Virtual American Gothic - Third Season Episode Two Lost by Roguewriter and Rosebuck NOT TO BE ARCHIVED TO A WEB PAGE WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S PRIOR CONSENT. Special Guest Star: Polly Holiday as Lucilla Buck ********************************************** Ben Healy stood looking at the smoking ruin that had once been the home of his wife and son. The firefighters almost had the blaze under control, saving every other house on the street but his. It was cold out, but dry. Cold and dry. Standing with his hat clutched in his hands, kneading it like a rosary, he found that phrase running through his head over and over again. Cold and dry. Cold and dry. His heart, cold. His cheeks, dry. There were no tears. He wanted to cry, wanted to sob out the shame and horror of this sight, wanted the tears to flow until the world was full of them. But there were none. Just this cold stone in his chest where his heart had previously resided. Lucas Buck walked up to him, arms folded, face grim. He'd been standing much closer, ignoring the blistering heat, ignoring the falling ash, watching the waterboys put down the licking flames. But there was no perspiration on his face. Ben realized suddenly that he'd no more seen Lucas Buck sweat in all the time he'd known the man than he'd ever seen the Sheriff cry. Lucas, too, was cold and dry. "She wouldn't have felt a thing, Ben," Lucas repeated what he had said when Ben had arrived, sirens screaming, staggering from his patrol car in front of the belching inferno. Lucas had held his deputy back with firm hands on each of Ben's shoulders: "She wouldn't have felt a thing, Ben. You have to believe that. It was over so fast." "Are you sure she was home?" Ben asked, his voice reed-thin. But Lucas's face had been all the answer he needed. She had been home, all right. She had been here, in this place she hated, and she had died here. And now he was empty inside, he was nothing inside. He was nothing but cold and dry. * * * Lucilla Buck couldn't get warm. She ambled across the long wood floor of the sitting room and threw another pair of logs on the fire, then sat down in her rocker and huddled under a pair of ratty afghans, hoping the burning wood might stave off the bite in the air. There was more biting her tonight than the cold, and no point pretending there wasn't. She'd tried to warn Lucas twice now of the pending calamity she sensed, the gathering of a storm even he couldn't reckon with, and he'd dismissed her out of hand, the way he always did. It was the most human thing about the sonofabitch, she supposed -- his disrespect for his elders. "But you ain't just afraid for him no more," she hissed between aged, yellowing canines. She had seen more gravestones go up in her lifetime than dandelions. She had been sired by a bastard and had sired another, had sat in maternal lordship over a damned family for decades. She ached from sunrise until sleep took her, and more nights than not she wore a homemade diaper to bed under her nightclothes, to keep from wetting her good flannel sheets. She kept her financial accounts in a small black book, and her personal accounts -- her Book of Reckoning, she called it -- in another. She made poisonous, black-art potions in the same kettle she simmered chili in, drank liberally from a bottle of boiler gin she kept on a shelf between decanters full of lethal potions as clear and odorless as dew water, and she had once cut a lump from her own breast in order to boil it down and drink off the liquid and then challenge the gods to afflict her with so much as a fever blister all the rest of her days. But in ALL her days... she had never felt this kind of unease. "What're you afraid of, old woman?" she whispered, trying to pretend the cold pushing into her little cottage and making short work of the puny fire came from the north winds, and not from the black depths of the root cellar, where she no longer dared to go... * * * Ben Healy stood above the crumpled figure of his only son. Ben Jr. had raged, sobbed and struck against the semi-solid chest of his father, until finally collapsing in a heap. "You're lying!" Benjie whimpered with less conviction then the other times he had used the words as a shield. Ben wanted to reach down, cradle the boy in his arms, and rock him, like when Benjie was a toddler and had scraped his knee. But this was a lot more devastating than a scraped knee, more devastating for both of them, and Ben just stood there. At a total loss. * * * Outside the window of his little apartment, someone was watching. Merly Ann Temple, a shadow of stillness in the bitter wind, couldn't offer one word, one touch of comfort to the only friend she had left. She hadn't been able to reach Ben since she had faded out like an expiring breath at the very sight of Caleb in Lucas's office. She shivered in the cold wind she could not feel. Maybe Caleb had done it after all. Maybe, the flawed way he had expelled her was killing her, more slowly than either of them could have imagined. He had broken with her in anger, ejected her from himself like a spent battery, choosing rashly to plunge ahead on his own. Since she had emerged at that trainwreck as some terrible angel of death , more Buck than Temple, she had washed in and out, tidal, strengthened, then strengthless. Lost. Caleb couldn't see her anymore, couldn't hear her voice, but she'd survived on the thought that Ben Healy knew she existed. Ben knew she was here. But now she even seemed to be losing whatever small link she'd forged with him. It was a shock to realize she mourned the loss of that link almost as much as the loss of the one between herself and her brother. She thought about the deputy's terrible news tonight,. "An explosion," Ben had said in a weak, sick voice. "Probably a gas line. They're going to tell us what happened as soon as they know for sure." There was no doubt in her mind as to who had orchestrated the tragedy, of course. She wore his ring. Determined to find the truth, she turned away, leaving Ben Healy and his son to their grief. * * * "I want a full report on my desk in the morning, Floyd," Lucas told his second-string deputy, walking back to his Crown Vic. "You're in charge of the investigation." "Me?! Lucas, I don't know, this seems more up Ben's alley," Floyd protested, eyes wide, face blank, hustling along beside his boss. Lucas kicked aside the remains of a kitchen chair that had landed on the driveway. He turned to look squarely at Floyd, his eyebrows lifting. "Don't you think Ben has enough to deal with right now?" "Well, sure, I-" "This is a tragedy, Floyd, a real tragedy for him and his boy. Are you proposin' we burden him with this now because you're afraid of a little extra work?" "It ain't that, Lucas, I just don't know if I..." Floyd's voice trailed off at the sight of his boss's cold face. "I have every confidence, Floyd, that you will do as well as I expect you to." Floyd watched the Sheriff get into his car and drive away. "Holy smoke," he mumbled in disbelief. * * * He had to do something, Ben supposed, so he leaned over and picked his son up and carried Benjie to his own bed. Benjie's shoulders still shook silently, but the tears had stopped streaming down his face. Ben took an extra blanket from the shelf in his closet and carefully settled it around his son. "If I could do anything to change this, Benjie, I would. I want her back, too." "You don't care, you never did," Ben Jr. whispered, his voice hoarse. "That ain't the truth. I loved your mom, Benjie. Livin' with someone and loving them, that's two different things." Tentatively, Ben rubbed Benjie's hair, wishing he had some magic in his touch that could take Benjie's pain away, take it out of the boy and put it into himself. After a moment, he lifted his hand. "Let me know when you need something," he said, rising and going to the door. "I'll be in the kitchen." It was after two in the morning, but Ben prepared some food with quiet efficiency, leftover turkey hash, Benjie's favorite when he stayed here. The cooking was an excuse to keep him from having to go on to the next thing - making the phone calls. The inevitable, damnable, phone calls to Barbara Joy's family and friends. "It's Ben... 