So it was Burke Cameron. Had he driven all the way to Warrenton from the office after we spoke?  I hoped my glare was sufficiently daunting. “What are you doing here?”

      “The same thing you’re doing. Having dinner.” He extended his hand to Ali. “Mr. Ahmed, nice to meet you. I’m Burke Cameron, Ms. Prescott’s employer. I hope she’s helping you locate the ideal home.”

      I detected a thick serving of sarcasm in his voice.

      Ali accepted Burke’s handshake and returned the pleasantries. “She has been most helpful, and the dinner was excellent.

      Burke consulted his watch. “Glad to hear it. May I suggest that you hurry on your way to the next appointment. The sun sets shortly. You want to arrive during daylight to get the best impression.

      “By all means,” Ali moved dutifully ahead to the entranceway where a silver bowl filled with mints caught his attention.

      Bristling, I turned to Burke. “Do you plan to follow us there, too, to make sure we arrive safely?”
His eyes teased me. “Why would I interrupt my meal to follow you, Ms. Prescott, when my primary concern is your ability to make a sale?”

      I persisted. “Do you ordinarily come this far for dinner?”

      “If I told you I lived nearby, would you believe me?”

      “Not in a pig’s eye!”

      Instead of firing me on the spot, he laughed aloud and squeezed my arm. “Good for you! Don’t believe anything you hear. And keep those blue eyes wide open. I’m glad you’re on our team.”

      Tossing my employer a look that teetered between astonishment and respect, I joined Ali. As we left the restaurant, I sensed Burke’s eyes burning into my back and wrestled with the recurring feeling that I was being manipulated as surely as if I were a puppet on a string.

      Crestmont was situated at the base of the Broken Hills, the tantalizing ridge of blue that once beckoned settlers into the untamed wilderness. I drove purposefully along the Little River Turnpike, determined to arrive before the sun dipped behind the hills. Turning onto a side road, I was unprepared for an explosive report from the rear tire.

      “Oh no!” I steered onto the shoulder.

      “Sounds like trouble,” Ali said. He got out to inspect the problem and called back, “It’s a flat tire. You must have gone over something. Slashed the tire right through.“ 

      “What can we do? I didn’t see any service stations along the way.“

      “If you have a spare, I’ll change it, but it’ll take time.”

      I joined Ali at the rear of the car and unlocked the trunk. It popped open to reveal a spare tire and tools.

      “Exactly what we need,” Ali said.

      “While you’re taking care of that, I’ll call Crestmont so the owner knows we haven’t forgotten our appointment.” I rummaged through my purse, then searched the seat and length of the floorboard before panicking. “I can’t find my phone. I’m certain I replaced it after speaking to the office.” 

      Ali seemed unperturbed, but I felt isolated and inexplicably frightened. Now I wished that Burke Cameron had followed us. Summoning what common sense was still available, I mounted the embankment to attract attention and flag a passing motorist. Not one car appeared while I waited, only a military helicopter. The whir of its rotors overhead was deafening. As it moved away, it nearly skimmed the roof of a stone church perched on a rise no more than a hundred yards distant, then disappeared from sight. Salvation! I called back to Ali, “I’ll run over to the church to see if there’s a pay phone in the lobby.”

      “Suit yourself,” he said. “Be careful crossing the road.”

      I scurried across the highway and along the shoulder past the historical marker: Broad Run Church Established 1742.  Mounting the bank, I reached a path that cut through a graveyard. Overhung with willow trees, their transient roots thrusting wildly through the soil, the graveyard already was shrouded in shadows comfortable only to the inhabitants of the crude coffins beneath. Some of the headstones stood askew, misplaced by tree roots seeking solace from a stream, its banks populated with peep toads broadcasting their mating calls in chorus.

      To the west, a great red ball suspended between the horizon and ebony nether world of forested hills was sinking rapidly, leaving only black outlines etched against the brilliant backdrop to verify the existence of the trees and the church.

      A catbird perched on the stone cemetery wall squawked a warning to me before winging off to its nest. From the sanctuary of the church eaves, a mourning dove’s doleful cry seemed to call, “Oooooo, Amanda Prescott, Oooooo.”

      I shivered. Stumbling over a trailing honeysuckle vine, I grabbed a tilting headstone for support. The cry came again, nearer.

      “Oooooo, Amanda Prescott.”

      My heart pounding, I inched toward the building, all the while chiding myself for my runaway imagination. The headlights from a car on the highway flashed by, enhancing the eerie twilight. I was determined to locate a telephone, whether or not local ghosts were stirring and had just reached the final row of tombstones when I saw him.

      A statuesque figure, garbed in what appeared to be a long black cloak, moved fluidly across the footpath directly ahead.

© 2005 Emily Pritchard Cary. All Rights Reserved. Contact Emily Cary at