"I've been hearing this laugh. Not a jovial laugh that inspires you to smile, but rather a female laugh that chills you right to the bone. It's the laugh of a demented young woman that has just trapped someone in an inescapable snare of deceit and trickery, and she is very proud of the fact and wishes to rub it in.
          "The problem is that no one else has heard it. I know that I'm not schizophrenic and hearing voices. I'm far too rational and methodical in my thinking for that to be a possibility. I'm a peaceful man, community minded, fair to all that cross my path. This is something else. It's external. The emotion that the laugh conveys is not within my make-up. It does not come from within. And that scares me.
          "I've been on the edge before, over a decade ago. I know what the tell-tale deviations are that signal imbalance. But my emotional state is quite calm and on track. I know that I'm not losing it. My life has been calm with few pressures, before this all started. This laugh belongs to someone else and I have been chosen to hear it for some reason. I intend to find out what that reason is.
          "I fear the sound. It's very clear and distinct, and it speaks of intense power. Yet I do not run from it. As powerful as it is, I feel that I can face it and not back down. It has challenged me, and I accept. The reason that I accept is that I am very angry that someone would pull such a thing on me. I will not take such sadistic teasing. I intend to find out who this woman is and what she has in mind. Then I will put a stop to it."
          Davis Freeling pressed the stop button on the remote control of the VCR. He had seen no expression in his face on the recording that would give a psychologist reason to think him anything but sane. Even the voice analysis showed a calm disposition. He turned the unit off after rewinding and ejecting the tape.
          He wrote a note and taped it to the cassette, laying it on the table in clear sight. He went out the door and got in his car. The laugh came again as he started the motor. He reacted as if sniffing the breeze with his mind, alert and seeking.
          The laugh intensified, then cut off. Davis was left with the impression of a residence that was not a house. There were too many people about in the impression, noted by the secretive and careful attitude that he read beneath the laugh. The laughter came from her mind, not her mouth.
          There was a knock at the window, which startled Davis. He jerked his head to see Laura. He rolled down the window.
          "Are you all right, Davis? You look like you've seen a ghost."
          "Heard one."
          "The laugh again?"
          "Yes. Look, there is a video tape of me explaining things in case trouble arises. It's on the table in the living room. If you hear of me getting into some kind of mess, I'd appreciate it if you'd deliver it to the authorities involved."
          "Where are you going?"
          "I don't know yet. I'm going to try to find the source of the laugh. Where that will take me is anyone's guess. I get the feeling that this woman is being watched. Hospital, institution, something like that. There is an undercurrent that comes through that she is controlling her behavior to avoid detection. I'm going to talk to a parapsychologist this afternoon. Maybe he can get me started on the research to find her. If she is in the hospital, then he will be able to help me locate her, which I may not be able to do alone, since I'm not a doctor."
          "So, you're serious about this."
          "I can't go on this way, being distracted from my work. She's ruining my ability to produce."
          "Well, good luck, however it turns out."
          "Thanks, Laura. And keep this low key. It's hard enough as it is, without the whole town knowing that I'm hearing voices that aren't there."
          "Sure."
          "Thanks. I owe you."
          "Nada. Good luck, Davis." She turned and stepped away. Davis waved to her with a nod and put the car in drive. He had nothing else to say, so he drove off.
          He drove about the city with his mind as clear and seeking as traffic would allow. He drove the freeways, seeing if the connection he felt grew stronger or weaker as he moved about the different sections of the city. He gained nothing and began to question whether the psychic subliminals were real or imagined. He headed toward the parapsychologist's office.
          When he arrived at the office, he was surprised how ordinary the building looked. He expected something with either eccentric character or modernistic, scientific overtones. The office was quite plain, located in a small brick building, holding some eight offices in a straight row before the parking lot.
          He checked the address, shrugged, and entered the door. The receptionist, blond, attractive, stylishly and tastefully dressed, greeted him and asked him to sit and wait. He took a chair and began to thumb through the magazines. After a few minutes, he stopped. He looked up at the woman.
          "Am I being watched?"
          "Why do you ask that?"
          Davis shrugged. "Intuition. Seems a logical step."
          "Dr. Dremhorst is ready to see you now. Through there, please."
          "You dodged my question." He rose from the chair and followed her gesture. A balding man, about fifty, with thick glasses and need of a hair cut, met him.
          "Welcome. Come right this way."
          "Are you Dr. Dremhorst?"
          The man laughed. "Who else would I be?"
          "Another test, perhaps."
          "Very good. You seem to have some potential. Follow me."
