meaning to stop by the auto parts for days now. He had a cell phone in the console, but he could be at the clinic long before help would arrive. Throwing the driver's door open, he gathered the small body into his arms.

~~~~

Snow fell in heavy, soggy flakes, already layered two inches thick on what had been a newly snow-blown parking lot when she walked across it a half-hour earlier. Dr. Channing Drury fumbled with the key lock as she hurried through the curtain of white toward her rented Mercedes. No welcome chirp sounded, and she transferred the keys to her left hand, gripped her right-hand glove fingers between her teeth, and pulled it loose. Bitter cold penetrated her fingers as she pushed the unlock button again, twice for good measure. Crap, the battery in the key lock must have died. She doubted there was a dealership here in the far northern regions of Minnesota, but at least the key would open the door. She'd report the problem when she turned the rental back in tomorrow.

Before she stuck the key in the door, though, Channing turned to gaze through the worsening snowfall at the small, one-story clinic building where she had arrived without a preliminary warning or appointment. It would do, she thought with a nod. It was nearly as far away from Texas as she could get, plus still stay in the United States and use her medical license. She had no family to worry about her, and certainly her ex-husband, Grant, wouldn't bother her when he learned about her decision to disappear from the radar of their ruined lives.

She only regretted leaving…no, she wasn't going there. She'd go back now and then. Maybe even…but that was also a decision for the future.

She jammed the key into the lock. Just as the tumblers disengaged, she noticed the tall Native American man racing toward the clinic's rear entrance. Is he coatless in this freezing weather? No, he carried his jacket wrapped around something in his arms. Something … or someone … small. A child?

Oh, god, no! Not a child….

But Channing's medical instincts kicked in, and she pushed the memories aside and strode back toward the clinic. The man beat her through the door, barely. She followed him down the hallway, to the front desk.

I need help, the man demanded as he pushed back part of the jacket to expose a child's face, lips blue-tinged amidst dark bruises. Channing gasped in shock and pain, clasping an arm over her stomach where the nearly-healed ulcer flared. The man holding the child didn't even glance at her.

I found her in a drainage ditch on one of the back streets, he went on, his voice a low growl of tenderness. She's nearly gone. Get the doctor here. Now!

Dr. Silver's out, the receptionist began in a shaken voice, then noticed Channing. Dr. Drury! I'm so glad you came back.

Which exam room can I use? Channing asked, steeling herself to reach out for the bundle in the man's arms.

They're all empty, Daisy, the receptionist, informed her. I was getting ready to close.

The man relinquished the jacket-covered bundle, and Channing felt the frail body inside. For an instant, she stared down at the tiny, blue-lipped face of a child barely three years old, and her heart lurched with agony. Dark hair, probably brown eyes, if they were open, since she was Native American. It could have been the man's own child.

Stifling her non-medical emotions, Channing headed for the closest exam room. Where's Dr. Silver? she called over her shoulder.

Probably at the diner, but I'll call him on his cell, Daisy replied. I'll also see if I can get Nurse PawPaw.

Channing laid the child on the exam table, shrugged off her heavy jacket and tossed it aside, then noticed the man had followed her. The poor child only wore a pair of panties, and the inane thought that she was potty trained flashed through Channing's mind. She didn't take time to remove the panties. Later would be sufficient for that part of the exam.

The jacket didn't hold any lingering warmth from the man. She didn't expect any from the child. Hypothermia patients lost the ability to generate heat. She needed to get the little girl warmed as soon as possible, but first….

What can you tell me? she asked him as she felt for injuries.

Nothing more than I've already said. I found her in a drainage ditch, nearly covered with snow. I thought for sure she was dea-gone. But when I picked her up, I felt a bare hint of breath.

Not for long, Channing thought. Her experienced hands could feel no sign of life in the cold, still body. Yet she couldn't give up right away. At times, systemic hypothermia patients recovered in miraculous ways. Their body functions might appear nonexistent, but the will to live was strong. There could be a flicker down deep, dormant but still there.

