embargo, Inglaterra y Francia no fueron a la guerra para iniciar el proceso. Confiaban en la investigación, incluyendo un tira y afloja que se produjo en Inglaterra en 1845 respecto al barco de vapor con hélice impulsora y el de ruedas de paleta. Otras investigaciones similares, espoleadas por el temor ante potenciales enemigos, dieron como resultado (junto con los avances en el conocimiento útil durante la revolución industrial) mejores pistolas, artillería y fortificaciones, todo ello en medio de lo que, para Europa, fue una época de paz.

Antes de ver cómo se llevó a cabo esta investigación y desarrollo, pensemos en cómo puede calcularse en nuestro modelo junto con el mayor acervo de conocimiento útil. Como sabemos, el aumento de este conocimiento (especialmente la nueva ciencia y los avances en la ingeniería derivados de la revolución industrial) flexibilizó los límites del aprendizaje por la práctica y magnificó las innovaciones producidas por dicho aprendizaje. Y presumiblemente haría lo mismo con la investigación. Pero ¿cómo vincular con precisión la investigación con la innovación militar? En el modelo original, la innovación se debía al gasto militar, y esta es la razón por la cual la investigación solo era posible en tiempos de guerra, puesto que en época de paz los dirigentes no gastaban nada en ella, al menos en el modelo. Pero con el tipo de paz armada que prevaleció en el siglo XIX, los dirigentes políticos seguían dedicando recursos a lo militar aunque no estuvieran inmersos en ninguna lucha. Una posibilidad sería dejar que todo el gasto militar en la paz armada generase innovaciones, al igual que en el modelo original. En este caso, la innovación se aceleraría en el siglo XIX, porque los gastos militares aumentaban y el efecto del gasto se vería reforzado con todo el conocimiento útil.

Este supuesto, no obstante, puede parecer demasiado optimista, porque en realidad solo una parte del gasto militar iba a la investigación. Una alternativa sería suponer que solo el dinero destinado a la investigación genera mejoras en la tecnología militar. Aunque solo representaría una fracción del gasto militar total, la innovación aún sería posible, y cuanto mayor fuese la fracción más innovación se produciría. Al propio tiempo, los avances del conocimiento compensarían el hecho de que, en realidad, solo una parte del gasto militar contribuía a avanzar la tecnología de la pólvora.

¿Qué nos llevarían a esperar estas dos alternativas de la innovación militar en el siglo XIX? Si solo el gasto en la investigación hace todo el trabajo y prescindimos de todos los demás conocimientos nuevos, entonces no serían de prever muchas innovaciones, pues el dinero dedicado a la investigación, en sí mismo, no era una partida grande del presupuesto total de defensa en el siglo XIX. Pero si lo que importa es el total del gasto de defensa, entonces el siglo XIX debió presenciar más avances que en el pasado, porque los gastos militares aumentaron a un nivel sin precedentes en la década de 1860 (Tabla 6.4) y siguieron aumentando hasta quintuplicarse al principio de la primera guerra mundial. Probablemente la realidad se encuentra en alguna zona intermedia entre estos dos extremos: parte del dinero que se dedicó a otras partidas que no eran la investigación seguramente mejoró la tecnología de la pólvora, de manera que cabría esperar cierta innovación. Y lo que es aún más importante, el nuevo conocimiento magnificaría los efectos del gasto e impediría que las innovaciones se redujeran. En tal caso, la paz armada en el siglo XIX contribuiría más a mejorar la tecnología de la pólvora que la guerra incesante de los inicios de la era moderna.

Si el nuevo modelo fuese


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—


. Kuran 2011. La propia corporación era un accidente; en su origen fue creada por la iglesia occidental para gestionar instituciones religiosas perdurables en una época en la que las potencias políticas de Europa occidental eran débiles. Las corporaciones pudieron no haber surgido nunca en Europa occidental si la iglesia no hubiera sido políticamente independiente o si en la Europa medieval se hubieran forjado estados poderosos. Sobre este importante punto, véase Goldstone 2012.

. Subrahmanyam 1993, 64-66, 238-244; McCormick 2001, 584-587, 708-716; Freedman 2008, 140-145; Wey-Gómez 2008; Disney 2010.

. Chan 1998, 232-236, 275, 302-303; Gungwu 1998, 319-326; Dreyer 2007. Sobre los bienes exóticos y que las pruebas de estos no impresionaron a los emperadores, véase Dreyer, pp. 157-163, que menciona la reacción del emperador Xuande al recibir el tributo tras el viaje final: «No sentimos ningún deseo por los bienes de regiones distantes, pero somos conscientes de que [se nos han ofrecido] con toda sinceridad». La indiferente reacción del emperador ante los bienes exóticos simplemente pudo haber reflejado la actitud que supuestamente el Hijo del Cielo tenía que manifestar cuando se le ofrecían presentes extranjeros.

. Chaunu 1951; Diamond y Keegan 1984; Keegan y Diamond 1987; Headrick 2010, 39-41.

. Pueden encontrarse ejemplos especialmente creíbles en Morris 2010, 3-6, y en Tetlock, Lebow _et al_. 2006, que también exponen cómo se deben juzgar los contrafácticos. Naturalmente, hace mucho tiempo que los historiadores de la economía emplean los contrafácticos.

. Subrahmanyam 2001, 359-377; Tetlock, Lebow _et al_. 2006, 375-377. Un problema del argumento (como Subrahmanyam reconoce) es que Nadir hubiera tenido que apoderarse del sistema fiscal mongol que ya había empezado a escapar del control central. Permanecer en India también habría roto la costumbre de Nadir de saquear los lugares que había conquistado y volver a casa a continuación.

. Roy 2011b, 93, 105, 128-130, 170.

. Aunque Carlos el Gordo reunificó brevemente el imperio carolingio en 884, este muy pronto volvió a desmoronarse. Aquí estoy en deuda con Warren Brown y con Ian Morris por sus útiles comentarios. Morris se plantea si el imperio romano hubiera podido sobrevivir intacto después de la reunificación de Justiniano en el siglo VI, pero este resultado, como él señala, era improbable: Morris 2010, 343-349.

. Para ejemplos elocuentes, véase Tetlock, Lebow _et al_. 2006, 1-3, 206-231, 241-276; Morris 2010, 1-5. El volumen de Tetlock tiene un ejemplo, de Robin D. S. Yates, relacionado con lo que hubiera pasado si los Qin no hubieran unificado China.

. En su convincente contrafáctico de la dinast


Tetlock, Lebow _et al_. 2006, 255-256, Kenneth Pomeranz estudia la posibilidad de transportar el carbón. Habían lugares, como la llanura del delta del Yangtsé, en los que la energía hidráulica no podría proporcionar mucha energía. Si se industrializasen, podrían contar con el carbón importado.

. Aun así, naturalmente el resultado podía haber sido diferente. Sin los mongoles, la plaga quizá no hubiera alcanzado Europa occidental. Entonces Inglaterra no hubiera tenido nuevas pañerías y quizá tampoco una revolución industrial.

. Véase Schroeder 1994, vii-ix, 391-395, 574-581, 799-803, y los comentarios sobre la Tabla 6.3 más adelante.

. Headrick 2010.

. Schroeder 1994, ix, 578-581, 799-803; Bell 2007, 232, 237, 307-309.

. Dincecco 2009; 2011.

. Los recursos movilizados _Z = P/C_ , donde _P_ es el valor del premio y _C = c_ 1\+ _c_ 2es el coste total en el modelo del apéndice A.

. Mokyr 2002.

. La cifra del 84% incluye la propia Europa, y el porcentaje se ha calculado con relación a la zona terrestre del mundo a excepción de la Antártida. Para los detalles, véase el capítulo 1.

. El gobierno de Estados Unidos subvencionó el desarrollo de los elementos de recambio en la fabricación de las armas, ya que estos podían ser sustituidos en el campo de batalla: Smith 1977. También hubo innovaciones militares aún más importantes que añadir a la lista: la pólvora sin humo, que permite que un soldado de infantería vea su blanco pero no revela su posición; las primeras comunicaciones electrónicas, desde el telégrafo hasta los teléfonos de campaña, etcétera: Dupuy 1984, 213, 296-297.

. El aumento medio de la productividad laboral de la economía estadounidense en su conjunto fue de un 2,14 % entre 1959 y 2006: Jorgenson, Ho _et al_. 2008, Tabla 1.

. Stevenson 2005, 149.

. Showalter 1976, 76-96, 105-113, 121-130; Dupuy 1985, 8-10; Clodfelter 2002, 205-207.

. Baxter 1993, 69-70; Clodfelter 2002, 200.

. Clodfelter 2002, 255; Headrick 2010, 170, 177, 199-206, 257-292; Hall y Bernard 2013, 374-450. Los españoles, por ejemplo, vieron que las armas de fuego de finales del siglo XVIII resultaban inútiles contra los comanches que atacaban las zonas septentrionales de su imperio americano: Hämäläinen 2008, 131-133. Entonces los españoles recurrieron a ofrecer comercio a cambio de treguas, como hicieron los chinos en sus tratos con los nómadas.

. Schroeder 1994, vii-ix, 391-3


. Findlay y O'Rourke 2007, 388-402; Solar 2013.

. Para Inglaterra y Francia, que eran las principales potencias coloniales, los años por siglo que dedicaron al combate descendieron mucho después de 1815 (en un 37 % y un 45 %, respectivamente), si tenemos en cuenta las guerras coloniales. Sin guerras coloniales, los descensos respectivos eran de un 77% y un 75%, lo que se acerca al promedio en la Tabla 6.3. En cuanto al tiempo empleado luchando en guerras civiles o en disturbios, este no aumentó espectacularmente en los años 1816-1913, al menos según las fuentes usadas para elaborar la Tabla 6.3, aunque sigue siendo importante.

. No obstante, los gobernantes no pueden cambiar de opinión mientras están en el poder. Obviamente, esto es una gran simplificación, pero es útil.

. La ampliación del modelo aquí y en el apéndice E es una adaptación a partir de Garfinkel y Skaperdas 2007, que contiene variaciones más realistas; véase también McBride y Skaperdas 2007.

. Dincecco 2009; 2011.

. Onorato, Scheve _et al_. 2014.

