The very idea of yet another vast, inexplicable, and secretive conspiracy sounded so absurd that the tendency was to laugh or shrug it off, or at the very least greet each new conspiracy theory with a roll of the eyes and patent disbelief. You could pile the facts one on top of the other, list a long string of events too similar to be coincidence, and come up with a neat (if bizarre) theory to explain it all—and there was absolutely no concrete evidence to back up your claims.

Even more, there was no explanation, no reason you could offer to add weight to the theory. Psychics were being taken. Why? Who was taking them? Where were they being taken?

And—oh, by the way—how come nobody but you noticed them being taken?

For something so vast and long-lived, this thing had left few tracks for anyone to follow and no fingerprints at all. There was no clue as to who was behind it. No clue as to the reasoning or purpose behind it. No evidence other than speculation, and precious little of that.

There was just this growing list of dead and vanished people whose only connection to one another was the fact that each was reputed to have some sort of psychic ability. And in most cases, even that connection was very nebulous for the simple reason that psychic ability was difficult, if not impossible, to prove.

Tucker was also just beginning to realize that, one way or another, he and Sarah were nearing journey’s end. September was all but over. Whatever Sarah had foreseen for herself, it seemed clear that the conclusion was due to take place sometime in October, possibly in the first few days of the month.

And in, apparently, a little town called Holcomb. A town where something had ended, or would end.

Sarah’s life?

Tucker rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers, vaguely conscious of the dull ache there. He felt damned helpless, and it wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to. In most areas of his life, success was a frequent if not constant companion, but he had one very bad failure haunting him, and he was beginning to fear that Sarah would be another.

Why the hell did he always fail the women in his life?

The question was too painful, and he pushed it away. God knew there were plenty of other questions just as pressing. Like the question of what awaited them in Holcomb. A face-to-face confrontation with the other side? The ending Sarah had foreseen, her own death?

Tucker leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Sarah. Too much depended on her. Too much weight lay across shoulders too frail and inexperienced to carry the burden. In the next room, she lay virtually unconscious, drained by the effort of holding her own with another psychic, and when she woke he would have to push her to do it again.

I’m sorry, Sarah. I thought I could keep you safe, that I could find out who’s behind this, but it’s beyond my ken. I’m not sure I can protect you anymore. I don’t even know how to help you. All I know how to do is watch…and wait…and push you toward some ending I’m terrified will be final…

The sound of the bedroom door opening brought his head up, and he looked at Sarah as she stood blinking drowsily in the doorway. For once, she had not put on a robe, and the white sleep shirt she wore made her look very small, very young, and almost ethereal.

“What?” she asked.

He shook his head slightly and only then realized what had happened.

“Didn’t you call me?” Her eyes were no longer as dark as they had been, the pupils normal, and her voice was slowly losing the sleepiness.

“No.” He drew a breath. “But I was thinking about you.”

She frowned for a puzzled moment, and then her gaze slid away from his and she came a bit farther into the room to sit down on one end of the couch. “Oh. Then obviously, I was just…dreaming.”

“I don’t think so.”

She sat bolt upright, her fingers tangled but still in her lap, her head bent. “Don’t you?”

“No.”

Sarah shook her head just a little. “No. Neither do I. It’s getting even stronger. It doesn’t go…dormant…when I sleep anymore. I was asleep, not even dreaming, and…and I heard your voice very clearly. You said, ‘I’m sorry, Sarah.’ It woke me up.”

Tucker wanted to go to her but held himself still. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

She looked at him, expressionless, but didn’t allow him to change the focus. “I’m sorry this bothers you so much.”

“What?”

“This situation. Me. You aren’t responsible for me, Tucker. There’s no reason to feel guilty if…if I don’t make it.”

“You’re going to make it.”

She ignored that. “And I don’t mind that I make you uncomfortable. Really, I don’t. It’s unnerving for me to find your thoughts in my head; it must be horrible for you to find them there.”

“Sarah, you don’t make me uncomfortable. I’ve been…caught off guard more than once, but if I gave you the impression—”

“You keep forgetting.” Her smile was twisted. “You’re talking to a psychic, Tucker. You’ve been very good at—at guarding yourself these last days, but I know damned well that you’ve seen or sensed this alien thing in me. This thing that’s getting stronger and doesn’t sleep now.”

“There’s nothing alien in you. Unusual, sure. But your abilities are a part of you now, Sarah. We both know that.”

She shrugged. “If you say so. All I know is that I’ve made you uncomfortable. And will again. And I want you to know that I really don’t mind if you need to keep some distance between us. I even—” She broke off abruptly.

“Want me to,” he finished.

“Expect you to.” Her gaze was steady. “I don’t want my life or…or my soul on your conscience, Tucker. I don’t want you to believe you could have done more, or something different, to change what’s going to happen. I don’t want you to carry that burden.”

“What have you seen?” he asked slowly.

“Nothing new. Except…a kind of clarity. The struggle with Neil Mason seems to have stripped something away. It all seems so clear to me now, so inevitable. I know that what’s going to happen is going to happen soon. Very soon. And I know that you’re going to blame yourself for what happens. You’ll think it was because of some choice you made, some decision that you could have made differently. But you’ll be wrong, Tucker. There’s nothing you can do to change what’s going to happen to me. Nothing.”

“Because of destiny.” His voice was flat.

“Because a sequence of events was set in motion months ago, long before I met you. The sequence has to play itself out. You can’t stop it.”

“I can damned well try. And so can you.”

“No, I can’t. I know that now.”

“Goddammit, Sarah, don’t you give up on me. Not now. We’ve come too far for that. You said you needed my confidence, my belief that we could change the future. I still believe that.”

“I don’t think so.” She hesitated, then added quietly, “How can you even look to the future when you’ve spent your entire adult life chasing the past? How can you face one when you haven’t finished with the other?”

“Where are they?”

“Next door.”

“You don’t ask for much, do you?”

“This is as close as I could get. Can you do it, or not?”

“Yes. But it’s going to take some time.”

“Then go ahead.”

Tucker wanted to deny her accusation. He wanted to change the subject, to once more avoid the painful memories and painful admissions he would have to reveal to her. To push it away, turn away, as he had so many times since he had met Sarah. But somehow, in this quiet room in the quiet hours before midnight, with so much uncertainty and possible violence lying just ahead of them, somehow he could avoid it no longer.

“You want me to ask you about Lydia,” he said.