He shifted the bag of groceries to his other hand, and with a gracious nod of his head, he left the store. Jimmy rocked on the porch, oblivious to Rory's pa.s.sing, or to the cars beginning to gather along the street.

Rory strolled back to the dock, settled himself in his boat and rowed for the far sh.o.r.e. As he neared it, the dread he'd felt since arriving in town grew.

Once ash.o.r.e, he put his groceries away, and started on his research again. Somewhere in the stacks of papers there had to be something more about the town rumors. Anna's description of what the elder Brewster had seen in the town's early days sounded eerily similar to what he'd seen in New York. He wondered if there was a connection, and even as he had the thought, his gut was telling him that there was.

CHAPTER 3.

William Douglas, owner of the Colorado Mountain Art Gallery, sat at a small table in the rear of the store, eating a veggie sandwich. Amidst an array of paintings ranging from outdoor scenes, primarily of mountain views and Taylor Lake, Native American art, and Western sculpture, he contemplated a new watercolor by an up-and-coming artist who lived in Estes Park. The artist had perfectly captured the haunting presence of The Luckless Lady mine, one of many abandoned mines near the Crossing. The stark mine shack, with a treacherous rocky river flowing down underneath the weathered wood beams, rusted iron bolts holding the door ajar, an aspen tree growing up through the building, spoke volumes about the dashed fortunes of long lost prospectors. How long had they worked the claim before deserting the mine to seek their fortunes elsewhere?

"Let's go, Douggie," Pamela Henderson said from the small back room, where she was locking up the small safe.

Douggie, who always went by this variation of his last name, stood in the doorway and watched Pamela spin the black number dial on the safe twice, then replaced the picture that hung in front of it. Not at all creative, but it served the purpose.

"Selling that Billings takes care of us for the rest of the year," Pamela said, referring to a popular local artist who specialized in Rocky Mountain paintings. Douggie noticed the gleam in Pamela's eyes. Her generally hazel eyes took on a greenish glint when she got excited about money. How appropriate, he thought wryly.

"What's that look?" Pamela asked sharply.

"Your greed knows no bounds," Douggie answered her directly.

"It was a fair price."

"For a signed original. Not a reproduction."

"A sucker's poor choice is our fortune." Pamela stepped past Douggie, tugging at his scraggly beard as she went. "Would you rather go back to that office job?"

"No." It had been years since Douggie had worked as a bookkeeper in Boulder, but that didn't change the fact that he never wanted to go back to that kind of job. Being an art dealer, and dabbling in iron and clay sculpture, suited his bohemian att.i.tude much better. And it didn't bother him that Pamela was a tough businesswoman; her aggressive business practices were what allowed him to chase his artistic pursuits. "Did you check on that order for Travis?" Douggie asked her.

"Uh huh," Pamela gestured at the antique desk in the corner of the store.

Douggie strode over to the desk to check the paperwork, donning a pair of wireless bifocals. Their business neighbor, Travis Velario, who owned Back In Time Antiques, often worked in trade with them. The desk was a perfect example. Pamela had traded a bronze sculpture for the desk, and unless Douggie had missed his guess, the desk was worth one h.e.l.l of a lot more than the sculpture. That was Pamela.

"What's the matter?" she asked. Douggie looked over at her. She was standing near the door, eating a banana. The khaki shorts and tight blouse she wore accentuated her figure. "I know that look," she said.

Douggie shrugged his shoulders. She knew him well. They'd been together for over thirty years, never officially married but a couple since 1967 when they'd crossed paths in San Francisco. They were both college dropouts who converged with thousands of others on the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, espousing free love while they dropped acid and chanted "Make love, not war". Pamela looked almost the same now, tall and slender, her hair down almost to her rear end, the coffee color replaced by a silky gray. She still shunned makeup, never needed it to look beautiful, even though now her suntanned face showed more wrinkles with each pa.s.sing year. And she could always tell when he was brooding. He'd never been able to master hiding his thoughts from her. "Just wondering about the future," he answered her. "I don't know how much longer this town will last."

