The Jatsu 300 hummed and rattled as it ran up the mid-speed rails on the Quickway. Angie watched the countryside spin by at one hundred fifty miles an hour. Everything blurred close up, but further away hills arose on the horizon, drew near and passed behind with a regularity that was like a cartoon virt. Between the small cities were green spaces, overrun with dense growth, almost jungles of small trees and bamboo. The cities were quick blurs of signage, concrete and box stores.

The regular sounds and the smooth ride combined to lull her into a nap as the inner tension from the mission to her former dungeon evaporated. It had been a calculated risk. On the one hand she was terrified of going anywhere that was connected to Susan Cantridge. On the other hand she hated the thought of contracting out the job of emptying the dungeon. Ordinary workmen confronted with her stuff would talk about the experience. And they would steal. And possibly they would talk enough so that a whisper would reach police ears.

And, even more than that, her skin crawled at the thought of ignorant males, handling her equipment. After twenty years or more as a Dominatrix, certain attitudes had seeped into her soul. Couldn't be helped, came with the territory, you might say. You treated men in a certain way, you stripped them down, beat them, made them grovel, worked into their hidden weaknesses and gave them what they desired, the chance to weep at your feet as their guilty secrets were exposed, and it left you thinking harshly about men in general.

But Paul had obliged her, as she'd expected and soon, Susan Cantridge would disappear entirely to be replaced by another cut out identity.

The only question was where Angie should go next. Boston was said to be a great city. There would be the usual market for her services. She would have to reprogram the chip set, since Mistress Julia was history, but with a new name, perhaps Mistress Alice? Or Deborah? Maybe she could be a Katrina or a Katherine, she'd always liked those names. One thing was certain, she would never use a made up non-traditional name, no Destiny, Whiplash, or Valkyrie for her. That just wasn't her.

And from Boston she could probably weekend to her house on the ridge. The journey would be a little longer, but if she used the high speed rail on the Mass Pike, she could do the whole ride in an hour and a half. Not too bad, and she did love the ridge with its wildness and the beautiful view. It would be hard to give it up.

The ride continued. The truck would wake her when they reached their destination. Fatigue, from days of tension, seemed to well up from the soft, albeit shabby upholstery in the cab of the truck. Her head felt heavy, so she rested it on the headrest. Her eyes closed.

It was peaceful in dreamland, for a while. But at some point Mark appeared. Mark hadn't been a feature of her dreamlife for a long time now. He'd faded out around the time her grieving had turned into bereavement, and the wound in her heart had scabbed over. Now he was there once more, but in a horrific way because he was there as a client. His body, so fine, lean, but well muscled, was bound to the heavy cross beams, the way so many male bodies had been bound. In her hand was the single tail whip, Senor Pachuco's excellent little whip, and she was striking him, cutting the skin again and again-- which never happened with Pachuco's whips-- and she was cursing him, and he was weeping the way so many clients wept as Mistress Julia, or Mistress Roberta, or Mistress Sarah, opened them up.

And why did he weep? Because of what he had done, before they'd even met.

"I have blood on my hands, darling..." he'd said once, when they'd been drinking a little too much in Georgetown, when they were newly weds. And now her dreamself whipped him for it, because it was his original sin, his country's original sin, and in the end he would die for it and she would spend her whole fucking life on the run.

"Mark," she said in the dream, in the hard cadence of Mistress Julia. "What you did condemned you and me. You ruined our lives."

And the whip rose and fell in a fury.

The dream Angie sobbed as she whipped the dream Mark, sobbed with the bitter tears of understanding. He had just done as he'd been ordered to do. He'd been a soldier. Soldiers obeyed orders. If they didn't they weren't proper soldiers. He'd killed people, a considerable number of them. He'd whispered "Diablo, not again," in his sleep sometimes, and she knew what it meant.

Diablo Alto Plano, had been a camp set up in El Salvador where malcontents and troublemakers had been taken from all over Latin America. There they were interrogated, tortured and terminated by the thousands, for decades. The smokestack at the crematorium there was called el humo funerales by the local people, "the funeral smoke."