'Fraid I got something bad to tell y'all..." He sat and ate some of the hash, listening to fresh sobs from his son's room. The food was cold and dry. * * * Three a.m. Selena Coombs leaned over and poured food into the cat bowls all lined up in a row. She wondered how she would ever manage to take care of all her furry cohorts when she was waddling around with an extra three feet in front of her. She sat down hard in the kitchen chair. **Children outlive cats!** she thought gloomily. She'd have this little beast hanging around long after the orange tabby rubbing up against her leg at the moment was buried and forgotten, long after Jezzie and Coal and the rest died typical, ugly cat deaths on some road, or in the jaws of some larger predator. There were no predators for motherhood -- motherhood itself was the predator, eating up her life, tearing her youth apart, leaving her in tattered shreds. She was going to have stretchmarks, for Christ's sake. What had she gotten herself into? The radio behind her ended the low jazz that helped her kitten's digestive systems, or so she had always believed, and began the top- of-the-hour news. One little tidbit, three stories in, and she had something else to think about, for tonight anyway. "I'll be damned," Selena whispered. * * * Benjie was secure in an exhausted sleep. Dinner was packed away in the fridge. Phone calls made as short as possible, and Ben had nothing left to do with his hands and his mind. Eight more hours to spend trying to figure out how to accept what had happened-- or just fly apart and start shooting bullets at the cold face of the moon. He went into the tiny cube that passed as a living room and slowly descended onto the cushions of the couch. He was staring blankly at the wall when the knock came. He closed his eyes. If it was Lucas, Ben didn't think he could face him right now. "Ben?" came a low, soft voice. "It's Selena." Shocked, he pushed himself up and back into life. He crossed the room and cracked open the door. "'Lo," he said by way of acknowledgement. "Ben Jr.'s asleep right now." She looked beautiful, a glow of impending motherhood in her skin, her slightly tousled hair a golden halo framing the concern on her face. He'd seen Selena many ways, but she looked more like a normal, regular woman tonight than she ever had before. There was a vulnerability about her, a warmth, that was a damn sight more appealing than the sexual allure that usually clung to her. Funny, he thought, standing there bemused, in his undershirt and work slacks. He never could have fancied a sexier woman than the Selena Coombs who once had offered to rack his balls, and here she stood... transformed into one on his very doorstep. "I guess you heard the news?" he asked lamely. She nodded, her eyes large and apologetic. "Lucas send you?" he said tersely, unable to help the hardening in his tone. "No," she answered smoothly. "Your boy needs his father, and his father needs a friend." He was reminded of the last time she had visited his place, and what she had offered then. She had said it was a thank you, but it had been closer to a curse. "Friendship isn't one of your finer traits, Selena. We've been a lot of places together, you and me, but not that one. And I can't pretend we have tonight." The short intake of breath let him know how cruel the strike was, and he instantly regretted his words, all his suspicions evaporating. He tried to say something else, but couldn't think of anything. An apology. A retraction. Nothing. Selena pulled her coat closer around the curve of her belly, gathering her shredded dignity along with it. "Well, if you should feel differently, give me a ring," she said. "I know this is a difficult time for you, and manners aren't the foremost thing on your mind." Ben had gone a deep crimson, and when her eyes scanned his face, he dropped his own gaze. "Get some rest, Ben Healy," she murmured, and now there was less of that warmth in her voice. "You look like hell." She turned and sashayed down the hall, leaving Ben to question if he had ever met the sweet woman to whom he had opened the door, or if he had merely dreamed her. * * * Floyd had apparently given up on his investigation til morning when Merly arrived at the rubble of the Flood house. She walked into the center of the debris, unpleasantly reminded of the shattered hulk of the train car where she'd first manifested herself to Ben Healy. There were no dying here, seeking the hand of an angel. A smashed picture frame -- a photograph of Ben, Barbara Joy and Ben Jr. in happier days -- lay in the rubble, and she bent to study it. The surface of the photo was blistered and blackened by the intense heat, the delicate paper bubbling up, obscuring the smiling faces of the people it had captured in that brief moment of happiness. A moment all gone, as lost as she was. It reminded her of the way Caleb had often looked at their mother's picture, the one in the locket Merlyn had given him so long ago, aching and lonely in a manner too old and painful for a boy his age. **But he's a Buck,** her mind whispered to her. Now more than ever. And he'd cast off the locket, hadn't he? Her hand crept to it unbidden, and she gasped in surprise, straightening up amid the ruins of Barbara Joy's house. The locket was gone. Somewhere, somehow, she'd lost it. Merly cried out miserably and fled the burned place, retracing her path, hoping against hope to find the last golden remembrance of what once was... * * * Mama Lucy woke screaming from a dream she could not recall, a dream of cold and clawing hands, a dream of a terrible burning light that cut her, blinded her, blew her into a million screaming pieces. The shack was cold and dark, and stank of the incense she had burned to ward off the heavy blanket of foreboding that had settled over her. Tomorrow, she would see her grandson. Something had to be done. * * * In the dream, Benjie is four, and he's lost in the big department store in the shopping gallery in Ascension. He's pushing his way through big men's coats that smell of new fabric, feeling the first wave of panic welling up in him, unable to find his mama or his daddy. He can't even find RIGHT HERE, which is where Daddy had tole him to wait, RIGHT HERE, YOU WAIT ON ME RIGHT HERE, BENJIE-BOY, and the coats are so tall on their circular racks, this forest of suitcoats and sportcoats and overcoats, and he can't see anything else but the coats and he's whimpering now, really afraid, knowing he's about to wet his big boy pants, praying he won't wet his big boy pants, and Daddy's not here, and Daddy's not over here, and Benjie was supposed to wait on him RIGHT HERE... And he comes to a break in the coats, a clearing in this forest of coats, and the clearing looks like... it looks like a kitchen, a kitchen he does not live in yet, they live in the old house, Benjie's first house, the big one with the cherrywood fireplace, and Daddy says it all the time, WHO IN THEIR GODDAMN MINDS FRAMES A FIREPLACE IN CHERRY, and it's funny, it's funny when Daddy cusses, but not this time, not when Daddy's cussing the fireplace, 'cause Daddy's drunk, and his voice is mean, and... And in the clearing of coats there is a man, and his back is to Benjie, and he's wearing a coat too, a long great blue coat, and Benjie likes it, he likes the way the light falls into it, and the man is doing something, hunkering down over a stove (a stove? a stove in this clearing of coats?) yes, a stove and he's doing something, fixing something, and there's a new smell, a bad smell, not the coat smell, and Benjie is more scared than ever... And he runs up to the man to beg him to find Daddy, beg him to show Benjie RIGHT HERE-- And the man whirls before Benjie can reach him, golden badge shining, eyes burning fireball red. "YOU WAIT