Suddenly, she sees a flicker ofmotion from the corner ofher eye.She turns quickly toward the window.At first all she can see is her own re-flection.But then she sees it again:something wishing not to be seen.
She reaches for the flashlight, shines it through the window, but it throws its own shining face back at her.Kate then opens the window, let-ting precious heat escape, letting in a whoosh ofsnow that sweeps in like the tail ofa comet.Now she shines the flashlight into the blizzard.Noth-ing.Nothing.But then she sees them.Footprints.Cratered into the snow, several pairs, stopping thirty feet from her house.
She feels a fear beyond any she has ever experienced, and she makes it worse by asking herself,What if they come into the house?The problem with the question is the answer—They will rape me.
Her heart pounding, and her stomach, too, like a second, sour heart,
Kate pulls the window closed, locks it.She locks the back door, too, and as she does, she reaches for the phone.She pushes the on button—but there is no dial tone.It’s a cordless phone, it works offelectricity.She needs the phone upstairs in her study, the only old-style phone in the house.She is not certain whom she is about to call.Surely the police have too much on their hands to respond to some woman seven miles outside oftown who is pretty sure she saw some footprints in the snow.Even if she were to tell them she has seen the escaped Star ofBethlehem kids—what would the police do?Whatcanthey do?They can’t drive out in their cars, and even ifthey had helicopters, they couldn’t fly them in this weather.So?Will they all jump onto their crime-buster snowmobiles?
She sweeps the flashlight back and forth as she walks through the house, an oar oflight that rows through the sea ofdarkness.She realizes the only person she can call, the only person she wants to call is Daniel.
Iris will probably answer the phone, and then hand it over to him.As Kate makes her way up the steps, there is a nerve-shattering death ofa maple tree not fifty feet from the house, a noble old tree that seems ac-tually to scream as it falls, as ifits pulp were flesh.Kate hollers in fear—not that high, blood-curdling scream ofthe horror show damsel in distress, but the wavering, angry, monotone cry ofreal fear.She drops her flashlight, it rolls down the staircase, turning the house end over end until the flashlight hits the bottom and goes dark.
Kate is still making noise—a soft, stunned“oh-oh-oh.”And then she gathers herselfand shouts out,“Daniel!”She grips the banister, turns around.She wants to retrieve the flashlight.But no.Why walk back into that darkness?There are candles burning upstairs and the phone is there, too.She turns around again, stops.She remembers she still has not locked the front door, and so once again she turns around.She is turn-ing around and around.And in the midst ofall that turning she realizes that she is wet and clammy and there is a smell ofurine in the air.Fuck-ing tree.Fucking snow.Fucking gang bangers out there staring at her windows.Fucking Daniel, so far out there, so far away from her.
She clutches at her stomach, presses her hand against the wall to stop herselffrom tumbling down the stairs.She sits, feels along the side ofher pants.Just a little dampness, not so bad.Her underwear, however, is soaked.Okay, that settles it.Upstairs, for a change ofclothes.She starts to rise, but then sits again;there’s still the matter ofthat unlocked front door.
She cannot get up because she cannot decide ifit would be better to con-tinue upstairs or hurry downstairs, and the more she thinks, the more un-likely it seems that she will ever be able to make up her mind.She closes her eyes.The darkness within makes the darkness ofthe house seem like an ice cream parlor.She reaches up, grips the banister, pulls herselfup.She sways, and with every bit ofher will she forces a decision.She turns around and heads upstairs, where there are clean clothes and a working phone.
By the time she reaches the top ofthe stairs she hears the urgent knocking at her door.She knows it’s them, the boys, the boys with noth-ing to lose.All she can think to do is pretend she does not hear it.
The bedroom has always been the coldest room in the house.She opens her dresser drawer, her undergarments feel cold and slippery in her hand.Then she finds a pair ofjeans in the closet.She sits on the edge ofthe bed, undressing, dressing again, and through the noise ofthe storm she hears the pounding ofthe boys’fists against the front door.All she can think ofby way ofstrategy is that ifshe ignores them they will eventually go away.
Dressed, dry, but still cold, she waits for the boys to give up.She places a votive candle on the bedspread and then holds her hands above it, warming her palms over the tiny flame.She holds her breath so that the sound ofher respiration won’t interfere with her trying to hear ifthe boys are still trying to get in.She hears nothing but the wind and the tor-tured groaning oftrees, their canopies filled with ice and snow, any one ofthem liable to snap in two.Yet beneath the sounds ofthe storm, she can make out the urgent knocking ofthe boys’fists against her heavy front door.Gun gun gun.And then, suddenly, the knocking stops.
Kate pulls the phone offher bedside table and sits with it on her lap, her hand on the receiver.Ifshe hears footsteps in the house, she will call the police.But she doesn’t hear footsteps, she doesn’t hear anything—all she has is asensethat those boys have found their way into her house.
She cannot sit there wondering.She goes down the stairs to see, and when she is halfway between the first and second floor landings she stops.Fresh snow is swirling in the foyer and still more is blowing in.
As quietly as she can, Kate backs up the stairs, and when she is at the top ofthe landing she turns and walks quickly to her bedroom.There is no lock on the door;she swats a pile offolded laundry offan upholstered chair, drags the chair across the room, and jams it beneath the porcelain door handle.Then she blows out the votive candle and the freestanding candle on the marble-topped dresser and the room slips into darkness.
She sits on the end ofthe bed, folds her hands onto her lap, and breathes as quietly as she can.She feels absolutely and without question that her life hangs now in the balance, that one stupid move, haste, panic, impatience, curiosity, anything but the most profound and disciplined stillness will lead to her death.Her fear—no longer relevant, no longer useful—seems to have been superseded by an exquisite clarity.
The fear remains in abeyance, even as she feels someone coming up the stairs.It is part ofthe house’s idiosyncrasy that a footstep on the fifth stair vibrates along the master-bedroom floor.At night, she could always hear Daniel’s gloomy trudge upstairs, and by day she could hear Ruby coming up to rouse her.That creaky step, and its harmonic convergence with the house’s inner bone structure, is her distant early warning sys-tem;normally, it cues her to feign sleep, to pull the covers up over her chin, maybe place a pillow over her head.But tonight, all she can do is hold her breath.
The footsteps are in the hall, heading in her direction.
She cannot think ofwhat to ask God.Asking for protection is like asking for a pair ofskates.Ifhe doesn’t want you to die, then you’re not going to die.Ifhe does, you’re certainly not going to talk him out ofit at the last second.You don’t pray for your safety, you don’t pray for a home run, you don’t pray that your next book is a Book ofthe Month Club selection.The only plausible prayer is for serenity ofmind, for faith and acceptance, and Kate finds she has these things right now.