McCall was already irritated that he had no nice fresh cinnamon rolls for his breakfast. He'd been badly spoiled by the girl, and he knew it. It didn't stop his resentment. So he was in a fine mood already when Control arrived.

"What have you done with the girl?" he demanded, before his old friend was even across the threshold. "She's not answering her phone."

Control threw his hands up. "I haven't got her. You might ask your son where she is."

Robert scowled fiercely at him. "I hear you caught Raptor again."

"Did you hear how?"

"Superior intelligence?"

"Psychic intervention."

"Oh, please."

"Becky Baker."

Robert simply stared at him. "You are joking."

Control produced the file. "Ask Kostmayer. Becky Baker used to be Rebecca Galen. Born outside Lansing, Michigan . . . "

"How dare you," Robert spluttered, snatching the file away from him. "How dare you!"

"She told me where to find a terrorist base in the continental United States. Of course I ran a background check."

Robert took the file, unopened, and sat down. "What's in here, Control, that I really need to know? Is she any threat to my son?"

Control shrugged. "I doubt that she's a threat to anyone but herself."

"So why are you bringing me this?"

"I thought you'd want it."

"I don't."

"She knows I'm bringing it to you."

"Becky does?"

"Yes."

"How?"

Another shrug. "The way she knows everything else."

McCall stared at him. "I don't believe you."

"Read the file, Robert. Believe whatever you want." Control left without another word.

When he was gone, Robert left the file and got himself another cup of tea. He wandered around the living room, looking at the window, at the wall, anywhere but at the file. Then, swearing, he sat down and opened it.

When he had read it cover to cover, McCall sat back and closed his eyes. So much was so obvious, once you knew. And Control was right, she was probably no threat to anyone but herself. Most of what Robert had surmised about her was true, but there was so much that he had never expected . . .

Rebecca Galen had been born into a large and deeply Fundamentalist family in rural Michigan. She had enjoyed a normal, if somewhat restrictive, childhood. When she was eleven years old, she fell through the ice on a frozen pond and drowned.

She had been revived after twenty-two minutes. When she woke, she could see the future.

This was marginally accepted by her family and her community; they considered that she spoke prophecy, as any number of persons in the Old Testament had done. But in the ensuing year, it was less accepted. She spoke more often, less clearly, and often of matters that the adults would have kept concealed. She was reprimanded by her local church, and then by the national church, for speaking out of turn. Women, Robert gathered, were not encouraged to speak in this particular denomination, and young women were all but forbidden. The report did not say, but Robert surmised, that at about this time the foresighted girl had begun to - blossom.

A famous revivalist came through Lansing on the anniversary of her drowning. The Reverend Doctor Lawrence Masters met privately with the 'troubled' girl, and proclaimed to her family and to the church that she had been possessed by evil during her time in the pond. He also assured them that he could rid her of this evil. An ad hoc exorcism commenced the next day.

Details were sketchy, but Masters and the girl were left alone together for seven days, locked in a room with no windows, no food, only water, presumably fasting and praying. When they emerged, the reverend pronounced her saved. She was battered and bruised, terrified and completely silent.

She remained silent for eighteen months.

When she spoke, it was at a tent revival when Dr. Masters was speaking. They had led her to the altar, that he might lay his hands on her and cure her muteness. He did, evidently; her first words, screamed out for all the gathered congregation, were, "Please, God, don't let him rape me again!"

Masters denied everything, and by then there was no evidence except the testimony of a badly traumatized girl. Her family sided with Masters, saying that the evil that had possessed her had returned, bent on revenge. The girl fell into silence again, but she refused to go back to her home. At the insistence of the investigating sheriff, who did believe her, she was turned over to a psychiatric hospital in Lansing. She stayed there for nearly two years - so much, Robert thought, for recommending therapy - and before she was discharged, she and her social worker petitioned to have her named an emancipated minor. The family did not contest.

At sixteen, Rebecca Galen moved to New York City, got a job, and changed her name.

As a footnote to the file, Becky Baker had won various games in the New York Lotto sixteen times in her first two years in the city.

