The two spent most of the day working leisurely in the garden. The spring on her property, it seemed, never went dry, so the possibilities of things she might do with her garden were well-nigh endless. Eli sat down at one point and drew some gorgeous sketches for her, depicting things she'd told him she wanted done. He had a spectacular gift with a pencil and sketchpad she'd never before realized.

By early afternoon, after an unhurried lunch, the two were spreading pea gravel across the area between the barn and the driveway, building a broad path to where she intended to place her pasture gate. As they piddled about with the task, they'd chatted, laughed, and argued about any manner of things. Her thoughts turned time and again to the paranormal, as they so often had recently, and she found herself thinking of the morning's conversation about Eli's demon friend.

"Do you think any of that's true?" she asked.

"Sure, it is. Natural swimming pools provide their own filters, though I don't think you'll need it. The spring water is pretty clean." They'd spent the last twenty minutes discussing such a scheme.

"Nooo ... I mean what we were talking about this morning, that manuscript you read."

"Regensburg IX? It's a beautiful yarn if it's nothing else. Whoever put it together was a talented writer and a gifted storyteller."

"Sort of like you?"

"Hardly."

"But do you think it's true?"

"I stake out the same position on it I did with El Chupacabra. I neither believe it nor disbelieve it. And I won't do either until I've seen pretty convincing proof one way or the other. I've seen strange things in my life, but I refuse to let myself fall for every fairytale that comes along. We've talked about this. How does anybody know anything is true?"

"I get that," she said absently. "You know things are true either because you've experienced that thing yourself, or you take it on the authority of someone you trust ... someone who can establish proof to your satisfaction."

He nodded and smiled. "There are, I don't remember, fifteen or twenty Regensburg documents, all dating from about the mid to late thirteenth century and possibly written by the same hand or hands, and hardly any academic or scholarly work has been done on any of them. In fact, a few are still locked up in some vault at the Vatican."

Eli leaned against his shovel, as if again deep in thought. "There's a lot of internal consistency in the R. IX manuscript. It reads clearly and honestly, doesn't contradict itself, and paints a picture that sounds lucid and rational, not like the rantings of some crazy monk. In fact, it sounds positively secular, which probably should be a strike against its authenticity. But that tone appeals to someone like me, to any modern scholar if truth be told."

"But," he continued, "there's always a 'but.' As near as I can figure, the manuscript has been in the hands of at least twenty people since it was written. I know that because those people wrote about it or talked about it with friends who, in turn, recorded the conversation."

"I even found short quotes from the manuscript that were published in other sources. So, I know R. IX isn't a complete fabrication. But the quotes I found were short, and as far as I know, no copy was made of the manuscript earlier than thirty years ago. That means there isn't much to compare it to for authenticating. That's partly why most scholars who study such things feel it's either been heavily altered by one or more of its previous owners, several of whom were total scoundrels or zealots, or this version is a near-complete fake, fabricated by a modern forger who knew the material well enough to pull it off convincingly."

"Which do you think it is?"

"Kate, I haven't thought about this stuff since grad school. Nobody is more surprised than me I that remember as much as I do."

"But? ... always a 'but.'"

"I'd like to think the manuscript is real .... But, even if it is real, the story it tells might still be fanciful nonsense. But that's okay for me, because it was one of the most fascinating books I've ever read, and I'm grateful I had the chance to read it and write about it."

"Oh ... poop. Now I feel a little silly wondering about it."

"Don't. You have no idea how many sleepless nights I spent thinking about that thing when I was in grad school, asking those same questions. Part of me wants to believe ... part of me always has. But why fret about it? Kate, my little Dove, suspending disbelief about the exceptional or the outrageous, choosing neither to believe nor to disbelieve something absent proof, can be an incredibly liberating experience. You should try it."

"I shall," she said in her most formal stage voice. Yet, his talk inspired yet another moment of candor from her. "But I find myself thinking about this stuff a lot. I'm a little afraid that now I've finished sorting my life out that it'll start filling all my spare time ... and I know that sounds like a First-World problem." She sighed. "And I know I'm the luckiest person in the world. I'm bemoaning again, aren't I?"

"A little bit, but it's so damn becoming on you."

"Oh, fucker ... are you making fun of me again? ... during a moment of spontaneous and heartfelt candor?"

"A little bit."

"Bucko, I'm a woman of property now, who's holding a shovel. I got a hundred and seven acres, and I can bury your cold, dead body on any one of them."

It was a tad stronger than her usual threat, but Eli stepped in and with either hand gently squeezed the biceps of each of her arms. "With puny little guns like those, you couldn't dig a hole deep enough to keep a scrawny, half-starved Chupacabra from digging me back up. The law'd be on you before the end of the day."