RIGHT HERE, GODDAMN YOU!" Lucas Buck roars into his face. "YOU WAIT RIGHT HERE WHILE I FRAME THE FIRE! FRAME THE FIRE! FRAME THE FIRE!" Benjie screams, screams, screams- * * * And he woke in his bed, a muffled, keening cry rising in his throat, cut off before it could escape. Benjie Healy sat there, breathing hard in the gloom. He remembered that he was not four, but fourteen. He that remembered he was in the cramped spare bedroom of his father's house. He remembered that his mother was dead. * * * Loris told them all what had happened when they came to breakfast that morning -- Matt, Caleb, Rose and her mother. It had been on the radio, the explosion at the Flood house. Benjie's mother was confirmed dead. The boy had been staying with his father that night, praise the Lord. Matt watched Caleb keenly, massaging his bad knee as he always did at the table. "I don't guess you and Ben Jr. are exactly friends, Caleb, but it might be nice to offer him your sympathies when you see him." Caleb sat thunderstruck. "You reckon she was blown to pieces, Dr. Matt?" "That kind of reckonin's not fit for the breakfast table," Miz Holt said, laying a platter of bacon within reach but taking none herself, times were hard now. "Sorry, Miz Holt. Benjie's OK, I guess. He's kinda snotty sometimes, 'cause he's older, but we get along." "Might tell him you're sorry about his mother, then." Caleb's eyes were drifting as he wolfed bacon. "Yeah. Reckon I've been in his shoes, ain't I..." * * * Lucas Buck strode into the police station early that morning to find his grandmother waiting for him in the reception area, sitting next to a pinch-faced man in a loud blazer and floodwater slacks who appeared to be dozing, and beyond them the hangdog face of Floyd, doing his best to act as if he'd had even a little success with the investigation into the Flood house blast. So far as Floyd could tell, it appeared from his brief, stuttering remarks, the explosion could have been the work of faulty wiring, Muslim extremists, or quite possibly the Pirates of the Caribbean. Lucas did his best to maintain his composure as Floyd floundered through his initial report, then waved at Lucilla, who was ahem-ing impatiently from the waiting area. "Floyd, you get back out there soon as Reilly shows up to handle the switchboard," Lucas instructed. "I want your full report signed and on my desk by tonight." He turned away, registering the color draining from Floyd's face, and allowed Mama Lucy to precede him into his office . Lucilla lit into him the moment the door was closed behind him. "Lucas Buck, what do you mean ignoring my phone calls? Hanging up on your grandmother? Ignoring my WARNINGS!" Lucas went to his desk and sat heavily. "Old woman, it's early and I don't have the patience of a saint this morning. Get to the point." "There's darkness ahead, Lucas. Serious darkness." "You said that before," he replied wearily. "Frankly, I thought you meant your video of Richard Simmons, 'Sweating to the Oldies' had worn out." "You had better listen to me, you little whoremaster!" Lucilla snapped. Lucas blinked, then chuckled. "What'n Sam Hill is wrong with you?" Lucilla sat down in the chair opposite him. "What happened in town last night?" "There was a gas leak and an explosion. My deputy's ex-wife was killed." Lucilla sat back, ruminating. "Mayhap there's a connection, mayhap there ain't. You know what done it?" "I told you. A gas leak. An accident." "There aren't as many accidents in Trinity as you'd like your townspeople to believe, are there?" Her tone was sharp, cutting. Her bright gimlet eyes conned his face for the real reaction he could so swiftly hide behind that mask he wore. The one he'd inherited. "Accidental pregnancies. Accidental cribs deaths, heart attacks, suicides... Accidental car wrecks." Lucas stood up abruptly, then went to one of the plaques on the wall and straightened it, as if that had been his intention the whole time. "What are you talking about?" Lucy thumped her cane once on the floor, making his head turn. "I know you brought about the death of y'own bride to be, Lucas Buck," she hissed. "I thought it then, and I know it now." "You're out of your mind," Lucas said, the gentleness in his voice so patronizing, so knifelike. She spat it back at him. "That car wreck! T'weren't no accident, and you know it. You turned yellow this time. The last of the Cross line, and you couldn't bring her to heel! Over one little gold ring you couldn't bring yourself to put on your finger!" She had fairly screeched the last, rising half out of her chair in her fury, and Lucas swept down on her, hands clenched into fists that could have snapped old bones like chopsticks. They froze in that tableau, staring one another down for an eternal moment, both of them breathing hard, both of them livid with rage and other, less nameable emotions. They both moved at once, she to retake her seat, he to retake his. "Lucilla," Buck said evenly, using her given name to calm her, "my blood is my own. Mine to give. Mine to give up. It is not in your control. Never has been. Never will be." Lucy looked down, found her hands trembling. "I tried to set somethin' in motion," she husked. He frowned. "You did what?" And so she told him about the ritual, the night Sabbath's body had been flown out of Trinity. Told him how she had gathered her herbs, her potions, how she had spoken the ancient words, squatting naked in the once-squalid earthen heat of her root cellar, hands working the noxious doughy concoction she'd made of the elements she'd gathered. When she had finished, Lucas's face was dark with pent-up rage. "You mean to tell me you tried to raise that girl from the dead, Lucy? You thought my seed would best be laid in a dead womb?" Lucilla could not bring her eyes up to meet his. She was an old woman, and for the first time in her many long, evil years, she was ashamed. "There must be an heir." "But you failed," Lucas said fiercely. "You baked your unholy loaf in your root cellar, and they still flew her body out to be buried in her family's land out of state. She's gone, old woman. For all your baking, there won't ever be a bun in THAT oven again." "There's something down there," Lucilla whispered. "The body dies, but the spirit moves on." Lucas paused, blanching in surprise at the familiar words, then hope flickered briefly in his soul. He masked it instantly before it could reach his face. Could she really believe he had wanted Sabbath dead, had CAUSED it? **Maybe she's done it after all,** he thought fleetingly. **Maybe whatever's got her scared half out of her wits really is Woodstock, singing Kum-Ba-Ya in her root cellar.** But no, that was impossible. He would have felt something, would have known. Wouldn't he? Then he chuckled. "Good day, Mama Lucy," he said sweetly, bestowing his warmest smile on her as he took her arm and escorted her out, unprotesting. "Do try to get around more often." As she departed, the blazer fellow was already coming toward him, and Lucas stifled a groan, wondering what else the morning had in store for him. "Sheriff Buck!" the man chirped cheerily. He sounded a little like Woody Woodpecker. "That I am," Buck replied. "That he is!" Floyd chimed in, putting on his hat and heading out past them, nodding to Lucas as Reilly took over behind the desk. "Thank you, Floyd," Lucas called. Floyd nodded, holding the door for Mama Lucy, who flapped a hand at him and stalked out. "What can I do for you?" Lucas asked, dreading the answer. "Oh, no sir," the blazer fellow replied cheerfully. "I'm here to do for YOU. I've come here to give you a great deal of money." Lucas looked at him blankly. "Most people are excited when I say that," the blazer fellow said uncertainly. "I'm not most people," Lucas Buck replied, and showed the man into his office. * * * Lucilla called the taxi from the phone outside the dry cleaners and sat fuming all the way back out to her drive, where she told the driver to stop and paid him not a red cent more than the fare on the meter, sending him on his way with a spit and a curse. Those automobiles were damnable on the kidneys. She knew there was bad trouble ahead, for Lucas, for her, maybe for all of Trinity, but that was his burden to carry. She was an old woman, lost in a young world, and she had her own problems to worry about. Foremost of which was the presence that now lurked in her tiny cottage. Something would have to be done. She'd done this thing herself, and she would have to undo it herself. But she needed something to expedite the process, something that would speed whatever malformed spirit she'd conjured on its way. The boy was always fooling with powers he knew nothing about. Lucas's boy. The resentful little bastard. Perhaps he might have something she could use. Something he didn't know how to use himself, and surely not for the sort of purpose she could put it to. * * * The blazer fellow's name was Ed Dickey, and he was an insurance claims specialist for the firm that handled the Flood estate. **Estate,** Lucas thought wryly. **That's using the term mighty loosely, Ed.