It wasn't really cold enough for a fire, but Robert built one anyhow, just so he had somewhere to throw the file.

"I think I lost her, Dad."

Robert glanced curiously at his son. "Becky?''

"Yes, Becky, who else?" The boy was pacing around the living room, rubbing his knuckles. "She came over last night, we had this big long talk - she actually talked to me, Dad, she told me everything about her past, everything that happened to her - she drowned when she was little, she was dead, clinically dead, and then she, um, she . . . "

"Became psychic," Robert provided.

"How did you know that?"

McCall shrugged. "I've . . . talked to people."

The boy seemed flustered. "Do you know about . . . about the preacher guy? That he molested her?"

Robert nodded. "Just since this morning. Although we had both suspected something of that sort, hadn't we? But Becky told you all of this? Of her own accord?"

"Yeah. Just out of the blue, she called me at work and had me meet her and said she had to talk - and she talked."

Because she wanted Scott to hear it from her, and not from Control, Robert thought. He nodded. Not exactly an uncoerced confession - but Scott didn't need to know that. "It sounds as if you're making great progress. What makes you think you're losing her?"

"She told me all this stuff, we talked half the night - but then she said she needed to take some time off. She said she needed to be alone for a while, to think things through."

"Yes, I imagine she does."

"But, Dad, we were getting so close! And now she doesn't want to see me!"

"That's not what she said at all, Scott." The boy sagged onto the couch. Robert went and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Scott, listen to me. You are very much an extrovert. Becky is just as much an introvert. You're tormenting yourself because you don't understand the way she thinks."

"I don't," his son agreed morosely. "I don't understand her."

Robert sat down next to him. "All right, son, listen. When you're upset, when you're angry or hurt, you express it - immediately and loudly. You stomp, you rant, you . . . "

"I do not!"

"You do, Scott. You express your anger, and you do it very clearly. Becky is the exact opposite. When she's hurt or angry, she directs it all inside. She becomes quiet, distant. She needs to get away somewhere, to be alone with her anger until she can deal with it."

"Like you do sometimes."

Robert paused. "Yes, I suppose I do - sometimes. Now the day may come when Becky will let you see her anger, her grief, when she'll let you comfort her. But that day is far, far down the road. And I think there will always be times when she will need to - to retreat, if only for a little while. It's no reflection on you, or on your relationship. It's just the way she is."

Scott thought about this. "It's really hard, Dad. I mean, I just want to go over there and kick the door in and . . . "

"And that would be exactly the wrong thing to do. If she's to learn to trust you, it will be because you've respected her requests. She's told you, very clearly, how she needs to be treated right now. She needs this time to herself. If you want to keep her - if you really care about her - then give her this time."

"I know you're right," Scott admitted. "I just . . . I don't want to listen."

"But you are going to listen, right?"

"Yeah. I guess." The boy shook his head. "But for how long, Dad?"

"For as long as it takes. She'll let you know when she's ready to see you again. It may be a week, or a month . . . "

"I'll go insane! I can't wait that long, I have to know she's at least all right . . . "

Robert patted his shoulder again. "All right, Scott. Listen. This conversation was last night? Let's give it until, oh, Tuesday. If you haven't heard from her by then, you let me know and I'll take her some chicken soup."

"What?"

"Chicken soup. Trust me. This will let her know that we . . . that you care about her, that you're worried about her, but that you're willing to give her time. And I can check up on her."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Scott," Robert said sincerely, "I would do anything for you."

The boy smiled for the first time since he'd come in. "Thanks, Dad." And then, "But Dad? When you get quiet, like Becky does, when you're really angry . . . it always comes out somewhere, doesn't it?"

McCall took a long, slow breath. "Yes, Scott, it does. But Becky's not entirely like me, either. It'll be okay." His mind was racing with this new possibility, thinking about what Control had said: she wasn't a danger to anyone but herself.

How badly had they cornered her?

He shook it off. No, she wouldn't bother telling everything to Scott if she intended suicide. She wouldn't have put herself through such a painful confession only to check out the next day. She had told him because she had to, to clear the way for their relationship to progress.