How long had she been there? she asked, although as soon as the question left her mouth, she realized what the answer probably was.

No idea, the man confirmed.

Daisy! Channing yelled, and the receptionist appeared immediately.

Dr. Silver and Nurse PawPaw are both on the way, Daisy said. What can I do?

Do you have any medical knowledge?

Some, the receptionist said, and Channing glanced at the robust woman gratefully.

Do you know where anything is around here? Channing's hands intuitively started the CPR compressions, two-fingered for the small body beneath her touch. For one thing, a thermal warming blanket? For another, I need an IV set up. Five percent dextrose.

I can handle both those. Daisy scurried away and returned a few seconds later, the requested blanket in her hands. The receptionist plugged it in and shook it out, wrapping it around the child as Channing pinched the cold nose and blew a breath into the lungs. When she drew back, the narrow little chest fell on the exhale, but didn't rise again.

Stethoscope, please, she ordered as she replaced her fingers in compression mode on the small chest.

Channing ceased CPR long enough to listen to the child's heart, but could hear nothing. Still, she'd noticed a heart monitor in the corner of the room, and she asked Daisy to shove it over to the exam table and help her hook it up. As she began her ministrations again, despite the flat-line on the monitor, she asked Daisy, Can you call for a medivac copter?

I already tried, while I was making the other phone calls, Daisy replied sadly. Everyone's grounded until this storm passes. It's worse south of us, where the copters have to come from, and supposed to last until nearly morning.

Channing gritted her teeth in disappointment, although the news didn't surprise her. The wind pushing the snow in the parking lot had been fairly strong, far too strong for a helicopter to travel in.

What other hypothermia equipment do you have? Channing asked, dredging her memory for years-old lessons. Although she had seen freezing temperatures more than once in Texas, never had she treated hypothermia. What was that thing that delivered heated, humidified oxygen? Do you have an ambu-bag?

I’m sorry. If we do have one of those, I don't know where. Or even what it is.

That's all right. I'll bet you do know CPR.

Yes. Oh, yes. I can spell you with that.

She and the receptionist worked over the little girl for what seemed like hours, but the clock confirmed was only an agonizing fifteen minutes, with no response from the child. Still, Channing adamantly refused to give up. As she labored, every miracle that she'd ever heard of about a patient recovering from what appeared to be death but was only severe hypothermia rang in her mind. Finally, Dr. Edward Silver, a kindly, gray-haired man she had only met in phone conversations, arrived, his nurse, PawPaw, right behind him.

Channing Drury, Dr. Silver said as he and the nurse headed for the counter to pull on rubber gloves. Daisy told me you were here when she called. What can I do?

Channing updated him on the child's condition, her non-responsiveness, the fact that nothing so far had brought any sign of improvement. The fact that Channing was quickly losing hope that this would be one of the miracle systemic hypothermia patients.

Well, we'll try the ambu-bag, Dr. Silver said, and his nurse scurried away without him having to give her any direct order.

Another fifteen minutes crawled by, and Channing refused the doctor's gentle suggestion that their ministrations were of no use. Finally, Dr. Silver took Channing's hands in his own, pulled her away from the child and forced her to look into his eyes. She's gone, Channing. I'm so sorry, as I know you are. But we need to stop trying to revive her now.

No! I— Channing stared down at the tiny body. Tears dimmed her eyes, blurring the peaceful face, the blue lips, the hands curled into miniature fists. For a second, another miniscule face superimposed over the one on the table, and Channing choked on a sob. Then she jerked her hands free from Dr. Silver's grasp and angrily swiped her tears away.

You're right, Edward, she said. She glanced at the clock on the wall that she'd been aware of all along, hoping that she wouldn't have to use it for this moment. Nearly forty-five minutes had passed since she'd carried the child into the exam room. Time of death, four—

My god, breathed the doctor.

What? Channing asked.

She…I saw her finger move.

Immediately, Channing and Dr. Silver flew back into action.

PawPaw! Dr. Silver called. See if you can get any vitals at all this time!

It was no use. Finally both doctors had to admit the finger moving had probably only been a muscle reaction. Nothing they did spiked the flat line on the monitor into that reassuring thump of a working heart. If possible, the second time she had to call time of death hurt Channing worse than the first, interrupted instance. After the necessary paperwork, she collapsed in a hard plastic chair set against the exam room wall.