Pamela snickered. "The Crossing will be here long after we're rotting in the ground, hon, so I wouldn't worry." She threw the banana peel into a trashcan by the door.

"Well, it's my job to worry. This store has to provide for our retirement," Douggie retorted. It was a running joke between them. When Pamela learned that the surname Douglas roughly translated to "from the dark water" she teased Douggie about how appropriate that was because his moods frequently ran a gloomy gamut.

"We'll have plenty by that time," Pamela said.

And Douggie didn't doubt that. Pamela was the one with the business ac.u.men, not him. How things had changed. At one time they couldn't have cared less where their next meal would come from. Now they checked retirement accounts almost daily. Douggie set the paperwork down, closed the blinds on the windows and joined Pamela by the door.

"I love living up here," Pamela said as she leaned against the doorjamb and looked out over Taylor Lake. "Check out that sunset." The sun sat at the edge of the horizon, the tops of the trees like bleak silhouettes in its orange halo. The lake was midnight blue, the surface marble smooth in the evening calm, reflecting a sky that was a violet and crimson fire, wispy clouds fanning out in soft streaks, not a threat of moisture in them.

Douggie could never explain how Taylor Crossing was at once a place that beckoned him, and at the same time sent chills up his back. It was a vacation spot in the summers, accessible by turning off the highway and following the lone sign that directed you down a meandering, dirt road for almost five miles. Right before you actually got to the town you crossed that decrepit bridge that threatened to collapse every time a car pa.s.sed over it, especially at high speeds. And if you took the time to yawn during the drive, you might miss the Crossing completely. Except for a number of ruins, old brick and stone foundations, and their art gallery that derived its sustenance from the post-hippie culture that seemed to migrate out of Boulder and into the western mountains, there was the general store that sold just about everything at higher prices than the chain groceries in Boulder, Travis's quaint antique store that got most of its business through word-of-mouth, a rustic bed and breakfast with a cafe that served a short list of excellent meals, and a small but serviceable post office that operated at very-reduced hours in the summer, and not at all during the winter. For that matter, the other four establishments weren't open in the winter either. It was hard to operate a business when the weather was so treacherous that no customers came. Taylor Crossing didn't even have a gas station. You had to get that miles down the road in Nederland, or hope you'd make it to Estes Park in the other direction before the gauge hit 'E'.

But because of its idyllic location on the sh.o.r.es of Taylor Lake, with the Indian Peaks looming around it, Taylor Crossing and the surrounding land attracted a number of summer residents who came for weekends or the entire season to soak up some peace and quiet, and to enjoy the awesome views of the Rocky Mountains. The fact that temperatures at almost nine thousand feet above sea level were usually much cooler than in Boulder or Denver helped, too. Since most of the cabins were in outlying areas, you could avoid most of the day-to-day tourists who came to hike or fish on Taylor Lake because they stayed on the main road, and didn't tend to venture off the beaten trails.

A few hardy, some said foolhardy, year-round residents like Douggie and Pamela braved the harsh Colorado winters, when the road up to Taylor Crossing was bound to be nearly impa.s.sable any number of times from October through April. But they managed by stocking up on food, keeping a healthy woodpile just outside the cabin door, and not minding the isolation that came with being snowed in. It was a lifestyle, to be sure, if you wanted it. If not, you left and came back with the warmth of the next summer.

"Let's go." Douggie nudged Pamela out the door, locked it, and took her hand. Outside, they ran into Travis, coming out of the antique store.

"Going for a bite to eat?" Pamela asked Travis.

"Yep," he answered. Travis, a divorced father of two, lived alone in a cabin near theirs, and he rarely cooked at home.

"I've got your order ready," Douggie told him coolly. Douggie wasn't particularly fond of Travis, didn't like the way he looked at Pamela. It didn't seem to matter that she was taken, or that for years the local rumor was that Travis had hoped to sway Anna Holmes into bed. Douggie stepped around Pamela so Travis couldn't eyeball her. He'd heard Anna complain often about Travis's lecherous gaze and unwanted advances, and he could see why. There was something smarmy about the way he did it, way beyond casual flirting. He was certainly not the stereotypical genteel antique dealer. "You want to stop by tomorrow and check it?" Douggie asked him, still blocking Pamela.

