CHAPTER 13

"How long are we going to wait?" Alison asked. A fire was blazing on the hearth, but its dancing flames had done little to dispel the dark mood that had settled not only over Alison, but her mother and brother as well. Nor had the droning of the television distracted any of them from worrying about Joey. Periodically, as the evening wore on, one or the other of them found an excuse to leave the room, to tour through the downstairs rooms, peering out into the darkness, searching for any sign of either Joey or Storm. So far there had been nothing.

"We'll give him another few minutes." MaryAnne sighed, abandoning any pretense of watching the image on the television screen. As the clock began striking nine, she stood up. "Maybe I'd better check the barn again."

"Can I go with you?" Logan asked.

"You've already done that five times, Mom," Alison pointed out before MaryAnne could answer Logan's question.

"Then I'll do it one more time," MaryAnne replied.

"And no, you can't go with me, Logan. I want you to stay in the house with Alison."

"But why?" Logan wailed. "I want to see the horses!"

"I'm not going to argue with you, Logan," MaryAnne told the little boy.

And I'm not going to tell you why not, either, she thought as she went into the kitchen to put on one of Audrey's heavy jackets against the cold night air.

She hadn't told either of the children of the terror she'd felt outside the barn the other night, and she had no intention of telling them now.

Although every time she'd gone out to the barn tonight each time hoping that this time she would find Joey and Storm curled up on the floor of one of the empty stalls-she'd found the horses calmly standing in their stalls, peering at her with placid eyes, apparently undisturbed by either her own presence, or the presence of anything else. Yet her fear had not diminished.

Taking her flashlight with her, MaryAnne stepped out the back door into the yard. She swept the field with her eyes, in the futile hope that she might see Joey Wilkenson coming out of the forest. In the dim light from the house, all she could see were a doe and two yearling fawns, grazing contentedly.

She paused outside the barn, listening. Hearing nothing, she pulled the door open far enough to slip inside, then snapped on the flashlight and shined it around the darkness. Sheika, her head hanging over her stall door as always, blinked in the brilliance of the glare, but didn't turn away. "Joey?" MaryAnne called out, more to break the silence of the barn than in any hope that the boy might reply.

"Are you in here? Storm?"

The only answer she received was a soft nicker from Sheika, and she paused to scratch the horse's ears as she walked down the aisle, checking the empty stalls for any sign of Joey, but knowing even before she was through that he wasn't there. Relatching the barn door, she hurried back to the house, stepping into the kitchen just as the phone began to ring. She snatched up the receiver before it had a chance to shrill a second time, expecting to hear, if not Joey's voice, one of the neighbors', calling to tell her that he was there.

"Hello?"

"That was quick," Alan said. "What were you doing, waiting for me to call?"

MaryAnne floundered at the unexpected sound of her husband's voice.

"No-I-My God, Alan, it must be the middle of the night back there!"

"It's just a few minutes after eleven," Alan replied, a note of suspicion edging into his tone. "MaryAnne, is everything okay? You sound kind of-funny, I guess."

"No!" MaryAnne exclaimed, a little too loudly. "I mean, everything's fine! We're just finishing up the supper dishes, and Damn! Why had she said that? Why hadn't she told him the kids were at some friend's house? Now he'd insist on talking to them, and Logan, surely, would tell him the truth, "Actually, Joey got mad at me and took off a little while ago. I thought you might be him, calling for a ride home."

"A ride home from where?" Alan asked, his voice etched with sarcasm.

"Your nearest neighbors are miles away, aren't they?"

"For heaven's sake, Alan, it's not that bad! We're not@' She cut off her own words. What was the use? If she tried to argue with him, they would instantly be in the middle of another pointless fight. "Look, I've got to go see if I can find Joey. Can I call you back@'

Alan's voice, dark with anger, interrupted her. "Don't bother," he said.

"Just let me talk to the kids, or have you managed to convince them I'm the bad guy in this deal?"

if not you, then who? MaryAnne felt like snapping back, but held her temper in check. "I'm not sure this is the best time, Alan," she said out loud, but Alison was already at her elbow.

"Is that Dad? Let me talk to him!" She reached for the phone, and MaryAnne, after shooting her a look of warning, surrendered it. "Dad?

Are you coming to visit us?"

MaryAnne moved around to the other side of the counter, trying not to stare at her daughter, but not wanting to miss a word Alison said, either. As the girl talked to her father, though, she winked conspiratorially at her mother.

"What's the big deal, Dad? Joey and Storm go out hiking every day ...