She knew all this, because it was common knowledge among the young men and women who served in the US Military's Spec Forces. Mark had been in the Rangers and then had served in the super secret Activity. He'd done things that nobody would ever be allowed to know about specifically, but you couldn't keep Diablo Alto Plano a secret. Too many Americans had served there, too many other people had died there. Some of the less sensitive in Mark's crowd even joked about the place.

So it wouldn't have been for Diablo that they killed Mark. No, it would have been for some super-secret thing, some mission that had involved important people, Americans. The most dangerous people of all. Either killing them, or abducting them so that others could torture them and kill them.

Evil, evil, evil, evil, her dreamself screamed as she lashed his naked body with the whip again and again and again, sweat running down her belly, flying off the ends of her hair, her mouth and throat dry with the screaming.

And then she was jolted awake and the nightmare imploded. She was breathing hard, trembling, not sure even where she was. The Jatsu had rumbled off the power rails some time before and switched back to the gas powered engine, she heard it purring loudly behind her.

For a moment she felt close to panic, mouth dry from the horrible dream, those images still burning in her mind, and then everything fell back into place. The truck, the mission down to the dungeon, Paul, driving out, feeling sleepy. Well, not quite everything, because when she studied the green landscape outside the truck's windows the panic almost came back. This wasn't a road she was familiar with. What exit from the Quickway had the truck taken? Where was it going?

Jim had programmed it, saying only that it would take her stuff to a safe location, and that he would come and pick her up there.

She'd assumed, somehow, that that meant somewhere close to the ridgeline, maybe in the valley below. But he hadn't specified and she hadn't thought to ask.

"Destination?" she said aloud.

A whirr came from the dashboard and a small GPS screen lit up. A scratchy robot voice warbled, "Twen-tee three Wild-rose lane."

She studied the GPS screen, but could make little sense of it, other than that their destination was somewhere west of the Rondout Valley, up into the foothills of the Catskills.

The evil, the old evil.

God, that dream, so awful, so real and yet incredible, she'd never even owned a whip before Mark's death and her flight to LA. She and Mark had never done anything remotely S&M related in the bedroom. They'd been more into tickle fights than spanking. But, she knew, the evil that haunted Mark's past, had been there all along, like some black nebulous casement stretched around their happiness. That evil was something they couldn't escape from, as old as the modern mega-state, as entrenched as the powers-that-be.

The truck wound along on a narrow road, patched in places with fresh looking asphalt. Somebody cared about this road. A little bridge spun by, and off to one side through a jungle of weed trees she glimpsed a house, tumbled down in ruin, just a flash of white in the green, with a chimney stark, alone, covered in creeper.

The road went on, down into a dark valley. Hemlocks ruled down here, shadowing everything else out, even the kudzu and bamboo. There were deer, she saw a group of them drinking from the stream. Their bold, inquisitive eyes briefly scanned the Jatsu for threat and then ignored it.

Up on the other side the road straightened for a while, ran past abandoned fields now grown into jungles of vines and small trees, and then through a little hamlet of doublewides and singles, all pulled up to the side of the road in a clearing hacked out of the jungle.

Halfnaked kids, white, brown, were playing in one backyard, a game of some kind. A huge dog, black, all fangs and pink gums, barked furiously at the end of a heavy chain out in front of another trailer.

A collection of vehicles was jammed together in an improvised parking lot, and a tall man, in jeans, stood up beside one to study the Jatsu with expressionless eyes while he wiped oil off his hands with a grimy rag.

The jungle closed in on either side. Oak trees, ash, birch, and newcomers, southern interlopers, alien vines, strange, huge flowers blooming deep in the shadows. The world had warmed and the landscape here was taking on the coloration of the Pliocene again.

Where the hell was the truck going? Jim knew, that was all she had. She could always call him, but he never picked up, so she'd be forced to leave a message. Grimly, she resolved to tough it out. Jim respected tough and Jim's respect was something she needed to keep.

The truck blew through a crossroads in the jungle. For a moment she had a glimpse of an ATV, driven by a chubby looking white girl. The girl had pale blonde hair in braids, a white T-shirt with some wording that she didn't catch. And the rifle, the girl had a rifle slung over her back.

