"Could you bring her back to the present?"
Raven laughs. "When I say the past, Trina, I mean… like… a past life. With all this religious stuff she could be a fifteenth-century monk or a —"
"Or an angel?" cuts in Trina, remembering Janet insisting that she be called Daena.
"Daena!" exclaims Raven at the name. "Is that what she calls herself?"
"Daena XV to be precise."
"Wow!"
"What?"
"Trina. Don't do anything, OK? I've got to do some research. Talk to people. Wow! This is exciting."
"What is it?"
"Call you later. Wow! Daena."
"Hey, Mum," calls Rob as he flings open the kitchen door, "is the stick insect still in the basement? I wanna watch The Simpsons."
"Raven!" calls Trina into the phone, but she's gone, so she turns to her son and puts on a worried look.
"Actually. I think the stick insect, as you call her, has barfed all over the carpet, so you might not…"
"Oh, Christ!" spits Rob as he spins. "I'm goin' to Merv's."
"Good idea. Be home by ten —" she starts, but is cut off by the slammed door.
OK, says Trina to herself, and she returns to the computer in search of Daena.
By 4:00 p.m., Pacific Standard Time, Trina Button is no nearer discovering the true identity of her houseguest and is starting to worry about Rick's reaction when he returns. He's called several times during the day, but she let the answering machine take the brunt of his testiness. "Just let me know when she's gone," he said, firmly and finally, and Trina quickly wiped off the recording with the intention of swearing, "Blasted teenagers!" if he should demand to know why she didn't reply.
One more try, she says to herself as she heads to the basement suite with a pot of tea and a packet of Oreos.
"Can I go home now?" Janet demands as Trina opens the door.
"Of course," says the homecare nurse. "You're not a prisoner. But where is your home?"
"255 Arundel Crescent…" begins Janet robotically, but Trina puts up a hand.
"No. Start again. Your name is Janet Thurgood…"
Janet immediately jumps to her feet and holds her crucifix high, incanting, "I am Daena XV, queen of the angels… I am Daena XV, queen —"
"All right," soothes Trina, and she takes the agitated woman's hand, saying, "How long have you been Daena?"
Janet gives Trina a quizzical look, but she calms, as if sensing that she is being taken seriously, and says, "This is my fifteenth incarnation. I told you. I'm Daena XV. I'm Daena XV."
Trina grips the bony hand tightly, fearing that the woman is readying to run again. "All right," she says, "but what else do you know?"
There is a vagueness in her tone, as if she is mentally searching for more but isn't sure where to look for it as she replies, "Everything. I know everything."
"What about children, Daena. Did you have any?"
"We are all God's children."
"I know. But did you have any of your own?"
A smack on the head with a baseball bat might have caused a similar effect as Janet Thurgood's eyes pop and she stares rigidly into the past for a few seconds before slumping in a flood of tears.
That's interesting, Trina is thinking, with the sobbing woman bundled against her chest, when a loud knocking on the window stops the woman in mid-cry, and Trina, already startled by the outburst, leaps.
"Trina. Are you there?" calls a familiar voice, and Trina breathes a sigh of relief as she opens the curtains to find Inspector Mike Phillips and Sergeant Dave Brougham.
"I tried the front doorbell," explains the senior officer as she lets both of them in.
"I was just talking to Janet…" she begins.
"It's Daena," yells an agitated voice from behind her. "I keep telling you. It's Daena… Daena… Daena XV."
"I know," says Trina softly and she reaches out in an attempt to placate the woman.
"Don't touch me… don't touch me," yells Janet, and Trina backs off.
Mike Phillips steps in and guides Trina to the door leading to the main floor. "A word please, Trina," he starts. "She just fits the description of a woman the dead constable was inquiring about before he died, that's all," says Phillips once the basement door is closed on Janet.
"And you think she had something to do with it?" asks Trina worriedly.
Sergeant Brougham steps in officiously. "Someone or something scratched his hand. The guys at the morgue reckon it could have been long fingernails. Does she have long fingernails, Mrs. Button?"
"Yes. And so do I," spits Trina, waving hers in his face. "But that doesn't make me a killer."
"We're not saying she's a killer, Trina," tries Phillips with a friendly hand on her shoulder. "It's just routine inquiries. That's all."
"So. You could ask her now. She'll be scared if you take her to the police station."
"Trina. You're out of your depth as usual," suggests Phillips. "We'll just take her in for a few questions and then we'll get her some proper help."
"OK," agrees Trina after a momentary pause, then she spins on Sergeant Brougham and stabs him with a finger, saying, "No barbecues, all right?"
"What?"
"You know what I mean," she is saying as she opens the basement door, then she stops as she takes in the sight of an open window. "Oh. Damn. She's gone again."
A kind of peace has settled over the Button household by the time that Rick arrives and peers through the basement window on his way from the garage.
"It's all right. The crazy lady's gone," calls Trina as she spots her husband's shadow, and he enters to find her sitting in front of a blank television, toying with Janet's spiritual figurine.
"I told you she was a nut," says Rick in relief, but Trina's expression suggests that she has a different view.
"She's scared of something, Rick. Really scared."
chapter three
It's barely a twenty-minute run from Westchester to Dewminster on the bypass, but the aging bus driver steers with his knees and casually combs his hair with both hands as he takes the scenic route, meandering the wooded lanes and village roads like a Sunday excursionist, pausing to help passengers with loaded shopping carts and stopping for a "quick bite" at Moulton-Didsley's village store. "Best sausage rolls in Wessex," he loudly announces as he switches off the engine, and a couple other passengers take him at his word. Then it's on to Lower Mansfield, where he gives his face a once-over in the mirror and detours for Molly Jenkins. "It won't take a sec," he calls as he trundles the thirty-seater up a rugged cart track to a thatched cottage. "Only the poor old soul's going to the doc's in Dewminster."
Daphne eyes Mrs. Jenkins cynically as the elderly, though apparently agile, woman boards without assistance, whispering to the driver, "Thanks ever so, Bert," as she lays a friendly hand on his arm.
That's interesting, thinks Daphne, noticing that neither fare nor ticket changes hands, and her skepticism deepens as the new passenger makes a space for herself in the front seat by squeezing a toddler onto her mother's lap.
"There's plenty of room at the back," mutters the young woman angrily, but Mrs. Jenkins knows her place and is determined to fill it.
"I'll be all right here, luv," she insists as she removes her hat to signify that she is settled, and she