“It’s all right, Uncle,” the younger man said, in the loud voice one used to speak to the hard of hearing. “No customers.”

The old man grumbled but returned his attention to the television and a morning game show.

The younger man moved to the front window and gazed out at the Mercedes only now pulling away. He watched it until it moved out of his sight, then returned to his place behind the counter. He glanced at the absorbed old man, then reached for the phone and punched in a long number.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said when the call was answered. “They’re on their way to the lake.”

It was nearly four that afternoon when Sarah came out of the cabin’s single bedroom. It was a rustic cabin only in the sense that it was constructed of logs and river rock; it had all the modern conveniences, including plenty of hot water Sarah had used in her shower, and a television connected to a small satellite dish on the roof.

The television was on, turned down low and tuned to MSNBC. But Tucker was watching another screen. He had his laptop set up on the coffee table and was obviously working on something. But he immediately looked up when Sarah came into the room.

“Working on the book you’re going to get out of this?”

“No, something else. You look much better.”

“A few hours’ sleep and a shower can do wonders,” she agreed. “Did you manage to get any rest?”

“A little.” He didn’t elaborate. “You should eat something.”

“You’re always trying to feed me,” she said, nevertheless heading for the corner of the great room devoted to the kitchen.

“Well, aside from the fact that the fit of your clothes says you’ve lost some weight recently—weight you didn’t need to lose—it’s also a good idea for people on the run to follow the soldier’s maxim. Eat when you can, because you never know when you’ll get another chance. Goes for sleep too. Basic survival training.”

Sarah didn’t reply to his comment about her weight; the too-loose fit of her clothing was obvious, and she knew it. Instead, she poured herself a cup of coffee and said, “I’m not really hungry, so I think I’ll wait awhile. If you got stuff for a salad we can have later, I’ll fix that.”

“I did.” He smiled slightly. “Need to keep busy?”

“Don’t you? What are you doing?” She came around the breakfast bar dividing the kitchen from the rest of the room and perched on the arm of an overstuffed chair at a right angle to the couch where he sat.

“Sleuthing.”

“Ah. And what are you sleuthing?”

Tucker smiled again. “The case of the missing psychics.”

Sarah thought about that, her gaze on the laptop’s screen. “There’s wireless Internet out here?”

“Via the satellite dish, so it’s not the fastest, unfortunately. But it gives us some access. You can find out almost anything if you know where and how to look, and I don’t mean just using Google. The real trick is having enough firewalls and other protection to ensure nobody else catches you looking.”

“Which you have.” It wasn’t a question.

“In these days of highly visible social networking, it pays to be at least a little paranoid, especially if you create intellectual property vulnerable to theft. I protect my work as best I can, and that includes whatever I happen to be researching.”

“So, have you found out anything?”

He leaned back on the couch and linked his hands together over his flat middle, frowning now. “So far, I have more questions than answers. I’ve been checking newspapers in major cities, looking for missing persons believed to have some kind of psychic ability. I’ve gone back more than ten years, so far, and checked half a dozen cities.”

“And?”

“Come see for yourself.”

Sarah moved over to sit beside him on the couch, keeping a careful few inches of space between them. She held her coffee cup in both hands, and looked at the laptop’s screen. There was what looked like a brief newspaper article accompanied by a photo of a young woman. She had to lean forward to read the article. It was dated March 17, 2008.

Carol Randolph, 16, vanished from her Phoenix home yesterday. She had apparently returned safely from school, since her backpack and other articles were found in her room, and the remains of her usual afternoon snack were in the kitchen. There were no signs of a disturbance, no indication that a stranger had forcibly entered the house. No ransom note has been found.

Police are asking that anyone with any knowledge of Carol and her movements yesterday please come forward. Carol is five feet seven inches tall, with long blond hair usually worn tied at the nape of her neck. She was last seen wearing a blue sweater and jeans.

Sarah looked at Tucker, very conscious of his nearness. “What makes you think she was psychic?”

“The program I’ve set up cross-references missingperson and accident reports with available police reports. They had added her school records to their files, and in those records were comments from several teachers about the girl’s ‘unusual abilities.’ Also a few highlights from a psychological profile I shouldn’t have been able to access; her parents took her to a shrink just before she vanished because they were worried about her, and had been since she was small. She ‘knew things’ she wasn’t supposed to know. Sound familiar?”

“Very.”

“Yeah. Anyway, the shrink believed she was a genuine psychic, recommended the parents take her to be evaluated at Duke University or one of the other legitimate programs set up to study parapsychology. They never got the chance.”

“Are you supposed to be able to access police reports?”

He smiled. “No.”

She decided not to ask. “I see. So—you did find a missing psychic.”

“Not just one.” Tucker leaned forward, his shoulder brushing hers, and tapped a few keys, then leaned back again so that Sarah could see the screen. Another article appeared, this one dated September 12, 2009.

Thomas Kipp, 30, has been missing from his Miami home since last Thursday. A popular teacher at Eastside High School, Kipp had been recently reprimanded by the school board for unconventional teaching methods after parents complained that he was spending too much time on New Age topics as well as such controversial subjects as parapsychology.

His students claim that Kipp had a “knack” for predicting the future, though no evidence exists to support this.

Police have no leads in the disappearance.

Sarah nodded slowly. “Another missing psychic.”

“There’s more,” Tucker said, and reached past her to tap a few keys briskly. On the screen appeared another newspaper article, this one dated August 12, 2006.

A Nashville man was killed yesterday when his car went out of control and crashed into a concrete embankment. Due to the resulting fire, tentative identification was confirmed by dental records. The deceased was Simon Norville, 28, a part-time carpenter who claimed to be a psychic and frequently augmented his income by reading tarot cards for tourists.

Alcohol is suspected as the cause of the accident.

“But he was killed,” Sarah said. “He isn’t missing.”

Silently, Tucker leaned forward and tapped keys again. This time, the article was dated April 24, 2007.

Philip Landers, 34, was killed Saturday when a friend’s twin-engine Cessna he was piloting crashed moments after takeoff near Kansas City. Landers, a struggling artist, earned extra income in carnival work, proclaiming himself to be a mind reader.

Alcohol is suspected as the cause of the crash.

“They’re eerily similar,” Sarah admitted, “but—”

Still silent, Tucker keyed up yet another article, this one dated July 2, 2010.

Beverly Duffy, 40, was killed yesterday when her Los Angeles home caught fire and burned to the ground. Ms. Duffy, locally famous for reading tea leaves and selling “love potions,” had recently and correctly predicted the San Jose earthquake, which had garnered her considerable media attention.