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By the time I'd gotten home that evening, I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders, like some huge grimy cloak that I couldn't shed or clean off of me. I tried to get rid of it by standing for a long time under the hot spray of my shower; it helped my muscles relax a bit, but the mental weight was still with me in spite of it all, and I felt as if I'd never get my tail to stop being so damned bushy.

I had visited the hospital on the way home. Medically, Errol's condition was "stable and unchanged." His spirit was still close to his body, looking doubtful but not wanting to give up. I held the wolf's physical forepaw and, as if talking to his unconscious form, I told him only that Andy and I had "been in touch" with James and Selina, that she had told us the story of the stone, and that no one outside of the group had seen Quinn since before the weekend, but that we hadn't stopped looking for him. I refrained from telling him why. I didn't tell him about the attack on James' non-sapient dogs; it just seemed like too much to put on him, at this point. Before I left him, I impulsively kissed the side of his muzzle, then leaned close to his ear to whisper, "I will save your soul, Errol. All the souls."

Now, I just had to keep from making myself a liar.

Dinner was as simple as I could let myself get away with. It's rough on the budget, eating out so much, especially when you have a mild coffee addiction. I couldn't seem to sate my own, short of getting myself an espresso-maker and milk-steaming beastie all-in-one. I vowed that I would one day tot up my voluntary "dues" to Coffee Club and see if the machine would actually pay for itself. For that night, my appetite barely ran to the lunch leftovers and some salad that I had in the fridge. I was thinking too much to eat well.

The news about Bridgette Dunne broke the airwaves in the early evening; there was no way to keep it quiet any longer. The two human members of the quintet knew it already; there was no way to keep it quiet from the fennec now, and I wasn't at all sure that it mattered. Until we heard from Quinn Russo, Andy and I were stumbling in the dark.

From a forensic viewpoint, nothing made any clear sense. Lillian called to tell me that the CSI team at Errol's cabin hadn't turned up anything substantive, not even whatever it was that the wolf had been clobbered with; cast-off from the blood spatter only confirmed that he was struck from behind, which was obvious, and only one blow. Nothing really new there.

I tried to run through it again, but it still made no sense. Bridgette was dead, Errol in a coma, James had been attacked... Maybe forensics from that crime scene would bring some new evidence. They might report sometime the next day. From a detection viewpoint, the sum of available clues pointed to someone within the group; unless an outsider really did find out about the stone, about how important the five of them felt it to be, then there really were only three suspects. The attack on James was a failed attempt to get his part of the stone; he still had his ring, it would seem. This left Salina and Quinn, and neither of them seemed to fit any known quantity of profile that I could come up with.

One cardinal rule of police work: Never tip too much of your hand, unless you truly have no other choice. Bridgette was "murdered," Errol was "attacked," but the methods were withheld. I often think of the classic British mystery stories in the grand tradition. "Garroted, sir? I never said Her Ladyship was garroted." "Surely you told me so, Inspector?" "No, sir, I never used the word 'garroted'." Cliché, but absolutely true. It sometimes even worked to catch a culprit, although not as often as those mysteries made out. It's just a card to keep in play.

Herbal tea helped to calm my nerves, and I made myself slow down, brushing myself slowly that evening. It wasn't vanity; it had come to be known as "mindfulness" to humans and therians both. To be fair, however, grooming is a species trait in fur-bearing mammals, sapient or otherwise. In the wild, it helps to rid us of parasites, but it also helps to calm us. When kits are rambunctious, grooming provides attention as well as keeps them underpaw and more or less still for a few moments. Between adult mammals, it can be bonding or, when done for ourselves, reminding us to look after ourselves properly. For that night, it was more about being slow and attentive in the act itself, to bring back focus and clarity of thought.

As an Aussie acquaintance of mine once said, "Bugger that for a lark."

Sleep was sparse, dreams were disturbing; waking gave me the feeling that I was about as refreshed as month-old milk, and my maw felt as if I'd actually tasted a bottle of it. The forensic scientist in me told me all the reasons for the effects of stress, while I realized with a melancholy sigh that I would have welcomed some of Philip's gum. I'm not partial to wintergreen, but anything was better than this.