"Sure," Travis shrugged. He was heavy with a protruding gut and the beginnings of a double chin, and had dark features that made him seem sinister, a look accentuated in the dusk. Douggie watched as Travis tried to eye Pamela, then focused on the general store.

Poor Anna, Douggie grimaced, to have to deal with Travis's advances every day.

"She's already gone home with Jimmy," Pamela said to Travis, moving Douggie along.

Travis smirked at her. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Douggie said. "Give it a rest, huh?" Ugh, the man had no shame! Travis was always hanging around Anna like a leech, even before it happened... Douggie stopped himself from thinking about the terrible 'it'.

"Whatever." Travis waved them off as he turned up the walkway to the Silver Dollar Cafe. "Have a good one."

"Ugh! What a jerk," Douggie whispered at the retreating figure.

"You're sweet when you're jealous," Pamela said, leaning into him.

Douggie smiled, suddenly aroused, and he held her hand tighter as they continued on down the road, then turned and followed a path up the hillside, through the pine and aspen trees. The suggestion of a breeze rustled leaves on the aspens, creating soft clicking sounds. A hundred yards through the woods they came to an ironwork gate, its latch long since broken. On an arch over the gate was a sign, fashioned over a hundred years ago: Cemetery.

They strolled through the overgrown brush around the entryway and into the cemetery. Most days they took this shortcut to the cabin they owned outside the Crossing. Marble and granite grave markers dotted a large clearing, some simple squares, some ornately designed with crosses. All were old. It had been at least a century since anyone had been buried in the Crossing, and many of the tombstones tilted as if they had tired of being sentries to some forgotten souls. Douggie sidestepped one, the name, birth and death dates worn off. He pulled Pamela over to him.

"Hey, be careful," she admonished him. Douggie smiled back wickedly.

Shadows stretched out over the graves, elongated shapes reaching toward the east. Pamela stopped to watch the last sliver of sun disappear.

"Wait, do you hear something?" She stopped and c.o.c.ked her head to the side.

He listened for a second. "Nope." He wrapped his hands around her waist.

"It's spookier than usual."

"Yeah, the evil spirits are coming for you."

She pushed at his hands. "I'm serious."

"So am I," Douggie murmured. He nuzzled his nose in her hair. He loved the way her hair smelled, like the mountain wildflowers.

"Stop it." Pamela made a halfhearted attempt to push him away. He continued, his hands roaming up to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and she turned around. He kissed her hard. At first she resisted, but then her lips parted. Her fingers went to the back of his neck, playing with his braided ponytail. He lowered her to the ground, behind a tall marble headstone with a large cross. It was their chosen spot, hidden from the cemetery entrance. The tall straw gra.s.s formed a cushion beneath them, as he tugged at the drawstring on her shorts.

Above them, the last light slipped away, leaving the cemetery in dark shadows, tombstones standing sentry around them.

CHAPTER 4.

Anna Holmes stood at the kitchen sink of the small A-frame cabin where she lived with her father, gazing absentmindedly out the window. She held a plate that she slowly wiped with a towel. The plate was more than dry, but her mind wasn't on the dinner dishes. She was daydreaming about Rory Callahan. It had been a long while since a man had captivated her like this. Certainly not Travis Velario.

Ugh! she thought, hating the fact that while she thought Travis was about as appealing as a sunburn in July, he thought she was the best and only woman for him. She'd had to fight off his advances every summer season for as long as she could remember, even before her husband Paul died. And each year it frustrated her more and more. If only something would discourage him. Her mind flashed to an image of Rory. If Travis knew how attracted she was to Rory, maybe then he would back off. Yeah, right, she thought. The laugh track from her favorite sitcom floated in from the other room where her father was watching television, but she didn't notice.

She worked the towel deliberately around the outside edge of the dish, while her eyes roved past her reflection in the window and into the dying daylight. She wondered what Rory was doing right now. Maybe he was writing an article about the town.