. El gasto en la guerra o en la paz armada sería _dP/C_ , donde _C_ es el coste total, _P_ es el premio y _d_ (0 < _d_ < 1) es el daño producido por la guerra. Sin la gloria, _P_ sería menor, y el daño _d_ reduciría aún más el numerador de la fracción. El menor coste total de _C_ hubiera tenido el efecto contrario. Para más detalles, véase el apéndice E.

. Las cifras excluyen la deuda militar porque los documentos del siglo XIX no especifican qué fracción de los pagos de la deuda correspondía a guerras anteriores. Si damos por supuesto que todos los pagos de la deuda en la década de 1780 correspondían a guerras pasadas pero ninguno después (un supuesto extremo), entonces el gasto militar en dicha década aumentaría hasta 2,196 millones de gramos de plata en Inglaterra y 2,118 millones de gramos de plata en Francia. Entre 1855-1864, el gasto militar aún superaría con mucho estos niveles en ambos países.

. Eloranta 2007.

. La tasa del 1,7 % anual corresponde a una regresión del logaritmo del gasto militar (medido en gramos de oro) concreto y la medida de muertes en combate divididas por la población para controlar el aumento del gasto durante las guerras. La regresión se ha efectuado con las seis grandes potencias europeas (Alemania, el Imperio Austrohúngaro, Francia, Inglaterra, Italia y Rusia) entre 1816 y 1913 empleando datos de la base de datos de potencial material Correlates of War 4.0 en http://www.correlatesofwar. org (a la que se accedió el 6 de abril de 2012), descrita en Singer, Bremer _et al_. 1972; Singer 1987. Los resultados de la regresión pueden consultarse al autor. Dicha regresión incluye también los efectos fijos y los controles para medir la democracia y para la fracción de la población en las ciudades (como representación del crecimiento económico). Dado que estos dos últimos controles eliminan los efectos de las instituciones representativas y del crecimiento económico, el índice del 1,7 % anual es, probablemente, una estim


. Véase el apéndice E para el efecto de los avances en el conocimiento y del aumento de los gastos de investigación cuando únicamente son estos los que generan innovaciones.

. Podemos obtener una estimación aproximada de cuál era la fracción calculando la parte del gasto militar que se destinaba a adquirir nuevos barcos, armas y pertrechos militares. Si todas estas adquisiciones habían sido mejoradas por la investigación, y si la investigación constituía la mayor parte de su coste, entonces el gasto empleado en ellas contendrá gran parte del gasto empleado en investigación, y también equivaldrá al gasto en investigación si definimos a esta como la compra de nueva tecnología. En cualquier caso, aunque efectuemos dicho cálculo, la estimación que obtendremos de los gastos de investigación será baja. En Francia, por ejemplo, solo fue el 6 % del presupuesto total de defensa en los años 1820-1864. Corvisier, Blanchard _et al_. 1997, vol. 2: 428.

. Véase Eloranta 2007 y las regresiones que hemos comentado anteriormente.

. Sobre este párrafo y el siguiente, véase Baxter 1933; Lautenschläger 1983; Van Creveld 1989, 223; Corvisier, Blanchard _et al_. 1997, vol. 2: 483-501; Lambert 1998; Eloranta 2007. Lambert es la fuente principal en lo referente a la reacción inglesa a los acorazados franceses.

. Van Creveld 1989, 220-221.

. Goodman 1988.

. Véase capítulo 2. Los tratantes de esclavos también revistieron sus embarcaciones con cobre, según expone Stanley Engerman en una comunicación personal.

. Blane 1785; Rodger 2004, 281, 307-308, 399-400.

. Robins y Euler 1783; Steele 1994; Alder 1997, 90-107. En la traducción francesa de la obra de Robins con comentarios de Euler (pp. 114, 380-381, 427), el péndulo balístico se limita a comprobar proyectiles con una masa inferior a cuatro onzas, de manera que las velocidades de las balas de cañón tenía que estimarse teóricamente.

. Ames y Rosenberg 1968; Smith 1977.

. Showalter 1976; _Neue Deutsche Biographie_ 1982, sv «Krupp, Alfred», vol. 13: 130-135; Corvisier, Blanchard _et al_. 1997, vol. 2: 498; Mokyr 2003, sv «Arms Industry», vol. 1: 159-167.

. Trebilcock 1973.

. Baxter 1933, 98-133, 165-181; Lambert 1998.

. Estados Unidos es uno de los principales ejemplos de cómo las mejoras del transporte, como el canal de Erie, hicieron posible la creación de grandes mercados: Sokoloff 1988; Romer 1996.

. _Encyclopedia Britannica_ 1911, sv «Armour Plates», 2: 578-582: Trebilcock 1973; Johnson 1988; Mokyr 2003, sv. «Arms Industry», vol. 1: 159-167.

. Baxter 1993, 4,


. Los contrafácticos expuestos en este párrafo y en el anterior se basan en el modelo de Allen 2009, 130-131, y en los datos empleados en Allen 2003. Primero he resuelto el sistema de ecuaciones lineales en el modelo de Allen mediante una forma reducida que expresa las variables endógenas en términos de las exógenas. Entonces, los contrafácticos estiman el impacto de los cambios en 1800 en una de las variables exógenas clave, el comercio internacional per cápita. Para Inglaterra se han estimado dos contrafácticos: uno supone que en 1800 Inglaterra había perdido todo su comercio con Asia y las Indias Occidentales; el otro que el comercio británico en 1800 había quedado reducido al nivel de 1750-1751. En ambos escenarios, yo he supuesto que el comercio de esclavos y que el comercio británico con Estados Unidos en 1800 permanecía igual. El contrafáctico francés suponía que en 1800 Francia tenía tanto comercio como Inglaterra.

. O'Brien 2006.

. Acemoglu 2002. En el modelo de Acemoglu (véase p. 803), con el trabajo y el capital como los únicos factores de producción y eliminando el capital complementario y las innovaciones, la escasez del trabajo impulsaría las innovaciones solo si la elasticidad de la sustitución entre trabajo y capital fuese suficientemente baja. Véanse también sus resultados más generales en Acemoglu 2010, donde las notas que añaden el trabajo especializado a los factores de producción pueden cambiar significativamente las cosas. Véase también las importantes críticas realizadas por McCloskey 2010, 186-192, 346-348.

. Sobre el argumento y las pruebas aquí expuestas, véase Kelly, Mokyr _et al_. 2012. Los esfuerzos de los ingleses para evitar que los trabajadores emigrasen a Francia —y para atraer de nuevo a los que se habían ido al extranjero— apoyan su conclusión: Harris 1998, 2, 9-12, 28-29. También lo corroboran las pruebas (y un argumento similar) en Jacob 2014.

. Acemoglu, Johnson _et al_. 2005. En sus regresiones, la guerra no tiene ningún efecto directo sobre la urbanización (su representación en el PIB per cápita), cuando se tienen en cuenta el comercio y las instituciones. Sus resultados siguen siendo prácticamente iguales si Inglaterra y Holanda desaparecieran de la muestra, lo cual sugiere, por tanto, que los resultados son aplicables a Inglaterra en concreto.

. El modelo empírico analizado por Acemoglu, Johnson _et al_. tiene en cuenta exclusivamente el control parlamentario del rey o del príncipe, pero no la responsabilidad ministerial o disponer de un sistema fiscal y legal uniforme. Pero existen abundantes pruebas de que el sistema legal y fiscal uniforme también contribuyó al crecimiento; sobre todo, permitió que los individuos privados reordenasen los derechos de propiedad o emprendieran mejoras en las infraestructuras. Véase Bogart y Richardson 2011.

. Para un ejemplo del tipo de argumento weberiano del cual discrepo —si bien se trata de un argumento muy elocuente—, véase Landes 1999.

. Garfinkel y Skaperdas 2007.

. La expresión a la izquierda del signo de desigualdad es simplemente:

_ln_ [ _p/_ (( _w_ 0^ _


Primero el despertador había sonado a la hora que había querido. Lo que le llevó a darse una ducha rápida. Desayunó deprisa —si a un café recalentado se le podía llamar desayuno—, se vistió con unos vaqueros y una camiseta amarilla vieja, muy vieja —tenía más de un enganchón— y cuando estaba a punto de salir por la puerta, una llamada la retuvo. Era Beatriz, su amiga y dueña de la cafetería _El Hogar de Bea_ , situada en la plaza del pueblo donde vivía, y aunque también vendía algo de bollería en su establecimiento, no existía competencia alguna entre ellas. En _Sweet_ , Emily preparaba tartas y algún que otro postre de encargo, además de compaginar esa actividad con la escuela-taller y en cambio, Bea lo que ofrecía a su clientela era algún pequeño acompañamiento para el café o para cualquier otra bebida. Eran amigas desde la infancia y siempre que alguna de las dos tenía un problema estaban ahí para ayudarse y en este caso, Bea era quien le iba a hacer el favor de entregar los últimos encargos a sus clientes. De los cursos ya se había ocupado ella, al recolocar a sus alumnos en otros días.

—Menos mal que te pillo.

Fue el saludo que recibió nada más descolgar el teléfono.

—Bea, ¿sucede algo? —Emily preguntó cuando identificó la voz de su amiga.

—No, no te preocupes —dijo—. Solo te llamaba para que supieras que me ha surgido un imprevisto...

—Ya está. Está decidido —interrumpió la pastelera—. Me quedo. No voy a esa dichosa boda...

—Ehh... Más despacio, Em. Es un imprevisto con el que no contaba, pero todo en esta vida tiene solución... menos la muerte y eso algunos podrían rebatírtelo —indicó Bea—. El caso es que Álex va a ir a _Sweet_ y necesitaba que me confirmaras que la llave de emergencia que tienes debajo del poyete de la ventana sigue allí.

Alejandra o Álex, como quería que la llamaran, era una pelirroja a la que le gustaban las motos y que se había unido a su grupo de amistades recientemente. Y aunque la conocía desde hacía poco, gracias a que la dueña de _El Hogar_ las presentó, habían simpatizado enseguida.

Emily resopló y apagó las luces de su casa.

—Sí. Están allí —confirmó resignada mientras asía las llaves—. Bea, de verdad que si te estoy complicando las cosas puedo quedarme y decirle a mi hermana que no he podido escaparme.

—Em, cariño. Todo va a ir bien —la tranquilizó—. Vete a esa boda. Haz muchas fotos que queremos conocer al misterioso novio y vuelve cuando quieras.

