Lang thought about that and considered. There was a lot of seashore along the Pacific Ocean. "You think he'll stay around Deception Bay?"

Once again, Zellman inclined his head sharply.

"And will he go after the women at Siren Song again?"

At this, Zellman frowned and wrote: They are his obsession. He paused, then scribbled: But anyone in his way will be at risk.

"He never directly attacked the lodge last time," Lang said. "Think he would launch a full-scale attack now?"

Zellman's mouth compressed. He'll take them one by one. They are too strong in numbers. He is smart. Calculating. Capable.

There was almost admiration in the words. Had the good doctor let himself be taken in by Justice? Or was he trying to explain his ridiculous lapse in judgment in allowing Turnbull to get the better of him?

"If you think of anything else . . . ," Lang said, glancing at the notebook he was leaving in Zellman's care.

The doctor nodded grimly, then gazed straight ahead, his brows a black line of fury and resolve. Lang figured Zellman detested being bested, being played for a fool, and good old homicidal Justice had done just that.

Zellman's eyes blazed a quiet, smoldering anger.

Maybe he'd been taken in, but he sure as hell wasn't happy about it.

The June day was gray and gloomy and cold, and fog was creeping from inland, obscuring surrounding dunes, houses, commercial buildings, and the Coast Range. Justice stood on the socked-in beach, able to see little but the frothy waves that rushed toward his booted feet.

Even with the fog, there were people everywhere, and it had taken him by surprise. Normally, on a day with this weather, Oregon beaches would be practically empty. He was so involved with his internal world and the urgency of his mission that he'd nearly run into two separate individuals in the short distance from the parking lot of the clam shack and the beach itself.

Now he heard, before he saw, a group of maybe seven people wandering his way, talking together in bright tones, wearing coats, hats, gloves, and boots, their heads turning this way and that, arms stretched out and fingers pointing. He turned away as they approached and then saw the baseball cap that one sported with bright red letters that said, CLEAN UP THE BEACH!!

A beach cleaning day with volunteers. He felt instantly protective and selfish of this stretch of sand. Get away, he thought. Damned do-gooders. Leave me and this place alone.

His fingers curled inside Cosmo's gloves. He looked just like them, he realized. It was a perfect cover. God's next gift to him. Cosmo's boots, jacket, and pants, which were belted tight as Justice was thinner than the hippie by at least twenty pounds.

The group moved on, a vanishing knot in the low-lying mist, and Justice let out a pent-up breath. He stood quietly, his face to the sea, and thought about the crowds that were bound to be scouring the sand all day. Crowds hidden in the fog.

But maybe that could help him.

Where there were people on the beach, there was bound to be vehicles left in the various lots and turnouts near the dunes.

He was good with vehicles.

Energized, Justice walked northward and toward the road, pretending to be bending down and searching through the beach grass for litter as he put distance between himself and his temporary abode. It was still miles to Deception Bay, but he didn't plan to walk the whole way. He could take a car or truck or SUV and keep it for hours, maybe days, if he planned it just right.

About a mile from where he'd started, he trudged through the dry sand of the dunes toward the beachfront houses beyond, then followed a short, two-block road that teed into a meandering lane that eventually found its way to Highway 101, which began an upward rise along this stretch, allowing for a wide parking area with a view of the ocean, at least on clear days. Normally, this lot held about three or four cars, but today they were crammed in every which way, with even more vehicles jammed in behind them and fog wisping between the tightly packed bumpers. About three rows back from the beach was a silver compact, its rear end dangerously close to the highway. It was nose in to the viewpoint, but there was really no room for it. Its driver was a young woman on a cell phone who was half in, half out of the opened driver's door and was practically spitting into the receiver.

"No! Hell! I can't park anywhere. Anywhere! This volunteer stuff is crap, Kay. God, no. I haven't seen Derek at all, and if he's not here, then fuck this. I'm outta here." She listened for a few seconds, then said, "Just tell him I was here, okay? I'm going home and sleeping off this damn headache. I'll call when I get to Portland."

She snapped the phone shut and suddenly felt Justice's attention. Without turning his way, she demanded, "What are you staring at, freak?"

He felt a familiar coldness spread through his insides. Freak. Changeling.

There was no one around. Fog had settled over them, making the farthest cars seem like some indistinct humps in a lot that time forgot. He leaned forward and said, "You're going to get your tail hit."