Though this child was a year older — though the cause of death was extremely different —though she had forestalled her own agony during her treatment — it was difficult to dam the memories now. She needed to keep busy or she might not make it through this.

She stood and walked over to the table. After running a loving finger down the child's cold face, Channing lifted the sheet on the exam table to cover it.

We need to call the sheriff, Dr. Silver said.

I'll do it, the woman Channing now recognized as Nurse PawPaw replied.

Channing pulled herself together to add, What about Social Services? That child was obviously beaten. Perhaps tortured. And…. She clenched her teeth. …we need to check for molestation.

I'll take care of the rest of it, Channing, Dr. Silver said.

No. Channing faced him. She started out as my patient. She's my responsibility. By the way…. She glanced around the room. What happened to the man who brought her in? The sheriff will want to question him.

Sheriff Hjak will know where to find Keoman, Daisy said.

Dr. Silver glowered at her. That's who brought this child in? he demanded.

Daisy backed a step away from the doctor's incensed expression. Yes.

No wonder that son of a bitch didn't hang around, Dr. Silver said. Go call Hjak. And be sure and tell him how the child got here.

Even with the sheet, Channing couldn't block out the dead child's face and didn't pay too much attention to the interplay concerning the man who had carried her to the clinic. It was obvious the man was disliked by at least the doctor, but he had brought the child to the closest help available. And they had done each and every thing possible. She felt no guilt about that.

Now, though, she kept thinking of the next step.

Do any of you know who she is? she asked quietly. Her words brought a hush to the room, and she stared at the doctor and his nurse. We have to notify her parents.

We need to complete the exam first, Dr. Silver reminded her. And I still think you should let me finish this up.

No, Channing repeated. She pushed the lower part of the sheet up and reached for the miniscule panties they'd left on the child for modesty's sake.

Chapter 3

Luckily, Gabe was in his garage and had the starter Keoman's truck needed in stock. Near twilight, Keoman pulled into the driveway of his old log home and slammed on the brakes just in time.

The roar of pain filled his head soundlessly but viciously. He clamped both hands at his temples and gritted his teeth. After a few seconds, his moan of agony burst free, filling the cab of the truck with the resonance of his torture. Even the pressure of his palms against his head hurt. He jerked them free and fumbled in the door pocket for the pills and water bottle. He swallowed two pills and leaned against the headrest, waiting for relief.

White flashes exploded behind his closed eyelids and disintegrated into dripping runs of colors. Violent hues: angry yellow, gray-green, virulent red. Each color stabbed new pain into the portion of his mind where it flowed.

"Midé Manido, he pleaded quietly so as not to make the pain even worse with the sound of his voice. Please. Please make it stop."

His Great Spirit didn't answer. He'd never answered even once since these debilitating episodes began in the hospital. He'd gone to Gagewin, the tribal Grand Midé, for help, but no ceremony alleviated the agony that struck with scarce warning. Keoman had even returned to the doctor in Duluth, gone through every one of the tests she recommended. She found nothing. No lingering trauma from the severe head injuries he'd suffered in the wreck last December, which the sadistic monster that prowled the Northwood had caused. No tumor shading silently larger and larger in the recesses of his brain. No blood disease, and he'd given numerous vials without complaint, hoping for an answer. Needing an answer he could understand, even if it meant looming death.

This existence, never being able to sleep or relax, living on the edge every second, waiting for the next episode, wasn't life. It was facing his mortality every waking moment.

Finally the excruciating throbbing eased. Keoman squinted his eyes at first, allowing his vision to adjust to the daylight brightness through his windshield. He'd learned before not to push it, not to open his eyes in relief when the pain suddenly ceased — or when it slowly weakened. He never knew which way each instance would end, only that it would eventually.

Had always so far, anyway. One of these times it might not. Should that happen, he faced a descent into madness. Or, given his recent experiences, a further descent.