Después de eso, las dos mujeres se despidieron. Em cogió el coche, un Fiat 1 amarillo que tenía más años que el abuelo de Heidi y se dirigió hacia «el pueblo ese que está perdido de la mano de Dios».

En cuanto se sumergió en la carretera y se alejó de las últimas ciudades que conformaban la Comunidad de Madrid, tuvo que parar de golpe el vehículo. La cola de coches que había por delante de ella se movía a la velocidad de las tortugas, si se movía, porque Emily ya dudaba que cambiara de marcha en la palanca de cambios.

Iba a llegar tardísimo.

Puso la radio, en una cadena donde los clásicos de los ochent


Él fijó su mirada azul en los ojos negros de ella mientras sus respiraciones se enredaban.

—Suéltame Saúl —ordenó.

—No —susurró con voz grave.

—Eve estará preocupada.

—Después de cómo te has comportado esta noche, lo que menos estará tu hermana es preocupada por ti —se rió.

Ella le miró mostrando todo el odio que sentía hacia él en sus ojos.

—Yo no he sido la única —le escupió.

Saúl posó la mirada en cada rasgo de su rostro, deteniéndose por unos breves segundos en los finos labios de ella que en ese momento se mordisqueaba el inferior.

—Sigues mordiéndote los labios cuando estás nerviosa —señaló.

Em, viéndose pillada in fraganti, dejó lo que hacía y se enfrentó a su captor.

—No estoy nerviosa, yo...

Pero no pudo terminar lo que iba a decir.

La boca masculina se cernió sobre la de ella. Atrapó el labio inferior, dejó que su lengua sanara los pequeños arañazos que se había infringido y la deslizó con suavidad por la boca hasta que consiguió, con una dulce caricia, que Emily le permitiera adentrarse en su húmeda cavidad, arrancándole un gemido de bienvenida. El beso fue lento y suave, todo lo contrario de lo que podría esperar después de la discusión que habían mantenido. Las manos de él se asentaron en su cintura. Las manos de ella se enredaron en el cabello moreno.

Un nuevo beso. Una nueva caricia. Un nuevo suspiro...

Un acto que terminó tan rápido como empezó cuando Saúl decidió que ya la había saboreado lo suficiente.

Se apartó de ella, no sin antes regalarle un nuevo roce con sus labios, y la miró a los ojos.

—Buenas noches —se despidió y desapareció en la oscuridad de la noche.

Emily no supo reaccionar. Su cara reflejaba la confusión que vivía en esos momentos. Parpadeó varias veces y fijó la vista por donde se había marchado Saúl.

—Este tío aún sabe cómo besar. —Suspiró y entró en la casa.

# Capítulo 5

—Buenos días —saludó a su hermana en cuanto entró en la cocina al día siguiente.

—Buenos días, tía —le respondió su sobrino al mismo tiempo que su madre gruñía.

«La mañana no se presentaba muy halagüeña —pensó Em mientras se hacía con una magdalena que había sobre la mesa y se sentaba en la silla de madera».

—Eve...

—Ahora no —la cortó en tono seco.

—Pero...

—¡Em! —le llamó la atención sin mirarla.

Tía y sobrino compartieron miradas. Oliver agarró la última magdalena que quedaba, le guiñó un ojo a Emily, movió la boca deseándole suerte y se marchó.

—Será cobarde, me deja sola con...

—No es cobarde. Es un chico listo —dijo Eve mientras se secaba las manos con un paño y miraba a su hermana.

Ella bufó, se encogió como pudo en la silla y dejó su vista fija en la tarea de quitar el papel al bollo que tenía entre sus manos. No se atrevía a mirar a Eve a los ojos cuando estaba en ese estado de ánimo; podía llegar a ser como Atila, el rey de los hunos.

Escuchó como apartaba la silla


Sus uñas se clavaron en la espalda de él.

—Saúl...

Una nueva estocada. Un nuevo jadeo.

—Em, contéstame —la conminó.

Fijó su mirada en la de Saúl, calibrando si volverle a mentir o no.

—Saúl, yo...

Una nueva embestida acalló sus protestas.

—Emily, es fácil —la instó mientras posaba sus labios levemente sobre los de ella, dejando que sintiera su aliento sin terminar de besarla—. Dime la verdad —sentenció seguido de una nueva estocada.

Suspiró y cerró los ojos.

—¡Sí! —claudicó.

Su confesión fue sellada por un beso voraz, seguido del movimiento de caderas de Saúl, acompasando su ritmo, dejando que Emily sintiera en toda su plenitud su pene mientras este recibía el calor que emanaba de su interior.

Las manos de Em descendieron a lo largo de toda su espalda hasta asentarse sobre el trasero de Saúl donde le instó para que acelerara el ritmo; en esta ocasión, con esa muda demanda, sí consiguió su objetivo.

Los movimientos de la pareja fueron a más. El cuerpo de Emily se encorvaba con cada acometida de Saúl. Los jadeos aumentaron de volumen, solo acallados por algún beso esporádico que se regalaban. Sus miradas se entrelazaron, sus suspiros se enredaron y cuando Em pensó que no iba a poder seguir el ritmo de su amante, el clímax la sorprendió con una fuerte acometida llevándola más allá de los sueños.

Habían pasado solo unos minutos cuando Emily sintió como Saúl se movía y se quitaba de encima de ella. La respiración de la pareja ya se había normalizado, el latir de sus corazones había descendido en ritmo aunque en su cabeza aún bullían miles de pensamientos inconexos. Le había confesado que le había extrañado, que le había añorado después de tantos años de separación, después del tiempo que llevaban sin verse, después de que él fuera el que rompió con ella...

Y se lo había dejado a huevo. ¡Joder! ¡Joder! ¡Joder!

—Será mejor que te vayas —le dijo mientras recogía su ropa y se vestía—. Eve u Oliver pueden aparecer en cualquier momento y no me gustaría que te vieran aquí —explicó con tono seco.

Saúl se puso los pantalones y recogió la camiseta del suelo.

— Emily, tenemos que hablar —le reclamó observando sus movimientos.

Ella no le miró, no podía enfrentarle porque si no sabría que no tenía fuerzas para alejarse de él.

—No tenemos nada que decirnos —escupió y se dirigió hacia la cocina, pero sus pasos se detuvieron cuando Saúl la agarró del brazo.

—Em, no nos hagas esto... —rogó.

—¿El qué? —le encaró con ira.

Saúl la dejó libre en cuanto vio el dolor que residía en sus ojos negros.

—¿El qué, Saúl? —repitió ella— Yo no fui quien quiso dejarlo en su día, yo no fui quien dijo que quería conocer más gente y cuando por fin parecía que te había olvidado aparece el contrato. —Dejó caer sus brazos inertes— Has vuelto mi vida del revés.

—Em...

Levantó su mano para impedir que se le acercara.

—Si me querías lejos... —le miró—. ¿Por qué avalaste el préstamo del banco? ¿Y cómo? Saúl


—Saúl, no sabes el tiempo que pasé preguntándome qué había hecho mal, qué había de malo en mí para que...

—Shsh... —siseó él, acallando sus palabras posando los dedos sobre su boca—. No eras tú. Era yo —dudó en cómo hacérselo entender—. Mi vida era sencilla. Era un simple pastor que cuidaba del ganado de otro. No tenía nada que ofrecerte.

Emily agarró sus manos y llamó su atención tirando de ellas.

—Saúl, tú lo eras todo para mí —confesó—. Lo habría dejado todo por ti.

Él le dio un dulce beso y le regaló una triste sonrisa.

—Por eso, Emily —dijo—. Por eso tuve que hacer lo que hice. —Ella le miró sin comprender—. No podía arrastrarte a un pueblo perdido, en la España profunda, donde lo más reseñable era el grupo de música que podía contratar el ayuntamiento cada año por las fiestas. Te hubieras hartado de ello... de mí, al poco tiempo.

Emily le dio un nuevo ósculo mientras intentaba hacer desaparecer las arrugas de preocupación de su rostro.

—Yo te quería y me hubiera dado igual que me llevaras a Nueva York, a París o a «este pueblo que está perdido de la mano de Dios».

El recuerdo de cómo llamaba Emily al pueblo de sus abuelos, donde se encontraban en esos momentos, les hizo reír.

—¿Y ahora? —interrogó.

Ella dudó por la pregunta.

—¿Y ahora qué?

Saúl le robó un nuevo beso y la miró a los ojos.

—¿Me quieres? —susurró.

Emily fijó su vista en los ojos azules, aquellos en los que se podía observar, si prestabas un poco de atención, todos los sentimientos que bullían en el interior de su dueño y lo que vio en ese momento le llevó a tomar una decisión.

—Sí —afirmó.

Ante esa contestación, Saúl se quedó inmóvil, no supo cómo reaccionar.

—¿Saúl? ¿Estás bien? —se preocupó.

Él asintió con la cabeza.

—¿Me has escuchado? —insistió—. Te he dicho que sí. Te quiero.

Saúl sintió la garganta seca, tragó como pudo y la miró.

—Emily, no sabes el tiempo que he esperado escuchar esas palabras.

—¿Y ahora? —le conminó.

Se apartó unos pocos pasos de ella y le dio la espalda.

—Tengo miedo.

Emily fue detrás de él y atrapó su mano para retenerle.

—¿A qué?

Saúl expulsó el aire que retenía.

—A defraudarte. A no ser suficiente para ti. A...

Pero no pudo continuar. Emily le dio un beso silenciando su discurso, evitando que los nervios le traicionaran y dijera algo de lo que pudiera arrepentirse después.

—Shsh... —siseó y volvió a besarle—. Tú solo hazme feliz —le anunció.

En los ojos azules brillaron estrellas, atrapó el rostro de su amada y le prometió:

—Siempre, siempre. —Depositó pequeños besos a lo largo de su rostro—. Siempre.

Em comenzó a reírse.

—Pues si quieres cumplir tu promesa...

—Dime —exigió con apremio.

—Hazme el amor —


último que vio, cuando abandonaron el bar, fue a Santiago y a Eve muy acaramelados.

Se acercó a Saúl y le dio un beso.

—Y ahora, ¿qué? —le preguntó mirándole a los ojos.

Él la agarró de la cadera y la acercó más a su cuerpo dejando en constancia lo que pensaba su entrepierna de lo que podían hacer en ese momento.

—¿A qué te refieres? —le instó.

Emily se rió con tontuna —sí, estaba enamorada—. Le dio un nuevo ósculo y le acarició la mejilla donde la barba comenzaba a nacer.