And too, having survived what she had, Robert doubted that even he and Mickey and Control combined could push her over the edge now.

Had he ever really thought that she was weak?

His son still looked worried. "All right, Scott, Robert said warmly. "It's quarter past one. Let me get my jacket and finish my tea, and then I will impart to you every morsel of wisdom about dealing with women that I have gathered in a lifetime of experience and observation. And then - we should have plenty of time to make a two o'clock show. All right?"

Scott smiled again. "You don't have to entertain me, just because I don't have a date."

"I know I don't. But if I spend one more day in this apartment, I shall go completely mad. Come on."

Scott was not one to consider revenge - but his father was. When he'd dropped the boy off at home and started some leftovers warming for his supper, he made a quick call to Jonah. "See what you can find out about this preacher," he requested, and gave him the name. "No hurry - but if you can get his current location I'd appreciate it."

Not two minutes later, Jonah called back. "What is this, a pop quiz?" he demanded.

"What are you talking about?"

"Got the Sunday Times? Religion section, page four."

Robert found the paper, fumbled it open while balancing the phone on his shoulder. Page four was an announcement of a harvest revival at the Faith Evangelical Church. The featured speaker was the Reverend Doctor Lawrence Masters.

"Thank you, Jonah," McCall said vaguely. If his friend replied, he didn't know. He was already putting down the phone, and reaching for his coat.

The revival was today.

Oh, God, Scott had been right, Robert thought frantically. All that anger had to come out somewhere, for Becky as it did for Robert. And Control, who had said she was only a danger to herself, what if Control was wrong? And what if all this confessing was so that she could kill Masters - and then probably herself - without a lot of lingering questions for those she left behind? He got his gun and checked it, tucked it into its holster, adjusted his coat, snapped his front door open . . .

Becky squeaked, and narrowly avoided knocking on his chest.

Robert stared at her. He'd been so sure she was across town already, preparing to commit - something awful. "Becky."

She didn't waste time with explanations. "Will you come with me?" she asked.

"I will."

The church didn't own enough land for a tent revival; the gathering was held in the fellowship hall, in the basement. The room was already packed when they arrived. The folding chairs held women and children, smaller children on the laps of larger ones. The side aisles were full of men and younger women. Only the center aisle was empty, giving Robert a clear view to the stage as they came in. A gospel choir was singing there, loud and upbeat. There were chairs behind the podium, but they were empty.

He kept a tight grip on Becky's arm, anxious not to lose her as she pushed through the crowd toward the front. She had been silent on the drive; she seemed dazed, almost in a trance, and now her body swayed, ever so slightly, to the music that filled the hall. What am I doing here? Robert wondered desperately. What is it that she expects me to do?

The choir finished, and the first speaker, the pastor of this particular church, came out and spoke. Robert ignored him. So did Becky. She had pushed her way to the outside wall, and was now moving steadily though the gathering toward the stage. Robert followed as closely as he could, but in the crush she slipped out of his grasp. She didn't seem to notice.

The crowd became impassable while he was still fifteen feet behind her. She had made it nearly to the front, only two or three people between her and the podium.

Damn, Robert thought, why didn't I check her for weapons?

The pastor finished; the choir sang again. The crowd became increasingly excited, electrified, united. They were all standing now, singing, shouting. Robert used the shift to get closer to Becky Only two or three feet now, he could almost reach her . . .

Doctor Masters came out. The hall fell silent. Robert reached desperately once more - and missed.

The girl was watching the podium, mesmerized, motionless as the evangelist began to speak. So was the rest of the crowd. McCall was simply, and very firmly, stuck.

Damn you all to hell, he thought viciously, though he didn't think in this particular circumstance it was likely to have any effect.

The sermon was, of course, on human weakness. The text was one that had always annoyed Robert, the one about taking the plank out of your own eye before you tried to remove the speck from your brother's. It had never struck him as quite so ironic as now. That this man, who had molested an innocent child entrusted to his care as a pastor, would dare to stand before so many people and preach on admitting one's sins - it was all Robert could do not to denounce him from the floor.

He began to hope that that was what Becky had in mind. But she made no move. Not a sound. How long, he wondered, would she be mute after this? How was he ever going to explain it to Scott?

