I he sleek white limousine raced through the night like a dolphin underwater, carrying Thierry
Des-couedres away from the airport. It was taking him to hisLas Vegas mansion, white walls and palm
trees, limpid blue fountains and tiled terraces. Rooms full of artwork and museum-quality furniture.
Everything anyone could ask for.
He shut his eyes and leaned back against the crimson cushions, wishing he were somewhere else.
"How wasHawaii , sir?" The driver's voice came from the front seat.
Thierry opened his eyes. Nilsson was a good driver. He seemed to be about Thierry's own age, around
nineteen, with a neat ponytail, dark glasses despite the fact that it was nighttime, and a discreet
expression.
"Wet, Nilsson," Thierry said softly. He stared out the window. "Hawaiiwas very... wet."
"But you didn't find what you were looking for."
"No. I didn't find what I was looking for ... again."
"I'm sorry, sir."
"Thank you, Nilsson." Thierry tried to look past his own reflection in the window. It was disturbing,
seeing that young man with the white-blond hair and the old, old eyes looking back at him. He had such a
pensive expression ... so lost and so sad.
Like somebody always looking for something he can't find, Thierry thought.
He turned away from the window in determination.
"Everything been going all right while I've been gone?" he asked, picking up his cellular phone. Work.
Work always helped. Kept you busy, kept your mind off things, kept you away from yourself, basically.
"Fine, I think, sir. Mr. James and Miss Poppy are back."
"That's good. They'll make thenext Circle Daybreak meeting." Thierry's finger hovered over a button on
the phone, considering whom to call. Whose need might be the most urgent.
But before he could touch it, the phone buzzed.
Thierry pressed send and held it to his ear. "Thierry."
"Sir? It's me, Lupe. Can you hear me?" The voice was faint and broken by static, but distant as it was,
Thierry could hear that the caller sounded weak.
"Lupe? Are you all right?"
"I got in a fight, sir. I'm a little torn up." She gave a gasping chuckle. "But you should see the other wolf."
Thierry reached for a leather-bound address book and a goldMont Blanc pen. "That's not funny, Lupe.
You shouldn't be fighting."
"I know, sir, but-"
"You've really got to restrain yourself."
"Yes, sir, but-"
"Tell me where you are, and I'll have somebody pick you up. Get you to a doctor." Thierry made a
practice mark with the pen. No ink came out. He stared at the nib of it in mild disbelief. "You buy an
eight-hundred-dollar pen and then it doesn't write," he murmured.
"Sir, you're not listening to me. You don't understand. I've found her."
Thierry stopped trying to make the pen write. He stared at it, at his own long fingers holding the chunky,
textured gold barrel, knowing that this sight would be impressed on his memory as if burned in with a
torch.
"Did you hear me, sir? I've found her."
When his voice came out at last, it was strangely distant. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. Yes, sir, I'm sure. She's got the mark and everything. Her name is Hannah Snow."
Thierry reached over the front seat and grabbed the astonished Nilsson with a hand like iron. He said
very quietly in the driver's ear, "Do you have a pencil?"
"A pencil?"
"Something that writes, Nilsson. An instrument to make marks on paper. Do you have one? Quick,
because if I lose this connection, you're fired."
"I've got a pen, sir." One-handed, Nilsson fished in his pocket and produced a Bic.
"Your salary just doubled." Thierry took the pen and sat back. "Where are you, Lupe?"
"The Badlands of Montana, sir. Near a town called Medicine Rock. But there's something else, sir."
Lupe's voice seemed less steady all of a sudden. "The other wolf that fought me-he saw her, too. And he
got away."
Thierry's breath caught. "I see."
"I'm sorry." Lupe was suddenly talking quickly, in a burst of emotion. "Oh, Thierry, I'm sorry. I tried to
stop him. But he got away-and now I'm afraid he's off telling... her."
"You couldn't help it, Lupe. And I'll be there myself, soon. I'll be there to take care of-everything."
Thierry looked at the driver. "We've got to make some stops, Nilsson. First, the Harman store."
"The witch place?"
"Exactly. You can triple your salary if you get there fast."
When Hannah got to Paul Winfield's house the next afternoon, the sheriff was there. Chris Grady was an
honest-to-goodness Western sheriff, complete with boots, broad-brimmed hat, and vest. The only thing
missing, Hannah thought as she walked around to the back of the house where Paul was hammering
boards across the broken windows, was a horse.
