Sedona
Thursday, October 30

The silvery disc of a nearly full moon kept Virgil O'Conner awake. He liked it that way. At eighty-one, he had long since decided that watching shades of darkness twist across the Arizona night was better than being in their grip and screaming himself awake.

"I'm sorry I took it," he whispered to the night. "Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry..."

The darkness didn't answer. It never had.

His heart faltered, skipped, and settled down. He let out a long breath that wasn't quite relief. He wanted to die, but not yet. Not until the dead forgave him for touching their sacred gold.

Neckrings of braided gold chains, as smooth and heavy and supple as he once had been.

Armbands as wide as his spread fingers, heavy gold covered with symbols so eerie and beautiful they raised the hair on his scalp.

Cloak pins as big as his hand, pins carrying the likeness of an animal, yet frighteningly human.

A mask that was more than human.

Shapes of gods or demons or dreams long dead.

Twenty-seven pieces of gold. Beautiful gold.

Deadly gold.

A chill condensed on his skin. Automatically he reached for the lap robe, but its soft warmth couldn't heat the freezing in the marrow of his bones.

He was a dead man screaming.

"No," he said hoarsely. "I didn't mean it! I never sold any of it, even when I needed money. I worked two jobs. Worked hard. I could have melted it all down or... or..."

His voice died into a whispery rasp. He knew the spirits that hounded him couldn't hear his words. He wasn't a channel. He couldn't reach his tormentors to explain his innocence.

Unless, just maybe, he held some of their gold in both hands. No gloves this time. Nothing to protect his flesh. Just his skin and potent gold.

The thought made him shudder. He had touched the gold once, long ago, with his naked fingers. He had never touched it that way again. He didn't even want to think about touching it. But he kept thinking about it just the same, reliving every black instant of the night so long ago when he had followed his dead great-uncle's instructions, borrowed a metal detector from military stores, and gone digging in Britain while the death throes of World War II echoed around.

The sacred oaks where neither Romans nor Angles dared to go. Nine hills. Six groves. Three man-rocks facing in. One spring. Three times three times three of gold.

He jerked his head sharply. He didn't want to remember. It made his heart twist as it had that night, pain lancing through every cell in his body, in his soul.

"Hold tight," he whispered to himself. "Just till tomorrow. Midnight. That's when they'll finally understand why I did it."

Or he would die.

He wasn't sure if he really cared which happened, life or death. He only cared that the gold stop killing him by inches.

"Hold tight. Tomorrow. Midnight."