Eventually, I got myself sorted enough to be reasonably presentable to the world, and I didn't bare my teeth to anyone, not even once. I was a good vixen, although I feared that no small part of it was an act. I did not feel like my usual happy self. Andy and I could sniff it on one another when we met at the office. Almost at once, we said, "Coffee Club," and we went to compare notes over some much needed stimulant.

"The CSI team is slated to go to Hasslermund... I mean, James' house sometime this morning," the raccoon told me. His own fur shifted a bit at the attempt to treat the male human with some respect. I placed a forepaw on his arm briefly.

"Prejudice sucks," I told him succinctly. "We both fight it, but I don't think it's about his being human. It's about the sensation we had from the phone call. Come to think of it, he didn't invite us to use his first name, anyway. He was more insulting than anything else, and that first impression lingers."

"You didn't hear him on the call he made to me yesterday." Andy shook his head, the yellow-orange eyes inside his black mask showing his weariness. "He sounded panicked, really afraid. The way his voice cracked when he spoke of his dogs..."

"He must have been terrified by finding them dead, especially after hearing about Bridgette and Errol."

"And then there were two." He sighed heavily, rubbing his forepaws against his cheek fur a few times. It was an anxious tic given to him by his non-sapient ancestors. Some mannerisms seem to be hard-wired no matter how "civilized" we're trained to be. "I can't see either of them doing it."

"Lillian is right about following both evidence and our collective gut," I said. "I agree with you. Quite aside from Quinn's stature and Salina's being so forthcoming about the stone, what motive would there be for either of them? Everyone has a piece of the stone, after all."

Andy sat back in his chair suddenly, shaking his head. "Idiot!" he said to himself. Pinning me with his eyes, he explained, "A piece of the stone. Two pieces are missing, and we're almost certainly right that they were taken by our killer. What if that's the motive?"

I felt gut-punched with my own stupidity. "The killer wants it all. For whatever reason, he wants the whole stone."

"Or he just doesn't want the others to have theirs. If we work with the idea that the parts of this stone is what made them all so successful, maybe someone doesn't want them to be successful anymore."

Taking up the thread, I offered, "If someone outside of these five knows the story, then it would be a motive to ruin them, or to see if all of the components of the stone, taken together, would work its magic, with no one left to know about it. T'other paw, if we take Salina's word that no one else knew about the stone, then who has the motive to destroy the other four members of this group? And if the goal is just to steal the pieces, then why kill Bridgette?"

"An accident, maybe? Trying to take the stone away from her, our suspect became a killer. If Errol was second, then... what, the intent to overpower rather than kill, or the intent to kill but only knocked the wolf out...?" Andy paused, shaking his head. "Not sure it matters, except that I still can't work up a motive that would fit Salina or Quinn."

"It only has to make sense to the killer," I sighed. "Behavioral analysis has taught us that lesson. And remember, the killer wore gloves, which indicates premeditation."

"So the attack on Errol was meant to kill." With a rueful snort, the raccoon observed, "I think we should get a refund; our coffee hasn't made our brains work."

"Today, I fault our brains instead of the coffee."

His phone went off, and Andy signaled me to wait a moment. "Pelletier." His eyes widened suddenly. "Yes, I really am a police detective..." He mouthed Quinn Russo at me. "I understand. I'm out of the office at the moment. Let me suggest this. Can you access the internet? Okay, good. Look up the number for the precinct offices for... yes, the 15th precinct, in the Theodore Roosevelt Building. I can be back there in about 20 minutes; can you call and... Yes, Anderson Pelletier. Depending on who answers the phone, you might even be able to say 'that blasted raccoon' and get through to me." He paused, smiling. "I'll make sure to be there on time. Thank you, Mr. Russo."

I was on my hindpaws even before he was. The coffee might not have helped my brain very much, but at least my legs were able to move quickly.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We commandeered another VoIP room, alerting the switchboard to be ready when our call came in. Both Andy and I did our best to keep calm, reminding each other to be as objective as possible. We were about to have a professional interview with a living legend, a murder suspect, and a possible victim, all rolled into one.

When the device in the middle of the table spoke up, I felt as if I'd jump out of my fur. "Detective Pelletier, Quinn Russo for you."