She hadn't recognized him when he came into the store. It wasn't like she hadn't heard of Rory Callahan. She had seen his byline a number of times. She had even glanced at some of the articles, but it was the standard headline, "In The World, Not Of It", that hooked you. The t.i.tle was the same no matter where the articles appeared, whether it was the New York Times or People, because the articles dealt with the same general theme, paranormal phenomena that seemingly couldn't be explained. He recounted many strange occurrences throughout the country, and frequently dispelled myths about the paranormal, or ferreted out the charlatans and deceivers. He had an easy and entertaining writing style that she enjoyed.

He had gained more widespread recognition for his work as well. He had been on The Oprah Winfrey Show, winning her over with humor and a relaxed manner. Anna had watched the show, and she'd been won over as well, but mostly because Rory had shed new perspectives on so many seemingly bizarre things and his investigations had stopped several cheaters from profiting off their deceptive practices.

And then the man himself shows up in Taylor Crossing. Before Anna had seen him on Oprah, she'd pictured Rory Callahan, the journalist, with a stereotyped professorial, studious appearance. Turned out he didn't look anything like she'd imagined. He didn't look at all nerdy, she laughed to herself. In fact, he was the opposite. He had the build of an outdoorsman who'd had a rough time of things, as if pursuing life had left him drained. She figured he looked similar to some of the miners who had once lived in the town, their lives of chasing gold that frequently didn't pan out wearing them haggard and beaten. He carried that look in a face deeply tanned by an unforgiving sun, his wavy dark hair just a bit tousled, thought lines around his eyes.

His eyes. Faded blue like well-worn jeans. They were what had pulled her in. When she gazed into those eyes she felt a sudden attraction to him, and she wondered what secrets he held close. In that brief conversation she had with him she felt like there was something there, haunting him.

He'd been in some kind of accident recently. What was it? Oh, she nodded to herself. He'd been walking across the street and was. .h.i.t by a car. She thought she'd read that he died, but clearly that wasn't the case. He'd been declared dead at the scene, but the paramedics had revived him. Maybe that was the reason for his troubled appearance.

Anna set the plate on the counter, and slowly picked up a gla.s.s from the sink. Through the window she watched the sunset. The trees in the distance became like haughty stick figures, pure black in the fading light.

The newcomer certainly intrigued her. She wanted to know why he'd chosen this part of the Rocky Mountains to come and visit, why he'd chosen to stay clear across Taylor Lake on a snippet of land where only a crazy man would build a home. And, she thought impulsively, she wanted him to ask her out.

Come to think of it, why hadn't he asked her out? Had she lost some of her appeal, she wondered as she noticed her reflection in the window gla.s.s. Forty was only a year away, but she hadn't felt old before. She disliked the emphasis she inadvertently put on that word. Old. She sighed. Where had all the time gone? She'd never have pictured herself single at this age, living with her aging father. But it had been thrust upon her, all in one fateful day. She'd never really allowed herself to think of men. Until now. She finally finished drying the gla.s.s, putting it away and resting her hands on the edge of the sink, eyes focused outside, thinking about Rory. And she had to admit that she wanted to know more about his writing, and why he chose the subject matter he did. She'd never met a writer before, and she was naturally curious.

The last of the light crept over the ridge and dusk the color of lead consumed the peaks. The Holmes cabin sat on the side of the mountain to the west of Taylor Crossing, and the closest cabin was on the other side of a small rise. In the daylight, if she strained her eyes, Anna could just make out part of the cabin's roof from the kitchen window, but in the darkness she couldn't find the place without a spotlight. Too many trees and too much blackness came between the cabins. Even tonight, with the moon only a day short of full, she still couldn't see the other cabin's roof just the outlines of trees.

She was hanging the damp towel over a cupboard door when something out the window caught her eye. She leaned over the sink to look, wondering if a racc.o.o.n, or possibly a coyote, had emerged to prowl in the safety of the night. She scanned from left to right, seeing nothing but inky tree limbs. In the other room, the television show ended and a commercial began about why Coors was the best beer. She straightened, still watching, hoping to see a coyote. In all her years of living in Taylor Crossing, she never tired of seeing the wildlife. Except for bears. She'd had a close call with a big black bear ten years before, and it had scared her plenty. But the rest of the wildlife was generally harmless, especially if you were watching from the safety of your cabin.

