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forward, please.”
    She moved toward Joe and he turned her around to face the crowd. He kneeled next to her andpointed toward several short dark hairs on her brown slacks.“Look. And none of the hairs are higher than your shins. It's a small dog with short dark hairs. A Scottish terrier is the most popular dog fitting that description, so she may have guessed.” Joe stood up.“I'm not saying this is how she did it. I can't prove that. But I do think it's important for people to know that there are possible explanations other than psychic ability.”
    The guests were silent. Talman still looked mad as hell. Carla and Carla stood at the rear of the crowd, lips pursed, and shifting uncomfortably. The only one who didn't look uncomfortable was Monica. She raised her champagne glass to Joe and downed the rest of her drink.
    Glen Murphy adjusted his headphones and listened to the percussion track again. It was almost four in the morning, and he'd been at the mixing console since noon the day before. He was already four months late in delivering his new R&B album,
Night Riot,
to the label, and they were pressuring him to finish it by the end of the week. Whenever he thought it was done, there was another background vocal to be tweaked or guitar riff to be rerecorded.
    He'd practically been living at the Peachtree Summit Studios, the facility where he'd produced all of his albums for the past nine years. His most recent work,
Street Meat,
had won him Grammy nominations in the R&B vocal and producing categories, and he knew that a lot of people were waiting to judge his follow-up.
    Not until it was ready, dammit.
    He yanked off the headphones and tossed them onto the console. The percussion track still didn't sound right, and he didn't know how to fix it. Shit.
    Murphy stood and shuffled out of the sound booth. Things would be clearer after a few hours'sleep. Maybe. He hadn't slept well lately, with those whispering voices he thought he heard every night. Probably from all the speed he'd been popping.
    He looked at the glass-paneled vending machine in the lobby, but all the good stuff was gone. He'd cleaned it out of Kit Kat bars, Hostess cupcakes, and Lay's Sour Cream& Onion potato chips.
    “
Glen Murphy …
”
    The voice again. It was coming from directly in front of him.
    “
Glen Murphy …
”
    He went still.
    The voice again. The same whispering voice he'd been hearing for days. He backed away from the vending machine.“Who is it? Where are you?”
    “
Come with us….
”
    He glanced around, but he was alone in the studio lobby.
    “
Come with us, Glen Murphy….
”The voice now came from behind him.
    Gotta get the hell out of here.
    Murphy ran for the door. Locked. He fumbled for his keys.
    “
Glen Murphy …join us now.
”
    He found the key, shoved it into the lock, and turned. He pushed the door open and ran into the studio's rear parking lot. The voices stopped.
    Thank God. He ran through the narrow parking lot toward his Jaguar, parked alongside the rear of the studio. He scratched his chest. He'd developed a bizarre-looking rash there, and it was itching like crazy.
    Keep going, man. Don't let the voices catch up.
    Another sound. A low metallic roar at the parking lot entrance, at the top of a long slope that rose to the street.
    Definitely time to lay off the pills.
    Another clanging sound, then a soft rumble from the top of the slope. He glanced up. In the shadows of the parking lot, it appeared that a large wall had suddenly been erected at the entranceway.
    It began to move toward him.
    Jesus. The wall, or whatever the hell it was, almost spanned the width of the narrow lot. It moved faster, its groans and sharp, high-pitched squeaks echoing off the building.
    Murphy leapt for the car door, fumbling for the key-chain remote. Where in hell was that unlock button? He pressed them all. The trunk popped open and the panic alarm sounded. The siren blared in his ears as he finally pulled open the door.
    The roar