Perhaps this pain was, as one doctor had suggested, psychological. If so, it sure as hell felt real.

If his mind sank into insanity, that would help explain his loss of contact with the other side, his spiritual side. For damn sure, his deteriorating relationship with the Neris Lake townsfolks didn't help. Keoman wasn't sure how much longer he could handle being ostracized by those unaware of his undercover work before he spent so many long, unconscious weeks in the hospital.

Why had he ever agreed to try to help the sheriff and the tribe uncover the drug pockets on their land? Too many now believed he had turned rogue, became involved in activities totally against what he had stood for all his life. The truth hadn't been revealed even to explain the money found in his Jeep after the wreck. His work was compromised now, although the investigation was ongoing in an attempt to salvage it, and no one would give him even an estimate of when his name would be cleared.

Instead of getting out of the truck to walk into his cabin, where it would take a good half hour after he turned up the thermostat for the heat to penetrate, he reached for the pickup's heater control. He was always freezing after these episodes.

One thing the intense pain had done was wash the face of that small, unknown child out of his mind for the moment. Now the memory descended full force once more. Who had done such horror to an innocent one?

The woman at the clinic had been a surprise. He'd gathered from Daisy before he left that Dr. Channing Drury had visited the clinic on an unannounced preliminary trip to see if she was interested in joining Dr. Silver's practice.

She would make a nice addition to the scenery in town. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, her body cared for as though she kept her health in mind. The dark auburn hair might have been more reddish in her youth. Her eyes were emerald, a different shade of green than he had seen before.

Keoman frowned. He'd noticed the agony shadowing Dr. Drury's eyes when she looked at the child. It appeared to be more than a doctor's care for her patient. The woman's grief went deep, perhaps a remembrance of something personal. While he watched her care for the child despite her hidden sorrow, a different awareness from his concern over the little girl emerged, one that made a man want to comfort a woman who needed his care.

When Dr. Drury unwrapped her on the exam table, Keoman studied the tiny face closely, yet no recognition stirred. No one on the reservation had reported a lost child. Keoman would have heard. Word of something like this would spread like wildfire in a drought-stricken summer. Not all their tribal members lived on the reservation, though. In fact, only a small percentage made their homes on the old land, land that was theirs by right but for which they'd had to petition the whites to regain true ownership.

Sheriff Hjak might know. Keoman was sure someone at the clinic had notified him by now. He had Hjak's cell phone number. However, if he was at the clinic discussing the child, the sheriff wouldn't appreciate Keoman calling.

Keoman stared down at the truck's console, where he kept his own stupid cell phone, the one a friend had pushed on him when he found out Keoman didn't have a land line in his house. With a grimace of distaste, he retrieved it and dialed.

Yes?

Are you where you can talk? Keoman asked.

A minute.

A few seconds later, Gagewin said, Go ahead.

I just left Neris Lake. I've had another … episode, but that's not why I'm calling. I—

Are you all right? Gagewin broke in.

Yes. Forget that. I found a small, maybe two- or three-year-old little girl in a drainage ditch along Harbor Avenue. She was nearly dead. May have died by now. I rushed her to the clinic.

Who? No one has reported a child missing.

I didn't recognize her.

What…? The Grand Midé cleared his throat. Something like this would upset even this stoic Elder, who had been privy to many hideous occurrences in his life. What do you think happened to her?

Keoman took a deep breath. She only wore a pair of panties.

"Manido. Then Gagewin cursed. Does the sheriff know?"

I assume the clinic called him. That would be procedure.

I'll put the word out here. See if we can identify her. In the meantime … I was just getting ready to contact you, too. Something's happening, and I'm calling a gathering for this evening.

Something? Keoman repeated.

It's … we'll talk tonight. Same time, but at my house.

Keoman sighed in defeat before he even tried to refuse to attend. I'll be there.

He disconnected the cell phone and leaned against the headrest again. Maybe he should start drinking. Maybe that would pollute him enough physically and mentally that things wouldn't matter any longer.