Damn, damn, damn.

Masters completed his message and made an altar call. "All of you, who would come to God, who would be redeemed, all of you come now, come to me!"

Becky moved, as Robert had known she would. He tried frantically to reach her, and the crowd gave a little - no doubt thinking him desperate to be saved - but it was too late then. She was already being helped onto the stage by Master's oh-so-gracious assistants. She was already walking towards him. Slowly, steadily, still in her trance, crossing the space between them, and Masters was still making his call, hadn't even seen her . . .

Knife, Robert realized. She's a cook, she has no gun, but she has knives, lots and lots to chose from, and she wants to be close to him, she wants to feel his blood on her hands as he dies before his screaming flock . . .

Masters turned. And recognized her.

She was nearly on him now, and Robert was helpless to stop her. Even if he called out, the choir had started again, no one would hear him . . .

But her hands, miraculously, remained empty at her sides.

Masters bowed his head, threw both hands up in supplication.

She took the last steps, raised her hands and folded them over his. Just holding them there, at shoulder level. She spoke. Masters raised his head, incredulous, and answered.

Just another redemption, as far as the crowd knew, just the great Doctor Masters ministering to a lost young woman . . .

Masters was shaking his head now, tears streaming unchecked down his face, words tumbling from his mouth. Becky was speaking too, more calmly, more slowly. Her hands still covered his.

Robert McCall would have sold his soul to know what they were saying to each other. And to know where the damn knife was . . .

Some change came over her. She was suddenly taller, straighter, as if some great weight had been lifted from her. Her right hand came free, and Robert coiled, preparing to spring. But she still did not reach for a weapon. Instead, she reached out and touched the preacher's head on that side, just behind his ear. She asked a question. He answered. She spoke one more thing, and released him.

Masters fell to his knees at her feet, wailing.

Becky Baker stepped around him and came to the edge of the stage. She let McCall lift her down, let him all but carry her through the oblivious crowd and out the emergency exit. And in the dark, cool parking lot, with the crowd still singing behind the steel door, she let him hold her for a very long time. She was shaken, trembling, crying a little.

She was free.

When he could trust his voice again, Robert asked softly against her hair, "What did you need me for?"

"I was afraid to come alone," Becky admitted at once, just as quietly, her face nestled against his collar. "I have no good father of my own. So I had to borrow you."

Robert drew her tighter still, not wanted her to see the tears that had sprung into his own eyes. I am the best father you could find? he wondered. Because Robert McCall considered himself many things, many things, but very rarely this: a good father. "My poor, poor girl."

"No," she said firmly. "I know whereof I speak."

"I think you do not, little one," Robert insisted. "But if you will have it this way, I will not argue."

After a long time, he took her hand and they walked. "Isn't the car that way?" she asked.

"Yes. But I thought we'd stop for ice cream first."

"Ice cream?"

Robert chuckled. "There's a place just on the next block, where they make their own ice cream. An old-fashioned soda fountain. I used to take Scott there, when he was very small, for celebrations. Small victories, jobs well done, that sort of thing."

Becky smiled. Actually, genuinely, and without reservation, smiled.

As they walked, Robert remembered suddenly, sharply, the last time he's been here with Scott. The boy was eight, tall, skinny, serious. And Robert brought him here and bought him a banana split and told him that he was moving out of their home, probably forever . . .

They'd never come back. Scott hadn't asked; Robert hadn't offered. It had been their favorite place, before then . . . no, he had not always been a good father. He had not.

But joy rolled off the young woman at his side like waves, impossible to ignore or resist. He had not always been a good father, but he had been one tonight. And in a week or two, maybe he would invite Scott for ice cream and see if he could undo a little of that damage as well. It wasn't much, but it was a place to start.

He drew the girl's hand through the crook of his elbow. "You're free of him, aren't you?"

"Yes. Finally, yes."

"Can I ask - what you said?"

She considered for a moment. "I needed to know . . . if there were others. Because I was silent for so long, if others . . . "

"There weren't?"

"No."