** It was the sort of windfall, the sort of unexpected blind luck, that Lucas was used to orchestrating himself. According to Blazer Ed, because Lucas now held the deed to the Flood property, he was also the holder of the very large insurance policy Waylon Flood had purchased years earlier, paid off, and conveniently forgotten. "Well, obviously, our agency will wait on the completion of the police investigation here, Sheriff," Ed Dickey said amiably, his eyelids fluttering. He sounded like Woody Woodpecker, Buck thought, but he looked like a man constantly on the verge of unconsciousness. "But I don't think there will be much of a delay in clearing the funds. Given how much you spent on the mortgage, and the fees and such, you should net approximately $50,000." He grinned. His teeth were spectacularly capped. "Nothing to sneeze at, even after the government takes its bite, eh?" Lucas smiled back, then accepted the extended paperwork and read it over, bemused. **I'll be damned,** he thought. Here he'd been on his way to hand Barbara Joy the deed to her house and an income from the boarding house, and the explosion that had killed the fool woman would have left her enough to do it herself. He wondered suddenly if Barbara Joy had rigged the explosion herself, and then been caught in it. And he wondered why he had no convictions one way or another about that possibility. The hand holding the paperwork seemed very naked without his ring. It occurred to him that with a little extra of his own cash, he had found a golden opportunity to make peace with his wayward son. "I'll be damned," he said, pleased. To his surprise, Ed was soundly asleep again, just as he'd been when Lucas entered the station this morning. Buck cleared his throat, and said, "Mr. Dickey." Nothing. "Mr. Dickey! Hey, Dickey bird!" The insurance agent jerked upright, eyes flying open, capped teeth clacking together. He made a high, clucking sound that was apparently supposed to pass for laughter. "Sorry, sorry, Sheriff. Narcolepsy. Sleeping sickness. Damnable condition." Been off my meds this week. Won't do, won't do at all. Can't go about sleeping through life, can we?" Lucas smiled, more completely this time, his eyes sparkling. "No sir. We sure can't do that." * * * Benjie was watching television in sweats and his Courtney Love T-shirt when the doorbell rang. His dad had let him skip school, telling him to take it easy and he'd be home around noon so they could have lunch together. It was still an hour or so til then, and Benjie had no idea who to expect as he rose to answer the door. He'd spent the morning thinking about the bad dream he'd had, the dream-memory of the time he'd gotten lost in Strawbridge's. It had been a scary thing, being lost like that, but the dream was even scarier because of the man in it. The Sheriff. Benjie didn't like the part of the dream where the Sheriff had been fooling around with the stove in the "kitchen." His dad had said the explosion was caused by a gas leak, and for years both his parents had warned him to check the pilot light on the stove, make sure it hadn't gone out if he lit one of the burners to cook himself some oatmeal or something... No, he didn't like the dream at all. And it wasn't completely banished from his mind when he opened the door, either, to find Caleb Temple standing there. "Hey," Caleb said uncertainly. He had a couple fishing poles in one hand. "Hey," Benjie said back. They regarded each other a moment. Both of them no doubt remembering the suffering of a particular black and white tomcat, Caleb's relentless hands flicking that vicious lighter. No, they weren't exactly friends. "Your mom died," Caleb said suddenly. "Yeah." "Sorry," Caleb added. "I never knew my mama, but I lost ever'body else not too long ago, so I've been through somethin' like it, I guess." Another long period of awkward silence. "You ditchin' school?" Benjie asked. "Yeah. School really gets in the way some days, you know?" Benjie smiled, suddenly warming to the crewcut younger kid. "Yeah." "Wanna go fishin?" "Kinda cold." Caleb shrugged. "Bring a jacket. Trout might be runnin 'fore the real cold hits." Benjie thought a moment, then nodded. "I gotta leave my dad a note." He turned away to do so and throw on some warmer clothes, leaving Caleb standing on the porch with his hands jammed in his pockets, smiling a little. * * * Her timing couldn't have been better, Lucilla thought, as the taxi pulled up about a block south of the boarding house. She watched the car pull out of the driveway. That old black would-be magician was behind the wheel, her whitebread boyfriend beside her, and that no-account slattern who boarded with them in the back, likely hitching a ride to whatever pitiable job she was trying to hold onto now. Lucilla paid the cabbie (again, the fare and no more, and she chuckled as he sped away, undoubtedly cursing her over the shriek of his tires) and made her way up the front steps of the boarding house. The door was locked, of course, but she had hands that had perfected the skills Trinity's Sheriff prided himself on before his own daddy had matured in her womb. She clutched the knob, turned it three times with a sharp twitch of her wrist, and grunted as it clicked and opened. She went into the boarding house. * * * Merlyn was already in there, her need to find the lost locket becoming more overwhelming by the minute. She flung herself through the closed door to Caleb's room, scanned the small space with wild eyes. Bed unmade, spare sneakers kicked into a corner, one of his schoolbooks peeking out from under the desk, forgotten or banished there for pressing the issue of mental growth. She had been here before since her unholy return to this world Caleb had been staying with Lucas then, and she had spent the night curled on her brother's narrow bed, crying, arms tight around herself, around the damnable black dress, the ring biting into her finger as she tried to crush the tears out of her self and could not. . . She went to her knees, looking under the bed. There! The locket had somehow come unclasped, and now lay in the crack between wall and bed, unnoticed by her brother all this time. Merlyn went flat on her belly, stretched, and closed her fingers around the small golden shape hidden in the far corner -- and her fingers passed right through it, like everything else in the real world. She cried out. No, dammit! It wasn't possible! If it had come off of her, she should be able to take it back. It was part of whatever unearthly plane she walked now, this half-life between heaven and hell, between life and afterlife, it-- There was a thump and a grunt in the hall. Someone was at the door. * * * Lucilla had wandered Loris Holt's pitifully proud little rooms for several minutes, then realized all she would find here were things belonging to the black witch and her boyfriend. She made her slow, careful way up to the second floor, letting instinct