It was 6:37, the moment of her sister's brutal murder years before. The air in the room was ice cold. Her bones ached, her brain scarred with images of murder.

She thought of the dream, in which she had floated across the river and among the ghosts of the men she had killed to avenge Melody's death: Mitchell, the pale stuttering redhead who begged forgiveness; Jacob, the rabbi's son, who'd crawled on his belly; Eddy, the nimble-fingered card-player. There had been more. She had talked to her victims but couldn't remember what they told her. It was something important--she was sure of that. It would come to her later.

Shivering, she stood. Names and faces faded in gray brain-mist as she shuffled to the window. There, she parted the thick plastic curtains, placed trembling hands on the windowsill, and scanned the backyard. In the middle of the yard were three large pinyon pines, their top branches reaching for early light. For a minute, she didn't know what she was seeing. Then, in the midst of the cluster she made out something tall, clothed in a red robe, hair black as night, eyes two dark holes. In the pre-dawn gray, it was looking her way.

Two dark holes—the image would stay with her for years.

Her heart skipped a beat as she closed the eyes to wish the thing away. Her stomach twisted.

Then, slowly, she opened her eyes.

The messenger remained; this was no dream. It had gigantic black wings. (Not since she was little, just after her mother's death, had she seen an angel, that time a tall being with long golden hair and a sword carried across the chest.) Slight wind ruffled the creature's gown, and it did not take its eyes from her.

Fear of judgment jolted her, and pushing away thoughts of eternal condemnation, she let her gaze wander beyond the backyard and up the red sandstone mountains, still shrouded in darkness. She fixed her eyes on the mountaintop as the sky slowly brightened. When she looked back at the trees, the angel was gone. Perhaps, she thought, I made it up. People make things up all the time.

Hallucination or not, she knew it was time to consider her situation.

A week had passed since she had followed Pastor Tom to this house. Every evening, she had joined him and his wife on the back porch. There, in the early summer stillness, Tom's words had often pierced her so deeply that once she almost confessed to being a killer.

Now, as morning slowly flooded the sky, she turned from the window and looked at the picture of DaVinci's Last Supper on the wall opposite her bed. While she would have given much to sit next to Jesus, Beatrice knew change would be impossible. She had become a splendid taker of lives, and she would kill again.

Thinking about the angel, she moved across the room, quietly opened the door, and waited at the threshold. No sounds came from the other bedroom, and she knew the pastor and his wife were out of the house. It wasn't uncommon for them to awaken before dawn and head over to the little church just after breakfast.

Eager to wash away dirt from yesterday's windstorm, Beatrice removed her sweater and trudged down the hall to the bathroom. This morning, she stayed in the shower until the hot water turned cold. Then, faded blue towel wrapped around her, she returned to her room where she dressed in tight white shorts and a torn blue top that stopped just above her navel. Even in her mid-thirties, she remained conscious of her own fading beauty.

When she emerged from her room, the old round clock on the hallway wall said 8:23. In the kitchen, she found a yellow note stuck to the refrigerator door: "Beatrice," it read, "Tom and I are at the church. Come on over after breakfast. Help yourself to whatever you find, then come on over and help us get ready for Sunday. E."

Briefly, she considered the invitation, then crumpled the paper and tossed it onto the kitchen table.

"Not today," she muttered. Every day but one during the past week, she had worked inside the church, helping Tom and Elizabeth erect the new altar and washing the six the stained glass windows. She’d had her fill of church.

This has to be my last day, she told herself as she used the microwave to fix herself a cup of coffee. Coffee always calmed her, and she drank it quickly. Then, after putting her cup into the dishwasher, she walked outside to her car. A chill, uncommon for summer mornings in southern Utah, hung in the air. She kept her heater on and listened to a gospel station on her fifteen-mile drive south to St. George.

