Free Dust to Dust by Heather Graham Page B

glint of gold. There was something about him that was…different. Scott didn’t know how he knew—maybe certain of his senses had been heightened, as well—but he was sure of it.
    Just as he was sure the man would stay until the problem was solved.
    But the man wasn’t the Oracle. Of course not. It had been a stupid question. Scott had held the hand of a dying man in an alley, and now he was searching for some hidden agenda that didn’t exist, believing in the ranting of an old man who’d lost all sense of reality as the light faded from his eyes. And just because this man was strong and looked like the man from his dream…
    Scott suddenly realized that he had to get the hell out of the crowd. Someone might recognize him, people might question him. Worse, the press might get hold of what had happened and make him out to be a freak or something.
    He turned around and started walking quickly—not running, because that would have drawn attention—just walking with long strides down Sunset, where he could disappear into a crowd before doubling back to get home.
    Then, just as he reached the crowd, he saw her.
    The tall blond beauty with the Jackie Chan soul.
    She saw him, too.
    Their eyes met. Hers were huge and beautiful—and questioning. And he saw something in them that he hadn’t seen the night before. A trace of…dread.
    His fists clenched at his sides, and he wanted to scream.
    Who are you?
    But then he heard a shout from the crowd. “There he is! That’s the guy who stopped the gas from exploding!”
    A hazmat crew was coming around the corner, and sirens were blaring again. He whirled and saw that the tall man with the hazel eyes was moving aside as fire-suited workers moved in to take his place. He seemed intent on getting away from them as quickly as possible, too.
    When Scott turned back, the blond beauty was gone, and people were pointing at him. He ran this time, hurrying down the street and plunging around a corner as fast as he could, hurrying for his own place.
    Bursting into his townhouse he was startled by the sound of a voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are strong, we are survivors, and so is tonight’s movie. It’s a Marx Brothers classic, and it will be playing as planned at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery tonight, so get there early, bring your blankets, your coolers and your best foot forward.”
    Scott laughed and leaned against his door. The radio had been on, and now the electricity was back on. Whatirony that the first thing he heard was an ad for a film screening on the wall of the mausoleum at the very cemetery where he and the mystery blonde had saved the other woman.
    He walked on into the bathroom, where he washed his dirtied and bloodied hands, rinsed them with peroxide, and then wrapped them with gauze, hoping they wouldn’t bleed through.
    After that, he went over to his computer, glad that it was back up, and started to study sites on modern and ancient Rome. When his phone rang, he answered it absently. “Hello?”
    â€œScott!” To his surprise, he heard Zach’s voice on the other end.
    Zach. Once his best friend, now someone from another life. It seemed such a strange interruption. As if a filmed showing of The Wolfman had been replaced with Heidi .
    â€œHey, buddy. How’s it going?” he asked, forcing himself to sound casual and friendly.
    His eyes were still on the computer screen, though. There were two churches just outside Rome that dated back to the early centuries of Christianity. He clicked on a link, waiting for Zach’s reply.
    â€œI’m in town—just came in,” Zach told him.
    â€œYou’re kidding—most people put off a trip when there’s been an earthquake,” Scott said.
    The link gave him nothing but another link. He followed it.
    It led to a blog. Someone had made a trip to Rome and strayed from the usual tourist regimen to view oneof the