—Tú... en Barcelona, yo... —Por unos segundos dudó de que hubiera malinterpretado la declaración de la pasada noche.

Saúl atrapó su rostro y la miró a los ojos. Le dio un pícaro beso en la punta de la nariz y le ofreció una sonrisa seductora.

—Em, después de tanto tiempo... —Un nuevo beso—. Que hemos tardado en reencontrarnos, no pienso dejarte escapar.

—Sí, pero... —No llegó a dar su opinión. Saúl le dio otro ósculo acallando sus protestas.

—Ya veremos cómo hacerlo —le explicó—. Yo puedo trasladarme a Madrid o tú puedes... —La cara de Emily le indicó que no le gustaba lo que iba a decir, por lo que decidió callar—. Yo puedo trasladarme a Madrid —sentenció.

La sonrisa de agradecimiento que le regaló fue suficiente para Saúl, para comprender que no podría alejarla de sus amigos, de su familia... de _Sweet_.

Em se aupó y le robó un nuevo beso, atrapando su labio inferior para a continuación saborear el superior.

Saúl gimió, agarró su trasero y la pegó a sus caderas.

—Si sigues por ese camino no llegaremos a la boda —susurró.

Fue como un jarro de agua fría.

—¡La boda! —Se despidió de él con prisas, sin apenas darle tiempo a decirle adiós, y desapareció por la puerta.

La risa masculina la acompañó hasta que llegó a la calle.

Echó a correr, intentando llegar lo antes posible a su casa y rezando para que Eve no se hubiera levantado todavía de la cama.

Se iba a celebrar la boda de su hermana, de Eve, y aunque todavía no se lo creía, estaba contenta porque la veía feliz junto a Santiago. Pero lo que menos podía creer es que Saúl y ella volvieran a estar juntos... Saúl...

Entró en la casa, llamando a su hermana y a Oliver a gritos, pero no recibió respuesta alguna, y en su rostro asomó la diversión.

No había nadie.

Oliver seguiría en casa de sus amigos, con los que había pasado la noche, y su hermana...

—Eve, Eve... —Se tiró sobre el sofá cansada, tras la carrera—. Eso de que la novia no debe pasar la noche de antes de la boda con el novio... creo que... no va contigo. —Se rió.

Observó lo que le rodeaba con nuevos ojos y un conejito rosa, apoyado en la estantería, le llamó la atención.

—Creo que tú y yo nos vamos a ver mucho a partir de ahora —le dijo al peluche regalándole una sonrisa soñadora.

FIN

# Agradecimientos

Estoy rodeada de gente maravillosa, personas que me animan cada día a que escriba, a que deje volar mi imaginación y


is at this point that Kant performs his final escape act, namely the justification of the crucial principles of Substance and Cause, which he derives from the "I think" that, as we have seen, was the starting point of the whole contraption.

#### _Afterword on reciprocal action_

Given that we discussed the "I think," Substance, and Cause at length in the previous chapter, I would like to close the rundown of our camera's features with a word about the curious principle of Reciprocal Action. Kant takes it that in order to be able to look at our desk, we need what Einstein spent the whole of the second part of his life looking for in vain, namely a Theory of Everything. This would bring out not just causal relations but also the states of equilibrium in which action and reaction are equal and opposite, as in houses of cards, tables set for dinner, or bikes propped up against the wall.

It would be hard to find an instance of the confusion between ontology and epistemology spelled out so heroically. It is right to remember that the principle that Kant is appealing to is Newton's third law of motion, that to each action there corresponds an equal and opposite reaction. This may also be expressed as the principle that the reciprocal action between two bodies is always equal. But as we experience the world, it is easy to think that the absence of such a relation of dependence is the rule rather than the exception. Does it seem as if the pencil is interacting with the table? And if you say that it does, are you sure that you are not exaggerating, that you are really describing your experience?

## 10

## From phenomena to screwdrivers

### The deduction as naturalization

The challenge to describe experience as accurately as possible suggests a final theme. We have reviewed the two epistemological theses and the five ontological ones and set out both the statics and the dynamics of the transcendental logic. It is now time to look at Kant's manner of proceeding and, in particular, at the invention of which he was proudest, namely the Transcendental Deduction. And we should bear in mind that where he uses the contemporary juridical term "deduction" to refer to the justification of a claim's legitimacy, what he is up to corresponds to what modern philosophical jargon would call "naturalization," by which is meant the articulation of cultural undertakings in terms of the natural resources they call on.

From another point of view, one might ask why Kant had to appeal to physics, which set in motion the clumsy mechanism of the deduction. But we already know the answer: because physics presented the only response then available to the skeptical consequence of empiricism. If he had had, for instance, Darwinian theory at his disposal, then it would have been enough to say that we are as we are because we evolved in a world that is as it is. Though a response of this sort might seem Panglossian in implicitly supposing that our world is the best of all possible, there would have been no need for a transcendental deduction; some reference to motor skills and bodily schemes as results of natural selection would have done the trick. Such schemes are hardly strong epistemology insofar as we share them with other animals, but they would have supplied a low-level account of our responses to stimuli from the external world in place of the dressed-up parade of constructive principles. And they would have left open the possibility of a background realism in place of a transcendentalism: the world has and imposes its laws, and living creatures adapt to them if and when they can.

But this was not obvious to Kant. Nevertheless, over time, his outlook became ever more sophisticated. In the _Critique of Pure Reason_ , we are faced with a strong deduction or naturalization in which the conceptual schemes and our perceptual apparatus make possible both scientific knowledge and natural experience. They do so by determining the _form_ of the objects we encounter, which are, therefore, phenomena (things for us) and not things in themselves. In the two later _Critiques_ , this setup undergoes a transformation, as we may briefly see.

### The _Critique of Practical Reason_

In the _Critique of Practical Reason_ , Kant makes a much weaker-sounding claim, which effectively sets the problem of the deduction aside. Putting faith rather than knowledge at center stage, Kant outlines a world in which the intellect not only does not lay down the law to


inong, _On the Theory of Objects_ (1904), trans. I. Levi, D. B. Terrell, and R. M. Chisholm, in R. M. Chisholm (ed.), _Realism and the Background of Phenomenology_ (New York: The Free Press, 1960).

. J. R. Searle, _The Construction of Social Reality_ (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1995), p. 3.

. G. Frege, "Thoughts" (1918), trans. P.T. Geach and R. H. Stoothof, in Frege, _Logical Investigations_ (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1977), pp. 1–30.

. G. Berkeley, _Principles_ , cit. The argument is very subtle and can easily lead to skeptical outcomes, as can be seen in the very first lines of Giovanni Gentile's _Teoria generale dello spirito come atto puro_ (1916), in G. Gentile, _Opere filosofiche,_ ed. E. Garin (Milan: Garzanti, 1991), p. 459: "From the beginning of the eighteenth century, with the doctrine of George Berkeley, the following idea comes to the fore: that reality cannot be thought except in relation to the activity of thinking, on which grounds it is thinkable, and in relation to which it is not just a possible object, but the real or actual object of knowledge. The mode of conceiving of a reality is in the first instance the mind in which this reality is represented; therefore the concept of material reality is absurd."

. B 274–5.

. A 190ff./B 236ff.

. This line of thought was already proposed as part of his anti-empiricist polemic by Thomas Reid in _Inquiry into the Human Mind_ (1764), cit.

. The splendid thing is that Kant discusses the case, along with the question of the incongruent opposites, in the _Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science_ , cit., but without seeming to see the problematic consequences of either for his own theory.

. I. Kant, _Critique of Practical Reason_ , cit., I, I, I, §7, trans. cit., pp. 120–1.

. This seems to be the presupposition of Steven Spielberg's _Minority Report_ (2002). And from it we can draw some embarrassing consequences, such as Kant's firm support for the death penalty on the grounds roughly that, if one is innocent, it is not so bad (because one is at peace with one's conscience), whereas it is absolutely just for the guilty (who, being wicked, will give more weight to life than to honor); see _The Metaphysic of Morals_ , trans. M. J. Gregor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), "Doctrine of Right," 49 E. It is worth citing what Kant says at length:

Supposing that—to take the case of the latest Scottish rebellion, in which many (such as _Balmerino_ and others) believed themselves, by taking part in it, to be doing their duty towards the House of _Stuart_ , while others acted only out of personal considerations—the House of Lords had decided that each should have the freedom to choose between death and forced labour; I say that the man of honour would prefer death, while the low man would choose forced labour, because this is how the nature of the human spirit behaves. And this is because the former is acquainted with something that he esteems and appreciates more even that life itself, namely _honour_ , while the latter will always regard life, even full of shame, as preferable to not being alive at all [...] Now, the former man is incontestably less deserving of punishment than the latter, so that, by inflicting death equally on both, they are not punished at all proportionately, the former lightly, according to his lights, and the latter, also according to his way of thinking, harshly. If, conversely, both were sentenced to forced labour, the former would be punished too severely and the latter too softly for his lowness. _Death_ , therefore, is also in this case, where many criminals are


principles of pure intellect, ,

psychology, , , –, , , , , , –, , , , 116n20

Putnam, H., 128n3

Puttrich, L.,

Quine, W.V.O., , 116n22

rationalism, –, –, –, –, , , , 109n24, 125n11

Reagan, R.,

realism, empirical, , , , , , , , , –,

reciprocal action, , , –, 126n21

Reid, T., 109n28, 118n18, 123n10, 128n14

Reinach, A., 127n4

relativism, ,

Rembrandt, 118n19

representation, , , , , , –, , –, , 121n19, 124n1

Riconda, G., 107n1

Robespierre, M., 111n2

Rorty, R., 127n2

Rossi, P., 108n7

Rubens, P.P., 118n19

Russell, B., 114n32, 117n7

Sacco, R., 107n2

Savardi, U., 118n15

Scheler, M.F., 129n18

Schiller, F.,

Schopenhauer, A., , , 115n5, 123n11, 128n6

science (contrasted with experience), , , , –, , –, –, , , –, 124n

Scribano, E., 115n4

Searle, J.R., , 118n17, 118n19, 128n9

self, , , , , –, , , 122n9

skepticism, , , ,

Smith, B., 114n35

social objects, ,

space, , , , , , –, , –, , –, –, –, , , , , –, –1n10, 114n37, 116n20, 121n3, 122n6, 126n28

Spelke, E.S., 119n9

Spielberg, S, 128n17

Stattler, B., 107n 4

Strawson, P.F., –, , , , , 110n3, 114n41, 116n20, 121n2, 124n18, 125n7, 125n14

Suárez, F., , ,  111n9

subject (of experience), , , , , , , , , –, , , , , , , –,

subjectivity, , , , , , , , 118n19

substance, , , , , –, , , , , , , , , –, –, , –, –, 111n12, 114n49, 117n13, 121n19, 124n15

Superman,

Swedenborg, E.,

synthetic _a priori_ , , –, 126n21

Taddio, L., 333 _n_ 40

Talleyrand (C.M. de Talleyrand-Périgord),

teleology, , , , 127n6

Tetens, J.N., , 115n2

thalers (100), , –, , , 111n10

thing in itself (noumenon), –, , , , ,

"thoughts without content are empty," ,

time, , , , , –, –, , –, , , –, , –, , –, , , , 110n10, 112n16,


no matter what happens, don't make that deal. Shane wouldn't want it, and you'd live to regret it. You'd live a long time, and you'd hate every horrible second of it.'" Hess shook his head and took a deep breath. "Right. That's the end of the line for you tonight. You're going home, I'm seeing you safe inside, and I'm going home to hide in a closet until this blows over. I suggest you do the same.'"