By the time she hit the outskirts, Beatrice was starting to feel good. At Boone's Family Restaurant, she bought a copy of the Las Vegas Review Journal and followed the hostess, who seated her in a booth next to the window. Three older men at a nearby table looked her over as she sipped coffee. She thought about telling them to keep their pricks in their pants when she recognized one as a member of Tom's congregation. During Sunday's service three mornings ago, this man had leered at her, and she had felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck stiffen.

She had just finished her second cup while waiting for her sausage and French toast when she read the headlines in section B. "Authorities Stumped by Grisly Murders," they said. According to the article, investigating authorities had linked her killings in Wells and Nampa to a series of uncommonly brutal murders that had occurred in the Pacific Northwest during the past three years. "There's a pattern here," Special Agent Steve Delvaney was quoted as saying. "Victims are discovered with body parts missing: eyes, hands, feet, heart. Bodies always have similar markings." She thought about the marking: a tiny letter x carved twelve times onto Frank's forehead and thirteen onto Mel's.

Beatrice smiled as her breakfast was placed before her. Then she glanced toward the men. The one she recognized--a fat fellow wearing a cowboy hat, a red shirt, and dark blue jeans--gave her a wink and a nod. Quickly, she looked away.

As she slowly ate, she read the piece at least a dozen times. It covered two pages and chronicled her murders. Reminding herself that every one wanted a little fame, Beatrice closed the paper and worked on finishing her breakfast. The men at the next table had already left and she hoped that, when she walked out of the restaurant, they wouldn't be waiting for her.

They were.

After dessert, Elizabeth announced that she needed to drive to St. George to visit her sister Cynthia, who had called two hours before to say that her husband Clarence had left her for another woman. All week long, Beatrice had been hearing about troubles between Cynthia and Clarence.

"Cynthia has had a difficult time with that Clarence," Elizabeth huffed, rising. Sensing her hostess's concern, Beatrice helped Elizabeth clean off the table.

Tom opened the screen door and stepped out onto the back porch.

"Sounds like a real bastard," Beatrice commented, barely audible, as she helped pile up the dessert and dinner plates next to the dirty kitchen sink. Dirty sinks had always bothered Beatrice.

For several minutes, as she stacked dishes, silverware, and glasses in the dishwasher, Elizabeth didn't say anything.

"Yeah, he's a real prick," Elizabeth finally muttered in a voice only Beatrice could hear. "A real little asshole."

After turning on the dishwasher, Elizabeth said through the back door, "I'll be back in an hour or two, honey."

"Don't be gone too long, and say hi to Cynthia," Beatrice heard Tom say. There was something that didn't sound right about Tom's voice, some level of tension that hadn't been there before.

"Do take care of him, Beatrice," Elizabeth said to Beatrice, heading toward the garage door just off the pantry. It was an odd thing for Elizabeth to say.

As the first cycle of the dishwasher kicked in, Beatrice was tempted to go to the living room, throw herself on the ugly brown coach, and flip on the TV; or, in the event nothing good was on, she thought of going to her room, taking out her collection of Sylvia Plath. Tonight, for some reason, she didn’t want to be near Tom. Ultimately, obligation won out--it usually did in Beatrice's case--and she pushed open the screen door and stepped outside.

It was good to be outside. This was another beautiful evening, and the high-desert air was slowly cooling.

"Hey, Tom," she said, smiling at the pastor. Long ago, she had learned to say "Hey" in place of "Hi" or "Hello." It's the way she and her sister had always greeted each other.

He sat in his tattered lawn chair, reading a thick brown book with cryptic lettering on the front.

"Hello, sweet Beatrice," he said, almost coolly. He had called her "sweet" before, so she didn't mind.

The western sky was cobalt blue, and Beatrice wished she could breathe in this glorious desert world in and fly to a realm beyond this one. To the east, the large sandstone mountains that had loomed darkly that morning were turning blood red. When she looked down, she saw a huge spider scurrying across the concrete patio, down the steps, and into the grass. The grass had not been mown for the week she had been there.

