Hidden Talents

place.”
    “I thought you'd never ask.”

    Caleb awoke the next morning from a restless sleep and wondered why the bed was moving. The obvious answer flashed into his head.
    Earthquake.
    He sat straight up, prepared to rush for the door. The bed swayed more violently, and Caleb belatedly remembered that Julius Makepeace's bed was suspended from the timbered ceiling by four heavy chains. The smallest movement caused it to shudder and sway. He wondered if he'd get seasick.
    He sprawled back against the pillows and gazed moodily at the gray dawn light as it filtered through the colorful stained-glass windows of the bedroom.
    Tentatively he eased one leg out from beneath the heavy pile of handmade quilts. He drew it back instantly. It was freezing in the Makepeace cabin. Apparently the embers of the fire he had managed to get going in the wood stove last night had died.
    The good news was that he was still in Witt's End, not thirty miles away in Bullington.
    Steeling himself for the chill, Caleb tossed aside the covers and got out of bed. He grabbed his carryall and headed for the tiny bathroom. Unfortunately, he'd left his robe and probably several other crucially important items behind in Seattle. Normally he packed carefully before a trip.
    Of course, he hadn't had a lot of time to prepare for this scenic jaunt to Witt's End, he reminded himself. The whole thing had been a spur-of-the-moment action for him. Completely out of character.
    He wondered if he had lost his mind.
    Caleb stalked into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower. He was startled to see that one entire wall of the thing was a plate-glass window. He glanced up and saw a skylight overhead. Apparently Makepeace liked the illusion of bathing in the woods. There was nothing to see but trees outside the window, but Caleb knew he was going to feel awfully exposed when he took his shower.
    While he waited for the water to get warm, he briefly glimpsed his own grim, unshaven features in the mirror. He quickly turned away from the image. Lately he had begun avoiding mirrors and other reflective surfaces. They sent a chill down his spine.
    He knew it was crazy, but for some reason he was half afraid that one day he would chance to look at a mirror or some other highly polished surface and not see anything at all. He wasn't sure that ghosts could see their own reflections.
    He got into the shower and tried to concentrate on a battle plan for the day.
    What in the name of hell was he doing here? This wasn't business. It never had been.
    In the cold light of dawn he forced himself to confront his real motives. The hot water cascaded over him, warming him as he gazed out into the forest. There was nothing to be gained by lying to himself. He hadn't come to Witt's End because of the unfinished contract, his professional reputation, or the possibility of future profits from a small-time mail order company.
    He had come to Witt's End because he wanted Serenity.
    And the feeling of being alive that she gave him.
    Forty minutes later, freshly shaven and dressed in jeans and a thick wool sweater, Caleb wandered out into the kitchen. It was colder than ever, but he did not want to fool around with the wood stove again. He opened cupboards until he found a canister of home-made granola. There was no milk in the empty refrigerator.
    It took several minutes to crunch his way through a bowl full of the dry nut and grain concoction. It was fortunate, he decided, that he had sound, strong teeth. He'd better remember to pick up some milk. His teeth were good but they weren't made out of steel.
    While he munched granola, he perused the art work that hung on the walls of the cabin. Most of the carefully framed pictures were lovingly detailed portraits of antique motorcycles. The chrome-plated monsters, gleaming and strangely majestic, had obviously been painted by a talented artist. Caleb peered at the signature on one of the pictures. Jessie Blanchard .
    The motorcycle paintings were separated by book-cases. Caleb glanced at a few of the spines on the shelves. James Joyce, Proust, and Milton shared space with Kerouac and Ginsberg.
    He finished the cereal, rinsed out the bowl, dried it and placed it neatly back in the cupboard. Then he picked up his jacket and went outside.
    The fog had faded to gray wisps. Standing on Makepeace's front porch, Caleb could make out Serenity's cottage through a stand of trees. He smiled faintly in spite of his mood, and recalled