Angie realized, with a sudden shock, that she was in the uninsured world. Technically, speaking, she knew, her house on the ridge was in a similar position, but up there it didn't seem like that. Her neighbors, other than Jim, were weekenders from the city, they brought with them civilization, good wine, the latest notions from the big stores, the culture, and insurance, of course. The mountain was a kind of grey area, therefore semi-insured.

Here, in this green jungle world, there was no insurance and little law enforcement.

Another stream valley choked with dark hemlocks passed by and then there was an opening to another field, but this one was cultivated, a crop was spread out, bright green under the sun. To one side she glimpsed a rotted out bus, up on cinder blocks, rusted right down to the bottom of the windows, and then the Jatsu slowed and pulled off the road into what looked like a solid wall of vegetation. There came a series of bumps and dips as the truck negotiated a dirt track, while branches scraped down the sides. Then they were under hemlocks again, winding through a dark zone.

An odd detail caught her eye. In a humped up bank of ground off to the right she observed rectangular horizontal slits, black against the green and brown. Like a military bunker, she thought, before it vanished around the bend.

Odd.

The trees thinned and then they emerged into a clearing in the forest and ahead sprawled a house, or a couple of them, joined together with other structures. She noted a doublewide sutured into the mix, and all painted pale green.

The Jatsu slowed further, then came to a stop with a loud arrival tone, just in case the passengers were asleep.

"Arr-i-val at twen-tee three Wild--rose lane," said the truck.

Angie pushed open the door, climbed down feeling stiff from the ride.

Dogs, black and white collies, were circling her, growling softly.

"Hello," said a voice. She spun around. A tall man was approaching from the camouflaged garage. "You must be Jools, yeah?"

"Hi, yeah, that's me."

He was a good looking young man, maybe thirty, black hair worn a bit long, bright green eyes that were open and friendly.

"Rory," he said, shaking her hand firmly, but not trying to crush it. "Rory Calann."

"Nice to meet you."

She saw the scar then, or the top of it at least. A half inch wide, running up the left side of his throat.

"Jim'll be over later, he said to take good care of you. You're a special friend."

He had a nice smile, was missing a tooth, bottom front. She noticed a second scar, a small one, that ran along his right cheek atop the bone.

"That's nice to know."

Now that she'd been officially greeted the collies moved in to sniff her out. They were fragments of constant motion, bright eyes, black noses, bushy tails wagging. One of them, with a strange looking nose, almost as if it had been cut down the middle with a knife, was quite aggressive about it all.

Rory had noticed. "Tuck, back off!"

The other dog barked.

"Cut it out, Nip!"

Angie laughed. "Nip and Tuck?"

Rory grinned at her. "Sure, they got surgical precision these two. You know, they're sheep dogs, pretty smart guys. I use them for hunting, they're good at that too."

"I bet they are." Tuck had pulled away at Rory's command and was sitting a few feet away, eyeing her and wagging his tail. Nip, who had less white on the body and face, was still patrolling restlessly, farther away.

"Are they ever completely still?" she said, impressed by the boundless energy the two dogs exhibited. She wondered what they hunted with this good looking kid, out in the crazy jungle all around them.

"Uh, no, well maybe on really hot days for about an hour."

Another animal was approaching, though perhaps stalking was the better way to put it. Angie did a doubletake.

"What is that?"

"That's Tom, aka the ornery old bastard."

Tom was a cat, mostly dark orange, but with big white spots and black blotches on his sides and back. Indeed, he looked like a miniature leopard, and not all that miniature, either. Angie didn't think she'd ever seen a tame sort of cat this size, outside of a zoo.

The spotted cat ignored the collies, who both shifted to stay well out of its way, and sat down beside Rory's scuffed work boot. .

Rory bent down and rubbed the cat's big, flat head. It yawned and looked over at Angie with deep, orange-gold eyes that were astonishingly beautiful.

"I've never seen a cat so ..."

"Big? Or mean?"

"Well. He's very beautiful, too."