"Big one, huh?" she said. Beatrice knew that desert tarantulas were not to be feared. They could crawl on you and would never bite. For a brief time, when they were in grade school, she and Melody had kept one.

"Too big for me," Tom replied, setting his book on the patio floor.

Wondering where the spider would go in the long grass, she took the lawn chair next to the pastor and, immediately could sense his nervousness, a light, almost electric buzz.

She sat back and breathed deeply. Yes, there was a definite edginess about him. Thinking that it must have something to do with Clarence and Cynthia, she told herself to enjoy the evening, and so she rested her hands in her lap and relaxed her shoulders.

"Absolutely wonderful out here this time of evening," she sighed, "don't you think?"

"Sure is." He clipped his words, as if he wanted to say something more.

"You all right?" she asked, glancing at him and stifling a yawn. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and his light brown hair was swept straight back.

"Never better," he answered, grinning.

"So, Beatrice, where are you headed from here?" he asked.

"Denver, maybe," she said, something inside her telling her to head indoors, "then back to Vegas." She had told him she taught high school honors English in southern Nevada.

The sky continued to darken, and she felt slightly chilled as bats flew low overhead. Bats were common in the region and often fed off tarantulas.

"Semester begins when?" he asked. Then, before she could answer—and as if he had performed the action a hundred times before--he slowly leaned toward her and put a small, almost feminine hand over hers.

She recoiled, slightly, and she commanded herself not to get angry. This gesture would merely annoy her, and wondering how to respond she watched a large bat swoop low over the yard, pick up something large and fly away.

"Semester begins at the end of August," she said, trying to pull her hand back but unable to break his grip. "It's June now, so that means two months to go."

"Quite a while to go," he said.

"Quite a while."

Then, she asked with a forced playfulness that she doubted he could detect, "So, what's your sermon going to be on this Sunday?"

Three bats were now swooping over the yard in jagged, crisscrossing arcs.

He said nothing, so she tried again, hoping to move his thoughts away from her: "So, what's the sermon going to be on? Jonathan Edwards? 'Sinners in the hands of an angry God'?" She remembered studying Edwards during her American literature course in college and being impressed then with the immanence of God's judgment.

"I'm not sure yet," he responded, shifting and moving a leg against hers. "Certainly not Jonathan Edwards."

"Do you know Edwards?" she asked. Rage was close but she was determined not to let it poison her soul.

Tom sighed but did not let go of her hand. "Edwards was wrong. I have found that God is not a God of wrath," he replied.

"You better hope He's not," she chuckled in the low voice she had used when she danced as a stripper. "Now, please, Tom, release my hand. Please."

But Tom didn't do as she asked.

She took several deep breaths.

"Getting dark, isn't it?" she asked, something ticking in the back of her brain. If he really wants to hold my hand, she thought, well, what the hell, maybe I should let him. She neither hated nor feared Tom. At the moment, he was merely bothersome.

"The darkness is the best time of the day," he said.

But the words were lost on her as the ticking in her brain became a light but persistent pounding.

"So what…what the fuck are you going to talk about then?" she asked. The word had just slipped out.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, he responded with "Please don't use that horrible word."

"Then please take away your hand." She could feel tension mounting.

"Surely, my good woman, not yet," he said, reaching forward with his other hand to stroke her hair gently, even delicately. "The evening, my dear one, is still young."

She didn’t like the way Tom touched her hair and drew her head back.

"Tom, what the hell's this about?" she asked. Bats flittered just beyond the porch.

"I think you're beautiful, Beatrice." he said. "That's what this is about."

She'd heard this before--too many times, in fact—-but never from a preacher. Sharp pain shot through her brain. Headaches were often a warning.

"Jesus, Tom, I'm in no damned mood for this. Can't you see that?" The words stumbled from her mouth and didn't faze him.

