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existence who could befuddle me in that manner."

Mills started giggling, saw Zanita's expression, and quickly placed a hand over

her mouth.

"What is so funny? You are supposed to be my friend."

"It's just that I suddenly got this mental picture of some man coming along,

tricking you into playing the shell game, and when you don't guess correctly,

throwing you over his shoulder and hauling you off to bed."

Their eyes met and they both burst out laughing.

"Talk about slight of hand…" This caused another round of laughter.

"Please—" Zanita gasped, holding her sides.

"The hand," Mills giggled, "is quicker than the eye!"

"Stop!"

"N-now you see it—" Mills couldn't finish, she was laughing so hard.

Zanita groaned. "That's terrible."

Mills wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Oh, I needed that. Didn't you

say something about a seminar tonight?"

"Yes, thanks for reminding me—I need to get down to the student union at

Hampshire to sign up for it." Zanita reached for a cookie on the table.

Mills automatically joined her. "I hate these damn things."

"Then why do you buy them?"

"Because they're so good." She took a big bite out of the cookie.

"They are good—give me another one."

"Here, take the whole bag—please." She pushed the bag to Zanita. Zanita pushed

it back.

"No way. I couldn't stand to see them staring at me in the middle of the night."

"They never last to the middle of the night here." Mills sighed as she took

another cookie. "So what's the seminar on?"

"Psychic development," she mumbled around a chocolate chip.

"I didn't know you were interested in stuff like that."

"I'm not—I want to do a piece on this guy who's been going around telling people

he's a psychic healer. I've heard some disturbing things about him, but I

haven't been able to substantiate anything yet. I thought if I went to a

legitimate class on the subject, I could pick up some background information."

"The paper sent you on this story? They're finally letting you do some

investigative reporting?"

"Not exactly. I'm doing this on my own."

"Is that wise?"

"I need to do this, Mills. I have to get off garden party assignments. All the

Chief ever gives me to cover is fluff. How am I going to get at the good stories

unless I take the initiative on my own?"

"Maybe he doesn't want you getting hurt. Stuff like that can be dangerous,

Zanita. We both know Hank is a nice old relic from a prior century, but he's

been around the block. Maybe he's looking out for you."

"Cripes, Mills, I'm twenty-seven years old! I don't need a curmudgeon of a boss

who acts like my grandfather."

"The curmudgeon is your grandfather."

"That's beside the point. He used to be a great reporter. In his heyday, he

exposed racketeers and gangsters. And a lot of political corruption. I cut my

teeth on his stories."

"That was a long time ago. I think Hank is quite content with his small-town

newspaper. And every now and then he does keep the selectmen on their toes."

Zanita drank the last of her coffee. "True, but I'm not content. If I can get a

story, I can go to a major market."

"You mean you'll have a legitimate excuse for abandoning Hank. He's put blood,

sweat, and tears into that paper. Sure, it doesn't have a large circulation, but

the people around here like it. What's more, they buy it. And you know why."

Zanita closed her eyes. "Because they trust what they read in the Patriot Sun."

She regarded Mills. "All the more reason for me to get this story. Old Mrs.

Haverhill gave this man lots of money because he told her he could cure her

stomach cancer with a healing. She died this morning."

"I don't mean this to sound cold, Zani, but the woman had an incurable illness.

She would've died anyway."

"True, but she didn't deserve to be bilked and lied to. He took terrible

advantage of her when she was in an extremely vulnerable position. It was

contemptible."

"I agree. But not all psychic healing is bunk. I've read that many medical

practitioners are incorporating the technique into their practices."

"Yes, which makes it even more important to expose the frauds. There are some

people who could genuinely benefit from it. If these people end up with a

charlatan, it's a tragedy."

"A double tragedy in most cases, I'm sure."

Zanita glanced at her watch. "I've got to run. Thanks for the tea and sympathy."

"You mean coffee and sympathy. Let me know how the class went."

Zanita nodded as she slung her enormous purse over her shoulder and headed out

the door.

About an hour's drive west of the city of Boston, the picturesque town of

Stockboro, Massachusetts, was surrounded by lovely rolling hills and green

pastures. This peaceful, verdant land had once hosted a small but significant

skirmish during the Revolutionary War, and the historical setting was the

perfect backdrop for an Ivy League campus. In the mid-eighteen hundreds, the

town leaders had planted the seed, and Hampshire University was duly harvested.

The community itself was an eclectic blend of intellectuals, jazz musicians,

artists, a smattering of bluebloods, surviving sixties drop-outs, and farmers.

All dyed-in-the-wool Yankees.

It was an interesting community, where locals tolerated all viewpoints, but were

extremely vocal about their own. Everyone was always up in arms over something—a

hold-over from Revolutionary days, no doubt.

Zanita loved Stockboro. It was a place where things always seemed to be

happening. Alive, moving, and vibrant, its citizens were active in the community

and cared about the town they lived in. In short, it was a perfect town for a

newspaper.

Despite what Zanita had said to Mills, she did not want to leave the 'Patriot

Sun', her greener pastures were right here at home. What she did want was for

the Chief to give her some meatier assignments. She knew all too well that she

was going to have to show the Chief she was ready in black-and-white.

The course she hoped to take tonight would provide good background information

for her story. Zanita planned to do a series of articles on the subject of

psychic healing. Knowing the opinionated citizens of Stockboro, she was pretty

sure she could stir up a real hornet's nest with the piece.

Swinging her car into the lot by the student union, Zanita got directions from a

young coed to the sign-up desk. There, she approached a