and her sixth sense guide her to Caleb's room. It was the first door she tried, and when she entered, she knew she would find the thing she needed here. Merlyn regarded the old hag with a mix of horror and hatred. She knew who Lucilla was, of course, knew the relationship between this vicious old meddler and the man whose ring Merly now wore. And somehow, by instinct or some new sixth sense of her own, Merly knew why Lucilla had come here, and what she was after. "No," she whispered. Lucilla cocked her head. Had that been a voice? No, impossible. She had ears as keen as a wolfhound's. She hobbled over to the bed, eyes casting about at the boymess strewn through the room. "Lucas forecloses on you and you let the place run to hell, Holt," she cackled. "Best teach that boy to make his bed, at least, or he'll run roughshod over you when he comes into his power." It was several minutes before she got the idea to look under the bed, which she did by shoving it away from the wall with a deep grunt of exertion. "What have we here?" she murmured, spying the shining gold thing in the corner. "NO!" Merlyn cried out, but this time, Lucilla couldn't hear her at all. Horrified, Merlyn fled, weeping once more, giving up on the locket, giving up on the part of her that had been her mother, her goodness, her hope for one day escaping this half-world of ghostly gray pain... * * * Floyd was trying to make sense of his notes in order to organize his final report when Ben came in. "Ben!" Floyd called in surprise. "You shouldn't be here! You're supposed to be off handling things!" "I have been handling things, Floyd, I just came in to make sure you're handling things. What have you got so far?" Floyd nodded his head, indicating the mess of paperwork strewn around the typewriter. "Accidental death, Ben, looks pretty obvious." "No sign anyone else was in the house?" Ben asked. Floyd shrugged awkwardly. "Wasn't much of the house left to dust for fingerprints," Lucas said kindly, coming out of his office with a fellow in a bad blazer and worse slacks trailing after him. "You ought to be home with your boy, Ben," the Sheriff said. "Had to get arrangements made, Lucas," Ben said. "Her family'll be in, but... I guess it's still my place." Lucas nodded. "You weren't expecting anyone else to be in the house, were you?" Ben shrugged. "I don't know. I know the wiring was bad, there were problems with the pipes..." "Gas leak," the man behind Lucas suddenly broke in, nodding with conviction. Ben blinked at him. "Who-" "Well, Ben, you get on home, don't worry about a thing," Lucas said. "I've got some business to attend to, but I'm sure Floyd has things well in hand here." Ben blinked again, then glanced at Floyd as Lucas and the blazer fellow exited the station. Floyd handed him a reasonably legible draft of his report. At the bottom, it said, "Explosion the result of serious gas leak in victim's place of residence. No foul play suspected. Death by misadventure." "A gas leak," Floyd repeated. Ben looked away, his jaw working. He ought to be satisfied with that, he supposed, except... Except it meant there was no one to blame for Barbara Joy's death but himself, for failing to fix the multiple problems she'd been having with the place for the last two or three months... Hell, two or three YEARS-- "Ben?" Ben looked up at Floyd, who was watching him earnestly. "Yeah, Floyd. I'm all right." "Lucas asked me to have you fill out your statement, too, when you get a chance." "MY statement?" Floyd nodded. "What the hell does he want to know?" Ben thundered. "Where I was at the time my wife was blown up?" And then he stopped, supposing that -- for whatever reason -- that was probably JUST what Lucas wanted to know. But did he want to protect his deputy... or cast a false light on him, as he'd done so many times before? "I'll be damned," Ben said gruffly. "Floyd, you know where Lucas was headed?" "Insurance comp'ny," Floyd said helpfully, returning to his typewriter. "Had to fill out some paperwork." "Paperwork on what?" Ben wondered aloud, more mystified than ever. He was also suddenly more suspicious than ever about the circumstances of his ex-wife's death, and he didn't like where his thoughts were taking him... He hurried outside, but the Crown Vic was already gone. * * * Lucilla got her prize home just after noon, clutching it in one pocket of her old shawl. She collapsed in her rocker, utterly exhausted from the day's activities but cackling gleefully over her plan to vanquish this disturbance in her place of power and set things into motion to restore equilibrium. Equilibrium first for herself, then for Lucas and his bastard whelp. If there were no more Cross women to spread his seed, the brat he'd already fathered would have to do. Still cackling, she dozed off. * * * Benjie was just coming down the front steps of his dad's house when Ben got home around three-thirty, several drinks under his belt from a stopover at the drinking hole he'd ended up at instead of the insurance office. He'd meant to just take the edge off, but frankly, he felt edgier than ever. Best not to run afoul of Lucas when he wasn't fully in possession of his faculties. It didn't occur to him to think the same thing about his own son. His edginess wasn't helped any by the sight of Caleb Temple walking with Benjie, carrying a pair of fishing poles and three trout on a chain. Ben raised his hands in a "What's up?" gesture as he approached. "Dad, is it OK if I spend the night at Caleb's?" Ben felt his jaw unhinge. "You want to-" "Just for the night. Is it cool?" Ben felt the alcohol pulse through his brain suddenly. "Ben, we're going to have your mama's funeral services tomorrow afternoon." Benjie hung his head. "I know. I just thought..." "We thought you'd have a lot to do, Deputy Healy," Caleb said abruptly. "Miz Holt invited Benjie to dinner with us, and she's sending you out something too. She promised Benjie will be ready tomorrow in time for the funeral." Ben couldn't keep the scowl off his face. His ex-wife was dead less than 24 hours, and already people were stepping in, convinced he wasn't fit to handle his own boy in a time of crisis. "We just wanted to help out," Caleb said. "Your da- Did Sheriff Buck put you up to it?" Ben asked suddenly, eyeing Caleb suspiciously. "Heck, no sir. We don't talk much, and he's on Miz Holt's spit list, only her word for it ain't spit, if you know what I mean. Mine too, actually." **Mine three,** Ben thought blackly. "Fine," he said. "You be home by nine a.m., Benjie." "I will." The boys ran off. Ben watched them go, wishing for the healing power of youth, wishing for the blinders of youth, wishing he could take it all back and do it all again. Wishing... "If wishes were fishes, you'd never get the stink outa your clothes," Ben said grouchily, and went into his house. * * * The two boys were running up the porch steps of the boarding house when Lucas appeared around the side of the hedge -- a crosstown journey with a father at either end, Caleb thought moodily. Benjie seemed to shrink away as the Sheriff approached. "Howdy, boys," Lucas said cheerfully. "Benjie, how you holding up, son?" "OK," Benjie offered, and said no more. "Go on in and tell Miz Holt I'll be right there," Caleb said to Benjie, who nodded and went inside. Caleb turned back to his father. "If you come to throw us out, you might at least wait til after dinner." "That'd be the gentlemanly thing to do, right enough," Lucas replied. "Seeing as how you're being so friendly to your new friend there. Awfully nice thing, considering his loss." **And that's as close as he'll come to a compliment,** Caleb thought. "What do you want? Supper's waitin." Lucas folded his arms and smiled. "I've got something for you, Caleb, or I will, soon as the paperwork's complete." Caleb looked suddenly wary. Lucas gave no gift that didn't carry its own price tag. "What?" "Between you and me, I was doing my best to help out young Ben Jr.'s poor deceased mother myself, and I'd just come up