Instead, he sighed. "Elizabeth and I have come, this past week, to regard you as a dear friend. Beyond that--and please excuse my somewhat romantic manner--I do consider you an absolutely stunning woman--I imagine men tell you that all the time--and to be quite honest, quite blunt, quite serious, I don't have that special kind of relationship with Elizabeth that I should like."

That special kind of relationship--the words galled her. An image of castrating the man flickered in her mind. The headache was coming on like a desert storm.

"So, do you screw around with other women from your congregation?" she abruptly asked, pulse pounding in her throat. "I'll bet my sweet ass that you do."

"Occasionally, I guess you could say that I do, Beatrice. But I break no commands. Elizabeth knows that." It angered Beatrice that Tom did not because he could not grasp the gravity of the situation.

"And please watch your speech," he added.

She tensed, fighting the nausea that often accompanied headaches, and fixed her eyes on the clump of trees in the middle of the yard.

"Look, please let go of my hand, please," she said, not looking at him. "I think Elizabeth would be pretty damned pissed if she knew about this. She wouldn’t much care for what you're doing now." Her heart rate accelerating, her face and body going numb, Beatrice hoped she would not drift into the familiar killing rage.

Then, as she tensed her jaw muscles, he placed his free hand on her leg. She froze as he moved his hand slowly toward her crotch, slid his small fine fingers under her shorts, and touched her womanhood. She had worn nothing underneath.

"Now I must kiss you." His voice was almost a pant.

"Stop this," she pleaded, grabbing his hand, "Jesus God, please don't do this. Stop this!"

But he was not to be dissuaded, and leaning forward he put his mouth over hers. He had big soft lips that reminded her of a carp she had seen in a pond long ago. When he slowly drew back, she thought of her dead sister and of the other men that she had killed in her quest for Melody's murderer. The pain in her head was making her sweat.

"What's the matter with our becoming a little familiar with each other?" he asked. He had forced his voice a notch lower. "Surely, it's nothing too much out of God's will. It’s nothing to break into a sweat about."

"You're sure of that?" she asked. Her thoughts were becoming muddled and frantic. Head throbbing, she glanced up at the darkening sky, which would soon be awash with millions of stars.

Her let go of her hand.

Slowly, almost dizzy with pain, she pushed her chair back and rose. She noted that she was trembling.

"Where are you going, sweet child?"

"Inside," she snapped.

"What ever for?"

"Because my fucking head hurts."

She glared at him.

"Look," she began. "Look, Tom, I know you're God's chosen servant, but let me tell you I don't want you ever to touch me, not ever again. If you do...." She felt as if someone had split her skull with an axe.

"And if I do?" Smiling, he stood and faced her.

"You do, you pathetic little son-of-a-bitch, you worthless little prick, I'll slice your fucking gizzard and feed it to the crows." Her voice was low, gravely, and she forced a laugh to take the edge off her threat.

As if he’d been slapped, his head shot back and he retreated a step.

"Well, I am truly sorry that you feel that way, Beatrice," he remarked, a quiver in his voice. "Let me add that profanity does not become you."

"Elizabeth should be back soon," Beatrice dully said as she pulled the screen door open. Surprisingly, the headache was already receding, but her trembling made it difficult to walk steadily. "You can touch her sweet pussy all you want. I'll be gone in the morning."

As she stood just inside the kitchen screen door, she heard him sigh. "The morning will be soon enough, Beatrice," he said, coldly.

For an hour, whenever she closed her eyes, images of mutilation filled her mind. Finally, as if she'd been drugged, she drifted into dreams.

In her dream, she found herself in the middle of a savage forest, sinking through green quicksand. Down, down, down she went, the quicksand sucking her, until her feet touched rock. Locked in the nightmare, she walked out of a cave and to the edge of a large steaming lake. In the middle of the yellow sky, directly overhead, an enormous green eye studied her. Somehow, the lake had always been there, and as she looked across the body of water the saw fires dotting its surface.