          Davis was led into an office and asked to wait. The wait lasted five minutes before a well-groomed man about twenty five entered the room.
          "Davis Freeling, I'm Dr. William Dremhorst. Pleased to meet you. I see that you are a bit perturbed over the tests."
          "Not the tests, but the lack of intention being given."
          "Well, we have to see if you are a talent. Knowledge of being tested adds factors that change the attitude of the talent. From what I see, you are telepathic to some degree."
          "I'm a wild talent. I've answered the phone before it rang. I've said the same thinq at the same time with the same rhythm and inflection. I've thought of what people said before they said it on an all too regular basis. But I've never taken training to develop it further than what I've done with friends, and that is little.
          "When put on the spot and asked to demonstrate, I inevitably start thinking and quit responding. I'm most attuned to regular things in life, and specifics come when they will. I can say that telepathy seems to be my only talent. I quit paying attention to it many years ago. Now, it's there, like the sense of smell. I don't notice it unless something is strong. I don't want all of the distraction, so I tend to tune it down. Now, it has to cross a mental threshold before I'm aware, unless it's something that I am anticipating. Then it is quite responsive. Otherwise, it's subconscious."
          "Typical of those ashamed of their talents."
          "Ashamed? Not me. I just don't actively use it unless something gives me reason. What advantage I gain is as automatic as seeing, hearing, and smelling. It affects me, but I don't make a big thing of it."
          "So you take it for granted."
          "You still miss the point. I intentionally tune it out. I want to hear myself think, not others. Not unless it's really important. Subconscious behavioral switching. 'Unless it's important, don't bother me.' My brain's busy enough on its own, thank you."
          "Rejection."
          "Maybe you are the wrong person to consult. I feel that you are playing me straight face. I'd rather you level with me." Davis huffed.
          "Sorry. You seemed rather reserved. Do you fear the responsibility?"
          "Not for my telepathy. I'm a single man by choice, not too fond of being crowded and bonded."
          "Ah. A loner."
          "Not in the extreme. I'm social enough. My skills are rather fair. But I'm doing something that no one around me shares, and what I do is important to me. My production justifies this in my mind."
          "Creative?"
          "In a number of mediums. And the number keeps growing."
          "So what of your problem?"
          "I'm hearing a woman's laugh. Cruel and powerful, with something missing. Compassion. I think that this woman has forgotten what it is to feel compassion."
          "There are a lot of woman are like that today." Dr. Dremhorst noted.
          "More than is usual, in this case. 'Demented' is not inapplicable. I sense she is under observation. There is a feeling of contradiction of physical behavior and mental activity. Say a hospital, a jail, an institution, or the like."
          "How do you determine that?"
          "There is a feeling of stealth and subversive confidence, and sometimes the laughs are cut off quickly, with a sense of urgency."
          "And what exactly do you wish of me?"
          "Some assistance in finding clues. You are a doctor."
          The laugh broke full force in Davis's mind. Davis dropped his train of thought and searched for something to her identity. He embraced the chill of the laugh and drank of the power. He felt an annoyance rise in the laughter as it died to surprised revulsion. It ended with a snort.
          "You just felt it?" asked Dr. Dremhorst.
          "Yes, and faced it with a hold, taking it in greedily. She didn't like it. It ended in contempt. Something else. I sensed physical hunger and impatience at not being served a meal."
          "Anything else?"
          "Long dark hair. Not quite raven, but dark, straight. Maybe that is just an association with the stereotype witch. Hard to say."
          "Her figure?"
          "Moderate, average, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing a man would reject, but also nothing that would cause a man to consider sacrifice at first glance. Not any excess fat, but not skinny either. Average Plain. Curves not real distinct, nothing too wide, but she's not a flat board either."
          "Height, weight?"
          "Five foot, six or seven, a hundred ten, fifteen. Something like that."
          "Eyes, face?"
          "All of my speculations are from the inside, looking out. No mirrors. And just intuitive impressions, at that. No hard evidence. Just going by feel."
          "Age?"
          "Twenties. "
          "A name?"
          "No words. Just emotion and the laugh. I don't like her.'
          "And she doesn't like you, it would seem. Do you recogniz her from anywhere?"
          "No. This woman is not known to me. Not unless it's someone that I knew that really lost it."
          "Someone in passing?" the doctor suggested.
          "No. It feels more like a random search. There was that newness in the beginning. Wonder, experimentation. She's new to her powers, and she's testing. I happened to receive her, and she knew it. Maybe others haven't responded."