"But Shane—'"

"Shane's dead,'" Hess said, so quietly and matter-of factly that she thought he meant it, that somehow someone had slipped in and killed him and she hadn't even known...but then he went on. "You can't save him. Nobody can save him now. Just let go and watch yourself, Claire. That's all you can do. You've pissed off both Amelie and Oliver in one night. Enough already. A little common sense would be welcome from you right about now.'"

She sat in dull, grim silence the rest of the way home.

Hess was as good as his word. He walked her from the car up the steps, watched her open the front door, and nodded wearily as she stepped inside. "Lock it,'" he said. "And for God's sake, go get some rest.'"

Michael was right there, warm and comforting, when she closed the door. He was holding his guitar by the neck, so he'd clearly been playing; his eyes were red-rimmed, his face tense. "Well?'" he asked.

"Hello, Claire, how are you?'" Claire asked the air. "No death threats, right? Thanks for going out in the dark to bargain with two of the scariest people on earth.'"

He at least had the good manners to look embarrassed about it. "Sorry. You okay?'"

"Duh. No fang marks, anyway.'" She shuddered. "I do not like those people.'"

"Vampires?'"

"Vampires.'"

"Technically, not people, but then, neither am I, now that I think about it. So never mind.'" Michael put an arm around her and steered her toward the living room, where he sat her down, put a blanket around her shoulders. "I'm guessing it didn't go well.'"

"It didn't go at all,'" she said. She'd been depressed on the ride home, but having to actually report on her failure was a whole new level of suck. "They're not letting him go.'"

Michael didn't say anything, but the light died in his eyes. He went down on one knee next to her and fussed with the blanket, tucking it tighter around her. "Claire. Are you okay? You're shaking.'"

"They're cold, you know,'" she said. "They make me cold, too.'"

He nodded slowly. "You did what you could. Rest.'"

"What about Eve? Is she still here?'"

He glanced up at the ceiling, as if he could see through it. Maybe he could. Claire really didn't know what Michael could and couldn't do; after all, he'd been dead a couple of times already. Wouldn't do to underestimate somebody like that. "She's asleep,'" he said. "I—talked to her. She understands. She won't do anything stupid.'" He didn't look at Claire when he said that, and she wondered what kind of talking that might have been.

Her mother had always said, when in doubt, ask. "Was it the kind of talk where you gave her something to live for? Like maybe, um, you?'"

"Did I—what the hell are you talking about?'"

"I just thought maybe you and her—'"

"Claire, Jesus!'" Michael said. She'd actually made him flinch. Wow. That was new. "You think banging me is going to make her forget about charging out to commit cold-blooded vampire slaying? I don't know what kind of standards you have on sex, but those are pretty high. Besides, whatever's between me and Eve—well, it's between me and Eve.'" Until she tells me about it later, Claire thought. "Anyway, that's not what I meant. I—persuaded her. That's all.'"

Persuaded. Right. The mood Eve had been


She pretended to be worse off than she really was (although truthfully, she was pretty bad) and, mumbling, let her eyes drift half-closed.

"That's it,'" the coffee bar jerk said. "She's out. Get her on the bed.'"

She'd never really done this before, but she was imagining hard how Eve would have handled it. She let the bat kind of wobble and fall to rest in her lap, aligned with her leg, as if it had gotten too heavy to hold up. (Not quite. Just nearly.)

And when Ian walked up to grab her, she brought the bat straight up with as much force as she could manage. It smacked him right where it would hurt the most, and Ian crumpled with a high-pitched, breathless scream, huddled in on himself.

Claire forced her legs to hold her, and slid back up to a standing position. She was leaning for support, and lucky to be in a corner, where the two angled walls let her look like she wasn't about to topple over. Her arms were shaking, and the guys would have seen that if she'd tried to raise the bat, so she tapped it casually against her leg. "Who wants some?'" she asked. "I won't hurt you. Much.'"

It was all show, and they only had to wait. Coffee Bar Jerk knew that, all too well, and she could feel the drug—what the hell was it?—stealing away her concentration, her strength, making her slow and stupid and all-too-easy prey.

Shane, she thought, and forced herself to stand upright just a little longer. Shane needs me. I'm not letting this happen.

"You're bluffing,'" Coffee Bar Jerk said, and came around the bed. Claire took a swing at him, missed, and smacked the bat into the wood so hard it rattled her teeth.

He grabbed the bat on the backswing and easily twisted it out of her grip. He tossed it to one of the other two guys, who caught it one-handed. "That,'" he said, "was really stupid. This could have been real nice and easy, you know that, right?'"

"I have Amelie's Protection,'" Claire said.

He grabbed her by the throat of her sheer black skull-printed shirt, and dragged her forward. Her legs folded when she tried to pull away.

"I don't care,'" he said. "I'm not from this stupid town. None of us are. Monica said that was the way to go, to get around the dumbass rules, whatever they are. Whoever Amelie is, she can kiss my ass. After you're done doing it.'"

The door to the hall gave a dry, metallic pop, and swung slowly open. Claire blinked and tried to focus her eyes, because there was someone standing there. No, two someones. One had red hair. Wasn't there something about red hair...? Oh yeah. Sam had red hair. Sam the vampire. Sam I Am. Michael's grandpa, wasn't that just too weird?

The door no longer had a knob on the outside. The one on the inside fell out with a dull thud to the carpet and rolled under the bed.

"Claire!'" Oh, that was Eve. "Oh my God...'"

"Excuse me,'" Sam said, "but what did you say about Amelie?'"

Coffee Bar Jerk let go of Claire's top, and she slid back down the wall. She fumbled around for something to use for a weapon, but all she came up with was another set of filthy socks that had missed the laundry. For some reason, that seemed funny. She giggled and rested her head against the wall to let her neck relax. Her neck was working too hard.

"I said that Amelie can kiss my ass, Red. And what are you going to do about it? Stare me to death?'"

Sam just stood there. Claire couldn't see anything about him change, but it was like the room just went...cold. "You really don't want to do this,'" Sam said. "Eve, go get your friend.'"

"Yeah, Eve, come on in, we've got a nice big bed!'" Ian giggled. "I hear you know how to have a real good time.'" He tossed the bloody sock he'd been pressing to his nose down on the floor and got ready to grab Eve if


Um, he said the town was sending help...?'"

"Richard Morrell,'" Michael said. "Monica's cop brother. And he's bringing Hess and Lowe with him.'"

"That's it?'" Claire squeaked. Because there were a lot of bikers. Like, a lot. Not to mention Shane's dad, who frankly scared her worse than most of the vampires just because he didn't seem to have any rules.

Funny, the vampires seemed to be all about rules. Who knew?

"I'm going to want you both to stay here,'" Michael said.

"No,'" Eve said flatly. Claire echoed it.

"Seriously, you need to stay. This is going to get dangerous.'"

"Dangerous? Dude, they killed kids. On campus!'" Eve shot back. "We were there! Don't you get it? We're not safe here, and maybe we can help you. At the very least, we can grab Monica and hustle her skanky ass back to her dad while all you brave, strong menfolk hold off the bad guys. Right?'"

"Not Claire, then.'"

"Claire,'" Claire said, "decides for herself. In case you forgot.'"

"Claire doesn't decide when it's something like this, because Claire is sixteen and Michael doesn't want to be explaining her tragic accidental death to her parents. So, no.'"

"What're you going to do?'" Eve asked, and cocked her head to one side. "Lock her in her room?'"

He looked from one of them to the other, his frown deepening. "Oh, crap. What is this, Girl Solidarity?'"

"Bet your ass,'" Eve said. "Somebody's got to keep you in line.'" Her smile faded, because that was true now, not just a funny idea. Michael cleared his throat.

"Did you hear that?'"

"What?'"

"A car. Brakes. Outside.'"

"Great,'" Eve said. "Vampire hearing, too. I'm never going to be able to keep a secret around here. Bad enough when you were a ghost...'" She was doing a good job of looking like she wasn't freaked-out, but Claire thought she was. So did Michael, apparently, because he reached out and touched her cheek—just one small gesture, but it said a lot.

"Stay here,'" he said.

He should have known they wouldn't—not completely, anyway. Claire and Eve followed him partway down the hall, enough to watch him unlock the front door and swing it open.

Richard Morrell stood on the doorstep in his police uniform. Next to him were Detectives Hess and Lowe, both looking even more exhausted than normal.

"Michael,'" Richard said, and nodded to him.

He tried to move across the threshold, and was stopped cold. Hess and Lowe exchanged a curious look and tried to come across, as well. Nothing.

"Come in,'" Michael said, and stepped back. This time, all three men could enter.

Richard was looking at Michael closely. "You're kidding,'" he said. "You've got to be kidding. All this time, and she picks you?'"

Hess and Lowe exchanged looks, a second behind the curve, and both appeared startled.

"Yeah,'" Michael said. "What about it?'"

Richard smiled, all teeth. "Nothing, man. Congratulations, and all that. You're going to be the talk of the town. Get used to it.'"

Michael shut the door behind them. "Whatever. How much time do we have to get to Shane?'"

