"We're in here, Mrs. Wheeler," said Greg.
The woman caught her breath and whirled in shock. "What is this?" she demanded.
"Is he all right?" Greg asked.
"What do you want?"
Greg drew the notebook from his pocket and held it out. "Would you like to look at this?" he asked.
The woman didn't answer but peered at Greg through narrowing eyes. "That's right," he said. "We're selling something."
The woman's face grew hard.
"Your son's life," Greg completed.
The woman gaped at him, momentary resentment invaded by fear again. Jesus, you look stupid, Greg felt like telling her. He forced a smile. "Are you interested?" he asked.
"Get out of here before I call the police." The woman's voice was husky, tremulous.
"You're not interested in your son's life then?"
The woman shivered with fear-ridden anger. "Did you hear me?" she said.
Greg exhaled through clenching teeth.
"Mrs. Wheeler," he said, "unless you listen to us-carefully-your son will soon be dead." From the corners of his eyes, he noticed Carrie wincing and felt like smashing in her face. That's right, he thought with savage fury. Show her how scared you are, you stupid bitch!
Mrs. Wheeler's lips stirred falteringly as she stared at Greg. "What are you talking about?" she finally asked.
"Your son's life, Mrs. Wheeler."
"Why should you want to hurt my boy?" the woman asked, a sudden quaver in her voice. Greg felt himself relax. She was almost in the bag.
"Did I say that we were going to hurt him?" he asked, smiling at her quizzically. "I don't remember saying that, Mrs. Wheeler."
"Then-?"
"Sometime before the middle of the month," Greg interrupted, "Paul will be run over by a car and killed."
"What?"
Greg did not repeat.
"What car?" asked the woman. She looked at Greg in panic. "What car?" she demanded. "We don't know exactly."
"Where?" the woman asked. "When?"
"That information," Greg replied, "is what we're selling."
The woman turned to Carrie, looking at her fright-enedly. Carrie lowered her gaze, teeth digging at her lower lip. The woman looked back at Greg as he continued.
"Let me explain," he said. "My wife is what's known as a 'sensitive.' You may not be familiar with the term. It means she has visions and dreams. Very often, they have to do with real people. Like the dream she had last night-about your son."
The woman shrank from his words and, as Greg expected, an element of shrewdness modified her expression; there was now, in addition to fear, suspicion.
"I know what you're thinking," he informed her. "Don't waste your time. Look at this notebook and you'll see-"
"Get out of here," the woman said.
Greg's smile grew strained. "That again?" he asked. "You mean you really don't care about your son's life?"
The woman managed a smile of contempt. "Shall I call the police now?" she asked. "The bunco squad?"
"If you really want to," answered Greg, "but I suggest you listen to me first." He opened the notebook and began to read. "January twenty-second: Man named Jim to fall from roof while adjusting television aerial. Ramsay Street. Two-story house, green with white trim. Here's the news item."
Greg glanced at Carrie and nodded once, ignoring her pleading look as he stood and walked across the room. The woman cringed back apprehensively but didn't move. Greg held up the notebook page. "As you can see," he said, "the man didn't believe what we told him and did fall off his roof on January twenty-second; it's harder to convince them when you can't give any details so as not to give it all away." He clucked as if disturbed. "He should have paid us, though," he said. "It would have been a lot less expensive than a broken back."
"Who do you think you're-?"
"Here's another," Greg said, turning a page. "This should interest you. February twelfth, afternoon: Boy, 13, name unknown, to fall into abandoned well shaft, fracture pelvis. Lives on Darien Circle, et cetera, et cetera, you can see the details here," he finished, pointing at the page. "Here's the newspaper clipping. As you can see, his parents were just in time. They'd refused to pay at first, threatened to call the police like you did." He smiled at the woman. "Threw us out of the house as a matter of fact," he said. "On the afternoon of the twelfth, though, when I made a last-minute phone check, they were out of their minds with worry. Their son had disappeared and they had no idea where he was-I hadn't mentioned the well shaft, of course."