His landline rang. He picked it up and put it down to break the connection. Then he left it off the hook. Just at that moment, a cheerful voice answered the cell call. “Clearfork, Smith, and Barnwell! To whom may I direct your call?”

“Jess Barnwell, please,” Manfred said, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice.

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Manfred Bernardo.”

“Just one moment.”

It really was just one moment before she was back on the line. “Mr. Bernardo, Mr. Barnwell is in a meeting right now, but he’ll call you back the moment he’s out.”

Sounded like Jess had already heard some version of the news. “I’m relieved,” Manfred said sincerely. “I’ll be waiting. Please tell him there are news crews here.”

“I will.” The voice sounded sympathetic.

The knocking at the door was repeated. Manfred sat down at his computer console, but he had a hard time concentrating on his clients.

Finally the cell phone rang. Manfred snatched it up. “Jess?” he said.

“No, it’s Arthur Smith. I’m outside. Can I come in?”

The sheriff of Davy County, whose area included Midnight. Manfred had met Arthur Smith months before, and he’d liked the man. “Okay, I’m coming to the door, if you’re ready to jump inside,” Manfred said, walking to the door.

“I’ll knock two, rest, two,” Smith said, hanging up.

Manfred stood at the door waiting, and then heard two quick raps, followed by a pause, then two more. He opened the door and Arthur Smith stepped quickly into the room.

Smith was in his forties, with tightly curling pale hair so light that its graying was not immediately obvious. He had wide-set blue eyes and a steady stare that could be very disconcerting. Manfred remembered that Smith had always been direct and honest with the people of Midnight when the body of Bobo’s missing girlfriend had been discovered, and he was counting on that being Smith’s true nature. He stood aside to avoid being photographed and also to let the sheriff enter the room quickly.

“What the hell’s happened?” Manfred said. “What is this? Why are all these people here?” All his anger and fear came popping out in little explosions of words.

“I tried to get here first. But I was in court because my divorce was getting finalized, one of my deputies was working another convenience store stickup, and another one is out with a broken arm. Got thrown by his horse,” said Smith.

“Okay,” Manfred said. “That’s kind of an unusual reason for a lawman to miss work.”

“Not here, apparently,” Smith said. “Mind if we sit down?”

“No, and I’m sorry about the divorce. Do you know why these people showed up? What the hell is this all about?”

“Tell me what happened in Dallas, first. Give me your version. And can I have some tea or a glass of water while you do?”

“Sure,” Manfred said. He felt much calmer since the sheriff was doing his best to be low-key. He took a few deep breaths, poured Arthur Smith a glass of iced tea with a teaspoon of sugar, and settled him on the old couch in the former dining room, now Manfred’s television room. It contained the couch, an armchair, and a flat-screen television set on an old credenza.

“Antiques, huh?” Smith said. He settled himself carefully on the couch.

“Just old stuff my grandmother had,” Manfred said. “Not good old stuff. Just old stuff.” It didn’t make any difference to Manfred. As long as he was comfortable, he was happy. He said, “This is what happened in Dallas.” And he told Arthur Smith exactly what had happened, with one omission—his speculations about Olivia. It helped that Smith was much more interested in the minutiae of his encounter with Rachel Goldthorpe.

“How often had you seen her before?” Smith asked.

Manfred had looked up the details soon after he’d gotten back to Midnight. Now he went to fetch the printout and handed it to his guest. “Those were the times I saw her in person,” he said. “I talked to her a few times on the phone, too, but she really liked the in-person conferences.”

“So what do you do at one of these conferences?” Smith leaned back with the air of someone who had all the time in the world to listen.

Manfred sighed. “The client has paid a deposit to reserve a time slot, of course.”

“Of course,” the sheriff said, a bit dryly.

“So when he or she gets to my hotel room, we’re ready to go. I always get a suite, so the bedroom isn’t visible, to keep it professional. Besides, there’s almost always some kind of dining table in a suite. On that table I place several means of foreseeing the future of the client, or looking into any question he or she brings me.”

Smith got out his notepad. “Like what means are those?” He was serious. Manfred was relieved. This was hard enough without dealing with the usual attitude the law showed psychics.

“Like . . . a set of tarot cards, a sort of crystal ball . . .”

“You have got to be shitting me.” Now Smith gave him an exasperated look.

“Nope.” Manfred gave him a tight smile. “Of course, I don’t claim to look into it and see the future. But it is a helpful focus object. I can use my gift more easily if I have it in front of me.”

“Your gift.”

“I’m not a fraud all the time, Arthur.” Manfred was nettled enough to use Smith’s first name. “I’m the real deal.”