"He's some kinda Bengal cat, that's where the spots come from, anyway, but I think his dad had to be a Bobcat to make him so big. But he's tame, sort of, and friendly too, with people. Hellacious mean to dogs, though."

Angie found the cat's stare unnerving. "Will he mind if I say hello?"

"Him? Nope. Just put a hand out for him to sniff. If he's okay with that, you can rub him behind the ears. He likes that."

Angie squatted down. The cat stared at her. She extended a hand, hoping she wasn't about to get slashed to ribbons, but the big cat just gave her hand a sniff and resumed looking right at her. She rubbed the thick fur on the back of its head a few times and the cat came up with a deep, rumbling purr.

"Hi, Tom, nice to meet you," she said, then she stood up again.

The dogs had sat down too, about ten feet away.

"The dogs really get out of his way, then?"

"You bet. Check out Tuck's nose. He made that mistake early on."

And when she looked at Tuck's nose she observed that indeed her early impression had been correct. That nose had been laid open, as if by a scalpel, right down the center and right down to the bone.

"Poor Tuck," she said.

Rory nodded. "Dumb fucker. Nip never made no mistakes around Tom, she knew better, but Tuck's always the one gets in trouble."

"So, Tom's the boss, huh?"

"He wishes. But as long as I feed him, then I'm the boss." Rory had a truly sweet, infectious sort of grin. Angie found herself really liking this young man, rough hewn and backwoodsy as they came.

She had noted lots of details now. The jeans were worn and patched with leather at the knees. The leather belt had a knife in a well-used looking sheathe on the left hip, tilted so the right hand could access it easily, plus a multi-tool in another sheathe on the other side, hanging straight. The shirt, now dark grey had obviously been black once upon a time, and it was cut off above the elbows and neatly stitched. Somebody had taken good care of these clothes.

The young man stood at least six foot, maybe a tad more, and had to be around one-ninety pounds. Angie noted the flat stomach, the big pectorals bulging under that shirt. A hard young body, well muscled, but lean. Angie had become a very good judge of men that waye. Truth be told, she'd become a pretty good judge of men, period, due to dealing with so many of them over the years. This one moved easily, up on the balls of his feet. He was probably very quick when he had to be.

Slim, hard, swift, intelligent, she liked the package. In fact she quite fancied him, in a bed, right then and there. And the thought shocked her somewhat, because it had been quite a while,--several years in fact, since she'd wanted that kind of thing, in that kind of way.

"You thirsty? Want some coffee? Tea?"

"Yes, that would be great. Thanks."

They went across the hard packed gravel of the open space in front of the house, or houses, because she could see clearly now that there was a kind of compound here, at least two houses, but additions had been built onto them that joined them together.

As they climbed two steps up to a porch painted green, a door popped open and a girl, maybe eight years old, looked out.

"Rory got a new girlfren'" announced the kid in a sharp voice.

Rory swung a hand at her, lazily, in play and the girl darted away into the dark interior of the house.

"Don't mind Mina, she's a born troublemaker."

But Angie didn't mind at all. She was old enough to be Rory's mother, and it was nice to know that it wasn't obvious, at least to little, sharp-tongued Mina.

Inside, it was a redneck labyrinth. A room with old, damaged-looking stuffed furniture was on the left. Down a worn passageway were other rooms, Angie noticed a long table in one with chairs around it and the head of a bear mounted on one wall. Then they were in a kitchen, a newer space, built, she surmised in one of the additions, between the older houses. Rory pressed a stud on a coffeemaker and a green light flashed and coffee beans were ground inside while water boiled.

"Quite a rambling place you've got here."

"Five generations of Calanns and Smiths have lived here, plus some Dursts and Terwilligers."

"Takes you back a bit."

"Yeah, I think great, great, great grandpa Smith came here after World War two, you know, the one against Hitler?"

"Okay."

"And there were already Calanns living here then. The original house, I think. It got torn down a long time back. I don't know, in my grandma's time."

Coffee was pouring itself. Rory handed her a plain white cup, a cafeteria cup from another era. It was comforting and solid.

"Cream? Sugar?"

"No thanks, black is best, for me."