          "Testing the waters?"
          "Yeah."
          "So how could I help?"
          "I'm not really sure. Guidance in the search, maybe. Get me into places that I couldn't normally go. Secure information that I couldn't gather. Attest to my state of mind in case things get complicated."
          "You're asking a lot."
          "I'm offering you the rights to documentation." Davis conceded
          "Doing it your way?"
          "I'll be flexible, to a point, as long as it helps me put an end to the laughter. My purpose is to end the distraction, so that I may return to my work, undisturbed."
          "I can make some inquiries. What kind of range geographically are we talking here?"
          "Local. Somewhere inside the city. Newcomers seldomly cover distance, except in cases where the bond is very strong."
          "What am I thinking?"
          "Beats me. I feel that you are on the edge of accepting, despite the fact that you feel reservations about me. My sense of independence worries you. But you are curious enough to take me on, just to see if there is some legitimacy to my claims."
          "Close enough. Not verbatim, but the gist is there."
          "But there is not yet enough evidence to conduct a systematic search." sighed Davis.
          "True. You haven't given me enough to do an inquiry into the identity of this woman. I'd be labeled an idiot to go on what we have now. Can you give me anything else?"
          "No. Nothing concrete. What I gather is primarily subjective. I'd recognize her, face to face, from the feelings. But it stops there at the present. She is careful not to broadcast facts. Only the attempts at domination."
          "Well, then you need to see if you can force the issue with her. Be factual when she laughs and see what you get in response. Accuse her of things and see if you get a response. As for now, I'm tied up on three other cases. Let me get them finished, then I can give you my full attention. By then, maybe you'll have something a bit more concrete, and we can proceed more efficiently. Until then, there is little more that I can do for you."
          "Any suggestions?"
          "Try singing the alphabet song while thinking of her name. See if you can get the initials that way. That would help tremendously. After that, the birthday song. See if a date comes to mind."
          "Okay."
          "Call if you get something concrete, or if something drastic happens."
          Davis nodded, shook his hand, and went out the door. Back at the lobby, he paused and looked at the receptionist without speaking. She smiled at him without speaking. He stayed there for a few minutes, with neither of them making a sound. Neither backed down. Davis sighed, turned around, and walked out to his car.
          The laugh came again as his hand touched the car door handle. He thought of the zodiac in sequence and got a response for Scorpio. The laugh stopped. He got in his car and started the engine. He left the parking lot and headed home.
          He dropped onto the bed when he arrived and waited for the next laugh. There was none for the rest of the day.

          Davis was waken early the next morning to the laughter. He was too sleepy to be contentious, and the laugh got to him, which fueled it all the more. He lost his temper, which he knew he shouldn't have done, but he was powerless to prevent it in his grogginess. It lasted until he woke and rose, getting his mind into gear.
          The phone rang. He answered it to find the laugh continued. "Who are you?"
         He was answered with a dial tone. "Well, she isn't in an institution. She wouldn't have a phone if she was." He headed to the bathroom and showered.
          Thoughts ran through his mind. He knew that he was missing something. He had the feeling that he was far closer than he realized, if only he could figure it out. Some clue was there that he wasn't recognizing. He felt unease that she had access to a phone. It also negated the impression of her hiding her actions, unless she had escaped. He was too tired from the rousing from deep sleep to note the impressions beneath her laugh. He was puzzled when he stepped from the shower and dried. The sense of fear that was there when he woke was now gone. He looked at his work and knew instantly that it was futile to attempt any further effort on it. He got dressed in his street clothes and went out the door.
          He drove about, letting his subconscious work on the problem. It was the way that he came to his best conclusions to problems. The sun rose and started warming the air and ground, bringing out rush traffic. He pulled into a twenty four hour diner and ordered breakfast.
          He had a mouthful of hash browns when the laugh came again. He immediately went on offense, inspecting every nuance she offered. This cut her laugh short. He was beginning to make her nervous, he could tell. A name came into his mind. Peggy. That was some help, but no last name came to him. It only served to frustrate him. He finished breakfast and returned to Dr. Dremhorst's office.
          The receptionist was there, but explained that Dr. Dremhorst wouldn't be in until the afternoon. He told her of the progress that he had made.
          The laugh returned to him while standing before her desk, and he started thinking "P.A, P.B, P.C, P.D, P.E. . . ." When he got to P.L, he struck a chord. "Peggy L." he said aloud, and the laughter stopped again.
          "Are you getting another reception?"
          "It finished. Peggy L. That should help Herr Doktor to some degree. Better than just Peggy."