But it was what was on the other side that most concerned her. An old friend, an old fiend, she thought.

There, lying on the far shore, huge forested mountains behind it, was the large, winged red and green dragon, its eyes two dark holes. It eyed her--hatefully? cunningly? She couldn't tell--and she wondered if she had come to kill the beast.

Certain that she had discovered her mission, she produced an enormous pearl-handled sword. As she held it, the blade sang a song of destruction. Then, as if beckoned, she began walking across the fiery body of water when the beast arose, hissed and shrieked a deafening shriek--and so she stopped and addressed the beast in a language she had never heard.

It was just as she had decided to run right at the dragon that Beatrice felt herself jerked sickeningly, suddenly awake and set back in the land of the living. The room was colder than it had felt that morning, and for a time she lay still, allowing the dream to fade. When he mind cleared, heart thumping wildly, she sat up in her bed; once again, her body was heavy with familiar dread. The clock on the nightstand said 3:21. Her sheets were drenched.

A sliver of the moon hung just outside her window. Shivering, she studied the moon, glowing with a pulse that matched her own. Then, unbelievably, something moved in front of her window. Her body went cold. Terrified she looked away, then back, and there it stood, inevitable as the night, like a thing in a picture frame: long, flowing robe, dark wings. She could feel its cold and penetrating eyes.

Two dark holes, those eyes, she thought.

The angel stood immense as death just outside her window. She felt the eyes probing her soul, knew words were taking shape inside her.

For everything there is a season, it silently sang; and now is the season of death, Beatrice. Now is the season of hot blood. Singing knives must sing and drink.

The song seemed to wrap itself around her and clutch her soul. Fear receding, she slipped from bed, walked across the room, and knelt by her suitcase. After opening her suitcase, she removed some clothes, and there it was, the box with the killing instruments inside. Ah, yes, fine things, wonderful things: two shining, razor-sharp knives begging to be used.

Looking up, she saw the robed thing still at the window and looked quickly away.

As if in a trance, she took off the sweater she always slept in and tossed it aside. Brain buzzing, she removed the blades from the case, taking one in each hand, and rising held them before her. She placed cold steel against her nipples and felt her own dark spirit rise.

Ready to go to work, naked, she moved across the room. Putting the smaller knife between her teeth, Beatrice used her left hand--trembling slightly--to open the door. Creeping down the hall, she felt the angel's power rushing into her-This is a bran-new twist to my old game, was her thought--and by the time she reached the pastor's door, she felt awash in something darkly glorious.

Then she put her hand on the knob and slowly, slowly, slowly turned. Heart thumping, she pushed the door open. Minutes passed before she slipped across the threshold and, almost breathlessly, glided to the side of the bed. In the glow from the moon and the small bathroom light, she stood armed, boldly naked, listening to them breathe. Turned toward each other, Tom and Elizabeth reminded her of two slumbering children. As she took the knife from her mouth with her free hand, the pastor turned over, opened his eyes, and blinked.

"Aha!" she wanted to say. It was one of those incredible silent moments when the divine becomes manifest. The sacredness of the moment would not be lost upon Beatrice.

Instead, she whispered, "Hello, Mr. Spider."

He opened his mouth, and she was tempted to thrust one of the knives into the opening. He looked on the verge of saying something--would it have been a holy rebuke?--when she heard in her brain a click-click-click as of something tapping out a message. Thunder followed--she was certain she heard thunder--and then, in a pause Beatrice would later describe as "positively sacred," she heard the thud of something huge landing upon the roof: the devil, perhaps, or the dragon, she thought.

Satan has never attended one of my killings, she told herself, and she knew it was time. This was it.

"Oh, God," he sobbingly wheezed, too late as she felt a large, powerful hand grip her. Then, with a fury and speed that she was sure he had never seen, she struck down, plunging the weapons into the chest and stomach, piercing and rending flesh. It was a wondrous, bewitching moment, and Beatrice shrieked like one of the damned as blades arced through the air, puncturing flesh again and again.