She started to turn from the window when she saw it again, certain this time that she saw something. A shimmer of silver, a reflection of moonlight. She leaned over the sink again and cupped her hands up to the gla.s.s, trying to take the reflection of the kitchen lights out of her vision. Outside nothing moved, then something off to the left. She craned her neck, turning toward the movement. What was it?

Casper, she thought, her mind on the earlier conversation with Rory. Ghosts running around in the night.

Her breath fogged a small circle on the gla.s.s and she shifted a couple of inches, eyes narrow and focused. It moved between two towering aspens. Like a bear standing on his hind legs, she thought, only not as bulky. It had seemed almost human. She squinted and looked harder, breathing harder. What was it? Was it anything?

Then it seemed to be a number of yards away from the cabin but directly in front of the window, and since she'd been looking left, it was in her peripheral vision. She jerked her head. It was gone. She was sure she'd seen something. Were some kids out there, playing tricks on her? The city kids, a mainstay each summer, used the night as a means of scaring each other, or the hapless residents of Taylor Crossing. Harmless antics. Was that who she'd seen?

"What're you looking at?"

She jumped as her father came into the kitchen. "Nothing," she said quickly, rubbing her forehead where she'd banged it against the window. She stifled a wave of irritation at him and forced a smile.

"You seeing things?" Jimmy asked. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a soda.

"Thought I saw a coyote," she said, "or something walking around out there." She sounded sharp and she told herself to ease up on her father.

"That happens," he said, nodding his head. "I see things out there, too."

"Sure you do," she replied, trying to make her voice soothing. The last few years her father hadn't been thinking as clearly. Old age was greeting him with a vengeance. She hated that it wore her down, just as she hated her own ambivalence at having to take care of him. She didn't really mind the responsibility, but if it hadn't been for him, things would be so different. A wave of resentment pa.s.sed through her. If it wasn't for him, she thought again, then quickly chided herself, Let it go.

"Yep, I do. Odd things," he interrupted her thoughts.

"Uh huh." Anna wiped off the table, pulling the crumbs into her hand. Her father shuffled back into the main room to watch more television, and she was ready to relax. But she couldn't help taking one more glimpse outside, unable to shake the feeling that someone, or something, was watching her.

CHAPTER 5.

Over the trees it came, an apparition gliding along on a placid breeze. It was part of the darkness, a form outside of time and s.p.a.ce. It traveled without a map. Stars and landmarks held no meaning for it, yet it knew direction and destination.

Gone was the old town, the many buildings lined up along Main Street. No more sounds of horses neighing, no dirt stirred up by restless hoofs. No more fruitless toil on unforgiving land. No more men drinking away their winnings and their losses surrounded by brothel women. The resonance of those depravities lay hidden in the years that had pa.s.sed, leaving fallow ground in new structures erected over the past.

The damp smell from Taylor Lake rose like an invisible mist, mingling with the scent of forest pine. And faintly, just beyond the reach of the senses, was an earthy smell, of precious metals locked into rock, of ashes and dust, of innumerable bodies interred over the years, fermenting with the dew of sweat drawn from countless hours of hard labor. Below that was the wickedness of the depraved, and the blood of the innocent who were calling for retribution.

It sensed all this, pulling it in like a breath of air, a rejuvenating fire. It needed nothing more than the lights from cabins on the hills outside of Taylor Crossing, glowing like tiny torches of illumination in the darkly shadowed woods. Somehow it knew, and with that sense came recognition.

It had returned.

CHAPTER 6.

Eighteen-year-old Mick Hull felt the root of the aspen tree hook his left foot, and in a split second that his drug-induced state stretched out into long minutes, his lanky six-foot three frame tumbled to the ground. He flailed his hands out in front of him, but he landed hard anyway, the wind knocked out of him.