          "Yes. This is a very odd case, from what I've seen of the notes. Would you like me to start calling around to see if there are any Peggy L.'s in the local institutions?"
          "It won't be a maximum security set up. She did call me on the phone. But you might try the hospitals and minimum security mental health centers where the patients have access to telephones."
          "All right. How does the laugh feel to you?"
          "Like a voice, that's heard, except not with the ears. It registers on the brain like sound, but I can tell the difference. The same, with part of the process missing. Sense of direction, I guess. It sounds the same wherever I face, and something of the physical vibration is missing. Secondary effects, I guess I'm trying to say."
          "Clear?" she asked.
          "As a bell. I've heard my name spoken before, as I was falling asleep, many years ago. That was the only other time in my experience that my telepathy didn't feel like my own mind working in resonance. It usually requires my asking if the thought was logically mine or if the thought had origins from others. Kind of a yes, that's me, or no, it isn't sort of thing that I'd think. But with this, there is no doubt.
          "That's why telepathy is so unreliable. It comes as though it's your own mind working. It usually takes verbal verification before you know that the source is elsewhere, if you are looking for a positive indicator. Like someone saying what you are thinking. And then there is the problem of mutual stimulus. How many times have you heard on the phone when you call someone, 'I was just thinking of you.' I hear it often. Several times a week, if I'm on the phone often enough. And saying the same thing at the same time. I quit speaking spontaneously because of that. People tend to now think of me as the quiet type. But I'm a talker of the first degree, once I get started. I just don't follow stray thoughts verbally."
          "Sounds like you should be the doctor here."
          "Nah. I'm an artist. Telepathy is no more exciting to me than any other sense. Less so, because it's so distracting. I like my mind better than most other people 's. I'd rather listen to myself think, except for exceptional people. I'm rather set in the subjects that I like to explore. There is much that doesn't attract me."
          "Do you use it in a survival sense?"
          "Like any other of my senses. I keep it at the level of smell. If something alerts me, I use it. I get along rather well with people on a surface level. I'm quick to steer away from delicate subjects when I get a negative reaction. I'm a good judge of people. I can easily sense those that I will like and those that will like me. I know whom I can trust on what level. I can fit into most any social situation. Of course, experience plays a big role in that, but it is more than just that. I trust my feelings."
          "And what do your feelings tell you about me?" she inquired.
          "I'm not sure that I want to put myself on the spot."
          "You won't hurt my feelings."
          "Should I start with the positive or negative?"
          "Negative."
          "You strike me as nosy, a bit domineering, slow to forgive, self-centered, and a bit jaded. But much the same could be said of me, though I'm not nearly as nosy as you are, and I like letting people go their own way, and I'm more tolerant. But that is because I do not attach myself to others as strongly as you do. I'm burnt out on close relationships. My personal freedom is my most valuable asset. I guess that is because I've found no one that mirrors me enough. I'm not typical."
          "You have no girlfriends?"
          "Not for a number of years. Don't look at me like that."
          "Like what?"
          "Like someone just set lobster before you."
          The receptionist smiled. "You are a sharp one. What about my good points? You must see something positive about me."
          "Up until now. You are attractive and you know it, and you use it for the betterment of others. You are concerned for the feelings of others when they offer you no grief. You are intelligent and open to ideas that many people reject. You are self-assured, with few self-doubts. You see yourself rather honestly. You take a certain pride in that. You're willing to listen without interjecting your own ideas until the proper time. But when you do, you are rather assertive.
          "You like things the way that you envision them. But I'm regressing to your bad points. I guess it's because I have little tolerance for those that live for their expectations without the flexibility to adapt when the expectations don't mesh with the current conditions. I've suffered enough from people like that. Dreams are fine, in their proper place. But when they cause others grief, they should be re-evaluated."
          "I like you, Davis You sound like my kind of person."
          "Why? Because I'm unattached?"
          "That's part of it. I like the stray rogue, the kind that faces up to others when he must, but doesn't when he needn't. You strike me as that kind of person."
          Davis shrugged.
          "You said that you were an artist. What kind of art?"
          "I write, paint, photograph, sculpt, work with feathers, make jewelry, various other things."
          "Could I see your work sometime?"
          "I guess. But I'd like to clear up the problem of this woman that is intruding on my life at the moment. My mind is not on my work."
          "I understand. I feel that artwork is a true indicator of the personality of the artist."
          "Yes. An artist does not usually pursue that which has no effect upon him or her. And even less often does the artist show such work."