The kitchen was a strange mixture of modern equipment and antiques. A 20th century mixer stood on a table from the 19th century, and right next to it was a brand new fudmaka, one of those combo juicer-toaster-blender items that had become all the rage in the past few years.

"Let's go sit sit down. Talk, if you like."

They moved on past other doors, around a corner into a hallway leading to another outside door. On the walls here were photographs, many of them old, some faded to pale blue and pink. From the pictures peered people in old billcaps, check pattern shirts, leather jackets. It was a parade of history.

Outside, they were on another porch, looking out across a lawn studded with wild flowers to a band of bushes and trees. There were some old, comfortable wooden chairs there. They sat, sipped coffee.

"Jim said you might want to leave your truck here. Or the stuff in the truck."

"Well, maybe. It's quite valuable."

Rory smiled. "You don't have to worry about any stuff you leave here. We don't tolerate thieves."

There was a confidence in Rory's voice that she found encouraging.

"Great. "

But still, there were no fences, no obvious guards.

"How can you be, uh, you know?"

"Sure about that?" said Rory. "Oh, we're well known back here. The fools don't fuck with us. You can't get here without us knowing well in advance, too."

They were interrupted by a sputtering motor, Rory took no obvious notice of it, so she didn't refer to it either.

"Do you know when Jim might be coming by?"

"Not precisely, no. But probably later today, maybe in the evening. Don't worry, we'll take good care of ya. If you need to nap, there's plenty of quiet spots. Nobody will bother you. And there'll be food in a while, too. Mama T is cooking up a big dinner."

It wasn't quite what she'd imagined when she'd set out that morning. But Jim had provided the truck, and promised that it was safe and untrackable, and that was so important. She knew it would have been much harder to do it on her own, and probably a lot more dangerous.

"Thank you. I'll probably need a bit of a nap, a bit later, yeah?"

Not now though, because, well the coffee for one thing. Angie didn't often take caffeine at this level. She made a mental note to re-up on vitamins and minerals, which would be depleted by the caffeine. And, for another, because it was so interesting to sit and talk with this good looking, sexy young man.

"Sure." Rory's manner was so easy, so assured. It had a relaxing effect on her.

The puttering motor was louder now, and then quite suddenly it grew much louder. The two dogs, Nip and Tuck appeared at the side of the house, facing the driveway, and a moment later a small hydro-burner, a motor cycle with a sidecar came into view, circled the Jatsu truck and came to a stop with a final whirr.

A heavyset woman in black leather jeans, boots and a white T-shirt that struggled to contain her immense breasts, got off the driver's seat. Another woman, shorter, older, wearing blue jeans and a pink top got out of the passenger side.

Rory stood up. "Excuse me a moment," he said and he stepped down and approached the two women.

She watched him walk up to them. Both women embraced him and the big one in the leather jeans kept her arm around Rory while they all talked. At a certain point all three looked over in Angie's direction for a few moments. Then they looked away. Angie had expected this, and yes, now they were all coming over to say hello. Angie sipped her coffee, stayed put and worked on being calm. She was tempted to switch on Mistress Julia, just to hide her nervousness.

Rory introduced the women. "Like you to meet Jibsi, she's my aunt on the Smith side." That was the older lady, whose hand felt fragile in Angie's, like a little bird with tiny bones.

"An' this is Roshanna, she's my cousin, she's a kind of a Calann, too."

Roshanna was the opposite, being hearty, big and buxom. She had a big laugh too.

"We're the Calanns who got away. Went to California. Came back though. Dumbasses!" She shook a little with the chuckles that followed.

"Nice to meet you," Angie shook her hand, felt her own squeezed a little harder than she might have expected and held onto as well. Roshanna was giving her a real looking over.

"Fine lookin' lady, Rory said you was a special fren' a Jim's."

"Well," Angie suddenly realized that she was being scoped out on a sexual level here, that Roshanna was into women. Suddenly she was embarrassed. This was different from the routine checking out she was used to from men. She'd always been eye catching, being tall, blonde and pretty, but she'd never been into the lesbian thing. Being examined like this was unsettling. More than ever she wished she'd switched on Mistress Julia, who would deal with this with a few, haughty phrases.