"Thank you, Erin." We heard some clicking. "This is Anderson Pelletier. Mr. Russo?"

"Yes." Even through the tinny-sounding speakers, there was no mistaking that voice. "I'm sorry for being so suspicious."

"Quite understandable. Mr. Russo, I'm with Naomi McLeroy, CSI. She's been helping me with the case."

"What case? You said something about the reunion..."

I could see the raccoon mentally kick himself. "I'm sorry, Mr. Russo. I'm afraid there's been a lot happening over the past few days."

A long pause before the fennec fox on the other end of the connection breathed out slowly. "I knew there was trouble."

"What do you mean?" Andy looked at me with a terrible anticipation in his eyes.

"Something I felt. I can't describe it."

"Mr. Russo," I said, "would it help if I told you that I'm a Charonite?"

"Therian?"

"Vixen."

No one can hear a nod, not in any literal sense, but I felt certain that he had nodded. "You get 'those sort of feelings' sometimes, I expect. May I ask if someone has died?"

"You've not heard the news, then?"

"I avoid the news as much as I can. What's happened?"

Breathing carefully, I said, "I'm sorry to tell you that Bridgette Dunne was murdered."

The cry was sharp, expressing deep pain, and was followed by a brief susurration of Vulpine that prompted me to respond in kind, both of us bringing forth the words from very old death rituals. We were speaking the words on Bridgette's behalf, and the hurt in his voice told me that he may well have felt her death... or caused it, I reminded myself, although I truly couldn't believe it.

Several more seconds passed before he managed to speak again. "Were you able to... did she speak to you?" As I hesitated, he added, "Or can you say, right now?"

"Not right now," I admitted.

Again, the sense of a nod. "Are the others okay?"

"Errol Esposito was attacked. He's comatose but stable." Andy took up the mental list. "We've been in touch with James Hasslermund and Salina Carnahan. They seem to be okay, although they were both upset by the news, of course." I nodded, understanding why he didn't volunteer anything else. "Are you all right, Mr. Russo?"

"Call me Quinn, please. And yes, I think I'm okay. Shouldn't I be?"

We reintroduced ourselves as Naomi and Andy, and I asked, "Are you missing anything from your trip?"

"I don't think so. Everything is..." He paused again before asking, "What do you think would be missing?"

"Your hair cuff."

Andy looked at me, surprised, then nodded his agreement: take the chance."Quinn, Salina told us about what happened fourteen years ago. About the stone. About your souls."

"Do you believe her?"

"We have no reason not to."

Yet another pause. "Missing. Bridgette's necklace? The rings that the other three had made?"

"The necklace and Errol's ring are missing. Salina still has her ring; we don't know about James'. You still have your hair cuff?"

"Yes. It's always with me, although..." The fennec's voice faded softly. I had the sense that he was thinking quickly. "Am I in danger?"

"We don't know," Andy admitted, giving me a significant look. "It's possible. You don't have to tell us where you are, but please keep in touch with us. You can trust my cell phone number now. We can alert the constabulary in your home city, so that your name is in the system if you need--"

"Hold on, wait... let me wrap my head around..." We heard him take a deep breath and let it out. "I'm not good when things... I get overwhelmed. I also spent a lot of time transcribing depositions for a law firm, years ago, so I know enough that things like this happen fast. I'll try to help. What do you need from me?"

"Top priority is to make sure you're safe." Andy took the words right from my brain. "Are you at home?"

"No. I'm playing hooky." The fennec managed a short chuckle. "That's what my agent calls it. Truth is, I felt a little off this weekend, so I figured I'd spend a few more days in the area, see a few other sights."

I could feel Andy wanting to pounce on those few words, but he kept to his first task. "Are you here in the city?"

"A sort of bohemian haven a few dozen klicks southwest, a place called--"

"Bonneterre," I smiled. "Visiting is an occasional guilty pleasure of mine."

"Are you safe there?" Andy asked. "We could come get you." After a somewhat awkward silence, the 'coon added, "No police cars, Quinn. We'll be friends, meeting you entirely casually. It's not about arrest."

"Sorry," the soft voice admitted. "Not protective custody, then?"

"If we know you're safe, we can talk and be in a better position to find out what's going on."

