She also handed out more candy than anyone at Halloween, gave flowers to several churches every Sunday for the altar, and adopted every stray animal she could find until she found each one a home.

  Roz smiled to herself. “So,” she said to her mother, “how is Mrs. Rossman?”

  “Fine. Fine. She says you nearly got yourself killed today. Some boy ran you down with a motorcycle.”

  Roz relaxed. It wasn’t as bad as she feared.

  “I didn’t get run down, Mom, okay?” She explained what had happened as simply as she could.

  “I don’t know why you hang around boys like that,” her mother said.

  “I don’t,” she protested. “Forbin is a total jerk. I can’t stand his guts.”

  “Nice talk for a lady,” her mother chided with a smile. “And you hung around that other boy, remember?”

  That other boy.

  Not even when Bart lived in Ashford did either of her parents call him by name. They hadn’t liked him from the second they’d met him after a school basketball game, yet they hadn’t forbidden her to see him. They also knew their daughter all too well.

  “Bart’s different,” Roz said softly.

  Her mother sighed and planted a kiss on her head. “No, not really. Now go to bed.” She spun away and sneezed. “Go to bed,” she said, and coughed harshly. When the spasm passed, she thumped her chest with a fist, blew her a kiss, and shut the door.

  Roz took her time undressing as the rain fell more heavily, and the wind restlessly prowled along the eaves. When she was ready, she switched off the bedside lamp and knelt on the window seat for one last look at the street, at the dark houses across the way, at the water slipping like streams of ice past the streetlamps.

  Then she rocked back quickly, a hand at her mouth and her eyes wide.

  He was out there.

  Several houses down toward Midnight Place, the motorcycle crouched in the middle of the blacktop, steam rising from its side as the rain struck it, the rider facing north.

  Oh my God, she thought.

  She glanced at the stairwell and decided not to tell her parents. By the time she did, the rider would probably be gone. Instead, she leaned forward cautiously, a palm against the cold glass, and tried to find him.

  He was gone.

  “But he was there,” she whispered to the night. She wiped the glass with her hand. “He was.”

  For ten minutes, then fifteen, she knelt there, watching, but he didn’t return. If, she told herself, he’d been there at all.

  But she was sure that he had been.

  Slowly she slipped back to the floor and crawled into bed. A gentle glow from the street reminded her she hadn’t closed the drapes, but she didn’t want to get up.

  He might have returned.

  He might be watching.

  Clutching the light blanket to her chin, she stared at the ceiling, at the streaks of shadow rain that slid along the plaster and the faces on the posters, and just before she fell asleep, she thought she heard the sound of an engine rumbling quietly through the storm.

  Four

  The cafeteria was jammed and noisy, the lines long and slow, and the teachers assigned to keep chaos to a minimum had wisely decided to remain clustered by the doors and let the kids have their way as long as they didn’t kill each other or tear the place apart.

  The reason was simple: the storm was gone, the temperature had risen, and the entire school had been infected with an instant, massive dose of spring fever.

  Roz sat at a table by the windows, complaining to anyone who would listen about the morning’s biology test and how unfair it had been.

  She knew she had passed with flying colors, but it didn’t make any difference. It was a major test, and as a student you had an obligation to complain.

  Melanie sat opposite her with Lynda Panomar, who had already been in trouble twice today because she had decided to wear a pale blue blouse that was a little too sheer for the arbiters of the dress code. She didn’t care. Proud of her African-American heritage, Lynda was not only outspoken on human rights but student rights as well.

  “Man,” Lynda said gleefully, “you should’ve seen Principal Lee when I told her that I have a constitutional right to wear this blouse.” She slapped the table with her palm and laughed. “God, I love it!”

  Roz laughed, Melanie shook her head in mild disapproval, and they decided not to go up to the food counter again just to get some unnamable dessert that no doubt tasted, as always, like wet cardboard.

  “My figure doesn’t need it anyway,” Lynda agreed, the most slender and curvaceous of the three. “One pound and I’m a blimp.”

  “Oh right,” Roz said. “One pound and you’ll only look like you’re starving, not already dead.” A scuffle at the back of the room distracted them for a while, and after a teacher had marched the grumbling offenders off to the front office, the girls stared longingly out the window at the sunshine, the bright green, the promise of warmth that spread over the north side lawn. It made them feel as if they were stuck in a prison, or in a bad dream.

  Suddenly a dark figure outside crossed Roz’s view, faceless and large, and she started, nearly stood until she realized it was one of the groundskeepers puttering along on a small, dark red tractor. She put a hand to her throat, felt her pulse racing, and told herself that this wasn’t doing her nerves one bit of good.

  Nevertheless, she still couldn’t help wondering who the bike rider was, and why he had shown up in her neighborhood last night. It wasn’t that he frightened her, although he certainly didn’t make her feel comfortable, and it wasn’t that she felt threatened by him.

  But he didn’t do anything.

  He just sat there.

  She scowled faintly and, when Melanie wanted to know what was wrong, debated whether or not to tell them what had happened. But she wasn’t quick enough to think of a convincing lie. So she told them.