It's not like Canaan, Dad. People aren't waiting to mug you on every corner, and we don't even have drive-by shootings! ... He'll be back ... Of course nott Why should we be scared? ... Dad ... Dad! Her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. Then, as Alan apparently changed the subject, Alison grinned happily. "School's great! My classes are really small, and . . ." Her grin faded, and she took a deep breath. "Of course I miss you, Dad, but I like it here! What's wrong with that?" She fell silent for a moment, then held the receiver out to Logan. "He wants to talk to you," she said, all the happiness in her voice when she'd first spoken to her father suddenly gone.

As she surrendered the phone to her brother, she shrugged helplessly at her mother. "All he wants to know is when we're coming home, and he thinks we're living in the wilderness!" Then, as both she and her mother heard what Logan was saying to his father, she turned to glare at her brother.

"There was a murder, Dad!" the little boy said, his voice trembling with excitement, "Right up in the campground, practically next door to our house! It was a Sasquatch, and it ripped up a tent, and killed this guy, and everything! Everyone says@' Abruptly, he went silent, then looked up at his mother. "Daddy says he wants to talk to you. Right now!" he added, mimicking the tone his father had just used.

Her stomach already starting to ache with tension, MaryAnne reluctantly took the phone.

"Why didn't you tell me about the murder?" Alan demanded without preamble.

"It wasn't a murder," MaryAnne began.

"If someone's dead, what would you call it?" her husband shot back.

"Nobody's calling it anything yet!" she snapped. "And I didn't tell you about it because I knew exactly how ridiculously you'd react!"

"I don't call wanting you and the kids to come home 'ridiculous'! And I think I have a right to know what's going on with my family. I'm still your husband@'

"You lost your rights the night you walked out on us!" MaryAnne flared.

Still trembling with anger, she dropped the receiver back on the hook, then turned to face the children, both of whom instantly looked away.

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling depleted by the rage expended on her husband.

"I wish you hadn't had to hear that, but@' She lapsed into silence.

"Is Daddy going to make us go back to New Jersey?" Logan asked uncertainly, looking much younger than his ten years.

"Daddy can't make us do anything," MaryAnne replied.

"But he wants us to go back, yes. And maybe he's tight.

May@'

"But I like it here," Logan protested. "It's lots better than dumb old New Jersey!"

A small smile played around MaryAnne's lips, and she reached out and pulled Logan close to her, but when she spoke, it was to Alison. "What about you?" she asked. "Do you think we should go home?"

Alison hesitated, but finally shook her head. "I think everything's a lot better here, too."

"What about last night?" MaryAnne asked. "Doesn't what happened up at the campground scare you?"

"I guess it scares me," Alison admitted softly. "But back home, I was scared every time I went to school. I mean, there were kids with guns there, Mom! It's not like that here. It's just not."

"Well, then, we're all agreed," MaryAnne said with a lot more confidence than she was feeling. "And it's time for both of you to be getting ready for bed."

"But Joey isn't home yet," Logan instantly objected.

"He will be," MaryAnne insisted. "Go up and get ready for bed, and when Joey comes back, you can both come down and say hello to him. All right?"

Sensing that their mother was in no mood to argue with them, Alison and Logan headed upstairs.

After taking a last look out into the night beyond the kitchen, MaryAnne picked up the phone and began calling the nearest neighbors, asking if any of them had seen her missing godchild.

The blackness of the overcast night closed down on El Monte Ranch. Ten o'clock. Joey finally stepped out of the shelter of the woods. For nearly four hours he'd been huddling in the refuge of the trees, watching as his godmother came outside over and over again, calling out to him, then going to the barn to search for him. Every time she'd appeared, Storm had risen to his feet, whining eagerly, ready to dash across the field to throw himself on her.

Joey himself had had to resist the same urge, holding fast to the dog's collar, keeping the big shepherd as firmly in control as he was keeping himself Why should he go back to the house?

All she'd do was yell at him again.

And he hadn't done anything wrong! All he and Storm had done was go for a hike, something they'd done thousands of times! And his mother had never gotten mad at him!

The thing was, he couldn't tell Aunt MaryAnne where he'd been, because he didn't really know. All he knew was that he'd started following Storm, and the dog had led him up the Mountainside, higher than he'd ever gone by himself before. After a while he'd started getting that weird feeling again, as if all his nerves were exposed. But he'd kept going, kept following Storm, and by the time the feeling passed, he wasn't anywhere near where he'd started, and it had gotten a lot later than he'd thought it was.

How could he tell Aunt MaryAnne where he'd been when he didn't even know himself? Struggling against his own confusion, in the end he'd just gotten mad at all her questions and taken off.

At first he thought maybe he'd just stay outside all night long. He could sleep right here-he had his jacket on, and even if it wasn't very warm, he wasn't going to freeze to death. But as the hours crept by, and the temperature started to drop with the fading light, he'd changed his mind.

