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the sofa; two were responsible for the noises that had drawn her into the living room, and the other three were those that she had seen popping off the picture hooks. She put them back where they belonged, then slid the sofa into place.
    A burst of high-pitched electronic noise blared through the house: Aiii-eee . . . aiii-eee . . . aiii-eee . . .
    Vivienne gasped, turned. She was still alone.
    Her first thought was: Burglar alarm.
    But the Evans house didn't have an alarm system.
    Vivienne winced as the shrill electronic squeal grew louder, a piercing oscillation. The nearby windows and the thick glass top of the coffee table were vibrating. She felt a sympathetic resonance in her teeth and bones.
    She wasn't able to identify the source of the sound. It seemed to be coming from every comer of the house.
    "What in the blue devil is going on here?"
    She didn't bother picking up the knife, because she was sure the problem wasn't an intruder. It was something else, something weird.
    She crossed the room to the hallway that served the bedrooms, bathrooms, and den. She snapped on the light. The noise was louder in the corridor than it had been in the living room. The nerve-fraying sound bounced off the walls of the narrow passage, echoing and re-echoing.
    Vivienne looked both ways, then moved to the right, toward the closed door at the end of the hall. Toward Danny's old room. .
    The air was cooler in the hallway than it was in the rest of the house. At first Vivienne thought that she was imagining the change in temperature, but the closer she drew to the end of the corridor, the colder it got. By the time she reached the closed door, her skin was goose-pimpled, and her teeth were chattering.
    Step by step, her curiosity gave way to fear. Something was very wrong here. An ominous pressure seemed to compress the air around her.
    Aiii-eee . . . aiii-eee . . .
    The wisest thing she could do would be to turn back, walk away from the door and out of the house. But she wasn't completely in control of herself; she felt a bit like a sleepwalker. In spite of her anxiety, a power she could sense—but which she could not define—drew her inexorably to Danny's room.
    Aiii-eee . . . aiii-eee . . . aiii-eee . . .
    Vivienne reached for the doorknob but stopped before touching it, unable to believe what she was seeing. She blinked rapidly, closed her eyes, opened them again, but still the doorknob appeared to be sheathed in a thin, irregular jacket of ice.
    She finally touched it. Ice. Her skin almost stuck to the knob. She pulled her hand away and examined her damp fingers. Moisture had condensed on the metal and then had frozen.
    But how was that possible? How in the name of God could there be ice here, in a well-heated house and on a night when the outside temperature was at least twenty degrees above the freezing point?
    The electronic squeal began to warble faster, but it was no quieter, no less bone-penetrating than it had been.
    Stop, Vivienne told herself. Get away from here. Get out as fast as you can.
    But she ignored her own advice. She pulled her blouse out of her slacks and used the tail to protect her hand from
    the icy metal doorknob. The knob turned, but the door wouldn't open. The intense cold had caused the wood to contract and warp. She put her shoulder against it, pushed gently, then harder, and finally the door swung inward.
     
     
     
     

6
     
    magyck! was the most entertaining vegas show that Elliot Stryker had ever seen.
    The program opened with an electrifying rendition of "That Old Black Magic." Singers and dancers, brilliantly costumed, performed in a stunning set constructed of mirrored steps and mirrored panels. When the stage lights were periodically dimmed, a score of revolving crystal ballroom chandeliers cast swirling splinters of color that seemed to coalesce into supernatural forms that capered under the proscenium arch. The choreography was complex, and the two lead singers had strong, clear voices.
    The