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"Great, I'm starving, and we get to call a halt to a beer blast. Now, in New York, nobody would even notice. They got noise twenty-four hours a day."

Wade smiled.

They pulled up in front of an old Tudor-style home to the sound of classical music screaming out the windows.

"Jesus Christ, what is that?" Dominick growled.

"Tchaikovsky," Wade answered with mock snobbery. "Francesca da Rimini."

"Oh, thank you so much. Now I can die happy. No wonder the neighbors are complaining."

All three got out of the car, but it was the rookie's job to handle the situation. As they walked up the lawn, a half-dressed man burst out the front door and onto the porch.

Before anyone could react or even blink, Dom had his gun out and aimed. That's another thing Dominick was always good for. As the man on the porch half turned before leaping off, Wade thought he saw dried blood in his hair and on his back. The whole world seemed frozen in a single moment. Wade's feet wouldn't move.

The man on the porch leapt off, crying out something none of them ever understood. On instinct, Wade reached out into his mind, looking for anything that might help. Then the impossible happened.

Fire from right in front of him lit up the morning sky. Flames burst from every pore of the man's skin, as if someone had dumped gasoline all over him and pitched a lit cigarette.

But Wade didn't smell any gas.

Then the pain hit him. His knees buckled.

"Dominick!"

Every muscle, every sinew of his body was being ripped open and left to bleed on the grass. All the separate little cords of his brain were exploding in an ugly mass. Pictures of a thousand deaths, a thousand lives lost, poured through him, and he was powerless to stop the visions.

He felt hands on his shoulders, holding him up off the grass.

"Call for help!" somebody yelled.

Then he felt her. The mind was feminine. He knew that from the first second of contact.

Pain.

Loss.

Terror.

Help me, he projected.

Then she was gone.

Incredibly strong hands lifted him and carried him through a doorway.

"Dom?"

Wade was four inches taller but twenty pounds lighter than his friend. Dominick laid him down on a couch as if he were a puppy.

"Wade, wake up."

Wade sobbed once and grabbed his own head.

"Stop it!" Dominick's voice cut through the echoing pain. "I don't know what to do."

"She's in here."

"Who's in here?"

"There's a woman in here, somewhere. Listen to me."

For an answer, Dominick grabbed his shirt collar. "It was him. That guy who ripped the white sweater. It's him. I saw his face. He's everywhere. I can't even think in here. You've gotta wake up!"

The agony in Wade's head began to clear at the panic in Dominick's voice. As he opened his eyes, the first things he noticed were coarse black hairs on the back of a hand grasping his shirt. Then he took in a pair of china-blue eyes on the brink of hysteria.

"Get out, Dom," he whispered. "You should get out of here."

If Wade had been Dominick, he simply would have picked his friend up and carried him outside. But he wasn't. The ache in his head still lingered. He didn't know what to do.

"I need some water," he whispered. "And look for a woman. She's here. Where is that rookie?"

"I don't know. Are you awake?"

"Yeah, don't touch anything. Go outside and call for backup."

"It's him, Wade. The one they wouldn't believe me about. But he looked the same. Exactly the same as fifteen years ago."

"Do you see a woman?"

"No, why do you keep asking that?"

"She's here. She felt it."

"Felt what?"

"When that man died… it hurt."

It more than hurt, but he couldn't explain it. Dominick's eyes hadn't cleared yet. Something about the room had him nearly hyper-ventilating.

"Get me outside," Wade said. "I can't think in here."

Dominick dragged him outside. The porch seemed aged and faded, waiting to crumble like a yellow leaf in November. They moved past it and sat on the weed-filled grass, staring at the burning spot on the lawn.

"Do you smell gasoline?" Wade asked.

"No. Did you pick anything out of his head?"

"I didn't have time."

"It's him. It's the same guy."

Wade didn't know how to respond and thankfully didn't have to. Two squad cars with blaring, screaming sirens flashing red and blue lights pulled up. Uniformed men were running all around them.

"Where's the body?" someone asked.

"Right there," Dominick answered coldly, pointing to the burning spot on the grass.

"What happened?"

"You figure it out."

Dominick looked back at the house. "We have to go back. Can you walk?"

"Yeah," Wade answered, "but you aren't going back in that house. The cavalry's here now. Let them check into it."

"If you won't come with me, I'll go by myself."

"It can't be the same man. Think about what kind of a coincidence that would be. The same murderer from New York living in Portland-after you've transferred to the local police force-and you just happen to be on duty the morning he decides to cash his own ticket? I don't think so."

"Then come back inside with me."

Wade was exhausted, almost beyond caring. He needed to sleep this off. But something in Dominick's voice made him listen. Dom could be aggressive and high-strung and difficult to know, but he wasn't irrational.

"One condition," Wade said.

"What?"

"You let me in your head the whole time. If I feel you losing it, we leave."

Dominick's face darkened. For a moment, Wade thought he was going to hear the usual "No way."

"Okay," Dominick answered.

"You'll leave if I tell you?"

"Yeah, just come on."

For months Wade had wanted permission to read his friend's mind, explore his thoughts. Now that it was actually happening, he felt almost too drained, too numb to go through with it.

Upon reentering the house, the first thing they heard was one of the other cops choking in the kitchen.

"There." Dominick pointed to a large photograph over the hearth. He walked right over and put his hands on it.

The girl in the picture was different from anyone Wade had ever seen. She reminded him vaguely of a stalk of wheat. Her age was difficult, impossible, to peg. She might have been thirteen or twenty-eight. Her huge hazel-brown eyes complemented her pale face and blond hair. She sat on a forest-green velvet couch, with shelves of leather-bound books behind her head.

"Who is she?" Wade whispered.

Dominick's eyes remained closed. When he didn't answer, Wade gently reached into his mind and was blocked instantly.

"Stop it, Dom."

No answer.

"Hey, you guys," a middle-aged officer blurted out, running into the living room. "Hurry up. Jake found something downstairs."

"What?" Wade snapped.

"Loose boards and a stink you won't believe."

Dominick opened his eyes.

"Bodies," he said. "Jake found bodies."

Wade stared at him. "How do you know that?"

Dominick pulled his hands off the photo and moved quickly toward the stairwell. The first thing Wade noticed in the cellar was the smell-different, sweeter than the stench from the kitchen. Dominick dropped down to help Jake tear at the floor.

"They're here, under the boards," he said to Jake. "You smelled them, didn't you?"

Wade had completely lost control of the situation. He'd lost control of Dominick, lost control of reality. Then he looked up from the sight of the two men pulling at the floorboards to a painting resting against the wall, a misty, ethereal oil painting.