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front gate would remain locked and nobody would come in or out without the director’s personal knowledge.
    Talifero glanced at his Rolex. Almost time to make afternoon rounds, he thought, standing up and taking a light-gray linen jacket from the coat tree in the corner. After slipping into the jacket and straightening his black tie, he gazed with satisfaction at his reflection in the mirror by the door. At fifty-five, he was still quite trim and athletic. Far from making him look older, the prematurely white hair and mustache gave his tanned face a properly distinguished look.
    He had just crossed to the door when the phone rang. The Queenstown chief of police, Louis Barahona, was on the line.
    “I wanted to let you know that we’re finished with the investigation of that unfortunate boating incident,” the police chief related, the lilting island cadence of his voice somewhat tamed as it always was when he spoke to Talifero.
    “Yes?” The physician sat down in his comfortable leather chair again and crossed one linen-clad leg over the other.
    “The coroner has found the death to be accidental. Your houseboy was obviously drinking when he took the sailboat out.”
    “Thank you for taking care of it so expeditiously for me.”
    “It’s an honor to serve you, Dr. Talifero. And I have another piece of information you will be interested in.”
    “Go on.”
    “There’s a man in Queenstown who’s been asking questions about the clinic. He’s an American named Jed Prentiss. Do you know him?”
    “No. But I assume you’ll keep me informed of his movements,” the physician asserted.
    “Certainly. I’ve already assigned two of our best men to keep him under observation.”
    “Well, Captain, some day soon your diligence will be rewarded.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    * * *
    S IMONE HAD OFFERED her help, Jessica thought as she looked out the window, watching the tall black woman walk gracefully down to the corner and disappear from view. But she’d drawn the line at getting involved with Aubrey’s drug problem.
    Turning away, Jessica walked to the living-room couch and sat down heavily. There’d been a time when either she or Simone would have walked through fire to come to the other’s rescue. But that was in the past, and the breach was almost entirely her fault.
    When she’d gone away, Simone had written regularly at first. Jessica had let the intervals between her answers stretch longer and longer until the other young woman finally let the correspondence dwindle to a card at Christmas. Doubtless the withdrawal hurt Simone. But Jessica hadn’t been able to help herself. Her friend from the bayou country was too much a part of the past she wanted to forget.
    She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the séance Simone had mentioned. It hadn’t been an isolated incident. As teenagers they’d both devoured books on psychic phenomena and listened for hours to the country folks talking about strange goings-on in the swamps. They’d tried communicating with the spirit world, predicting the future, and visualizing faraway scenes with their mental powers.
    To their surprise and delight, some of it seemed to work, and Jessica had felt as if she were standing at the doorway to a rich new world. But when her parents, with their strong fundamentalist beliefs, had found out about the girls’ occult studies, their disapproval had been immediate and severe. Jessica’s mother had been furious at Aunt Edna for countenancing such behavior. They’d dragged Jessica to their new minister, the Reverend Peter Ashford, for several stern lectures and warnings. She’d taken an instant dislike to the man, and it had been many months later before she’d known the reason why.
    His warnings that she was being controlled by the devil were so terrifying that she’d tried to draw back from what was happening. But she was no longer in control. She’d felt her mind opening up like a radio receiver scanning the airwaves and pulling