A puff of air. "I'll have a quiet coffee at... do you know the café off the main street? I don't know place names."

Only a few moments later, we all knew where he'd be, made arrangements, made ourselves ready. Andy nodded briskly. "We can be there inside of half an hour."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The most time-consuming part of keeping our promise was finding parking; the area was popular, even on a weekday. We managed it, eventually, walking a reasonably short distance to the café that Quinn had described. We found the fennec in a dark corner booth toward the back of the place, his long ears twitching at the various sounds around him. He had been nursing a mug of herbal tea, and he appeared genuinely pleased to meet us. We discreetly produced ID, although he seemed perfectly willing to accept us without question.

"You sound like yourselves," he volunteered. "Music, sounds, voices, I'm pretty good at discerning them, even over a cell phone. And besides, you feel right..." He stopped himself, a blush appearing under his cheekfur.

I nodded at him. "That's one I can understand."

He managed to relax a little. "Okay. What do we do now?"

"At the risk of sounding like a bad spy movie," Andy smiled gently, "we're going to be your new best friends. Just to be completely clear: You are not under arrest, not even in protective custody. You can be rid of us anytime you wish. We're hoping you'll stick around while we figure this out."

Nodding, Quinn offered, "I'm worried and scared, and I hope I'm not stupid. If you called me, you probably called other people, looking for me. May I ask...?"

We worked out an arrangement. He called his agent, had him call the studio. The fennec was skillful with his words; without being specific about anything, he explained to his agent that the police wanted to talk to him about the reunion weekend. Since the news about Bridgette had broken, he acknowledged that it might have something to do with that, and he'd been asked not to comment. Yes, he was fine, and he'd be in touch again tomorrow, just to check in. His skill in handling the call forced me to be suspicious all over again. After he hung up, though, he shook himself once through, his ears rattling, before taking a long draught of his tea.

"I hate that," he said. He looked into our eyes, his own looking deeply pained. "Pete is a good guy. He's also all business. I've had to learn how not to show too much of my emotions to him. It's not natural for me to hold back so much."

My sensitivity told me that he was telling the truth, and my brain tried to temper the emotion with the fact that Quinn was performing for the agent, so perhaps he was still performing for us, too. The whole "think like a cop" thing was rubbing my fur the wrong way, and I still hoped for some kind of proof that the fennec wasn't our killer.

"We're sorry to put you in that position." Andy's voice was soft. "I hope it'll be okay."

Quinn regarded the raccoon with an expression that expressed something like sympathetic pity. "Andy... It's as 'okay' as it's going to get until this is resolved. Ask me what you really want to know."

"What's that?"

"If I'm guilty of all this."

Andy didn't splutter, but his façade was clearly cracked. I knew his "tells" from long ago, and he displayed two of them, one with his left ear, the other with the tip of his tail, which was hidden from Quinn because of the table between us. The fennec gave us a small, rueful smile.

"Sound," he said simply. "I know sound. Your voice was different after I'd hung up from the call. I believe your words; your voice told me that there's something else going on with you. There's also all those transcripts and cop shows. You have to ask. I understand."

"Thank you," I told him. "Andy is the trained detective; I sort of picked it up on the fly." Quinn started to say something, and I laughed gently. "Not a lie, but not the whole truth. I'm a Charonite and a CSI, and I don't always follow the detective's rulebook. It's not professional for me to say that I don't think you're guilty of anything. It's what I feel. We still have to go by facts, so..."

Nodding, the fennec smiled at me. "Thank you. We can do this now."

I looked to Andy, who began with a nervous clearing of his throat before he began. "Maybe a timeline, to start? When did you leave the motel on Monday?"

"Checkout time is posted as 11am, although Mike lets us linger a bit, if no one is scheduled to show up. That's Mike Connors, the hotel manager. I'd rented a car at the airport, and my flight was booked for a little after three; my idea was to drive there, wait in a corner somewhere, and fly home. I think I was the first to leave. I said my goodbyes to everyone by ten." It was Quinn's turn to clear his throat. "I don't have much by way of provable alibis. I know that all four were alive and well when I left; after that, I... mostly, I drove, until I found a place to stay that night, then again last night. I had my phone off."