  “Gray again,” Melanie snapped. “That—”

  “No,” Roz said. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t. I could tell. I don’t think it was him.”

  “A secret admirer, “ Lynda suggested instantly. A sappy look crossed her face. “A man too shy to express his devotion to you, and so he must admire you from afar.” She clasped her hands to her chest and fluttered her eyelashes. “Isn’t it all just too too romantic?”

  Melanie choked and had to be pounded on the back.

  Roz giggled. “Some secret admirer. He didn’t even send me flowers.”

  “Ah!” Lynda said. “But tonight you must leave your window open a little so he can climb the rose trellis and hand you a token of his undying love.”

  “My room’s in the attic, remember?”

  “So he uses a ladder, so what?”

  “You two are disgusting,” Melanie declared. She leaned across the table. “Aren’t you scared or anything?”

  Roz shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I think you should tell your dad.”

  Roz imagined her father listening patiently to the story, his deep rasping voice demanding to know who this boy was. She also imagined him heading straight for the door to confront him.

  “No,” she said slowly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Roz grinned at Melanie. “I thought he was a ghost and couldn’t hurt me.”

  The bell rang just as Melanie said, “God, Roz, get real.”

  Between gym and history, Johnny Reardon cornered Roz by her locker, asking her out again that night, and again she turned him down. This time he wasn’t quite so glib in accepting the refusal, and she wondered if Melanie was right, that he really liked her.

  No; that was silly.

  Reardon was a notorious ladies’ man, and she’d only be another notch on his dating gun. Besides, she didn’t like him, that was that. And if he asked her again, she’d tell him to his face.

  She found herself thinking about the motorcycle rider as she practiced after school. The day was perfect for running—not too warm, not too cool—and she used the slap of her shoes on the cinder track, the shouts of the others, and the whistles of the coaches, as a way of clearing her mind. But she couldn’t put the bike rider out of her mind.

  Who was he?

  She grinned and almost lost her rhythm. Maybe Lynda was right. Maybe he was a secret admirer, and wouldn’t that just make Bart crazy with jealousy?

  Immediately, her mood crashed.

  No, it wouldn’t. He wasn’t here. She didn’t even have his new address so she could write him and find out what she’d done wrong to make him leave the way he had.

  She swore at her shadow, finished her stint on the track mechanically, and didn’t bother to shower when the coach released her. She just dressed, grabbed her books and backpack, and jogged home.

  Her mother was feeling much better, but her father was in a foul mood. Roz was relieved when she was able to escape to her room after dinner. She sat in the window seat and read her history in the light of a small lamp her father had rigged on the wall. Every so often she looked out at the darkened street. Once in a while she cocked her head as if listening to the sound of a muffled, distant engine.

  She read several pages, she tried to remember what she’d just read, and had a feeling that this whole night had been a waste of time.

  The book toppled unnoticed to the floor. She stretched, yawned, and leaned her head back against the wall, hands cupped around her knees. In less than an eyeblink she had fallen asleep.

  She woke at the sound of an engine bellowing, and nearly fell off her seat in surprise.

  She looked outside, but the street was empty. All the houses were dark, and a full moon settled silver over the grass and trees.

  Where … ?

  The engine roared again, and she whirled.

  Inside! she thought. Oh my God, it’s inside!

  She ran to the stairwell and listened, then rushed down to the door and flung it open. The hallway was short—to the right was her parents’ room, to the left the bathroom, just ahead was a short white railing, and slightly left were the stairs to the first floor.

  The house was dark.

  The engine bellowed again, then howled as gears changed, and she leapt from the bottom stair to the hall floor, caught herself on the railing, and raced to her parents’ room. She threw open the door and called for her father.

  A single light burned on the nightstand; shadows grew on the back wall.

  The bed was empty, and it hadn’t been slept in.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped, and backed out, turned, and screamed when she saw a huge shadow crawling up the wallpaper by the stairs. Pressing herself against the wall, she moved toward her own door, swallowing a sudden rise of bile, unable to take her eyes from the shadow as it grew, as it shrank, as it became a large man riding a bike.

  The first thing she thought was, How can it move so slowly without falling over?

  The second thing was, What’s he done to my parents?

  She could see him then.

  She could see the sleek black helmet, and the visor that reflected nothing but a deeper, fuller black.

  He looked at her.

  She screamed and ducked into her stairwell, yanked the door closed and locked it. Then she stumbled back up the stairs. She had to hide, but there was no place to go. She had to escape, but it was too long a drop to the ground.

  The engine softened.

  Frantically, she looked around for something to use as a weapon, but couldn’t find a thing.

  The engine rumbled, like a great cat, its growl lingering deep in its throat.

  She knew it then—he was biding his time. And when he was ready, he would explode through the door and up the steps after her.

  The engine grumbled.

  She stood at the head of the stairs and tried to force herself to be calm. She had to think. There had to be some way she could get out of this.

  She could tie her bed sheets together and use them to climb down the front of the house. They wouldn’t reach all the way, but the drop wouldn’t be so bad then.