"Not much,'" Hess said. "And the thing is, we don't have anyplace to start. No leads.'"

"Well, we've got one. We know the van went through the Underground,'" Richard said. "We've got an eyewitness. Right?'" He looked straight at Claire, who nodded. "We pulled all the surveillance tapes, and we tracked the van in and out of the Underground half a dozen times, but it finally disappeared. Problem is, one white van looks a lot like other white vans, especially on Night Sight surveillance cameras.'"

"We know that Shane's dad had maps of Morganville. Shane provided them.


read them, frowning, trying to understand what they meant, and some of the language leaped out at her.

I, Claire Elizabeth Danvers, swear my life, my blood, and my service to the Founder, now and for my lifetime, that the Founder may command me in all things.

It was the same thing Oliver had said, back at the hospital, when he'd been trying to make her...

...make her his slave.

Claire dropped the paper like it had caught on fire. No, she couldn't do that. She couldn't.

Or your friends will pay the price.

Claire swallowed, stuffed the contract back into the envelope, and shoved it in her pocket just as Eve came around the corner and said, "Roses! Jeez, who died?'"

"Nobody,'" Claire said hoarsely. "They're for you. From Michael.'"

Michael looked surprised, but his back was to Eve, and if he had any sense at all, he'd play along.

Claire went upstairs to take a shower.

Being clean made it better. Not a whole lot better, but some. She sat for a while, staring at the white envelope with her name on it, wishing she could talk to Shane about it, or Eve, or Michael, but not daring to do any of that because this was her choice. Not theirs. And she knew what they'd say, anyway.

Not enough no in the world, that's what they'd say.

It was after dark when Shane finally knocked on her door. She opened it and stood there looking at him. Just looking, because somehow she didn't think she'd ever see enough of him. He looked tired, and rumpled, and sleep creased.

And he was so beautiful she felt her heart break into a million little sharp-edged pieces.

He shifted uncertainly. "Can I come in? Or do you just want me to—?'" He pointed back down the hall. She stepped back and let him inside, then shut the door behind him. "I freaked about Michael.'"

"Yeah, you think?'"

"Why didn't you tell me?'"

"Well, it didn't exactly seem like the right time,'" she said tiredly, and sat down on the bed, back to the head-board. "Come on, Shane. We were running for our lives.'"

He granted that argument with a shrug. "How did this happen?'"

"You mean, who? Amelie. She was here, and Michael asked.'" Claire looked at him for a long second before she added the coup de graĉe. "He asked because he wanted to be able to leave the house.'"

Shane looked stricken. He lowered himself down on the corner of the bed, staring at her with those wounded, vulnerable eyes. The ones that made her heart break all over again. "No,'" he said. "Not because of me. Tell me it wasn't—'"

"He said it wasn't. Not, you know, completely, anyway. He had to do this, Shane. He couldn't live like this, not forever.'"

Shane looked away. "Christ. I mean, he knows how I feel about vampires. Now I'm living with one. Now I'm best friends with one. That's not good.'"

"Doesn't have to be bad, either,'" she said. "Shane—don't be angry, okay? He did what he thought he had to do.'"

"Don't we all?'" He flopped back on the bed, hands under his head. Staring up at the ceiling. "Long day.'"

"Yeah.'"

"So,'" he said. "You got plans for tonight? Because suddenly I'm free.'"

He made her laugh, even though she thought she didn't have any of that left. Shane rolled up on one elbow, and the gentleness in the way he smiled at her made her breath catch in her throat.

He reached out and tugged at her hair, smiling. "You're all wild today,'" he said. "Hero.'"

"Me? No way.'"

"Yeah, you. You saved lives, Claire. Granted, some people I'd just as soon see gone, but...still. I think you even saved my dad. If he'd blown up that building, killed all those people...he couldn't have walked away from it. I couldn't have let him.'" They


's the plan, hero? Want to watch a movie?'"

She felt odd. Crazy and strange and full of uncertainty. "No.'"

"Kill some video zombies?'"

"No.'"

"If we get down to canasta, I'm jumping...off...the...what are you doing?'"

She stretched out across the bed on her side, facing him. "Nothing. What do you want to do?'"

"Oh, let's not go there.'"

"Why not?'"

"Don't you have school tomorrow?'"

She kissed him. It wasn't an innocent kiss—anything but. She felt like those roses downstairs, dark and red and full of passion, and it was new to her, so new, but she couldn't stop the feeling that she had to do this, now, because she'd almost lost him, and—

Shane leaned his forehead against hers and broke the kiss with a gasp, like a drowning man. "Hang on,'" he said. "Slow down. I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right? You don't have to put out to keep me here. Well, as long as you eventually—'"

"Shut up.'"

He did, mainly by pressing his lips back to hers. A slower kiss this time, warm and then hot. She thought she'd never get enough of the taste of him; it just jolted through her like raw current and lit her up inside. Lit her up in ways she knew weren't good, or at least weren't completely legal.

"Want to play baseball?'" she asked. Shane's eyes opened, and he stopped stroking her hair.

"What?'"

"First base,'" she said. "You're already there.'"

"I'm not running the bases.'"

"Well, you could at least steal second.'"

"Jeez, Claire. I used to distract myself with sports stats at times like these, but now you've gone and ruined it.'" Another damp, hot kiss, and his hands trailed down her neck, featherlight. Over her shoulders, brushing skin her thin jersey nightshirt left bare. Down...

"Dammit.'" He rolled over on his back, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling again.

"What?'" she asked. "Shane?'"

"You could have died,'" he said. "You're sixteen, Claire.'"

"Nearly seventeen.'" She moved up against his side, cuddling close.

"Yeah, that makes it all better. Look—'"

"You want to wait?'"

"Yeah,'" he said. "Well, obviously, not my first choice, but I'm all about second thoughts right now. But the thing is...I don't want to leave you.'" His arm was around her, and there was nothing in the world to her but the warmth of his body against her, and his whisper, and the utterly vulnerable need in his eyes. "But it's not going to be easy for me to say no. So help me out here.'"

Her heart was pounding. "You want to stay?'"

"Yes. I—'" He opened his mouth, then closed it, then tried again. "I need to stay. I need you.'"

She kissed him, very gently. "Then stay.'"

"Okay, but so far as baseball goes, second base is as far as I go.'"

"You're sure about that?'"

"I swear.'"

And somehow, he kept his word, no matter how hard she tried to convince him.

Shane was still asleep, curled in a heap among the pillows, snoring lightly. She'd gotten his shirt off at some point, and Claire lay in the soft glow of the rising sun, watching the light gleaming on the strong muscles of his back. She wanted to touch him...but she didn't want him to wake up. He needed to sleep, and she had something she had to do.

Something he wasn't going to like.

Claire eased out of bed, moving very carefully, and found her blue jeans crumpled on the floor. The envelope was still in the back pocket. She opened it and slipped out the stiff, formal paper, unfolded it, and read the note again.

She put the contract on the desk, looked at Shane, and thought about the risk of losing him. Of Eve and Michael, too.

I, Claire Elizabeth Danvers, swear my life, my


was a good conversationalist, a good listener. I've never told anyone so much about myself on the first date. And the crazy part is that I was so interested in him that I forgot to care about the contest. I just wanted to get to know him better. So when he turned out to be the guy, I felt even worse."

"We don't know anything, though, do we? Maybe Miguel was the guy, maybe that letter is another misleading detail, to protect the real millionaire. Maybe there's no money at all. Maybe the whole thing was a scam."

"I wasn't scammed—I'm sure of it. I absolutely didn't release any private information."

"Okay, then a fake. For God-knows-what reason. Maybe he gets off on jerking women around like this."

"Could be," Suze said. "But did you see my earrings?" She was wearing the diamond daggers now, and she'd gotten used to the sparkle. It was time she left Craig behind. "If it's a scam, it's a pretty elaborate, expensive one. I just didn't win. It happens. It wasn't a complete waste of time. I needed to...I needed to let go a little, you know?"

Meredith raised her wineglass to Suze's. "Let's toast to that," she said. "I'm glad you said it, not me."

The next morning Suze was in a meeting, listening to two men pitch their nonprofit: the California Schoolroom. It was an idea she liked—an online clearinghouse where charter schools could pool and redistribute resources—but she knew the executives at Redfield Partners would never go for it. Every time Suze had tried to get them to invest in educational ventures, they'd said no. Still, she was interested enough to hear the pitch.

In the middle of the meeting Meredith came rushing up to the door of her office, then stopped short when she realized that the visitors' chairs were occupied. Meredith retreated, but not before Suze noticed what she was holding: another yellow mailing envelope. For the rest of the pitch Suze tried to push aside fantasies of what that envelope might hold. Sure, that generic envelope could be anything from anyone, but from Meredith's expression Suze guessed—no, she _knew_ —that it was from the contest. But she'd already been rejected. What was left to say? Impatient, Suze broke the news to the California Schoolroom guys as gently as she could.

"I'm not saying you don't have a viable product here," she said. "Personally, I love the idea. But I'll never be able to sell the partners on it. They want to wait until we hit our fund-raising target for this year before taking on any nonprofits." Suze ushered them out of the office, then headed straight to Meredith's cubicle.

"Where is it? What is it?" she asked.

"Open it!" Meredith flung the envelope into Suze's hands.

Somehow, by the time they crossed the hall to Suze's office, Kevin, Emily, and Jeff had joined them.

"What's it say? What's it say?" they all clamored.

Suze sat down and took out her letter opener.

"Oh, my God, you're so slow it's killing me," Meredith said.

Suze paused. "Okay, people. I appreciate your enthusiasm. But please realize that this is the second letter I've received. The first already informed me that I lost. This is probably another legal document, a coupon for a massage, or some other buy-off. Don't get your hopes up."

"Right," Meredith teased. "I saw how quickly you ended that meeting. But I'll be super careful not to get _my_ hopes up."

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to hope for," said Jeff.

"Ten million dollars!" said Emily.

"She already lost," Kevin, Meredith, and Jeff all said at the same time.

Suze smiled. "Glad we got that straightened out." She opened the envelope and pulled out a letter. There was a check attached to it, made out to her, in the amount of $250,000.

"Oh, my God, what? What is it? Did you win?" Meredith was hyperventilating.


"Excuse me, Caroline? Are you ready?" Alicia had silently entered and was standing over her. Caroline fumbled to shut off the phone. Alicia led Caroline past the elevator bank, where Janey stood, tucking an envelope into her bag. Letting Alicia get a bit ahead, Caroline slowed down to whisper to Janey.