And then….

And then, as if upon silent command, she stopped, backed toward the door-later, she would report that she felt like two eyes floating--and flicked on the ceiling light. Beatrice's eyes ran spider-like over the ceiling, walls, and floor, crisscrossed beautifully in blood. It was artistic, surely symbolic of cosmic design.

Curious, she glanced at the mirror, suspended on the wall over the bed; blood streaked her stomach, her breasts and face, her hair. Thou gorgeously bloodied beauty, she thought.

Then she turned her eyes to Elizabeth.

The preacher's wife stared, wide-eyed; too terrified to speak, scream or sit up, this woman trembled almost violently under crimson stained covers, which she clutched beneath her chin.

Beatrice knew Elizabeth was naked, and this filled her with longing.

She watched Elizabeth move her lips, silently forming the words "Please, please, oh, please" over and over. The silent pleas touched her, and Beatrice moved to the other side of the bed. For a time, she looked into Elizabeth's eyes.

"How long has it been since you two were together?" Beatrice asked.

Wide-eyed, Elizabeth shook her head. Her trembling began to subside.

"A week? A month?" Beatrice prodded.

Elizabeth nodded. "Years," she rasped, adding, "Are you the killer everyone's talking about?"

"Oh, my yes," Beatrice nodded; "I am she." She knew Elizabeth was asking about the string of murders that had, just recently, ended in Wells with the slaying of Melvin Moffett.

"Oh, God, then please, don't," Elizabeth whimpered. "Please, please, please."

"Oh, honey, I've never killed a woman," Beatrice said reassuringly. She placed the knives on the nightstand, leaned over the bed, and put a bloodied hand on Elizabeth's forehead. As she did so, the other woman's trembling subsided.

"Oh, please, please, please," Elizabeth sobbed, her face dappled beautifully in blood.

"You've been nice to me, sister Elizabeth," Beatrice whispered. "So very Goddamned nice."

"Yes," the other breathed.

Then, delicately, as if picking a flower, Beatrice bent down and gently placed her lips over Elizabeth's. The preacher's wife, she had long thought, had beautiful full lips, reminiscent of Melody's.

"Aren't you going to kiss back?" Beatrice asked after drawing back slightly.

Elizabeth nodded.

"Just try to relax some more," Beatrice counseled.

And so Beatrice again leaned forward again and gently, delicately, and kissed the other woman, stroking Elizabeth's beautiful blond hair. After a time, when some of the tightness left her body, Elizabeth kissed back with dry, gentle warmth.

Aroused, Beatrice stood, peeled back the blood-soaked sheets, then glanced at the corpse. With difficulty, she recognized it, flat on its back, left arm dangling over the side of the bed. Once, she told herself, I knew this man.

She decided not to move it, telling herself that Elizabeth wouldn't mind.

Then Beatrice knelt by the bed--the action brought to mind her own mother putting her and Melody to sleep--and put her hand on Elizabeth's stomach. Then, missing her sister terribly, she slowly moved her hand lower as Elizabeth parted her legs.

Saying "Just relax, baby," Beatrice took one of Elizabeth nipples in her mouth and gently bit. Years before, she'd called Melody "baby."

"You'll enjoy this," Beatrice muttered.

After perhaps twenty or thirty minutes, Beatrice rose, a kind of sickening deadness weighing upon her. Elizabeth had remained still as the corpse. Elizabeth was not, Beatrice decided, like Melody used to be.

"Oh, well, what the hell?" she whispered, pushing immense sorrow from her mind. In that instant, Beatrice knew immediately what to do and seized the long thin knife from the table next to the bed. When the preacher's wife did not move, Beatrice placed the point between Elizabeth's still spread legs.