with a way, when, ka-boom. I'm receiving money from the insurance, but I'm at a bit of a loss. Can you think of something to do with it?" "You sonofabitch!" Caleb cried. "That's Miz Holt's money! That's the mortgage on the boarding house!" "Now hold on," Lucas said firmly. "I helped out Ms. Holt by paying her mortgage, and giving her some more time than the bank would have. Since Miz Flood won't be needing money where she's gone, I thought I'd give it to you." Caleb frowned. "To me? Do you I have to dig it out of a grave?" "Not this time. I thought I'd leave it up to you what to do with it," Lucas said, shrugging. "You're getting to be a man, making your own decisions, making your own mistakes. Let's see if you're learning from them." "I'll give it all to Miz Holt!" he declared. "I'll give it to her so she can pay off the foreclosure and we can stay here forever!" Lucas nodded. "When the money clears and I give it to you, that's your choice to make." He put his hands in his pocket and started away, then paused. "But you'll be leaving Benjie without a penny to his name, except what little his daddy can give him. The money was as much for him as for his mother." Caleb paused, confused, torn. "Anyway, you can mull it over til the check arrives," Lucas said. "We can discuss it further then, if you like." He walked away, leaving his son staring after him. * * * Since his son was elsewhere for the evening, Ben decided to do a little more drinking. He was sitting on the couch in jeans and his undershirt, working on his fifth bourbon and watching an episode of "Lost in Space" on the Sci-Fi Channel. Will Robinson and Dr. Smith had gotten themselves into yet another pickle on a spacecraft belonging to a tall, grim-faced fellow called the Zoo Keeper, who looked suspiciously like Michael Rennie in a silver Zoot suit. The doorbell rang. **Happy, happy company,** Ben thought blearily, wondering if it would be one of the Selenas who'd dropped by the night before -- the concerned, softly beautiful woman who'd come calling or the ice queen who'd stormed away when he rejected his advances. It was neither one. It was Rita. "Hi, Ben," she said gently. She was holding a covered platter of food, surely the promised banquet from Mrs. Holt's table. It smelled delicious, but Ben hardly noticed. "Lovely Rita, meter maid," he said, smiling and waving her inside. He watched as she crossed the room and put the covered dish on the kitchen counter. "I never understood that song," he added. "Never met anybody who fell for a meter maid, have you?" "No," Rita said. She looked very nervous, and Ben realized he was sloppy drunk and it likely showed. "Have a drink?" he offered, and lifted his glass. "Sure." She crossed to him, took his glass, and downed half of its contents, wincing only a bit as she did so. Ben looked at her, impressed. He was swaying a bit. Her perfume was dizzying, and he told her so. She smiled up at him. It looked like she had been crying, or was about to start. And then they were kissing, deep kissing, clutching at one another like drowning children, and he felt her nails on his back, felt her fumbling at the catch on his pants. He lifted her bodily and carried her to the couch, lay her back, began to undress her, yanking her belt off, shaking with his desire for her, shaking to hear her gasps of desire for him. They cried out together as the passion consumed them both. On the TV screen, Will and Penny accidentally unlocked all the gates on the Zoo Keeper's ship, and a horde of monsters of all shapes and sizes escaped his craft, boiling out into the night in all directions... * * * Benjie is dreaming again. He is four, and once more he is lost in the forest of coats. The smell of new fabric, the panic in bladder and gut, the flashfire guilt of Daddy's voice, telling him to wait RIGHT HERE, YOU WAIT ON ME RIGHT HERE, BENJIE-BOY, suitcoats and sportcoats and overcoats, nothing else in the world but coats, and he's going to wet his big boy pants... And here is the clearing, the kitchen in the house of coats, and this time the man in blue is crouched down at the base of the stove, his back to Benjie, yanking furiously at a cord, a plug, a power line, the thing that spits the fire, and WHO IN THEIR GODDAMN MINDS FRAMES A FIREPLACE IN CHERRY, and Benjie goes to him, goes because he must go, goes because there is nowhere else TO go, and now there's the new smell, the bad smell, the GAS smell-- And the man whirls before Benjie can reach him, golden badge shining, eyes burning fireball red. "YOU WAIT RIGHT HERE, GODDAMN YOU!" his father roars into his face. "YOU WAIT RIGHT HERE WHILE I FRAME THE FIRE! FRAME THE FIRE! FRAME THE FIRE!" Benjie screams, screams, screams-- * * * He woke on the cot they'd set up for him in Caleb's room, bathed in sweat, gasping for air. He could hear Caleb's even breathing in the other bed. He lay there for a long time, looking up at the ceiling. * * * Lucilla awoke after dark, shocked to discover she'd slept the day away, and crept to her bed, unwilling to visit the root cellar in the dark. She thought about fueling the fire before she retired, then merely piled on some extra blankets and huddled beneath them, one clawed hand clutching the locket. It came open in the night as she slept, revealing the solemn picture of the beautiful woman who had given birth to a daughter who was now caught somewhere between death and life, and a son who was caught somewhere between heaven and hell. * * * Funeral day, cold and dry, the sky a soft gray dropcloth above the heads of the mourners. They stood straight and silent as the minister said the final words, before Barbara Joy's coffin was lowered into the cold ground. It was all Ben could think about, the coldness of Barbara Joy's final resting place, even the throbbing in his head and on various raw places on his body fading in importance as he studied the sinking cherrywood coffin. Cherrywood. He'd picked it out because it was a small joke Barbara Joy would have appreciated, recalling the cherrywood fireplace they'd had in their first house, the one they bought when Benjie turned four and Ben made deputy, giving them enough of a nest egg to become homeowners for the first time. **Who in their right goddamn minds would frame a fireplace in cherrywood,** he'd bellowed one night, and it had become a refrain Barbara Joy liked to tease him with on occasions when he drank too much and took to bitching about what was wrong with their tiny new home. Funny, he'd forgotten all about that... He'd been better about fixing whatever was wrong with it, in those days. He shivered, hung over, miserable, guilty, ashamed. This wasn't right. She should be somewhere warm, with the smell of baking bread and homemade playdough, and the sound of a laughing child. Not this hole in the ground, to be covered up by darkness and dank earth. Ben swallowed, and looked down at the boy by his side. Benjie's face was stiff, his eyes shadowed with pain. He looked as if he'd slept poorly again. Ben reached out and touched his elbow gently, meaning it as a show of comradely support, but Benjie pulled away as if bit, stunning him. Rita, standing at Ben's elbow opposite the boy, her heavy coat's collar thankfully masking a number of love bites and her hangover almost as bad as Ben's, glanced at the boy standing miserably beside his father. She offered him a tissue. Benjie brushed it aside. Insistently, she pushed it into his hand. "Stop it!" He said it loud enough for all to hear. Rita recoiled. Benjie felt the eyes of everyone on him, and he bowed his head to avoid their stares. The minister said "Amen," in a voice somber with finality, and the coffin began its slow descent. "No!" Benjie protested unexpectedly, taking a step forward, his voice cracking. Ben caught him. "Son," Ben whispered. "It's not right!" Ben Jr. shouted. He turned on his father, anger contorting his young face. "You can't just let her go! Not like this." There were murmurs among the crowd, some disapproving, some tinged with avid