~~~~

The snow storm was worsening, but Keoman had attended so many gatherings that he could have found the driveway to Gagewin's in a blizzard. The Grand Midé's house was isolated, though not purposely. Gagewin's family had owned this sixty acres of land for generations. Keoman had heard the story of how they had come to live here, part of the tribal history protected and saved for all Ojibway descendants who cared to honor their ancestry.

The man who originally claimed the homestead in the early 1880's was a white man, the son of a fur trader from France. The fur trader's son had come to the area to see the world his father had told him about. He fell in love with the land and life, ended up in the Northwood, and staked a claim on a hundred and sixty beautiful acres of wilderness north of Neris Lake, the lake the town that grew up here was named for. The man had never married, but lore indicated he was in love with a Native American woman, one of Gagewin's many times great-grandmothers — who was already married to a Native American man. The settler's will left the land in three parcels to the woman and her two sons. Back then, as the story went, it was hard for a Native American man to lay title to property, let alone a woman, white or Indian. However, the men in Gagewin's family managed the trek through the legal system.

Keoman drove down a path through blue spruce on both sides of the drive until the large two-story log cabin came into view. The original one-room structure remained, isolated from the main house and set off from other outbuildings, which included a garage, a large barn for storage for snowmobiles and boats, and a kennel for the sled dogs Gagewin raised. Earlier heads of the family, and now Gagewin, used the old cabin for private business.

Several of the dogs always ran loose, and three of them met Keoman's pickup, their barks setting off the unlucky dogs still in the extensive kennels, until the uproar echoed in the still air. Keoman followed the snow-covered driveway on around the house. The dogs kept pace, their noise accompanying him.

At this time of year, the huge pines and birch sheltering both cabins were covered in white. Even in early April, months-old snow still blanketed the far northland and warm days were yet a remembered hope. Once in a while a nice day would tempt everyone with the promise of an early spring, an infrequent enough occasion to savor every minute to the hilt.

He parked in the midst of several other pickups, SUV's and even snowmobiles. Many of the tribal members used their snowmobiles for shorter travels, both to conserve gas and because they enjoyed that mode of travel in the winter. Some of them even bought and trained Gagewin's dogs, then used them for winter transportation or traveled down the shore of Lake Superior to enter the Beargrease sled dog race in late January or early February. None would travel by sled dogs to Gagewin's, though. The huskies and mixed breeds were notorious for fighting with dogs outside their own teams, and there were important things to discuss rather than waste time separating bad-tempered dogs.

On the porch, Keoman kicked the snow off his boots, then walked into the cabin without knocking. He was part of this group, although he'd wished more than once he could resign. He should have been more comfortable here. At least, these men and women knew why he was living a half-lie life outside this room. Still, although he had taken on the mission agreeably at first, his resentment had grown during the months of tedious undercover work.

And now, with the episodes of pain, bordering on blackouts … more to the point, his burgeoning fear of a blackout descending at a time it might endanger him….

One of the few women in the group met Keoman as he came in the door.

Hello, Grandmother, Keoman reverently greeted Nodinens, a scrappy Elder who was the main keeper of tribal history and ancestry. She would probably be called a computer geek in the white world, and one of the snowmobiles outside was hers.

Keoman, Nodinens replied, concern in her chocolate eyes. I wish you would come by sometime. I have not seen you in ages.

If a visit was all she wanted, Keoman would have been completely agreeable. However, there was more, and right now, he wasn't ready to get into that with this woman. Although Nodinens was as honest and compassionate as anyone Keoman had ever known, she could be a bit pushy at times. His short temper might antagonize her and lose him a valued member of his dwindling circle of friends.

I'll come as soon as I can, he promised. And he would. When he could.

You are the last to arrive, Gagewin said from his place at the head of the table. If you want anything to eat or drink, get it, so we can start.

I'm fine. Keoman walked over to the table and took his regular chair, a few spaces down from Gagewin. Someone had already set bottles of water at each place, and Keoman sighed. That indicated it would be a long, involved meeting.

Chapter 4

While she was at the clinic, Channing did her best to maintain a professional demeanor. But underneath, her emotions roiled and it took a huge effort to stifle the shakiness. By the time she was done giving the sheriff a preliminary statement, it was late evening and she dreaded the thought of the drive to a town seventy