"Did you meet him?"

Janey nodded. "Ye—"

Before she could say more, Alicia gestured Caroline forward urgently. Janey whispered a quick "Good luck." Caroline hurried away, down the hall after Alicia. This was it. She was going to meet the mystery man at last.
Chapter 30

It was not Nicholas. The rejection letter had been signed by Nicholas, but the man who stood up to shake her hand introduced himself as Tom Greenfield. He smiled nicely. That was what Caroline noticed first. He looked embarrassed and eager at the same time. He gestured for her to have a seat on the pale linen sofa. It was hard to take it all in. There was Tom, lean and handsome, with green eyes and a slant of dark hair, and the office, with its neutral tones and dramatic art, and the intrigue of the great Greenfield enterprises.

"Hi, Tom," she said, laughing and shaking her head. "I have a lot of questions for you."

He grinned sheepishly. "I'm sure you do. Fire away."

_Tom,_ she was thinking. _This is the man I've been wondering about, and his name is Tom. He is still a total stranger, but now he has a name. Will it come to be familiar to me, so familiar that it seems there's always been Tom?_

"Are you definitely you? The mystery man? I mean, I got a letter from Nicholas, and there have been so many interviews that I just need to know—"

"You've reached the end of the line," Tom said. He smiled again, and Caroline's heart dipped a bit. "I'm it. I'm sorry for that letter. Those were my words, but I used Nicholas's name on your letter—and different names on the other letters—because I was counseled to keep my name out of all the correspondence. I know it sounds ridiculous. I mean, it _is_ ridiculous! But as you might imagine, I have my own share of doubts about this process. Thank you for enduring all of it, for being here."

Caroline looked around. "I feel like I'm still being interviewed. See my perfect posture?"

"You're right. I'm an idiot. No, actually, I had to meet another candidate—"

"Janey," Caroline said.

"That's right, you two have met. I'm sorry about that, too. It must have been awkward," he said.

"It's okay, actually. We kind of became friends. At least I like your taste."

"But I did think—if it's okay with you—we could get out of here." He pointed out the window, which had an expansive view of the beach. "It's better over there."

Caroline smiled. Rich though he might be, he wasn't arrogant.
Chapter 31

Venice Beach was wide, a long trudge through sand from the footpath to the edge of the ocean. They were quiet as they walked, and Caroline wondered if they would find their footing once they literally found their footing. Close to the water they came to a vacant lifeguard station. It was picturesque; a rough wooden ramp led up to a platform, in the middle of which stood a tall lifeguard chair. Without needing to discuss it, they headed up the ramp, its surface a relief from the drag of the beach.

"Is this okay? I didn't plan this part," Tom said.

"Good," said Caroline. "Not planning is perfect, and this is perfect."

They sat at the edge of the platform, legs dangling off the side, arms hooked over the lowest rail.

"I believe in soul mates," Tom said. "But not just one. Think about it—all these people find true love, but how many potential mates do they encounter? A few hundred? A thousand?"

"Four?" Caroline suggested jokingly.

"There are no perfect mates, but there are hundreds of potential soul mates that you might never encounter. I believe love is hard to find but easy to recognize. So I tried to improve my chances. And here we are."


Shooters inside the Vault were using the granite doorframe as a barricade as they leaned out and fired on the uniformed officers positioned behind their car doors.

Conklin and I got out of our car with our guns drawn and crouched beside our wheel wells. Adrenaline whipped my heart into a gallop. I watched everything with clear eyes, and yet my mind flooded with memories of past shoot-outs. I had been shot and almost died. All three of my partners had been shot, one of them fatally.

And now I had a baby at home.

A cop at the car to my left shouted, _"Christ!"_

Her gun spun out of her hand and she grabbed her shoulder as she dropped to the asphalt. Her partner ran to her, dragged her toward the rear of the car, and called in, "Officer down." Just then SWAT arrived in force with a small caravan of SUVs and a ballistic armored transport vehicle as big as a bus. The SWAT commander used his megaphone, calling to the shooters, who had slipped back behind the fortresslike walls of the Vault.

"All exits are blocked. There's nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Toss out the guns, now."

The answer to the SWAT commander was a fusillade of gunfire that pinged against steel chassis. SWAT hit back with automatic weapons, and two men fell out of the doorway onto the pavement.

The shooting stopped, leaving an echoing silence.

The commander used his megaphone and called out, "You. Put your gun down and we won't shoot. Fair warning. We're coming in."

"WAIT. I give up," said an accented voice. "Hands up, see?"

"Come all the way out. Come to me," said the SWAT commander.

I could see him from where I stood.

The last of the shooters was a short man with a café au lait complexion, a prominent nose, dark hair that was brushed back. He was wearing a well-cut suit that had blood splattered on the white shirt as he came out through the doorway with his hands up.

Two guys in tactical gear grabbed him and slammed him over the hood of an SUV, then cuffed and arrested him.

The SWAT commander dismounted from the armored vehicle. I recognized him as Reg Covington. We'd worked together before. Conklin and I walked over to where Reg was standing beside the last of the shooters.

Covington said, "Boxer. Conklin. You know this guy?"

He stood the shooter up so I could get a good look at his face. I'd never met Kingfisher. I compared the real-life suspect with my memory of the fuzzy videos I'd seen of Jorge Sierra, a.k.a. the King.

"Let me see his hands," I said.

It was a miracle that my voice sounded steady, even to my own ears. I was sweating and my breathing was shallow. My gut told me that this was the man.

Covington twisted the prisoner's hands so that I could see the backs of them. On the suspect's left hand was the tattoo of a kingfisher, the same as the one in the photo in Kingfisher's slim file.

I said to our prisoner, "Mr. Sierra. I'm Sergeant Boxer. Do you need medical attention?"

"Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, maybe."

Covington jerked him to his feet and said, "We'll take good care of him. Don't worry."

He marched the King to the waiting paddy wagon, and I watched as he was shackled and chained to the bar before the door was closed.

Covington slapped the side of the van, and it took off as CSI and the medical examiner's van moved in and SWAT thundered into the Vault to clear the scene.

# About the Authors

JAMES PATTERSON has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.

HILARY LIFTIN has collaborated on numerous _New York Times_ bestsellers and is the author, most recently, of the novel _Movie Star by Lizzie Pepper_. She lives with her family in Los Angeles.

### Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.


Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Krentz, Jayne Ann.
Sizzle and burn / Jayne Ann Krentz.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1534-0
1. Psychic ability—Fiction. 1. Title.
PS3561.R44S54 2008 2007028161
813'.54—dc22

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
For Frank
As always, with all my love
Thanks for the sizzle and burn!

## Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

## One

Burn, witch, burn....

The voice was a dark, ghostly whisper in her head. Raine Tallentyre stopped at the top of the basement stairs. Gingerly she touched the banister with her fingertips. That was all the contact she needed. The voice, thick with bloodlust and an unholy excitement, murmured again.

...Only one way to kill a witch. Punish her. Make her suffer. Burn, witch, burn....

It was the same voice she had heard when she brushed against the counter in the kitchen a few minutes before. It whispered of darkness, fear and fire. The psychic traces were very fresh. A deeply disturbed individual had come through this house in the recent past. She could only pray that the freak was the type who limited himself to twisted fantasies played out in his head. But she'd had enough experience to know that probably wasn't the case. This bastard was the real thing, a human monster.

She shuddered, snatched her hand off the banister and wiped her palm against her raincoat. The gesture was pure instinct, a reflex. The coat, long and black, was wet because it was pouring outside but no amount of water could wash away the memory of the foul energy she had just sensed.

She looked back at Doug Spicer and heard another voice, her aunt's this time. The warning came straight out of her teenage memories. Never tell them


's the one who made the decision to raise you outside the Society and to deny you your heritage."

"In her place, I would have done the same thing. She didn't have a lot of reason to trust the Society or J&J."

He moved around the end of the coffee table, reached down and wrapped his hands around her wrists. He pulled her up off the sofa.

"What about you?" he said.

"I have no reason to trust the Society or J&J, either. They've got their own agendas."

"And you have yours."

"Yes."

"You don't trust the Society and you don't trust J&J," he said. "What about me?"

She searched his face. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," he said. He could hear the rough, gritty edges in his own voice but there was nothing he could do to soften them. "It matters."

"I trust you," she said. She looked as if the statement surprised her but she didn't back away from it. "You have been honest with me since the start of this thing."

He felt something deep inside him ease.

"Okay," he said. He made himself release her wrists. "Okay, thanks."

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes." He answered without even thinking about it.

"Even though you know I've got my own reasons for helping you find out what Nightshade is after?"

"I know where you're coming from. Not like you've kept it a secret. You've been honest from the beginning."

"So have you." She sank back down onto the sofa. "I'll pour you some of my special tea. We'll play some cards."

He did not want to sit down. He wanted to keep moving. Tea and solitaire weren't going to cut it tonight. The images of Lawrence Quinn's last seconds on earth were still too vivid, too intense. The attack by Ski Mask had compounded the usual problems of the aftermath.

It was going to be a bad night and he couldn't risk dampening his senses with a couple of shots of scotch. Probably better not to even try to sleep.

Raine poured the brew into the small cup and handed it to him. "Here. Drink some of this."

To please her, he downed half the contents of the cup in a single swallow. The slightly astringent, herbal flavors were not unpleasant but he didn't think they were going to have any effect on the visions. There was only one thing that could distract him from the death scene and that was the one thing that was not available to him tonight.

Raine picked up the deck of cards and started to deal. He made a valiant effort to concentrate but he knew it was a waste of time. His brain insisted on jumping wildly from images of oncoming death to a raging need to affirm life in the most primitive way possible.

"I appreciate the effort but it's not going to work."

"It's going to be one of those nights, isn't it?" she asked. "One of the bad ones."

"I'm used to it. Don't worry about me."

"I'm not feeling very sleepy, myself. Watching that man try to kill you left my nerves on edge, to put it mildly. And then, seeing his body in the street—"

His hand stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth. "How did you know that the guy was coming after me?"

"I'm not sure. He passed very close behind the booth where I was sitting. I was just suddenly aware of him. And not in a good way. It was like looking over your shoulder and seeing a tiger waiting to pounce."