"Is that usual for you?"

"Nothing much is 'usual' for me." The vulpine actually blushed. "There are days when I think the term 'neurodivergent' was created just to describe me. Along with that, writing songs isn't like showing up on time for doing office work. It's work, though. Artwork is work, and I'm fortunate to be paid well for what I do. It's just not done 'on the clock.' I tend to go to bed and wake up about the same time every day; what happens during that day can be pretty much anything."

"I've heard it said that life and art are wrapped up in each other," I suggested. "If you don't live, experience things, your art might suffer for it."

Quinn nodded. "I wanted a few days to myself, to experience other things, see if music and lyrics might get a spark from different places."

"Yet you stayed in this general area," Andy noted gently.

Another nod. "I tried to call Errol a few times. I wanted to see if he would make some time for me, to talk. I had the feeling..."

"Something you said on the phone. That something felt 'off' about the weekend."

Neither Andy nor I pressed for an answer; the songwriter needed to find words. After a few moments, he said, "We weren't as connected as we had been."

"How do you mean?"

"Salina told you about the stone. Our souls."

He turned his head, reaching up to the hair cuff, touching it, as if to reassure himself that it was still there. There, I saw a portion of the stone, beautifully set into the silver of the cuff, for the first time. The deep blue color brought the idea of lapis lazuli, although it was also not as opaque as that stone usually is. It's color was consistent, without imperfections or the streaks of other elements often found in lapis. What struck me most was the sense of energy, of... "encouragement" was the pathetic approximation of the feeling that I had. Various stones and crystals were said to have influences upon the mind and body, the Vedic chakras, or energy centers, of the body. A scientist or CSI would be skeptical; a vixen Charonite could sense something of it without really knowing what it is. Put simply, I could feel how the stone could have a powerful effect upon someone.

Turning his head back to face us, Quinn continued. "I believe that simply finding the stone bound us together. Discovering ourselves, believing in ourselves, bound us more deeply. We all knew that, for whatever reason, however it happened, the pieces of that stone had some effect on us. Maybe it's just the power of suggestion, but our lives began changing after that moment. As we grew as individuals, our bond as a group deepened as well. Each reunion was better than the one before. This time..."

"Something was off," Andy finished softly.

"Yes."

"Can you describe that?" I asked. "Maybe an example. Stale marshmallows for the S'mores?"

A swift double-take, and the fennec laughed with a combination of relief and good humor. "Nothing that terrible," he assured us. His eyes showed his thanks to me. "I'm not sure that any one thing sticks out in my mind. It was a feeling that..." He closed his eyes and thought further. "Body language was wrong. I hugged Salina and Bridgette, like always, and even Errol could be a hugger sometimes. James never was, but he would shake my paw gently, once he got more used to how therians interact."

"Did he seem prejudiced against therians?"

Quinn screwed up his muzzle for a moment before opening his eyes. "I'll say 'less comfortable.' He was okay with us, mostly, but he never really had a lot of close interaction. That was just James. Even when he talked about the work he'd been doing, he was very... close to the vest. He blamed NDAs and 'technical stuff,' as he called it, but he'd always been able to talk about his enthusiasm, his breakthroughs."

He considered further. "Conversation didn't seem as free this time. There was a little tension, right from the beginning, but..." Another deep breath as he tried to focus. "Salina had brought a new plush for Mike, she told us, but she didn't talk about new plans. Her business, yes, but not about another new plush. Bridgette had made some jottings in her notebook, but she said she wanted to feel over the words for a while before sharing them with us. Errol had good news about the parklands, yet nothing much beyond that. I had a new song in mind, but I didn't tell anyone about it."

Folding his forepaws on the table, he sighed, "I couldn't really define it, then, not even see the specifics. I felt something wasn't right, but I kept trying to deny it, to be happy that we were together. Had I known..." He closed his eyes, raised a forepaw to ask for a moment. "Okay, Quinn, focus." He breathed for a moment, opened his eyes again. "I remember Salina and Bridgette going off together for a little while. James went for a solitary walk, and Errol and I stayed at the campsite. That was the Saturday evening. Bridgette went to bed early. James wasn't long behind that. Salina, Errol, and I sat at the low fire and tried to talk. That was it: We tried to talk. There just wasn't that same spark that we'd had before, and we were afraid to bring that up. Maybe we should have. After a little while, Salina begged off and went to her sleeping bag."