          "Yes, but I feel that an artist puts more into his work that is commonly seen by most people."
          "Equivalence." he confirmed.
          "I thought that you would be familiar with it."
          "Okay, come see my work, what I still possess."
          "Tonight?"
          "Tonight? I don't know what I'll be doing tonight."
          "A date possibility?"
          "You want a date with me?"
          "You misread me. I was asking if you possibly already had a date for tonight."
          "Hardly. Not with this cackle going on in my head." Davis chuckled at the irony.
          "Well, maybe I'll see something in your work that will help lead to a solution. I can't see someone throwing such feelings at you for no reason at all."
          "Neither do I, but I can't place anyone named Peggy. The only Peggy's I know are dead or relatives that mean me no harm."
          "Maybe you never knew her noticed her by name. Or maybe you never noticed her. Few things a woman dislikes more than being ignored by someone that she fancies."
          "The same holds true for a man."
          "Yes, but men lick their wounds. Women want to take it out on the guy. There is a difference." she noted.
          "Only in the way that they try to carry it out. Men are human, too."
          "Love/hate. What a mess." she sighed.
          "Amen. Uh, what is your name? I noticed that you don't have a nameplate. Am I supposed to guess? That would fit the logic of this place."
          "Marsha. Marsha Alcott."
          "Shows you how important names are to me."
          "That means that you are too interested in other things more important about a person."
          "Or that I have a lazy mind when it comes to names. Okay, Marsha. Tonight, at my place, say tentatively at seven?"
          "Make it six. I get off at four."
          "Would you care to make it dinner, as well?"
          "I thought you'd never ask."
          "Me, too, as pushy as you've been."
          Marsha laughed. "I'm beginning to like you more and more. It's refreshing to see a man that doesn't pour on the syrup early on. A good looking girl learns to mistrust sweetness this early on."
          "Yes. I can imagine. I guess I'd better get going."
          "Where to?"
          Davis shrugged.
          "Stick around awhile."
          "Not after making a date. That would spoil the anticipation. "
          "Now I know that I'm in trouble." she quipped.
          "You could always cancel."
          "Oh no you don't."
          "Then I'd better go. Later this evening." Davis bowed and exited the door. "I hope you aren't the kind to get upset over interruptions." he added, as he tapped his head and let the door swing shut.
          Davis drove about for several hours without a peep intruding on his thinking. Finally tired of being on the road, he returned home and stretched out on his bed. He fell asleep, making up for the short night that he had had.

          He woke about four in the afternoon, feeling sluggish. He ate a bite and started getting the house in order for the impending visit. He straightened up a bit, but not too much, remembering the comments about putting on too good a face. He decided to let his art work do that for him. He wondered several times as to why he was going to such trouble for Marsha. He had put off virtually every woman that he had met for years. The only women that he knew were friends, and they came only in time, after a lengthy evaluation. At five thirty, a knock came at the door. Davis answered with a sigh. "So, Laura, what brings you over?"
          "Am I interrupting?"
          "Not yet."
          "But in the near future, I will be?"
          "Not really. I'm entertaining, but nothing really serious."
          "Nothing serious? Any time that you entertain, you old hermit, it's serious. He, or she, or both?"
          "She. But. . . ."
          "A she, no less. I'll go. I wouldn't want to interrupt."
          "You wouldn't be interrupting. It's just the receptionist from the parapsychologist's office. She wanted to come over and look at my work for clues to this problem."
          "Inviting her over to look at your etchings? My, my."
          "If you're going to be like that, then you will be interrupting "
          "Do you like her?"
          "Not really my type."
          "I didn't ask you if she was your type. I asked you if you like her. There is a big difference."
          "She got my attention, but I doubt if she will get anywhere with it. She's too domineering. That's enough to veto getting serious. I'm more interested in her for solving this problem of mine. She's intelligent, and she shows no skepticism. Call her an ally."
          "I see."
          "Laura!"
          "Don't let me stand in your way."
          "I haven't spanked a woman in decades, but I'm considering reversing that. Just keep it up."
          "Keep what up?" came a voice from the door. Davis turned around to see Marsha. "I'm early. I hope that doesn't upset any plans."
          "Not at all. Come on in. Marsha, this is my neighbor, Laura. I've already mentioned you to her, and she has been teasing me mercilessly. You arrived just in time to defuse the fireworks."
          "Well, I was just going." said Laura.
          "Oh no you don't. You are staying here to eat your words."
          "I wouldn't want to interrupt."
