In the earlier version of this news broadcast, it had been clear that the CBI agent had waded into the fray to draw the reporters away from their victim, William Swahn. In this new job of film editing, she seemed to be orchestrating the whole event, even stirring up the crowd to chase down the man with the cane.

It was a clear case of slander against both of these people, but Dave Hardy did not care. He had no sympathy for Swahn, and he hated that Polk woman.

A million other viewers could only rely on the pack of lies their eyes were telling them.

23

It was that gloomy hour when house lights were burning bright, but drivers were still debating the need for headlights. Daredevil Hannah would be the last to turn hers on.

Oren watched the streets crawl by his passenger window.

Before the library had become a town joke, Josh had often walked this same route with him, and they had made better time on foot. In Coventry, time and distance were not quantified or qualified in terms of as the crow flies, but by the saying If only snails had wings. Oren would rather have spent this evening reading Sarah Winston's cryptic journals in privacy, but he was on a mission to mollify the little woman behind the wheel.

The old Mercedes rolled past the church, and Hannah sighed. "I miss the Reverend Pursey's sermons. You haven't forgotten that crazy old fool, have you?"

"I remember him." Oren was not likely to forget Amos Pursey-ever. The minister had worn his Sunday robes seven days a week to fly around town, waving his arms and ranting about the end of days. "He must be the black bat in Mrs. Winston's drawings." Oren had been a month shy of seventeen when that old madman had accosted him on the street and proclaimed him to be an archangel appointed by God to smite the town-

It was a revelation that Hannah had heard any of the minister's sermons. "You went to church?"

"I used to-now and then."

"But why? You're an atheist. No-wait. You told me and Josh that God was an atheist."

"No, I said a real smart god would be an atheist. Who needs the pressure of being perfect? I favor the kind of Creator who drinks beer now and then, someone you can talk to. Now the Reverend Pursey-crazy old bastard-he fancied a miracle worker with a hit-man angel."

"Hannah, why does this place attract so many loonies?"

"Tolerance. It's Coventry 's finest quality. So, despite what Amos Pursey thought, no god would ever smite a town that sheltered that nutcase preacher." Hannah brought the car to a stop in front of the library. "My other theory is that we all take turns being the lunatic."

"It's after hours," said Oren. "No lights in the windows."

"She's there." Hannah glanced at her wristwatch. "Mavis is always there, day and night. Has been for years. Nobody knew about it for the longest time."

Oren dared not speak the reason: Because no one in Coventry ever goes to the library. But Hannah hushed him anyway.

"Dave lives in his mother's house." Hannah nodded at the library. "And Mavis lives in there."

"That's insane," said Oren. "Why didn't Dave do something?"

"He tried. He wanted to get her locked up in a state mental ward, where they drug people senseless and stack 'em up like cordwood. The judge stopped him. Your father doesn't believe in God, but he's got the concept of hell down pat. He thinks she's better off in the library, and so do I." Hannah rolled up the right sleeve of her sweater, and then, with a wave of her hand, she said, "Let there be light."

And there was. The bulb over the door clicked on, and every window shade turned bright yellow.

The last time Hannah had done this trick, Josh was only six years old, and his eyes had popped. The little boy had been disappointed to learn that Mrs. Hardy was simply a creature of habit. With no regard for the seasonal position of the sun-or the moon-the library lights came on at the same time every evening.

How could he have forgotten that?

Hannah patted his hand. "You'll be glad you came. Mavis knows all the best stories, and she knows birds." The housekeeper picked up the small stack of journals and tucked them under one arm. "She knows Sarah Winston, too. They go way back. You might learn something without getting shot by Isabelle."

"You held out on me? You knew Mrs. Hardy went to school with-" He was talking to himself. Hannah was out of the car and moving up the flagstone walkway. The librarian opened the door wide to greet her. Oren had no memories of Mavis Hardy ever smiling this way. Even in her saner days, long before killing her husband, she had always been the saddest woman in town.

In the course of his travels from bar to bar, Dave Hardy drove his pickup truck past the library to check for lights, a sure indication that his mother was not yet dead. The judge's Mercedes was parked out front, not an unusual sight, but Hannah Rice wasn't the only visitor. The third silhouette on the window shade had to be Oren Hobbs.

Dave's hands tightened around the steering wheel as he sped up to a record of twenty miles per hour while still inside the town limits. Out on the coast highway, he drove at real-world speeds. He was on the way to an anonymous saloon on the outskirts of a distant town, a small biker bar, where no one was ever friendly enough or sober enough to ask his name. It was a place where he could hunker down and do some serious drinking- drink after drink after drink.

Tonight, the library did not smell. That was different.

All the windows had been opened prior to the visit. Mrs. Hardy had even washed her hair for this occasion, and it was still damp when the three of them sat down at the reader's table. They were twenty minutes into the visit, and the woman had yet to utter any profanity. She looked so tired. And Oren noted other signs that this semblance of sanity was wearing on her-the grinding teeth and rigid body.

The librarian handed a few sheets of paper to Hannah. "I printed this up from that file you started the other day." She turned to Oren. "Hannah's been doing research on the Internet."

"So I heard." In these familiar surroundings, it was easier for him to remember Mrs. Hardy in pre-monsterhood days, stripped of bulk and muscle, a time when a thin, fragile woman had guided the Hobbs boys through their changing phases of westerns and science fiction, steering them into the better writers of each genre that took their fancy. Tonight, he recognized the effort she made only to smile at him and make simple small talk.

Hannah was absorbed in her computer printout. "I just love hard science." She folded the papers into the pocket of her dress and winked at Oren. "It'll come in handy later on-when you tell me I'm wrong about how the witchboard works."

"Poor Sarah." Mrs. Hardy resumed her perusal of the birder logs. "I've never seen these books before, but that's her handwriting." And now she answered an earlier question of Oren's. "We both went to UCLA. But I can't say I really knew her then. In my younger, skinnier days, I almost wasn't there. I swear I could walk between raindrops. A good-looking boy like you never would've noticed me-and neither would someone like Sarah.

We met at the university library. That was my work-study job when I was in school. Sarah wanted books on ornithology. Well, that was my hobby. I told her about some rare sightings in Coventry, birds that haven't been seen in fifty years. So she came to my dormitory for a look at my notes. It was like visiting royalty-the way people stared at that beautiful girl when she came in the door. That day we talked for hours and hours. I never spoke to her again, not on campus… My fault. I was shy. But Sarah always waved every time she saw me. I wasn't invisible anymore. At the end of that semester, I heard she got married and left school."