"Jackass, I go to the gym six days a week." She suddenly found herself grabbing Eli's thick arms and futilely tussling to pull him off balance. A moment later, she relented, stepped in, and pressed her mouth against his.

She never figured out whether she'd been possessed by a demon at that moment. Smashing her mouth against his was something she hadn't even thought about doing; it simply happened. But once she started, she couldn't will herself to stop. It was such a perfect sensation about which everything felt right, absolutely everything, from his taste and his smell to the feel of his hands on the small of her back.

They stood that way for some time, and she only stepped away after hearing the beep of a car horn followed by the crunch of tires on gravel. When she did relent, Eli's face was a mask. His eyes were calm, but he wore an innocent smile that was in no way gloating or teasing. She would have preferred that. At least then she would have known what to think. Neither said a word but turned instead to greet Leona Munson.

"Not interrupting anything, am I?" the smiling woman called from her car window.

"It's good to see you, Leona. What brings you out this way?"

"Well," she drew out the word, stepping from her car and putting on her hat as she did. "I got ... I don't know if it's good news or bad news, least not for you. Ted Phelps is dead."

"You're kidding," Kate nearly laughed. She knew it was wrong. "I'm sorry ... it isn't good news."

"Yeah, well," the tall woman continued, "there's mixed opinions on that. Anyway, he was mucking out a stall this morning, and a sorrel he owned up and kicked him in the head."

"I told you," piped in Eli, "those animals are perfect killing machines."

A dark thought suddenly clutched at Kate, but she buried it and continued with a smile. "My friend here is a scaredy cat around horses."

"Well, sir, you've come to the wrong part of the country," said the realtor. "And I won't keep you any longer. I was driving by and thought you might want to know."

"Leona, please, give my regards to his family."

"Ted didn't have much family," the older woman said, "which is probably good news for you. It's unlikely that suit he filed against you will go on. Most of what he owns will go to some cousins out of state, who'll probably sell out. That claim he made against you was always a loser, anyway. He was just looking to bully you into giving him something. He was like that."

Leona got back in her vehicle and fired the engine. Her window was down, and she dropped out an elbow. Kate moved closer to say goodbye.

"Did the poor man have any friends at all?" she asked on an impulse.

"He had some. Me and him always got on." Leona sighed. "But, then again, I never owned anything Ted wanted. You folks have a good day."

"You too."

After Leona's car had gone past the bend in the drive, Kate gave rein to that dark thought that had assaulted her seconds before. She looked over at Eli, and he must have seen something in her eyes. She couldn't speak at first.

"Eli ... did ...," she finally managed to utter.

"Kate? Seriously?" There was a look of shock and disbelief on his face. He clearly knew what she was thinking. He went on more gently. "I've been with you here all day."

She suddenly felt lightheaded, and it took her some moments to catch her breath. When she finally did, it came to her Eli was at her side supporting her. There was the most tender look in his eyes.

"Why don't you come sit down for a while."

It wasn't a question, and he led her back to the house and fetched her a glass of water. It was the closest Kate had ever come to fainting. It took her several drinks of water before she could speak. Eli's reassuring form knelt beside her the entire time.

"I'm sorry," she finally was able to rasp. "What the fuck has gotten into me? I know you didn't have anything to do with Ted Phelps. A horse kicked him ... and I've been thinking way, way, waaayyy ... too much about demons and gobbly-gook."

"No more spooky stories for you, scaredy cat."

"Agreed and guilty." She felt a shiver.

"Here, put this on."

She looked down and saw he'd lifted the straightjacket from where she'd left it hanging on the back of the kitchen chair. It was one of the few mementos she'd salvaged from her home in LA, something to remind her of Otto—one she thought apropos—and the sight of it on her shoulders caused her to burst into laughter.

"You are an asshole," she wheezed breathlessly a minute later, "making fun of me when I'm down."

He had an arm around her and gave her a squeeze. "Are you feeling normal now?"

"I think so ... whatever that is. I'm sorry ... again. I know you're not a demon."

"I got an idea. Why don't you take a little nap, and I'll finish spreading the gravel? Tonight, no scary or spooky or paranormal stories. After dinner, we'll make some popcorn and watch that show you like so much."

"Murder Bird?" she breathed excitedly.

"That one. We'll have a Murder Bird marathon tonight."

She suddenly was so excited that she hopped to her feet, tossed the jacket on the chair, and gave him a peck on the cheek before running into the main room to dive headfirst into bed.

It only then struck her that she'd kissed her best friend, and not just her typical cheek peck. It occurred to her further that her meltdown had enabled her to dodge what doubtless would have been a creepily awkward moment or ten. Yep. Every dark cloud, she thought as she slipped off to sleep. I'll deal with that when I wake up.