"Hi, Chris," she said.
The sheriff nodded, sun-weathered skin crinkling at the corners of her eyes. She took off her hat and ran
a hand through shoulder-length auburn hair. "I see you found yourself a couple of giant timber wolves,
Hannah. You're not hurt, are you?"
Hannah shook her head no. She tried to summon
up a smile but failed. "I think they were maybe wolf-dogs or something. Pure-bred wolves aren't so
aggressive."
"That print wasn't made by any wolf-dog," Chris said. On the concrete flagstones outside the window
there was a paw print made in blood. It was similar to a dog's footprint, with four pads plus claw marks
showing. But it was more than six inches long by just over five inches wide.
"Judging from that, it's the biggest wolf ever heard of around here, bigger than the White Wolf of the
Judith." The sheriff's eyes drifted to the empty rectangles of the broken windows. "Big and mean. You
people be careful. Something's going on here that I don't like. I'll let you know if we catch your wolves."
She nodded to Paul, who was sucking his finger after banging it with the hammer. Then she set her hat
back on her head and strode off to her car.
Hannah stared at the paw print silently. Everyone else thought there was something going on. Everyone
but her.
Because there can't be, she thought. Because it has to all be in my head. It has to be something I can
figure out and fix quick... something I can control.
"Thanks for seeing me again so soon," she said to Paul.
"Oh..." He gestured, tucking the hammer under his arm. "It's no trouble. I want to get to the bottom of
what's upsetting you as much as you do. And," he admitted under his breath as he let them in the house,
"I don't actually have any other patients."
Hannah followed him down a hallway and into his office. It was dim inside, the boards across the
windows reducing the late afternoon sunlight to separate oddly-angled shafts.
She sat in the contoured chair. "The only thing is, how can we get to the bottom of it? I don't understand
what's upsetting me, either. It's all too strange. I mean, on the one hand, I'm clearly insane." She spoke
flatly as Paul took his seat on the opposite side of the desk. "I have crazy dreams, I think the world is
going to end, I have the feeling I'm being followed, and yesterday I started hearing voices in my head. On
the other hand, me being insane doesn't explain wolves jumping through the windows."
"Voices?" Paul murmured, looking around for a pencil. Then he gave up and faced her. "Yeah, I know. I
understand the temptation. Last night after having those wolves stare at me, I was about ready to believe
that there had to be something..." He trailed off and shook his head, lifting papers on his desk to glance
under them. "Something... really strange going on. But now it's daytime, and we're all rational people,
and we realize that we have to deal with things rationally. And, actually, you know, I think I may have
come up with a rational explanation." He found a pencil and with an expression of vast relief began to
waggle it between his fingers.
Hope stirred inside Hannah. "An explanation?"
"Yeah. I mean, first of all, it's possible that your premonitions and things are entirely unconnected with
the wolves. People never want to believe in coincidence, but it happens. But even if the two things are
connected-well, I don't think that means that anybody's after you. It could be that there's some sort of
disturbance in this area-something that's stirring up the whole ecosystem, making wolves crazy,
doing who knows what to other animals... and that you're somehow sensing this. You're attuned to it
somehow. Maybe it's earthquake weather or-or sunspots or negative ions in the air. But whatever it is,
it's causing you to think that some terrible disaster is coming. That the world is ending or that you're about
to be killed."
Hannah felt the hope sink inside her, and it was more painful than not having had it at all. "I suppose that
could happen," she said. She didn't want to hurt his feelings. "But how does it explain this?"
She reached into the canvas bag she carried instead of a purse and pulled out a folded slip of paper.
Paul took the paper and read it. " 'They've seen you. They're going to tell him. This is your last chance to
get away.' " He stuck the pencil in his mouth. "Hmmm ..."
"I found it this morning wrapped around my toothbrush," Hannah said quietly. "And it's your
handwriting?" She shut her eyes and nodded. "And you don't remember writing it." "I didn't write it. I
know I didn't." She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. "The notes scare me. Everything that's
happening scares me. I don't understand any of it, and I don't see how I'm supposed to fix it if I don't
understand it."
Paul considered, chewing on the pencil gently. "Look-whatever's happening, whoever's writing the
notes, I think your subconscious mind is trying to tell you something. The dreams are evidence of that.
But it's not telling you enough. There's something I was going to suggest, something I don't exactly believe
in, but that we can try anyway. Something to get to