But Rory came to her rescue. "Now, Roshanna, you stop that. I swear you don't let anyone get by."

Roshanna chuckled again, but made sure to rest a hand on Angie's hip for a moment before turning away. "Doesn't harm anyone to know I'm interested."

Jibsi snorted. "Girl, you got a reputation ten miles wide."

Roshanna didn't blink. "And my bed is rarely a lonely place, Aunt J."

Angie didn't want to throw any fuel on that fire. The thought of big Roshanna jumping around in bed with her was revolting, but also kind of funny.

"I lived in California, myself, for a while," she said, to change the subject to a safer channel.

"Nice out there," said Roshanna. "Rory was there, too. Spent some time in the woods."

"Oh, forestry?"

"Uh, no," Rory grinned again, a little sheepishly this time.

Roshanna was laughing like she might explode. "Forestry? Oh, yeah, that's our Rory boy."

"Are we gonna get some coffee soon?" said Aunt Jibsi, obviously impatient with the proceedings.

"Sure, you know where it is," replied Rory.

"Okay, okay," Roshanna put her big hands up, "hope we can chat some more later, Miz Angie." She punched Rory, none too gently in the stomach, but he didn't seem to notice. "Forestry! Hah."

The door slammed behind Roshanna's hefty ass, and Angie and Rory were left alone once more.

"Sorry about that. Roshanna's just, I don't know, just a bit aggressive about stuff."

Angie laughed. "Yeah, I got the message."

Something lit up in Rory's eyes. "I guess you get hit on a lot, from all sides."

"Oh, not that much, not anymore."

In truth, Angie had learned to hide in the open. A scarf, a hat, loose fitting clothes. Everything she could do to stay invisible. And she was fifty, though she knew she looked considerably younger than the way fifty used to look.

Rory grinned. He was fascinated by her, she could tell. Not the usual kind of female you ran into out here in the uninsurable jungle.

"Jim said you've got a special line of work."

She laughed. Jim had his ways of phrasing things. "You could say that. Takes a certain kind of person, I guess."

"Yeah?"

But she wasn't interested in telling him any more about what she did. Again she switched to California, a safer topic.

"How come you didn't stick out west?"

"Oh, well," he shrugged eloquently. "The local guys had things taped down, y'know? I was just there to learn. Apprenticeship, you might say. I still keep in touch, but it wasn't like a permanent thing."

He wasn't giving anything away, either. She could tell that much.

"I was in LA," she said. "You ever get down there?"

"Yeah, a couple of times. Not my kind of place."

"Too crowded?"

"I guess I'm just not a city person. I was born out here and I feel better in the woods than in the buildings."

"What do you do out here, though? To make money?"

There was the slightest hesitation, then the smile renewed. "Organic farming, I guess is the best description. Hard work, but well rewarded."

She recalled the field back by the road. "Oh, I see. Do you take stuff to the farmers' markets?"

"Kind of. We use an, uh, alternative system of distribution. It works for us."

"That must be great, working the land, growing good stuff, making a living from it."

"Right," Rory was in complete agreement.

"I've been thinking about putting in a vegetable garden at my house. I might do it now."

"Yeah, what would you grow?"

"Well, I like to juice my veggies, it's important for my diet."

"Healthy, yeah."

"And I want berries, they're so rich in antioxidants."

"Yeah, but they'll draw the birds"

"I'll have to put up nets I guess."

"You'll need good fencing. Deer. Groundhogs."

"Oh, right. Jim said I'd need good fencing. He said deer can jump six feet."

"Yep. And if they're hungry they will."

"He also said I had to bury the fence pretty deep to keep out the woodchucks."

"Yeah, I think it has to be three feet to really discourage 'em."

"Ought to keep me busy for a while." She smiled, thinking again how nice it would be to just take this warm, friendly, muscular young man off to a bed somewhere for about an hour or so.

"Yeah, nice to be busy." Their eyes met. It would be so easy, she thought. He wanted her. It was coming off him like perfume from a fresh rose.