  Or she could grab her CD player, or the receiver, and throw them at him when he came through the door. He’d be knocked off the bike, she’d run past him and get out the front and to a neighbor’s house.

  Slowly the engine grew louder.

  She backed toward the window, her hands jumping at her sides.

  He wouldn’t get her.

  “Who are you!” she called.

  No matter what, he wouldn’t get her.

  “Who are you!”

  The engine roared.

  Roz screamed and turned to the window.

  The explosion of wood as the bike shattered the door galvanized her—without thinking, without hesitation, she leapt headfirst through the window, glass shards stringing behind her like a glittering cape, pieces of window frame clinging oddly to her back.

  She fell.

  She didn’t scream.

  She heard the engine bellow in frustration.

  And she landed.

  She screamed.

  She lay on her back and looked up at a curiously moonless sky and realized that her scream had been in her mind, not her throat. Then she realized that there was no pain, and with a fall like that, she should have been in agony.

  The sky shifted when she turned her head, and became the ceiling; the ground became her floor; and for a long silent moment she thought she was dead and haunting her own room.

  “God,” she said breathlessly, grabbing a corner of the bed sheet to dry the cold perspiration from her face. “God, it was so real!”

  Still, it took her almost a full minute to get up the nerve to look outside so she could prove to herself that it had only been a dream. And when she looked, when she saw the soft moonlight and the empty street, her legs weakened, her fingers began to quiver, and it was all she could do to stumble into bed.

  It was all she could do not to run shrieking out of the room when she heard, in the distance, the soft growl of an engine.

  Waiting.

  Just … waiting.

  Five

  Dawn was less than an hour away when Roz fell asleep at last, fearful of more bad dreams. But the dreams didn’t come, and when the clock radio woke her with music better suited to her parents’ generation, she groaned and felt as if a block of concrete had been strapped to the top of her skull. A pillow lumped over her head didn’t help, nor did a prayer to make the world stay away for just a little while longer.

  Finally, with another, louder groan, she slapped the off button with a fumbling hand and sat up, rubbing her eyes and wishing it were Saturday so she didn’t have to get up. She could just lie here, listening to the neighborhood get its weekend act together, listen to—

  She remembered last night.

  Quickly she tossed the covers aside, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and after telling herself she was acting silly, she leaned over and peered through the window.

  The sun was out, the street was normal. There were some cars, a few kids, and not a single sign of the motorcycle. It was as if the nightmare and the night hadn’t happened at all.

  Getting dressed was a chore. Fielding her mother’s anxious questions about how tired she looked was miraculously easy. Making it to school and through all her classes without falling on her face was worthy, she decided at the end of the day, of a solid-gold medal.

  When the last bell rang, she could have screamed for joy. She made it outside in record time.

  She stood to one side of the glass double doors, trying to find a familiar face amid the throngs that swept down the front steps. The exodus seemed endless, and as she waited for Melanie, she took a slow deep breath, hoping the fresh air would blow the last of the cobwebs out of her mind. It helped, but not much. She still felt lousy, but not as bad as she had a few hours ago. At least now the nightmare had faded, and it was entirely possible that she had only thought she had seen the rider there in the street once she had awakened from her dozing; it might have been just an aftereffect of the dream.

  She didn’t believe it for a minute.

  He had been there, he had, and the memory made her hug her arms to her sides.

  The swarm soon became a straggle. A handful of teachers passed her with polite nods, briefcases in hand, faces tilted toward the sun. She had just about decided she had missed her friend in the initial rush when Melanie pushed through the center door, a spring jacket folded carelessly over one arm. Her fair hair was loose today, as straight as if it had been ironed, and parting over her shoulders. She seemed preoccupied, and jumped when Roz spoke her name.

  “Oh,” she said flatly. “Hi.”

  Roz was puzzled. What kind of way was that to say hello? She was about to ask what was wrong when Lynda joined them, fairly dancing on her toes and bubbling about totally destroying a last-period geography quiz. It was a breeze, she claimed—a snap. She said she could have taken it blindfolded, with both hands tied behind her back.

  Melanie kept silent. It was Lynda who bluntly asked Roz why she looked so awful on such a beautiful afternoon.

  “You look like a zombie, “ the girl added without waiting for an answer, nudging them into motion down the steps. “Like in those gross Italian movies, you know?”

  “Thanks. I needed that.”

  Lynda grinned. “Hey, no problem.” She shaded her eyes with one hand and squinted more closely at her friend. The smile was still there, but it had vanished from her eyes. “So what’s the matter?” Her expression added: This had better not be about that scumbag, Bart Corry.

  The school’s deep and long front lawn was divided in half by a broad concrete walk leading from sidewalk to entrance. In the center of either half were raised flowerbeds walled in stone in which a number of flowers had already begun to bloom. Around each of these mini-gardens a half-dozen redwood benches had been set on pebbled circular paths, and Roz led them across the grass to the right, sat, and with a quizzical look at Melanie, told them about the night before. She made fun of her own fear, and even managed to exaggerate the nightmare. For some reason, talking about it like this made it seem much less horrid.

 

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