Zack spun around. “What was that?”
“Aunt Iris is coming,” I said, getting up to let out the cats.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t; the cats do. They line up on Uncle Will’s truck and wait for her. I don’t want to tell her what has happenedthere’s no telling how she’ll construe it in her head. I’m going to run upstairs and figure out some explanation for my scrapes. You had better go now.”
Zack peered through the screen door at the cats.
“Unbelievable! It’s as if they are waiting for a performance.”
“Stay clear of the driveway,” I advised. “She stops for nothing but the house.”
He reached for the door handle, then turned back. “After Iris gets inside, lock all your doors.”
I didn’t argue that securing this place was impossible.
“Is your cell phone charged?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Keep it on.” He looked around, found a pen, and wrote his number on a paper napkin. “Write down yours.”
I did so quickly. I was dangerously close to tears again.
“Anna?” He rested his hands on my shoulders.
I couldn’t look at him.
“Anna, you can trust me.”
I bit my lip to keep it from trembling.
“You can trust me,” he repeated. “But I can see you don’t.”
He turned and left.
I hurried upstairs. The truth was, it was myself I couldn’t trust, my eyes from betraying my heart.
I DIDN’T STOP in my room, but headed straight to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, stepping out of a steamy shower, I found ointment and a box of adhesive bandages in the bathroom cabinet. I took care of my cuts, then checked out a row of prescription bottles belonging to Aunt Iris. All of them contained the same prescription and were filled nearly to the top. The dates of all but one were expired; she had missed an awful lot of doses.
I wrapped myself in a towel and peeked out the door.
Aunt Iris’s door was closed, with a bar of light shining beneath it. Balling up my muddy clothes, I tiptoed down the hall, waiting until I was in Uncle Will’s room to call good night to her. As soon as I entered my attic space, I shut the door behind me.
It took a minute to find the knob of the small lamp next to my bed. I turned it on, then took a step back. Stones had been placed on my bed, smooth stones painted with black Xs or crosses. They were laid in rows, in the same pattern as those placed on Uncle Will’s “grave.”
Was this a warning — what happened to William can happen to you?
I found myself reluctant to touch them. They’re just painted rocks, I told myself; their power exists only in the mind of the one who attributes it to them: Audrey. What a stupid prank! Having regained my common sense, I reached for a stone on the pillow. She was afraid of methat’s all that this meant. She saw me as another O’Neill, a psychic, a tool of the devil. This was her way of “keeping” me in my place, a safe distance from her.
But if that was her intention, why not put the stones along the gate between the two properties? This arrangement seemed more personal. My bed resembled, a little too closely, a long, narrow grave. How far would Audrey go to make herself safe from the O’Neills? And what was she really afraid of — a family of “evil psychics” or people who might figure out she had killed my mother? Was she the one who had searched the house last night?
I draped my towel over a straight-back chair and pulled on my nightshirt. As ridiculous as it was, I couldn’t sleep with the stones nearby. I found a wooden crate, piled them in there, and carried it down to Uncle Will’s den. Tomorrow I would confront Audrey with what she had done.
Returning to my bed, I stretched out, physically exhausted but far from sleep. Picking up one of the psychic books, I reread the chapter about induced O.B.E.s, then skipped to the section about how an astral traveler can shape an out-ofbody experience, directing himself to certain places. It occurred to me that if I could direct mine, I might be able to pause at the wall, stop next to the rabbit, perhaps even keep myself from “going down the hole” that seemed to take me to the fire. If I could control my journey, and continue to ask to see more clearly, I might discover details that would tell me where that place was.
For the next hour I attempted to induce an O.B.E. My efforts were useless: If there was a psychic part of me, it would not let me control it. The author of the book talked about “letting go,” but the more determined and frustrated I became, the harder it was to let go. At last I gave up and turned out my lamp.
I lay back and tried to think about happy things — the games I played with Grace, Claire, and Jack, our senior class trip, Ring Day. . My eyes closed. Mental pictures became disjointed, floating by in fragments. My mind had almost shut off.
Suddenly, I sat up. Someone was watching the house.
There hadn’t been a sound; I didn’t know how I knew — I just did. I rose quietly and walked to the window nearest my bed. Kneeling there, I scanned the yard. The weather was beginning to clear, but the grass and trees were soaked, their wet surfaces shimmering with moonlight. Clouds dodged the moon, creating liquid shadows.
There! In the shadow of the big tree something moved. I waited, barely breathing. The edge of the shadow separated from the tree’s darkness and became the figure of a man: Elliot Gill.
He gazed up at the house. He was too far away for me to see the expression on his face, but his head was raised, the angle of his body attentive, like that of a worshipper at a shrine — or a hunter sighting his target. My skin crept. Was he obsessed and pitiful, or obsessed and dangerous?
He started walking toward the house. I should have listened to Zack, I thought; at least I could have made it harder for someone to get in. If I started locking up now, Mr.
Gill was sure to hear me. Did I want him to know that I saw him? If I turned on a light, would it deter him or draw him to me?
I wondered how long it would take the sheriff to respond to a call. Then I remembered: My cell phone was charged, but it was in my purse, in my car. Aunt Iris’s landline was in the downstairs hall.
Keeping the lights off, I hurried through Uncle Will’s room to the hall. I didn’t know how Aunt Iris would react and decided that I’d wake her only as a last resort. I crept down the stairs. The front door was closed, and I quietly turned the latch to lock it. The back door of the hall was open, a rectangle of moonlight shining on the floor, nothing but an unlocked screen between me and Mr. Gill.
I found the phone and lifted the receiver. It was old and did not have a lighted pad; I felt the keys, reminding myself where the numbers 9 and 1 were — bottom right and top left corners.
I was reluctant to call the police. Aunt Iris was just paranoid enough to imagine that they had come to carry her off to “the crazy-people place.” I could call Zack. His cell phone number was. . upstairs in the pocket of my muddy pants.
The dial tone changed to a ring, then a recorded voice, “If you would like to make a call, please hang up and—” In the silence of the house, the voice sounded loud. I quickly put the receiver down and looked toward the screen door. My heart stopped. Elliot Gill was standing ten feet from the house, looking up at the second-floor windows, unaware of me watching him from the floor below. I pressed 9. My finger hovered over the 1.
Then he turned abruptly, looking to the right. Something had caught his eye, movement on the other side of the yard.
He craned his neck, as if trying to get a better look, then took off, moving parallel to the house, as if he intended to run around it.
I dropped the phone and raced to the back door to close and lock it. Someone else passed by, moving fast. I couldn’t see who. I hurried to the living room, but the bushes blocked my view, both at the side and front windows. I crossed the hall to the dining room. Knowing the kitchen door was probably open, I looked out the window before going any farther.