He leaned forward, put his coffee cup on the old table. Here it comes, she thought, and she wouldn't say no.

Something went "bleep!" loud and sharp.

"Damn," muttered Rory. Again came the "bleep" and he stood up.

"Scuse me, got a call here."

He stepped away, urgent, one hand up to the side of his head,

"Yeah?" he sounded impatient, she could imagine why.

He had a great looking ass, she thought. Solid muscle, well toned, nice and hard and round. Her imagination was running riot.

"Okay, good. Great job." He was coming back.

Had the moment gone? She hoped not, although a more cautious voice at the back of her head was saying, "hold on there...who is this young man?..just what are you getting yourself into?"

"Looks like I've got a visitor. Say, we'll be fixing some dinner soon. You're welcome to join us.":

"Why, thank you. What're you having?" She imagined some horrific redneck feast of white carbohydrates, salt, fat and red meat.

"Uh, turkey. Suzie got one yesterday. We cook 'em real slow, softens up the meat."

"Okay." She didn't think she'd have any supermarket turkey. Those things were so loaded with antibiotic residues, could play havoc with your intestinal flora.

"And there's some possum, makes good barbecue. You may not be familiar with it."

"Possum?" Had she heard that correctly?

"There's so many of 'em, we eat 'em now and again. They're tasty. And we got some good sweet potatoes outta granny's patch, plus salad, and a heckuva cake that Jibsi made this morning. Actually she made two, 'cos she knows we're going to get into it. Anyway, there's plenty. And we have wine, too. I got a deal with Lopsided Farm, do you know them?"

"Oh, sure, nice chardonnay."

Bob and Melanie at Lopsided were becoming good friends of Julie Rider's. She'd even been to a dinner party at their house over in the Walden Valley.

But possum? What did that mean?

"Yeah, well, we got a case of last year's chardonnay and a case of Bob's Pinot. Might be the best Pinot in the whole Hudson Valley, y'know?"

There was a charming dissonance here. Rory with his scars and worn clothing, his redneck elocution and what appeared to be a seasoned experience with good wine, albeit locally produced.

"It sounds lovely. If Jim doesn't get here too soon, I'd love to join you."

"Great."

"Only, I might skip the turkey. Unless it's organic."

"Oh, it is," Rory's grin was back full strength. "They all are around here."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you got it from a local farm."

"Farm? Heck no. Suzie shot it down by Mcgregor Pond is all. There's zillions of 'em in the woods here. Do a great job on the grasshoppers."

Angie rocked back, overwhelmed for a moment. It was a wild turkey, like the ones she saw all the time up on the ridge. Suzie had shot it. Someone had then plucked the feathers off, opened it up and removed the innards.

"Oh, I see."

And the Possum? That meant the animal? Like the ones she saw now and then wandering through her yard at night. Or dead at the sides of roads?

Yikes.

Rory chuckled. "You're in the backwoods now, y'know. We don't waste stuff."

She laughed too. "You got me there, I was really wondering, possum? What's that?"

"Think you'll be surprised at the taste, bit like rabbit."

There was another engine sound now, gaining strength by the moment. This time it was deeper, heavier, another truck she imagined.

"That'll be Chaga, I'll have to leave you for a bit, got some business to attend to."

"Okay. I'll just hang here with Tom." The unusually big cat had reappeared, slouching into view and then settling down on the gravel in a smooth curve of orange fur.

Rory stood up, but remained on the porch until the new arrival, a black Sudon SUV came to a halt beside the Jatsu. The passenger door opened and a black man got out.

The dogs were circling him, Nip barked. He waved to Rory. She noted that the newcomer was wearing a dark blue suit with a red shirt. His head was covered with a crisp looking creamy stetson and there was gold gleaming all over his hands.

Rory stepped out to greet the visitor, the two shook hands, then strolled away out of sight around the Jatsu and into the camouflage painted barn, or whatever it was.

She sighed. Pity. But for the interruption she had a pretty strong feeling that she'd have been in a bed somewhere back in the sprawling house behind her, with young Rory's hard, handsome body between her legs, as they made some furious kind of love.