They walked on a bit. The girl was practically skipping at his side, and Robert found himself full of light on her behalf. She was free.

"We could, you know, still seek some kind of prosecution . . . "

"No," she said, sobering. "There's no point. He has a tumor, here, in his brain." She pointed on her own head to the place she'd touched on the preacher. "He has only a few months to live."

"Did you know that before you came here?"

Becky hesitated. "Not that, no. But I knew . . . for a long time, now, I've known he was looking for me, that he wanted to see me. I was very frightened, at first, I thought . . . and then, even when I knew what he wanted, that he wanted to ask forgiveness before he died . . . I still didn't know . . . how I was going to come here alone . . . "

"You could have brought Scott with you."

"It would hurt Scott. He wouldn't understand, not like you do."

McCall chuckled. "Oh, you think I understand, do you? I don't think I clearly understand anything that's happened since I met you."

She patted his hand. "Does it matter, so long as it ended well?"

Gazing at her happy face, illuminated by the neon sign of an old ice cream parlor that he had all but forgotten, Robert decided that it truly did not.

Monday morning, not early, Scott had gotten as far as taking a shower and brushing his teeth and hair when someone knocked on his door. He left his towel around his neck, grabbed a pair of sweat pants off the couch, and jumped into them on his way to the door. Becky was there, looking nervous.

"Hi," he said, dragging her in and shutting the door behind her. "I'm so glad you're here. Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," she answered softly.

"You sure? I was worried about you."

"I'm sorry." She moved closer, took the two ends of the towel, and pulled his head down to kiss him. "I tried not to worry you."

"I know." Scott put his arms around her, then realized that holding her against his bare chest was probably over the comfort line. He took half a step back. "I was just making some coffee, do you want some?"

"No." She hadn't let go of the towel.

"Okay, um, let me put a shirt on and we'll go get some breakfast."

"No."

Talk about mixed signals, Scott thought. He shrugged. "What do you want to do then?"

Becky hesitated for a moment. Blinked, swallowed, bit her lip. And then smiled softly. Scott got the distinct feeling she was laughing at herself. "Becky?"

"Can we just . . . can we just go back to bed?"

Scott blinked. Swallowed. Bit his lip. Maybe the signals weren't that mixed after all. "You and me? Together?"

"Is that okay?" Now she seemed to be worried he'd turn her down.

"It's okay. It's great. If you're sure that's what you want to do."

She pulled the ends of the towel again, and kissed him deep and slow, her hands coming up to his shoulder, to the back of his neck. There was nothing at all uncertain in the kiss.

Scott McCall was much too well-mannered to make a lady ask twice for anything.

Robert listened to Mickey's story of the drowned girl's parents quietly, seriously. "Was she right?" he asked, when his friend had finished. "Does it make it easier to carry?"

Kostmayer shrugged. "I don't know. I guess so." He sighed. "She's a funny one, McCall."

"Becky? Yes. It's always the quiet ones." He stood and paced to the windows. It was a quiet day, turning cold outside again. "She took me with her yesterday, to confront her demon."

Mickey looked interested. "The one that hit her?"

"Among other things, yes."

"How'd that go?"

McCall's frown deepened. "She forgave him," he answered without expression.

"Oh," Mickey answered, just as flatly. Forgiveness wasn't his long suit; it wasn't McCall's, either. If it had been him . . . He stood up. "Anything for lunch?"

Robert nodded. "Soup. In the kitchen."

Mickey went and looked on the stove, and then in the refrigerator. Nothing. "Where?" he called.

"In the cupboard," Robert answered.

Mickey stepped back into the hall to look at him. "In cans? Did she break up with us?"

McCall laughed, startled out of his reverie. "No, Mickey, she's still our girl. She's just . . . found another hobby, I suspect."

"What could be better than cooking for us?"

Robert had a pretty good notion where the girl might be this morning - he had a father's instinct for that sort of thing, after all - but he didn't say anything. No point in disappointing Mickey any further today. "We could go to Pete's," he suggested.

"Yeah," the younger man agreed grudgingly. "Let's do that."

They went, the two men, bachelors again, out in search of a decent meal.

*The End*