“Charles? Are you alright?”

Charles DuChamp struggled against the blackness that had enveloped him with such sickening swiftness. He tried to open his eyes, but the pain forced them to stay shut.

The voice came again, more insistent, but also familiar.

“Charles? Charles?” A cool, dry hand touched his face. “Wake up, Charles.” The voice, soft, mellifluous, with a syrupy New Orleans accent, started to break through the fog that clouded DuChamp’s brain. A sudden surge of elation coursed through his heart when he finally thought he recognized the voice.

“Aloysius?” whispered DuChamp. “Is that you? I thought—.” He opened his eyes to stare at the man bending over him, and cold dread cut through him like a knife.

“I’m afraid not, Charles. Aloysius is otherwise…occupied.”

“Diogenes. B-b-but…you’re supposed to be—.”

“Dead? Such rumors have been greatly exaggerated, I’m afraid.”

DuChamp, his heart pounding in his chest, struggled to back away from Diogenes, but his limbs failed him.

“What have you done to Aloysius? I haven’t heard from him since—.”

“Since he went to Italy, six weeks ago? It seems my brother got himself into a bit of a tight spot. Lucky for him I was there to help.”

“Is he—?”

Diogenes laughed. “Oh, no, he’s fine. No...   read more »

“W, we have to meet. —J.”

The message had appeared on the screen of Pendergast’s cell phone that morning, and now, three hours later, was the first time he was able to run it down. She hadn’t given him any kind of meeting time and he assumed it meant he was free to arrive when he could.

Only one person had ever called him anything beginning with W. And only one person would have signed off with the initial J, especially since everyone else knew her by a different name. He had located her very quickly, of course, in a hotel room near the airport under an alias. Oh, what a tangled web, he couldn’t help thinking. He was skirting other thoughts as he took the stairs to the fifth floor and made his way silently down the carpeted hall to her room. It had been a year or more. What did she want of him now? Beyond the obvious. The thought popped unbidden into his head and he pushed it aside.

He reached the door and stopped, checking either side of the hallway before tapping discreetly on the wood. The door opened at his touch, and he stepped back, cautious, one...   read more »

She wondered if she was anything more to him than part of the house. If he, as vigilantly observant as he was, noticed her. When she thought about how long it took him to become aware of her presence in the house, even after she started appearing on the main floors, she thought he would never really see her.

Sometimes, right after Father had gone, she would wonder if she was a ghost. If she wasn’t real. He wasn’t even the one who noticed her first, it was Proctor. Dear, old Proctor. Her only friend beyond Aloysius, and she doubted very much if Proctor thought of her as a friend.

“Good evening, Constance.”

Her heart leaped, and she spun around to watch Aloysius glide into the den. She smoothed her modest green dress, and walked over to his side. He leaned over and kissed her. She tried to keep a prim face as she felt her pulse quicken.

She could never put her finger on what it was that made him so beautiful. She wanted to say he was smooth, but she knew that had the wrong connotation. She wanted to say he was smooth like wine and smooth like music and smooth...   read more »

December 2nd

Darling Santa,

I have, from all reports, been VERY good this year. I have been helpful to others as well. I helped Special Agent Pendergast catch that geeky brother of his. It doesn't matter that I was the decoy, I still helped. Although he was very hot, he liked diamonds more than me. He also caused me to ruin a perfectly good pair of Jimmy Choo heels with all that running around in the Underground. That was the pair of shoes that I told everyone came from Famous Footwear. I also helped Agent Pendergast get out of prison. It was because of his longing to once again kiss a lock of my long, glossy hair (only on my head this time) that he defied all odds in allowing his simple servant, a city officer, and that fat, crippled man break him out eventhough he was getting along so well with the other inmates. I helped Nora Smithback run the Museum, too. Nora is a little on the dense side and was busy trying to make the Egyptologist they had before I arrived to straighten things out. I am so grateful to Dr. Menzies for giving me the job. He was...   read more »

She screamed, screamed bloody murder.

No.

She screamed, her hands flying to her mouth to try to

No!