          "You're being rather redundant. In a different tone of voice, albeit, but the words were verbatim. Come in and make yourself comfortable, Marsha. Laura is an old friend, and we tend to cover each other's back when the other is away from the house. Defense treaty, so to speak. Don't let her intimidate you. She can add some insight to my work that I'd not be prone to recall."
          "Well then, Laura. What do think of Davis's problem?"
          "If it were anyone else, I'd scoff."
          "I think I know what you mean. He is rather exciting, in a rather unorthodox way."
          "To put it politely." They laughed, and Davis relaxed. They had hit it off with each other, using the depreciation of himself to bridge the gap. Had they continued to be polite, he would have worried.
          "So this is your work. Not quite what I envisioned. This shows taste above the level that I conceived. I rather expected something more brutal and relentless."
          "Like his mouth?" quipped Laura.
          "Precisely."
          Davis groaned. "Well, you two obviously don't need me. If you'll excuse me, I'll get dinner started."
          "We're not going out?"
          "You came over to evaluate my work, did you not? Is not cooking an art form?"
          "Depends. Anyone can pick up a camera and take a picture. It takes a master to produce art with one."
          "He can cook." noted Laura. "He's as good as anything you'll find out at a restaurant."
          "All right."
          "For three?" he asked.
          "No, I have a date tonight for dinner. I'll let you feed me when I'm broke and dateless. I really was about to go in a few minutes."
          "Let me guess. Not Ralphy."
          "Will you ever lay off of him?"
          "When you quit seeing him. He's no good for you, Laura. He's not leveling with you."
          "He has a fat wallet, and that is all that concerns me about him."
          "You're cruising for a bruising." Davis bowed and headed for the kitchen. He began preparing the meal. A quarter hour later, he heard the front door close, and he was immediately joined by Marsha.
          "I guess I don't have to tell you that Laura just left."
          "Correct, superfluous."
          "She really likes you, you know. You fill a big brother image in her mind. Gives me real hope for you."
          "Hope for what?"
          "Just about you."
          "Ah, I see." he nodded.
          "Another person would have heard what I almost said in reflex."
          "Ah, I see."
          "I don't doubt it. Smells good. What is it?"
          "Beef Hiroshima."
          "Never heard of it."
          "Not surprising. My recipe. Would you like wine with dinner?"
          "Naturally. "
          "In there. Chose something."
          "A wine cellar?" she cooed.
          "Ground level, so you'd hardly call it a cellar."
          "You needn't get technical."
          "Oh, but I must. Can't go giving you ideas."
          "And why not?"
          "Just because I'm an artist, you mustn't think of me as easy."
          "Forbid!" She laughed and went through the door indicated. Dinner was ready before she emerged, but not by more than moments.
          "Will this do?" she asked, showing him a bottle.
          He choked on a laugh. When he regained his voice, he replied, "If I didn't have you pegged as not being a gold digger, I'd wonder at the naivete of the question."
          "Something wrong?"
          "No. In fact, the wine is the best that I have, and the last bottle. But, before you react and take the wine back for a less expensive vintage, let me say that this is probably the evening for which I've been saving it. I have a feeling that you are one of the few people that could truly appreciate it, even if you didn't know what you chose. Just treat it gently. It doesn't take to rough-and-tumble."
          "Not like me."
          "Marsha, I would touch that with a sixteen foot mast."
          "Then touch me with it, instead."
          "The wine, please."
          He gently accepted the wine and opened it with care. He gently poured it into a shallow bowl, careful not to bubble the wine as it trickled the less than one inch onto the rim of the bowl. When finished, he set the table with her assistance, then placed the food on the table.
          "I'm impressed. You obviously went to no great pains to straighten up, yet you serve a table that no other man I know could ever present."
          He bowed to her and retreated for the wine. He placed the bowl next to his seat, then returned to the kitchen for glasses and a ladle. He turned out the lights and lit the two candles that framed the view of the other person when seated.
          "How romantic."
          "Hardly. Just keeps your eyes away from the condition of the rest of the house."
          "Who's looking at the rest of the house?" she purred.
          He seated her, then sat in his chair. He carefully ladled the wine into the glasses with the same care that he had poured it to breathe. He passed the wine through the candles to her. As their hands touched, the candles seemed to glow brighter.
          "Don't tell me that my pupils are expanding in pleasure." he thought to himself.
         But the candles continued to grow brighter, and he then turned his attention to the flames. They grew visibly bluer as he watched. He started to retreat, stopped by her hand on his. He pulled loose and dove under the table. The laugh rang loud in his ears. He grabbed Marsha's ankles and heaved her out of her chair roughly, sliding her under the table.
