Steve Shell

Now, despite its outward appearance, the little house was quite clean.

Someone had swept the dust from the corners of the front room and wiped down the kitchen countertops recently.

The double bed that had been squeezed into the cabin's single bedroom was laid with clean linens.

The small lavatory wedged into an old closet behind the kitchen, a more recent addition, clearly, appeared to have been scrubbed clean.

Crane still gave the place a cursory sweep and wiped down the chairs at the kitchen table wouldn't do for Miss Barrett to get dust on her skirt now.

But he and Mr. Churchman had visited the cabin not long ago, and they were always careful that their workspaces were scrubbed of any sign of their presence.

Holly Barrow stepped inside and dropped her handbag on the kitchen counter.

She hung her coat and hat on a hook by the door and took a moment to look around.

The quarters were a bit cramped, and it certainly lacked the creature comfort she was accustomed to, but the cabin would more than suit their present purposes.

One thing it did not afford her, however, was privacy, which was what she required at the moment, so she sent the two Holloman out to sit in the car for a while, until she'd done what was needed here.

Polly kicked off her shoes and settled herself on the floor of the cabin next to the blackwood crate.

She crossed her legs in front of her, making herself as comfortable as possible on the hardwood floor, and rested her hands lightly in her lap.

She focused on her breathing, slow and deep.

counting the seconds to balance each one in.

One, two, three, four, and out.

Two, three, four, until soon she had no need to count.

Polly's muscles relaxed.

The hardwood floor drifted away, and softly she began to chant.

The words were hard to pronounce, would have come impossible in a human tongue, but she had practiced them since childhood and had barely had to think about them anymore.

Her daddy had taught her very well.