"Fuck you." She grabbed for the door handle, but Justice was between them. "Get lost, loser!" she screamed.

He backhanded her so hard that her head made a popping sound.

"Wha-what?" she cried, trying to stand up from the driver's seat, but Justice grabbed her head with both hands, stared into her wide, blue, terrified eyes, then twisted with all his strength. She fought him hard, scratching his arm, which only excited him more, convinced him that she was vile. With renewed energy and a thrill running through his soul, he wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed until she gasped what sounded like a last breath.

She was no one. She had to die.

"Sisssterrr," he whispered aloud, sending a message to the others like her. This one didn't matter, but they would know what he'd done and their black souls would shiver.

Shoving her limp body into the passenger seat, he leaned her head back against the headrest. Her eyes were wide open; her tongue protruding a bit. Closing her eyes with his fingers, he gave her a quick consideration. She looked dead. He buckled her in, then carefully turned her face toward him, arranging it so that it looked as if she were nodding forward in sleep.

Then he adjusted the driver's seat to give himself some legroom and backed carefully onto the highway, heading into the fog-shrouded day.

Sissstterrr . . .

The message sizzled beneath Laura's skin, and she straightened with a jerk from where she'd laid her head on the table and fallen asleep.

She blinked several times, coming back to the moment with difficulty. She was home. Dozing in a chair. Memories crashed through her brain. In the parking lot at Davy Jones's Locker she'd managed to convince Harrison Frost that she would contact him immediately should Justice contact her, and so they'd parted ways. And now this-Justice's mental assault.

Fully awake, she mentally castigated herself for talking so freely to Frost, wondering what it was about him that had made her want to trust him so much, envelop him, drag him into her world. And him, being a reporter, no less.

This dozing . . . this lapse in concentration had cost her. She'd inadvertently released her grip on her mental wall, and Justice had slipped his message inside.

Sissterrr . . . His hiss curled through her brain.

Her heart shuddered. Oh, God, no!

Though Laura had almost instantly slammed her wall against him, she'd received a backwash of information that left her quivering with fear.

He's killed someone. A woman. Someone in his way.

An innocent!

Climbing unsteadily to her feet, she walked to the window and stared out the panes, her fingers trailing on the sill. She realized Justice wanted her to know. Wanted them all to know. She wasn't even sure what he'd thrown out to the mental airwaves was true, but he certainly wanted her to think so. To terrify her.

"Bastard!" she muttered.

She shouldn't have let Harrison go, she thought now, grabbing for her purse and digging for his card and her cell phone. With shaking hands she first inputted his cell number into her call log. Then she held her thumb over the green button, ready to place the call.

But . . . was this the right thing to do? He wanted her to signal Justice herself, and she wasn't certain she could.

But what if Justice really had killed someone? Should she call the police? Someone?

Pressing her hand to her mouth, she counted her heartbeats and sank into one of the living room chairs by the small fireplace. Justice wanted her to believe the woman was dead. If she was, then she was no longer in danger; Justice had taken care of that. And if it were an untruth, then if she called the police or Harrison, for that matter, they would want to know where she'd gotten her information and it would all be a mess for nothing.

Harrison would believe her more than the authorities, but it was risky to alert him, too.

But what else could she do? What should she do?

Staring down at the phone, she let her poised thumb descend to the green call button and dial through to his cell.

Saturday afternoon, with threatening fog like a gray fur coat hanging on the mountains and down the beach to the south, but not yet covering the city of Seaside. Harrison was seated at the table outside the coffee and ice cream shop, this time without Chico's company, thank God.

He'd ordered a coffee, which he'd left untouched. His mind was full of his morning with Laura-make that Lorelei-Adderley. ExMrs. Byron Adderley. A member of the cult itself and a onetime resident at Siren Song.

That, in itself, was a story. Not one she was willing to broadcast, yet, but a story worth cultivating.

However, it was only a part of the Justice Turnbull saga, he thought as he watched the pedestrians and motorists cruise slowly down the long stretch of Broadway and felt the cool breath of sea air against the back of his neck.

He hadn't wanted to leave her, yet he couldn't just demand to be her bodyguard. She wouldn't stand for it, and anyway, he had things to take care of, too. He didn't much believe her ability to "talk" to Justice, but it didn't matter in the least. She was connected to the cult. A card-carrying member. And if by some strange kink in reality, she could sense where the psycho was, well, okay, he'd go with that. All the better.