          "Davis! What are you doing? You don't have to get kinky!"
          The room exploded into luminance, and fire began running down the tablecloth, liquid exhibiting a dark red tint before it scorched the linen. Marsha screamed, and he heaved the table towards the wall.
          "Bitch!" he roared in anger, as he watched half a dozen paintings catch fire. He ran into the adjoining room and return post-haste with a CO2 fire extinguisher. He sprayed the flames and extinguished them before any real damage was done to his work. The room fell into darkness, and he heard Marsha sobbing. He knelt to lift her to her feet.
          "How touching." came a sneer from behind him. He swung up into a fighting-ready crouch to face a long dark-haired woman, standing silhouetted in the door frame. She laughed the same laugh Davis had heard so often in the last few days. He snarled.
          "Big, bad boy. Ooooo, I'm scared." The laugh came again, only this time, Davis heard it with his ears.
          "You'd better be." His words spoke glacially of lethal intent.
          "Hardly. I doubt that you can do anything to counter this." Her muscles wrenched her arms up as if they were triggered by high tension steel cables. They stood there motionless, except for her laughter, which fluttered to a halt in a few seconds.
          "Not this time!" thundered Davis.
          She jerked to flee, but she was pulled back toward him. "When you play with fire, expect the possibility of getting burned. Burn, witch!"
          The gauzy gown that she wore burst into flames, and he saw her face for the first time. Her expression was that of a frantic and trapped animal, surprised and vying wildly for escape. She turned her direction toward him, calculating that if Davis were threatened by the flames, he'd snuff them. He slammed his right fist into her approaching face, caving it in. She dropped to the floor, and her body was quickly reduced to ash by the abruptly violent flare of the fire which engulfed her. Again the room became dark.
          Davis walked to the window and opened the light-tight shutters to let in the evening sunlight. He walked to the center of the room, folded his arms across his chest, and became as a statue. The room blurred before Marsha's glare-spotted eyes, then became exactly as it was when they were about to eat dinner. Davis limbered up and closed the shutters, leaving only the dim candlelight.
          "I hope that you don't begin to think that anyone would ever believe this." he said, a little chagrinned
          "I'm not sure that I do myself. Who are you?"
          "Davis Freeling."
          "What are you?"
          He shrugged. "I think that I'm human. At least no one, including my parents, has given me reason to believe differently. Maybe I'm not. I'm not really sure, though the doctors that I've seen for exams showed no concern over anything that they found when they got test results back from the labs."
          "How. . . ?"
          "I'm not really sure, but I'm not curious enough to find out by subjecting myself to extensive testing. Let that be a hint. Please."
          "But. . . .
          "Marsha, would you sit still for the evaluation that they would put me through if they knew what you knew?"
          "You have a point."
          "And there is no evidence to support anything that happened here. Look about you. Not a scrap of evidence."
          "Who was she?"
          "A witch, by definition. I never learned her last name. Peggy L. is as close as I got. I guess that she just honed in on my power and overestimated herself. I don't flaunt my abilities, and I wasn't going to show her my hand so that she could find my true weaknesses. I'm sorry that I used you as bait to cover my real nature. I had to play it....."
          Davis reached for the phone, which rang one single ding before he got the receiver off of the hook. "Hello?"
          "Davis Freeling, Dr. Dremhorst here. Did your phone ring? Hey! I think that I found the identity of your lady. Peggy Lombard. Dark hair, all other details match. She was a resident at Holton Institute. She was legally committed to there over a year ago for actively practicing witchcraft. She had had a room in her house set up as a temple to Satin and was an avid believer. She had a remarkable psy index, if her standard test results are anything to go by. I'd really like to get my hands on her."
          "Pardon. I thought that you said that you had found her."
          "Seems that she escaped last night from the Institute. So if I were you, I'd be very careful. She may come after you in person. Is Marsha there?"
          "Yes."
          "Let me speak to her, please."
          Davis held out the phone to her. She took it and listened, answering yes or no several times, then ended with "Okay." She placed the receiver on the cradle and turned to face him. "I've been instructed to spend the night here, to see that you come to absolutely no harm." She sighed, chuckled weakly, and sat down at the table, in the chair she had taken before the fiery action had begun.
          "I'm not holding you here." he responded.
          "Are you telling me to leave?"
          "No. Do as you see fit. I'm not commanding you in any regard."
          The front door sounded as it closed. Laura entered, her dress torn, a shiner forming on her left eye. "Don't say anything, Davis."