interest. There hadn't been a good funeral outburst since Lucas Buck himself had taken it into his head to play dead awhile. "Benjie-" Ben tried again, reaching for his son. Benjie jerked away, starting to turn and push through the crowd... and then he saw Lucas Buck coming across the cemetery lawn, dressed in his blue greatcoat. He gasped, took a step backward -- and went too far, overbalancing and falling into the open grave atop the coffin of his mother. "BENJIE!" Ben shouted, and several others echoed it. The crowd closed tighter around the grave, like attendees at a cockfight where one of the combatants has begun to make deadly work with its spurs. At the foot of the grave, the small engine lowering the heavy coffin, now even heavier, whined and burbled, but continued the descent. Benjie just sat spread-legged on the coffin, crying, his hands to his face. Lucas pushed forward through the crowd as Ben knelt and extended a hand to Benjie. "Let me help, Ben," the Sheriff said quietly. Benjie lifted his face to see Lucas looking in at him with arguably compassionate eyes, and the sight nearly undid him. "Just leave me in here!" he wailed. "You can bury me, too! Leave me here!" "Oh, sweet Jesus, Benny," Ben murmured brokenly. Lucas put a hand on his shoulder, and Ben threw it off, not even registering who it belonged to. He moved forward and lowered himself into the grave, hands sliding on the freezing grass, ignoring the renewed gasps of the crowd above and behind them. Oh, this was a funeral to remember, all right... Perched precariously on the casket, Ben knelt in front of his son. "No, boy. Not that. I couldn't bear it. I can't lose you, too." "You let her die!" "No, I-!" "You let Waylon hit her, you left her all alone. And you don't even KNOW me! You promised to try, after the tornado, but you never have! You're too busy taking HIS orders!" And Benjie pointed a shaking finger straight at Buck. "You just want all your problems to go away. And he made sure of it!" Ben's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, Benjie?" "Mom went to him for help. She figured if nobody else could do anything, maybe HE could! But he didn't do anything for her either! When she came back from seeing him, she was cryin!" Above them, Lucas Buck's jaw clenched. Ben lifted his eyes briefly to meet those of his superior. Then he looked back at his son again. "Just leave me here, Daddy," Benjie sobbed. "I won't be your problem anymore." Ben sat staring at him, unable to think of anything to say. The groaning engine ground to a halt. The coffin had reached the bottom of the grave. "I think we're finished here, ladies and gentlemen," the Reverend said. He thanked the mourners for coming, told them he was sure the deceased would have been truly grateful as well, maybe the grieving husband would get the hint and haul his son back up Reluctantly the undertakers encouraged a general exodus from the gravesite. Only Lucas and Rita remained. In the grave, Ben looked Benjie in the eyes. "You listen to me, boy," he said, giving his son a little shake, angry now, more at himself than at Benjie. "I love you. I am right sorry your mother died, and if I could undo it, I would. But I can't. You and me, we're stuck with each other now. Ain't no getting around that. And nothing... NOTHING... matters to me more than you. You got that?" "You lost me in the coat store!" Benjie burst out, his tears coming harder now, tears of shame and loss. Ben considered that, mystified. "I did what?" "You lost me. When I was little. I been dreaming about it, that and Mom. You left me by myself to go look at coats, and I got lost, and I couldn't find you! You weren't paying any attention!" Ben remembered then. It hadn't been long after they'd bought the little house with the cherrywood fireplace. His face softened, and he gathered Benjie to him. "I know you were scared that day," he said. "You were just a little guy. I was scared too. You got away from me, and it scared me somethin' awful." Benjie leaned into his father, sobbing, hugging him fiercely. "I've been letting you get away from me too damn much, boy," Ben said. Benjie looked up at him and nodded through his tears. Then they both looked up, seeing Rita and Lucas watching them from above. "Let's get out of here, what do you say?" Ben said. Benjie nodded. Ben stood, lifted the boy into Lucas's strong grip. As soon as he was clear of the hole, Benjie pulled free of the Sheriff's grip and stood close to Rita, watching cautiously while Lucas helped his father out of the hole. When he was standing on the grass again, Ben nodded curtly to his boss, then said, "Rita, would you mind taking my son home? I have a little business I have to take care of." "Business? Ben, what in heaven's name could be-" Then Rita caught the look Ben exchanged with Lucas and shut up. The way the two men were suddenly staring at each other frightened her. She hustled Benjie away, praying to herself that only one body would end up in that grave today. * * * As Rita's car started away, Ben pulled himself up taller, squared his shoulders, thrust his chin forward and faced Lucas Buck. "Out of the mouths of babes, Lucas." Lucas' eyes narrowed, assessing the man in front of him. "What're you talking about, Deputy?" "What really happened at Barbara Joy's?" Buck shook his head. "The boy's upset, Ben," he replied calmly. "He ain't the only one." "I can see that." Lucas painted a friendly smile on his face. "What you need, Ben, is a good stiff drink." "Did Barbara Joy come to you?" "As a matter of fact, she did." Ben thought a moment, then asked him the next question. "Were you there when she died?" Lucas didn't answer. The muscle in his jaw worked as he stared down his horrorstruck deputy. "WHY, Lucas?" Ben almost gasped. His face had gone the color of marble, but there was a rage in his eyes Lucas had never seen before. Buck's voice was as smooth as fine whiskey, "I have no idea what you're talking about, and I'm sure we can sort this out somewhere more... appropriate." Ben gave a bitter laugh, almost a bark. "You're working me. I've seen you do it to enough poor fools, hell, you've done it to me enough times. Ain't going to work this time. I know you. I WAS you." Ben's stomach churned with the memory of his short-lived stint as sheriff, the scar on his soul the only evidence it had ever happened. He tried to stave off the physical reaction of horror that always came when he remembered the feeling of walking in Buck's footsteps. "Were you? Or were you a part of yourself you don't like to face?" Ben shook his head in denial. "It's in your eyes, Lucas! That gleam you get... that self-satisfied look when you've..." He broke off suddenly, then snarled: "When you've **killed** someone who stood in your way!" Lucas dropped the buddy act altogether. "Was Barbara Joy in my way, Ben?" he asked coldly. "I don't know! WAS she?" Ben's breath was coming short and quick. "Was it another 'mercy killing,' Sheriff?" Lucas placed a hand on Ben's chest and gave him a little shove. "She was threatening to take your son for good, Ben-" Ben shoved back, hard, and Lucas's eyes widened. "You bastard!" Ben gasped. "You didn't let me finish, Deputy!" Lucas roared, and Ben wilted a little under his fury. "I was doing my best to help her out, keep her from getting into a position where she believed her only choice was to turn against you, to turn Ben Jr. against you. I went there to HELP her." He removed a wrapped stack of cash from one pocket and nearly shoved it in Ben's face. "Money! She needed money to shore up that old house once and for all. You didn't have it to give her, Ben, so I tried to. But the damn fool woman blew herself up before I could do it!" Ben stood uncertainly, blinking in confusion. Money? Lucas had planned to give Barbara Joy money? Lucas shoved the money back in his pocket, seemed to regain his composure briefly, then went to the edge of the grave and folded his arms. "Gotta tell you, Ben, I'm gettin' tired of being blamed for everything