Maybe he'd just stay here until all the lights went out in the house and he was sure Aunt MaryAnne had gone to bed. Then he could sneak into the barn and go to sleep in one of the stalls, with the horses to keep him company.

There were blankets in there, too, and the little bathroom off the tack room, where he could wash his face.

Now, though, as night pressed in around him, without even any moonlight to break the darkness, he started to shiver; the house, only a hundred yards away, looked warm and cozy with its lights glowing brightly. An hour ago he'd seen a wisp of smoke drifting up from the chimney as the fire in the den had been lit. As the cold of the night seeped through his jacket to chill his body, and loneliness wrapped his soul like a shroud, the last of Joey's anger faded away.

Drawn by the warmth of the house, he started across the field, Storm racing ahead of him.

By the time he had climbed the fence between the field and the yard, the back door was open and his godmother was calling to him.

"Joey? Are you all right?"

He hesitated, but when he heard no anger in her voice, he dropped off the top rail of the fence and dashed across the yard, hurling himself into her arms.

"I'm sorry, Aunt MaryAnne," he apologized, struggling against the sobs that now threatened to overwhelm him.

"And I'm sorry, too," MaryAnne assured him. "But you're home, and you're safe, and it's not the end of the world. You and I are just going to have to learn how to talk to each other, okay?"

Nodding mutely as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat, Joey let MaryAnne lead him into the kitchen. "I didn't mean to get so mad," he confessed after he'd taken off his jacket. "I just@' But he was unable to explain his anger, any more than he could account for the time he'd lost in the mountains.

"We'll just forget about it, all right?" MaryAnne told him. "We'll call it a misunderstanding, and see if we can't do better from now on. Would you like me to fix you some supper?"

Joey shook his head. "I'm not hungry, I guess. I better go and get cleaned up." He looked down at his pants, smeared with mud from his long climb and the hours of sitting in the forest. "I guess I kind of messed up my clothes."

"I'll wash them in the morning," MaryAnne told him.

"Just bring them down when you're done."

As Joey left the kitchen, MaryAnne called her closest neighbor once more, this time to report that Joey was back, that he was fine, and that she was sorry to have bothered her.

"Well, I'm glad he's back," Margaret Stiffle told her.

"And I sure hope it doesn't mean he's starting to have trouble again. He sure put poor Audrey through enough, but we were all hoping it was over with."

MaryAnne's breath caught in her throat. "Trouble?" she asked. "What kind of trouble? What are you talking about?"

Margaret Stiffle said nothing for a moment. When she finally replied, it was guardedly. "Well, it's really none of my business, is it? And I'm sure I'm wrong. I'm sure Joey's just fine now, and I do thank you for calling." Before MaryAnne could say anything else, Margaret Stiffle had hung up.

Pensively, MaryAnne went back to the den, added another log to the fire, and turned on the television. But Margaret Stiffle's words kept echoing in her mind. She turned the TV set off again, and went upstairs to Alison's room.

Her daughter, clad in a bathrobe now, was lying on her bed, a book propped up in her lap. Closing the door, MaryAnne went over and sat on the edge of the bed. "Did you see Joey?" she asked.

Alison nodded. "He went in to take a shower."

"Did he say where he went?" MaryAnne asked. "I mean, tonight?"

Alison tipped the book over on her chest. "Didn't you ask him?"

"I guess I didn't want to run the risk of getting into another fight with him." She hesitated, then, studying her daughter's expression closely: "Alison, I just talked to Mrs. Stiffle, and she said something strange. About Joey." As Alison averted her face, MaryAnne frowned. "Do you know what she was talking about? Has someone else said something?"

Alison started to shake her head, but then changed her mind. "It's not like anyone really said anything," she began. "It's sort of-well, everyone acts like they don't like Joey." Haltingly, feeling like a tattletale, Alison told her mother what had happened on the shopping expedition and again today, on the way to school. "And this afternoon, Andrea and Michael Stiffle wouldn't even say good-bye to him. They all act real weird, like Joey did something to them, but nobody ever says what!"

For a long time that night, MaryAnne lay awake, thinking.

What could Mrs. Stiffle have meant?

What trouble was she talking about?

Somehow, MaryAnne knew, she was going to find out.

As midnight gave way to the small hours of the morning, the wind began to rise, howling down from the mountains to whistle through the trees, slamming against the house with a force that rattled the open windows of Joey's room.

Waking, he sat up in bed, staring at the window, feeling the wind blowing on his face. He stayed still for a few moments, the pungent smells of the mountains filling his nostrils.

Though the night was still almost pitch-dark, the wind had torn at the clouds, and now and then a faint glow of moonlight glimmered outside.

His nostrils flaring at the scent of a deer grazing in the field beyond the yard, Joey slid out of bed and padded silently to the door of his room.