Didn't matter. One way or the other, the whole thing was a reporter's dream. He took a long gulp from his cooling coffee.

"Hey, mister," a cold female voice said behind his left ear.

It took an effort not to jump at the sound, but Harrison covered up a momentary lapse by stretching and yawning and saying, "Yeah, what?" in a bored tone.

She came around into his view. It was not the girl he'd spoken with the day before. This was the one who worked at the gelato store. The hair at her crown was braided, the rest of her dark tresses falling over her shoulders. A tattoo of some kind of heart shape peeked out of the neckline of her uniform, while several woven bracelets surrounded her left wrist.

And she was pissed, but good.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. "Hanging around here, trying to pick up jailbait? I should call the cops."

She was pretty, in a kind of pinched way. Suspicion made her seem older than her probably sixteen or seventeen years; it also made her seem harder.

"Can't a guy just be jobless and aimless without being a pervert?" he snapped back at her. "I've got an old lady, okay? She's about all I can handle, and she's at least old enough to have some brains!"

She bristled. Surprised. Then quickly armed for a new attack. "What are you saying, mister? That I'm stupid?"

"I'm just sitting here, okay?"

"Like you've been for days and days."

"Hey, I buy coffee. It's a free country. Go be miserable around somebody else." He waved his hand, shooing her away.

"I saw you talking to Lana. Asking all kinds of questions that are none of your business!"

He gave her a hard stare, like he was totally annoyed at her for getting in his space. "Well, Jenny, I don't know any Lana," he snarled. "So, why don't you just go back to your job and leave me alone?"

Her eyes widened a bit, and then she clapped her hand over the built-in name tag on her red-and-white-striped uniform top.

"You . . . stay away from us!" she sputtered and then stalked back to the flip-up counter that was her entry to her side of the shop.

"Gladly," he muttered, stretching out in the chair and throwing her a dark look of pure disgust.

Inside, he was jubilant. He'd already known Jenny's name from reading it on her name tag, but he hadn't known Lana's. Now he had two of the seven members of the Deadly Sinners, and Lana had alluded to N.V., which made three. And these kids weren't exactly hiding their exploits and staying under the radar. They were entitled and angry and looking for attention. It wouldn't be hard to figure out the whole lot of them.

Idly, he wondered when Jenny got off work. He thought it would be a simple matter to trail her. He'd bet she and Lana would get together and meet the others. Down on the beach. With all these damn cleanup people swarming across the sand, they would be just another group among many.

And it was Saturday. To date, their burglaries had all been on Saturday nights.

His cell phone rang and he didn't recognize the number. Second time in two days, he thought, annoyed. "Frost."

"Hi, it's Laura Adderley. I . . . I'm calling you . . . because . . ." She trailed off on an intake of breath.

He was surprised. Pleasantly surprised. The way she'd shut down this morning, after their huevos, hadn't boded well for her calling him with information anytime soon. As it stood, she'd phoned within a matter of a couple hours. "Because?" he coaxed.

"I think Justice may have killed someone."

CHAPTER 15.

Harrison was stunned.

Had he heard right? Justice Turnbull had killed someone, and Laura knew about it? All his attention was now on the conversation, the sounds of Seaside in June fading.

"You're sure about this?" he said into his cell.

"Yes. No. Maybe. But . . . yeah, I'm sure," she said, and he heard the tremor in Laura's voice. "It's a woman. Not one of my family, I'm pretty sure. Someone else." He heard the panic rising in her voice.

"Hey, slow down. Are you okay?"

"No. I'm definitely not okay. Oh, God."

Frowning, thinking hard, he kicked out his chair, climbed to his feet. "How do you know?"

"You know how I know. I explained."

He glanced over at Jenny, who was standing behind the counter, her arms crossed under her breasts as she glared suspiciously at him. Giving her his shoulder, he asked, "He called you? Telepathically?"

A pause. "Well . . . yes."

"And . . . ?"

"He wanted me to know . . . he'd killed someone. Oh, God I . . . I don't know who. I know I sound like a freak but-"

"You don't. Not to me." He tried to cut her off before she really lost it.

"This has never happened before."

"Try to calm down."