She screamed, unable to stop the

NO!

She screamed.

Maybe.

She screamed. Jeff’s face turned a shade of red thatohbullshitbullshitbullshit

Lee stood up, stretching. Enough for today. It just couldn’t be forced. It was like sex that way, it either worked or it didn’t, and if it didn’t, no amount of pretending would make it right. Time to do something physical, work the kinks out. She decided to pull some weeds. At least it would get her out into the spring sunshine and fresh air before the rain they’d been calling for all week started. She’d made her preparations for the rain and waited for it for four days; it was beginning to appear that the weathermen had all graduated from the same lousy correspondence school of weather prognostication.

She looked down at her denim cutoffs and green tank and figured the president wouldn’t be stopping by, and if he did, it wasn’t like he was anyone she’d be wanting to impress anyway, since he hadn’t impressed her. She wrapped her hair into a ponytail, poured an iced tea, and took it with her out the back door to her little...   read more »

Proctor was not surprised when he heard his name called from the vicinity of the library. He finished putting away the dishes he held in his hand and then walked down the dark hall. The door to the library was ajar, and he pushed it all the way open and stepped in. “Yes?” He did not use the title “Sir” ever when speaking with his employer, an idiosyncrasy left over from his employer’s days in Special Ops and his own days in Special Forces. The simple, automatic use of the word “sir” could have destroyed one’s cover and out of sheer habit was not used in the Pendergast household.

Pendergast sat behind his desk, long pale fingers steepled beneath his chin, and he looked up at the other’s entrance. “Proctor, what is this?” He raised one brow to indicate the small, brown-wrapped package on the desk.

“It came by special courier late this afternoon. I have no other information for you.”

Pendergast regarded him for a moment. “Hmmm,” he said at last. There was just the least bit of speculation, perhaps even skepticism in the simple sound, and Proctor managed to keep the expression from his own face.

It was Proctor’s own hope...   read more »

Proctor heard his name called as he was walking back toward the kitchen, and promptly turned in his tracks. The voice, quiet as always, came from the study. But there was just the slightest tone in that voice. Revealing none of the misgivings that had risen in the short distance between the rooms, Proctor pushed the door open and entered. “Yes?”

His employer sat at his desk, idly twirling a dry sprig of mistletoe between his long, pale index finger and thumb, occasionally brushing it thoughtfully against his chin. His eyes, normally a blue so faint as to almost appear silver, had a darker cast about them. “Proctor, do you remember the woman who gave me this mistletoe last December?”

“Of course.”

“Describe her to me.”

“Medium height. Athletic build. Dark brown hair, thick, worn loose but tucked behind her ears. Bright brown eyes. A scarf in shades of green and gold about her neck. Lined camel-colored trench coat and black leather gloves. Her slacks, visible beneath the hem of her coat, were black, as were her shoes. She carried no purse. She smiled at me, a very pleasant smile. The woman is quite attractive. I would place her age in her thirties.”

“And would...   read more »

Rick Mathies surveyed the crime scene with a sinking feeling. “Crime scene” seemed a mild description for what lay before him. This was not some run-of-the-mill homicide, two drunks knifing each other in a bar or a hunting “accident” as was expected in a place like Winstead. This was insanity.

Mathies watched Charlie Quinn, his deputy sheriff and acting crime scene tech, photograph the bodies of the victims. Quinn was a veteran of a NYPD crime scene unit who had moved to Winstead to “escape the horrors” of big city crime and to enjoy “semi-retirement” with a small town police force. Mathies doubted he was enjoying anything at the moment.

Mathies’ radio crackled to life. He heard the rather subdued voice of Ed Brandt, the deputy guarding the entrance to the property.

“Rick, the coroner is here.”

“He’s going to have wait just a few more minutes, Ed. Charlie is still processing the scene, and we don’t need any more bodies on the premises than we’ve already got.” Mathies winced inwardly at his own weak attempt at a joke.

“Any idea who they are?” Quinn asked Mathies as he knelt by his crime scene kit to retrieve more film. Quinn had only joined the...   read more »