Storm, raising his head for a moment, watched as Joey slipped out into the hall, then dropped his muzzle back to his paws, his eyes closing once more.

Joey moved along the hall to the head of the stairs, then down to the first floor. Another scent caught his attention, and he followed it into the kitchen.

With no light to guide him except the dim glow of the waning moon shining through the scudding clouds, Joey went to the sink and knelt down by the door of the cupboard below it. As he opened the cabinet, the scent grew stronger. Joey reached into the wastebasket, his fingers closing on a piece of butcher's paper.

Clutching the paper in both his hands, he held it to his nose.

The tangy scent of fresh blood filled his nostrils now, and he felt saliva begin to run in his mouth.

His tongue flicked out, tasting the drying blood left on the paper, which only a few hours ago had wrapped the steaks his godmother had fixed for dinner that evening.

His tongue worked faster, licking the blood up, his mouth filling with the pungent flavor.

Finally, when the paper was licked clean, he dropped it back into the wastebasket and moved to the refrigerator.

Opening it, he blinked in the glare of the refrigerator's light, but his eyes quickly adjusted to the brilliance, and he found what he was looking for.

On the lowest shelf were half a dozen more steaks, each of them wrapped in transparent plastic, stacked neatly on a large plate.

His stomach screaming with hunger now, he snatched up one of the steaks and began ripping the plastic away, the odor of raw meat nearly overwhelming him. He held the meat close to his mouth, then sank his teeth into it, tearing away a piece, swallowing it almost before he'd had a chance to chew it.

"Joey? What are you doing?"

The voice startled Joey. He spun around, the raw steak still clutched in one hand, the torn plastic in the other. Instinctively, he wiped the blood from his lips with one of his pajama sleeves. As the kitchen lights came on, he blinked, then recognized Logan standing just inside the kitchen door, staring curiously at him.

"You can't eat that!" Logan exclaimed. "It's not even cooked!"

"I'm not doing anything," Joey replied, thrusting his hands behind his back in a quick, guilty motion. "What are you doing down here, anyway?

If Aunt MaryAnne catches you-"

But before he could complete the sentence, MaryAnne herself appeared behind Joey in the doorway. "Joey?

Logan? Why aren't you two in bed?"

Logan's arm came up and he pointed accusingly at Joey.

"He's got a steak, and he's eating it. It's not even cooked, Mom! He's eating it raw!"

Her eyes widening in shock, MaryAnne stared at Joey, until he finally pulled his hands from behind his back. "I-I wasn't eating it," he stammered. "I was hungry, and I found it in the refrigerator." He looked up despairingly at MaryAnne. "I thought-I was going to cook it, but-I'm not sure how."

The misery on the boy's face wrenched at MaryAnne, her annoyance that once again he'd gotten up in the middle of the night tempered by the knowledge that, having skipped dinner, he must be ravenously hungry.

"Okay," she sighed. "Let me get Logan back in bed, then I'll fry it up for you. But then it's right back to bed for you, too, and no arguments. All right?"

Joey nodded silently, and MaryAnne spun Logan around, aimed him toward the stairs, then swatted him affectionately on the bottom. "Upstairs,"

she ordered. "Go on!

Scoot!" Herding him ahead of her, she followed the little boy up the stairs.

The second she was gone, Joey's attention returned to the raw meat in his hand. Tearing at it with both his fingers and his teeth, he began cramming it into his mouth, swallowing all of it in less than a minute.

By the time MaryAnne had gotten Logan settled back in bed, Joey had thrown away the plastic the meat had been wrapped in, shoving it deep down to the bottom of the wastebasket.

He'd washed the blood from his hands and face and was wiping them dry as MaryAnne stepped into the kitchen. "I changed my mind," he said. "I just drank some milk."

MaryAnne frowned uncertainly. "You're sure that's all you want?"

Joey nodded, started toward the kitchen door, then impulsively hugged her. "I'm really sorry I messed up," he said.

"I'll try not to do it again."

MaryAnne wrapped her arms around him, held him close for a moment, then released him. "Well, one of the things you can do is stay in bed all night for once." Tempering her words with a smile, she shooed him toward the stairs.

"Now go on-scat! I'll shut off the light." Joey darted up the stairs, and MaryAnne reached for the light switch, then paused, her eyes on the refrigerator.

Feeling faintly silly, knowing the thought that had flicked through her mind was ridiculous, she nevertheless found herself crossing the kitchen and opening the refrigerator door.

She counted the steaks on the plate on the bottom shelf.

Earlier, there had been six.

She was certain of it.

Now, there were only five.

When she finally turned off the lights and started back up the stairs, her mind was spinning and her stomach felt nauseous.

She would get no more sleep tonight.

She was living with a boy she didn't know.