          "Ralph?"
          "He tried to rape me at my house just a few minutes ago. I threw him out into the front yard where he is still probably curled up in a fetal position. Could I stay over here for a while?"
          "Care for some dinner? Maybe some good food will brighten your spirits."
          "I'm interrupting, aren't I."
          "Don't worry." responded Marsha. "Davis warned me that the two of us might be interrupted this evening. Join us. Please."
          "If you insist."
          "Somebody needs to protect me from this well-laid trap."
          "Protection from Davis? Hardly. If you ask me, he needs protecting from you."
          "I wouldn't be too sure, Laura. He's given me hints that lead me to believe that we may not know him as well as we think that we do."
          "I'll set another place at the table. Marsha, would you fetch that chair for Laura?"
          "You are sure that I'm not interrupting?"
          "Consider your presence a blessing. Without you, there is no telling what I could get myself into tonight with this man." Marsha insinuated.
          "He's invited you to stay for the night?"
          "Not exactly, but he did infer the choice was up to me."
          "Then I am intruding."
          "Before you dash off, let me tell you that it was my boss's idea that I spend the night. Seems that Davis's friend's identity and whereabouts were discovered. Yesterday, it appears that she got loose of the restraints placed on her. It was felt that I should be here to protect him. Like he really needs it."
          "Is she dangerous?"
          "A cultist. A satanic worshiper, fueled by her psychic ability."
          "Then she could come after him." Laura puled.
          "It's possible that she had a confrontation in mind when she escaped from the mental hospital where she was being kept. We're not sure."
          "Then the more the merrier, or the safer."
          There was a knock at the door. "I'll get it." responded Davis.
          "What if it's her?" warned Laura.
          "It's more likely Ralph. I'll get rid of him."
          "Be careful. He's bigger than you are."
          "He won't come after me. I doubt that you left him in fighting trim."
          Davis went to the door, closing it behind him.
          "You have a lot of nerve showing your face here. I'd have thought that you'd have gotten the message, Ralph."
          "Let me talk to her. I want to apologize."
          "I think that you are well beyond that point. If you want to apologize, then write her a letter. I doubt that you'll get a reply. And if I were you, I'd leave and never show my face on this street again. If I do see you coming around again, I'll start spreading word of what happened down in Florida. And your father paid a lot of money to insure that the episode was forgotten. You wouldn't want to see all that money go for naught, would you? Laura isn't worth all the pain that you'd suffer if word got out, is she? Why don't you just go find yourself a hooker when you can stand up straight, and forget that you ever met her."
          Ralph stared at Davis with looks that could kill.
          "I mean it. If I ever hear that you've been bothering her again, I'll start talking to the press, the police, and your neighbors. My advise is that you find another town to call home so that you don't accidentally bump into her again. And give me all of the money in your wallet. You owe her a dress and more. In fact, it wouldn't hurt to have someone deliver a few thousand dollars to her to cover your rear end on this. Not you personally, mind you. You need to get lost."
          Davis held out his hand.
          "How did you find out?"
          "About Florida? You'd be surprised. Let it stand that I do know. You be a good boy, and I'll be a good boy, and it ends here. Make a fuss, you're imfamous. The money, now." Davis pressed his will.
          Ralph dropped over four hundred dollars into Davis's hand. "If word ever gets out, you'll be one sorry son of. . . ."
          "Trust me. What choice do you have? I could have told Laura about it earlier, and I didn't. That should be indication enough. I'd as soon that she never know." Davis turned and went back into the house. He walked up behind Laura and dropped the money in her lap. "For your dress."
          "How. . . ?"
          "You ask too many questions, neighbor. You were after what was in his pocket, were you not?"
          "You are too good to me, Davis."
          "I know it. Now shall we eat dinner? I don't know about you two, but I am hungry, and I don't intend on letting the effort of slaving in the kitchen go to waste. I was very careful not to burn the food, and it's getting cold."
          "But what about the woman?"
          "I don't think I'll be seeing or hearing from her. I think she's long gone, escaped and vanished."
          "Oh?"
          "Call it a feeling, Laura. I think that she is long gone, like Ralph. Maybe even further. Let's celebrate to good times ahead." He lifted his glass in a toast. "To old friends and new ones, too." The crystal stems rang when the glasses met.
          "If you don't expect her to show up, why is Marsha spending the night to protect you?"
          "You ask too many questions, Laura."
          They heard a car start up a few houses down the street and then drive off.
        Marsha giggled as the wine glass departed her lips.