that goes wrong in this town." He jabbed a finger at his deputy. "I'm your crutch, you know that? Something goes wrong, and suddenly it's easier to blame me than to face the truth. The truth is -- you've been neglecting your responsibilities. You told the boy that yourself." Ben opened his mouth, shut it again. "Don't you realize YOU look more suspect in BJ's death than I do?" Lucas said, reason and disdain blending into disappointment in his voice. "Death by misadventure, that's what the books say. And that's what happened, sure enough. But only because I made sure there was no reason for anyone to look in your direction." Ben's jaw had come unhinged again. "But I never-" "I know that. We both know that. But you're cleaner now. Nobody can frame you for that fire." Ben just stood there, not knowing what to say, wondering how he'd gone from accuser to accused in the space of a minute. His mind did a funny sideshuffle, and he remembered the cherrywood fireplace again, wondering who in their right mind would frame a fireplace in cherrywood... Lucas wasn't done with him, though. "It's always been this way, right from the start," the Sheriff said, a vaguely wounded look on his face. "Way back when Ben Jr. was just a baby, Barbara Joy started acting weird and you go and blame me. Suddenly, I'm having an affair with your wife. You remember that?" Ben nodded humbly. "Only it turned out that wasn't true, didn't it? Wasn't me coming through your back door. Fact is, it was me, Lucas Buck, town scapegoat, who sat the two of you down in my office and got you to talk to each other, and saved your marriage. For a time, anyway." Lucas sighed. "If it weren't for me you'd not have had a chance of being a part of your son's life. And that was my intention again this time." Ben wanted to crawl back into the grave. Lucas leaned forward. "You keep that in mind the next time you start throwing accusations around." Then he turned and stalked away, leaving his deputy standing over the open grave, alone. * * * Or nearly alone. Caleb Temple had been watching the funeral from the fork of one of the large maples overlooking the gravesite, and he'd heard it all. His face was creased with confused distrust. And nearby, standing by another grave and touching her throat, where the locket should have been, Merlyn had also been listening, and watching it all. * * * Lucas was sitting, brooding, in his office chair, the dim light making him look owlish and strange, when Caleb burst in and stood regarding him with insolent disgust. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of THIS visit--" Lucas began. "Don't try to sucker me again," Caleb snarled. "I was at the cemetery. I heard you and Benjie's dad talking." Lucas considered this, considered that he had not known this fact, like so many others in recent weeks, and said nothing. "You said you was gonna give me that insurance money," Caleb said. "What did you do, promise Benjie's mom the boarding house?" Lucas smiled thinly. On a better day, he would have been proud. "You robbed Miz Holt to help Benjie and his mom, now you want to rob Benjie to help Miz Holt," Caleb continued. "And as much as I want her to own the boarding house again, I know you well enough to know you can't mean anything good by doin' it. So you keep your money. I don't want no part of it. I ain't making that choice." "Hard, choosing between friends and doing what's right, isn't it?" Lucas said curtly. Caleb considered. "All you ever done is make it hard for me. You stay away." And he blew out of the office as quickly as he'd entered, leaving his father alone, staring at the wall and fingering the stack of money in his pocket. * * * By the time she'd completed her spells of protection and banishment, it was nearing sundown at Lucilla Buck's shack in the forest. But as she made her way down the slope to the root cellar, the locket wound around her left wrist like a talisman, it already looked like blackest midnight around the rotted edges of the locked door. Her hand shook as she slid home the key and turned it, threw open the door, and stepped inside. Cold, stinking air gusted out at her, and she cried out despite her resolve, despite the binding spells. Shelves of canned goods. Rows of noisome liquid holding the secret tools of her art. Rough bags of peat, of charcoal, of ancient flour -- dust gone to dust. And something else. She couldn't see it, could only rely on her other senses, the sharper ones, to know there was a presence here, the source of the cold and the fear. "In Lilith's name I bind you," Lucy murmured. "In Holda's name I bind you. In Nekhbet's name I bind you." There were more words, but as she spoke them, the cold grew more overwhelming and her voice gradually slipped from a strengthless whisper to mere air slipping from her withered lips. She looked down at the locket wound around her wrist. It had become a snake. She screamed, dashed the thing away -- and the locket fell to the dirt floor, the place where she'd mixed her foul potion and attempted to reanimate the spirit of Lucas's dead fiance, to no avail. Abruptly, the cold vanished. Silence. Gloom. Dust motes flying in the stillness. There was nothing here. Nothing at all. The old woman turned and staggered out of the root cellar, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart jackrabbiting in her chest. It was over. Whatever had been here had gone. She slammed the door, and went into her cottage to brew something for her nerves. Behind her, in the cellar, the last sliver of light peeking through the old door caught the gold of the locket. The clasp had sprung again, and Judith Temple's wise, solemn, somehow sad visage stared up at the silent chamber. The sliver of light grew brighter, blinding, the slender curve of metal folded in on itself, melting, the fragile picture loosening from its frame. Then the light, the heat, the fire took it, incinerated the only face of Judith Temple her son ever saw, turned it into black curling ash, into dust on the floor, in a puddle of cheap potmetal and gold paint, and finally nothing, nothing at all--in this world. * * * Alone in the cemetery, Merlyn studied Buck's ring. For the first time, she tried to remove it, pinching the icy metal between the thumb and forefinger of her other hand and pulling, gingerly at first, then harder. It wouldn't come off. She had inadvertently lost the good talisman of her mother's locket, and now she was unable to rid herself of the darker gift from the man who had taken her life. Lost here in this cold place, Merlyn Temple wept. * * * Benjie Healy is four, and lost once more in the forest of coats. The smell of new fabric, the panic, Daddy's voice telling him to wait RIGHT HERE, YOU WAIT ON ME RIGHT HERE, BENJIE-BOY, suitcoats and sportcoats and overcoats, nothing else in the world but coats, and he's going to wet his big boy pants... And here is the clearing, the kitchen in the house of coats, and the man in blue isn't here, no one is here, just the stove, hissing, the broken gas line hissing, and then it vanishes, the kitchen vanishes, and... "Benny-boy!" Benjie whirls, and it's Daddy, Daddy's found him, he's safe, and he rushes into Daddy's arms. * * * In his bed, in his father's house, Ben Jr. slept soundly, tears drying on his face. * * * In the next room, however, his father was sitting on the edge of his bed, the bottle of bourbon in one hand, head lowered. He had no tears on his face. The house was cold, the temperature dropping as night took a firmer grip on the air, but he made no move to warm himself, except with the bourbon. Cold and dry, Ben Healy drank, and watched the darkness. FADE OUT DISCLAIMER: Any story/episode appearing that states it is part of Virtual AG-Season Three is based upon the Television show, "American Gothic", which is the property of Shaun Cassidy, Renaissance Productions,and CBS (apparently). The characters added to support this concept, and the storylines, are the property of the writers acknowledged as such. PLEASE, DON'T SUE US!!