Free Fire Will Fall by Carol Plum-Ucci Page A

asked.
    "Astor College. While I'm working on my doctorate in Philly, I'm on a genetic research team here and teach two classes. Photography is just a hobby."
    I had the glass to my mouth and almost spit back into it. Cora looked at me and dropped her eyes quickly. Astor College was where one of the terrorists who poisoned Trinity Falls's water had been a visiting professor. Omar Loggi had snowed the college with false credentials, and his buddies tried to recruit students to be in ShadowStrike.
    Henry cleared his throat awkwardly. "I know the place leaves a bad taste in your mouths. But Astor College is a huge, diverse place. It serves all kinds of people and has changed all its policies about visiting professors. It's back on the same path of excellence it's been on since 1900. Maybe I can redeem the place in your eyes."
    "Maybe." Owen shrugged, casting a glance at Cora. "Cora and I, we don't much like to think about those guys."
    Marg appeared with a surgical mask and handed it to Cora. Then Cora and Henry left for the basement, each carrying a box. I waited until they had gone downstairs and then went into the front hall. I stood looking up the stairs, listening for sounds of Alan and Mike. I knew they would become babbling idiots, talking about the weather, if I came anywhere near them.
Damn, I need a job.
    I'm a gut-instinct guy. And even though my mind wasn't working clearly, I could see images—strange things I'd seen on the house tour last night—and I suddenly knew how to get closer and hear them. Instead of going up, I silently followed Cora and Henry into the darkness of the basement.

ELEVEN
OWEN EBERMAN
SATURDAY, MAY 4, 2002
10:30 A.M.
DINING ROOM
    I ATE A MUFFIN and drank my glass of orange juice after Scott drifted away, and I felt kind of relieved when his energy left the room. I love my brother for sure, but he's like a cyclone coming past you, and this was supposed to be the first peaceful morning I'd experienced in months.
    I heard this bell
ding,
and when I looked out the dining room door, this real-live goat was standing square in the middle of the porch, staring in through the screen door. I had to shake my head to make certain I wasn't seeing stuff. I called Marg, and she came from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel.
    I pointed to the goat staring in, shaking its head and making its bell go
ding, ding.
    "There are two of them right now, though there used to be six," she said. "They belong to the property. There was so much to show you last night ... out of sight, out of mind. It'll become one of your jobs to feed them. I just don't want them in the house."
    I got this huge smile—barnyard animals do that to me—and I walked out there with a bran muffin. I'd heard goats will eat anything.
    He was small, the kind with the tall horns and the goatee. He kept going "
Baa-AA-Baa,
" even after I sat down on the step. He ate pieces of muffin out of my hand but would stop after each bite, all "
Baa-AA-Baa.
"
    "Where's your buddy?" I asked him, looking all around. No other goat was in sight.
    "
Baa-AA-Baa.
"
    We'd had a golden retriever, Champ, who finally died a couple of years back at fourteen. I always talked to Champ about my problems and felt certain he understood, and even if he didn't, I could get a load off without being laughed at by my friends, lectured by my brother, or touched affectionately by my mom. Back then, I'd wanted my mom to quit hugging on me. These days, I realized how crazy that had been. I scratched the goat behind its smooth ears.
    "Can we talk?" I asked. "I gather you're not going to tell anyone my dark secrets."
    "
Baa-AA-Baa
."
    "Because everyone else would refuse to shut up about how I am some psycho-loon. I don't think it's such a gigantic sin to wish that this world would end soon."
    "
Baa-AA-Baa
."
    "Did you hear Scott ragging on about my fires-and-bombs dreams?"
    "
Baa-AA-aa-Baa-baa.
."
    "What is it with people telling me what
my
dreams mean and don't mean? I could