The other woman whimpered, then braced as Beatrice slowly shoved the blade inside. The blade became an extension of Beatrice Rose, and wondering how Melody would have responded she felt herself moving to orgasm.

But Elizabeth could not stop whimpering. It kills the pleasure, Beatrice thought; it kills the fucking pleasure. And so, almost weeping, Beatrice slowly withdrew the blade, noting that the passionless Elizabeth had bled onto the bottom sheet.

"You're bleeding a lot, Elizabeth," she said. Stroking the other woman's hair with her free hand, she cooed, "But please don't be afraid. I'm almost done."

Then, with the precision of a seasoned butcher, Beatrice leaned forward, steadied the knife against Elizabeth's neck, and slid the blade across the throat from ear to ear.

As she drove, Beatrice struggled to put the preacher and his wife from her mind. Killing them--perhaps killing Elizabeth--had depressed her greatly; she didn't know exactly why since one life was pretty much like another. Before she'd left, she'd carved small x's into their foreheads so they could be identified as they passed through the underworld.

The sun shone brightly; yet, it was as if Beatrice were seeing the sky through dark film. The film she could not remove, no matter how many times she blinked. Panic flickered, a small sick flame in her heart. She was sure that some devilish beast with claws and fangs gripped her heart and soul and commanded her to push her car up to ninety. Speed's good, the voice in her head said. Dying's a thrill, the thing inside crooned; you'll do it well.

Beatrice did not croon back. She didn't feel like crooning because now a sinking sensation squeezed her stomach as she noted that hers was the only car on the road. The sky grew darker, and she wondered if her own soul would be sucked from her body. And she knew instantly--it was this that her victims had told her in last night's nightmare--that she would be numbered among the damned.

Damned or not, Beatrice would be strong, very strong, and so as she cruised around 100 mph she was able to picture the small, green-roofed cabin located by a lake on the eastern side of the Manta-La Mountains. She remembered that years ago, when they were little, she and Melody had stayed in the cabin with their father, a large, loud bearded man, and his dingy blonde girlfriend Nell. The small one-story cabin had belonged to Nell's brother from Reno. Beatrice had always felt safe there.

As Beatrice drove she wished that she could return to that time and awaken each morning at 5000 feet to the sounds of birds in the trees. Several times, she and her sister had spotted elk, and one evening Melody had boasted about seeing a bear down by the creek.

For an instant, Beatrice was able to picture the cabin, the lake, the animals in the forest around the lake. And then, as her speed reached 120, the reverie vanished. Heavy, sick darkness saturated her as, in her imagination, the lake reappeared, darker this time. In this picture, she saw the dragon; she saw fire dancing off the lake.

The flames crackled somewhere in her head. Sweating, she slowly and pulled her car off to the side of the freeway, set the emergency, and stepped out.

She breathed deeply and gazed at the mountains to the south. Her heart raced, the crackling of flames faded, and for an instance the sky seemed to brighten.

Damp with sweat, she leaned against the car and looked west. A mile or so down the freeway was a dark spot; as it approached, it became a large black semi with a golden dragon painted on the driver's door. She waited and waited, and as it passed, its horn trumpeted into the dry summer air.

Her thoughts clearing a bit, Beatrice knew that she had to go on. It would be a matter of time before she was evening news, and as she got comfortable behind the wheel of her car, Beatrice knew that from now on she'd be running for her life, likely leaving bloodied footprints everywhere. Bidding the dragon to return to its cave, she put the car in gear and moved forward. Quickly, she took the car up to ninety, assuring herself that her pursuers would not think to look for her at the end of a little dirt road on the far side of a remote mountain range.

When I get there, she thought, I'll know what to do. Sure as hell, Beatrice Rose will know what to do.

Black, unholy clouds were forming in the sky behind her. She figured that the angel within her was also standing somewhere in those clouds, its eyes boring into her. And she knew that by evening it would be raining cats and dogs. By then, she'd be safe and sound inside the cabin.