"When did you and Errol get to bed?" I asked.

"That's another thing," the fennec told us. "I'm not usually nocturnal. Against my nature, I suppose, but I'm used to regular sleep hours. That night, I was restless as hell. I have no idea of an exact time, but it was a long time past sunset before I finally crawled to my bedroll. I had the feeling that the others weren't fully asleep either; Bridgette actually turned her muzzle toward me as I settled in. She smiled a little, maybe reassuring, maybe sharing something, I wasn't sure. I think I slept a little, but it wasn't long or deep."

"What about Errol?"

"That's the thing. So far as I know, he was awake all night. I don't know enough about him to know if that was truly unusual, but I do know that he always seemed most peaceful when he was up in the foothills. This trip, he seemed on-edge, guarded."

Andy kept his ear still, but his tail flicked at the word.

"We didn't linger as long as we might have," Quinn continued. "We usually arrive back at the motel about in time for dinner at the café a little ways down the road. This time, it was mid-afternoon Sunday. We arranged to meet at the café, but Bridgette and James apparently stayed at the motel. Salina got me and Errol sat down and firmly told us to talk about what was happening."

"And did you?"

"None of us could nail it down. It felt like we wanted to talk but somehow _couldn't._That makes no sense, because--"

The songwriter stopped so suddenly that I thought something had happened to him. "Quinn?" I asked softly.

"I just remembered something Salina said." The fennec's ears twitched in ways that looked painful. "She said, 'Our souls are troubled.' I thought she was being metaphorical, but if she meant..." He reached a forepaw behind his head again, to touch the hair cuff.

Even though the thought frustrated him, Andy asked, "What could she have meant, do you think?"

Quinn's head shook, the look in his eyes more frightened than anything else. "It's... what I was saying about not being able to talk about it, somehow. It feels, now, as if she meant that the stone itself, the pieces of the stone, were preventing us from saying too much."

Gently, I put a forepaw out to the fennec. "Don't try to reason it out, Quinn. Just feel it. The way you feel music, or art, or anything abstract. Breathe and try to feel what's happening. Feel past the words."

The artist in him grasped the idea quickly. He took my forepaw in his own, closed his eyes, and... the word that came to me was dreamed. It wasn't a trance or dream-state in any sense of hypnosis. It was more like he was listening to music that no one else could hear, or words that no one else could translate. I could almost sense it through our touch, and I willed myself not to interfere until he was ready.

"I traveled, and I found you, not knowing you were there," he whispered. "I gave myself to each of you; you wore me in your hair. You gave yourselves to each of me, you grew by all and by one; then one began to separate, who wanted me alone."

Andy and I waited breathlessly, but nothing more came from the vulpine's lips. This song, it seemed, had only one verse. Quinn opened his eyes slowly, nodding. "Still one. Still linked. We weren't, this weekend."

"You were broken apart," I said. "To protect you. But from whom?"

"I know who I'm betting on," Andy half-growled. To my slightly wilted look, he shook his head. "Yes, I'm still feeling that prejudice, but I'm also getting more gut instinct. Who's the one person who doesn't seem to have wanted, at least, to talk about it?"

"James," the songwriter offered quickly. "But he's always tightlipped. He didn't behave any differently than he usually does."

No scent of wintergreen, at least not for me, but the thought registered with force. "And the rest of you did behave differently."

Andy's cell buzzed and he answered it quickly. "Pelletier." Slowly, his eyes grew larger and larger. "You've confirmed that? ... Known whereabouts? ... BOLO, feed the information into the interstate system. ... Yes, if the Fibbies have to do it, get them on it. Get back to me on this number, any hour."

He ended the call, and his voice took on a sense of cold steel. "The CSI team at Hasslermund's house found those non-sapient German shepherds he was supposed to be so proud of. They were hanging by their choke chains, just as he described it to me. Except that it wasn't done today. Estimates are in the area of five to six days ago." His jaw clenched as he finished. "He killed them before he left for the reunion."