He nodded. "That happens with hunters when they're running hot. The energy they put out is predatory. Most people can sense it, even if they aren't consciously aware of it. Another sensitive like yourself wouldn't have any trouble at all picking up the vibes."

"You're sure that the visions you picked up tonight were connected to Lawrence Quinn's death?" Raine asked quietly.

"Yes."

"And you're also sure that the killer was Ski Mask?"

"Can't be absolutely certain, but it seems logical. The last thing Quinn saw was a face that his panic-stricken brain interpreted as a death's head. Two black holes for eyes. I'm betting it was really a ski mask


The problem is Bradley, isn't it?"

"No," Raine said.

"I understand." She flicked a quick glance at Zack and then turned back to Raine. "Bradley explained that you misinterpreted his friendship. Read more into it than was there. Don't worry about it. These things happen."

Raine glanced at her watch and jumped to her feet. "You'll have to excuse me. I've got to go to my shop now. Good luck with your writing project."

Cassidy made no move to rise from the sofa.

Niki was starting to look downright nervous. She blinked several times and cleared her throat. "Uh, perhaps we should leave, Miss Cutler. Don't forget you're supposed to call your agent at nine."

Cassidy hesitated a few seconds longer, clearly annoyed. Raine contemplated throwing her out bodily. It wouldn't be difficult. She had the advantage of height and weight.

But Cassidy finally seemed to comprehend that the situation had become awkward. She rose reluctantly and held out a hand to Niki.

"Card," she said brusquely.

Niki hastily opened the leather briefcase and took out a gold card holder. She extracted a business card and placed it in Cassidy's outstretched palm.

Cassidy handed the card to Raine. "I want you to think about this, Raine. Regardless of the status of your personal relationship, you and Bradley share a very special working partnership, one that enables both of you to make a unique contribution to justice. Please keep my card. When you're ready to consider my offer, give me a call at that number. It's my cell phone."

Raine took the card. It seemed the quickest way to get Cassidy out of the condo.

Zack was already in the foyer, opening the door. Cassidy walked outside very quickly. Niki threw Raine an apologetic grin and followed.

Zack closed the door and looked at Raine. "That is one very determined woman."

"She thinks the reason I won't help with the project is because of what happened between me and Bradley," she said.

"I know."

"That's got nothing to do with it. I just don't want to take the risk that I'll end up named in her book."

"You don't trust her to keep you anonymous?"

"Nope. My cover would start falling apart the first time a blogger got curious."

"Got a hunch you're right."

Raine looked at him. "What's the next step in your investigation?"

"Well, to begin with, you're not going in to work today. I assume Pandora can handle the shop?"

"Yes. What are we going to do?"

"I think it's time we talk to the last people to see Vella Tallentyre alive."

## Thirty-nine

Dr. Baxter Ogilvey looked at Raine across the expanse of a desk piled high with files, papers and scholarly journals. He was the director of St. Damian's Psychiatric Hospital. Over the course of the year that Vella had been a patient at the hospital Raine had come to like and respect him.

He was a compassionate man steeped in traditional medical and psychiatric practices. She knew that he'd never had a clue as to the true nature of Vella's mental illness. To fully comprehend her pathology, he would have been forced to believe that Vella possessed psychic senses. Raine knew that he had never been able to make that leap. To the end Ogilvey had considered Vella's claim of hearing voices a symptom of her illness.

Nevertheless his approach to what had to have been one of his more unusual and challenging cases had been surprisingly open-minded and wide-ranging. It had included nutritional aspects such as vitamin supplements as well as cutting-edge psychotropic medications, traditional talk therapy and, above all, a tranquil environment. Raine knew that she would always be grateful to him. Ogilvey had done what she and Gordon and Andrew had been unable to do on their own in the past year. He had given Vella a degree of mental and emotional peace for the first time in years.

He had clearly been surprised to see Raine and Zack walk into his office a short time before but he had offered condolences again.

"I understand that you are still grieving," Ogilvey


loose-fitting pants felt bulky and awkward over his trousers but with the hospital lights dimmed for the night, he didn't think anyone would notice. His soft-soled running shoes and a plastic ID badge finished the look. The badge was on backward, concealing the fake ID. Just an accident. Could have happened to anyone dressing in a hurry.

St. Damian's maintained a large staff. In addition, a little research earlier in the evening had turned up the fact that, like most hospitals, it occasionally relied on temporary agency help to fill in when there was a staffing crunch. It seemed reasonable that an unfamiliar orderly in the hall would not cause undue concern. The plan, however, was to avoid any such encounters, if possible.

The most serious problem was that he was running hot, all his senses jacked up to the max. That meant there was no way to tune out the background static that infused the entire building. He was primarily sensitive to the darker passions—violence and fear and the adrenaline rush that came with the anticipation of the kill—but other stuff sometimes seeped in as well, stuff like despair and psychic pain. There was plenty of that in a psychiatric hospital.

He knew that once he got upstairs into the wards, just walking across the floor would be uncomfortable. The thick soles of his running shoes would not be able to block out all the bleak energy that would cling to every surface.

Tensed against the psychical shock waves that awaited him, he loped up the stairs to the third floor. At the door he paused, listening intently. He heard no sound in the corridor. When he stepped out into it, he found it empty.

Bright lights marked the small nurses' station at the far end of the corridor. All but a few of the overhead fluorescents in the corridors were off, however, as he had anticipated. The doors to the patients' rooms were mostly closed, although one or two were open partway.

Raine had told him exactly where 315 was located. Luckily it was at the end of the hall farthest from the nurses' station. He started toward the room and found out immediately that he had been right about the floor.

Some sensitives claimed that walking through a hospital or a police station or any other highly charged environment was like walking through a graveyard and discovering that the occupants were still partially alive. He disagreed. He always found graveyards to be relatively peaceful places. Hospitals, on the other hand, were anything but.

The door to 315 was closed. He opened it as quietly as possible and walked into the room, moving with the confidence of an orderly who has just entered to do a routine check. He closed the door gently behind him.

Moonlight spilling through an uncovered window revealed a figure in the bed. Zack could see that the patient, a teenager, was watching him with wide, frightened eyes. It didn't take a psychic to pick up the raw energy of terror. For some reason the kid was looking at him like he was the monster from under the bed.

"I'm sorry," Zack said softly. "Didn't mean to scare you. Just a routine check to make sure you're okay."

The frozen kid did not move or speak.

This was not going well. He would have to come up with a Plan B.

"I'm leaving now," Zack said, holding up both hands in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. He took a step back.

"Are you going to kill me?" The boy's voice quivered so badly it was barely audible.

Zack stopped edging toward the door. "No. I'm not here to hurt you. I just wanted to take a quick look around the room. Make sure everything is okay."

"I don't believe you," the boy whispered. "You're glowing too hot. None of the other orderlies do that."

Understanding slammed through him. "Well, damn. You're picking up my aura, aren't you?"

The boy did not respond. He just continued staring with those big, frightened eyes.

Zack shut down his parasenses. "Is that better? I'm no longer jacked up."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I've closed down my paranormal senses. I can't shut them off entirely, but I can dial them back. I'm not putting out nearly as much energy now. Most folks wouldn't be able to detect an a


tapped the end of the pen against the tabletop, thinking. "But then, I hadn't even realized she had an affair with him until Andrew told me. If Vella kept any souvenirs of her time with Wilder Jones, they would be at the Shelbyville house."

"You said the basement was filled with boxes and cartons."

"Yes. Most of them contain her paintings. I suppose we'll have to go through them. It's going to be a job. There must be two or three hundred pictures in that basement. As far as I know they're all masks."

The doorbell chimed, startling Raine into dropping the pen. "It's six-thirty in the morning. Who in the world?"

"Got a hunch that's your babysitter."

Zack put down his coffee mug and went into the living room. Robin and Batman trotted along at his heels, ears perked and tails high. They had adopted him, Raine realized. As far as they were concerned, Zack was now part of the gang. She tried to recall the name for a group of cats. Clowder. That was it. Unfortunately it didn't sound very exciting, let alone cool. No wonder people didn't use it to describe those of the feline persuasion.

She heard the front door open and the rumble of a deep bass voice that sounded like it came from the heart of a mountain. She got to her feet, exercising some caution because her ankle was still tender, and went to stand in the doorway.

A big, dark-skinned man a few years younger than Zack occupied a considerable amount of space in her small living room. His head was completely shaved and gleamed as though it had been waxed. Dark glasses veiled his eyes. A gold ring flashed from one ear. He was dressed in khakis, a dark blue pullover shirt and a battered suede bomber jacket. She caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster beneath the jacket.

He gave her a smile that could have lit up the stage of a large theater.

"You must be the client," he said.

She didn't even try to resist the smile. "You must be the bodyguard."

"This is Raine Tallentyre," Zack said. "Raine, meet Calvin Harp."

Raine extended her hand. "A pleasure, Mr. Harp."

"Call me Calvin." He shook her hand and then looked down at the cats, who were sitting directly in front of him, gazing upward with unblinking stares. "Who are these guys?"

"Batman and Robin," Zack said.

Calvin beamed. "What do you know? Couple of my favorite masked avengers."

He went down on his haunches and held out his hand. The cats sniffed his fingers in an assessing manner and appeared to be satisfied. Calvin rubbed their ears gently with one huge hand and straightened.

"Looks like you're in the club," Zack said. "How about some coffee?"

Calvin's smile got even bigger. "Excellent idea. Any chance of some food? I've been a little busy since I got Fallon's call a few hours ago. Wasn't anything to eat on board the company plane except a couple of boxes of doughnuts. Had to share 'em with the pilots."

"How do you feel about peanut butter?" Zack asked.

"Works for me." Calvin looked toward the kitchen with great interest. "Hell, I'm hungry enough to eat the cats' food."

Zack looked at Raine. "The only downside of working with Calvin is that you have to feed him. A lot."

## Forty-seven

Zack used a gadget from his J&J tool kit to let himself into the small studio apartment. He did not expect to find anything that pointed to Pandora as a member of Nightshade but he had learned the hard way not to let the personal get in the way of the logical.

The tiny space was decorated in what could only be described as High Goth. The ceiling was an elaborately detailed night sky, complete with crescent moon and stars. The walls were painted midnight blue, the window and door trims picked out in a paler shade. The furnishings were eclectic and mostly black punctuated with the occasional bloodred pillow.

He checked the refrigerator first. One of the things they had learned in the Stone Canyon affair was that Nightshade