neck, to keep track of him.
  The closet was deep, a walk-in with a chain-pull light in the center. She heard the 
distinctive snap of the tugged switch, then the clinking of the metal beads in the chain 
as they rattled against the light bulb.
  The Templetons stored their own luggage at the back of that closet. Stacked with the 
other suitcases, Chyna's single bag and train case were not obviously those of a guest in 
residence.
  She had brought several changes of clothes: two dresses, two skirts, another pair of 
jeans, a pair of chinos, a leather jacket. Because Chyna was the same size as Laura, the 
intruder might conclude that the few garments on tne roa were just spillovers trom ttie 
packecl closet in Laura's room rather than evidence of a houseguest. If he had been in 
Laura's bedroom, however, and had seen the condition of her closet-then what had happened 
to Laura?
  She must not think about that. Not now. Not yet. For the moment, she needed to focus 
all her thoughts, all her wits, on staying alive.
  Eighteen years ago, on the night of her eighth birthday, in a seaside cottage on Key 
West, Chyna had squirmed under her bed to hide from Jim Woltz, her mother's friend. A 
storm had been raging from the Gulf of Mexico, and the sky-blistering lightning had made 
her fearful of escaping to the sanctuary of the beach where she'd retreated on other 
nights. After committing herself to the cramped space under that iron bed, which had been 
lower slung than this one, she had discovered that she was sharing it with a palmetto 
beetle. Palmettos were not as exotic or as pretty as their name. In fact, they were 
nothing more than enormous tropical cockroaches. This one had been as large as her 
little-girl hand. Ordinarily the hateful bug would have scurried away from her. But it 
had seemed less alarmed by her than by the thundering Woltz, who had crashed around her 
small room in a drunken fury, rebounding tirelessly from the furniture and the walls, 
like an enraged animal throwing itself against the bars of its cage. Chyna had been 
barefoot, dressed in blue shorts and a white tube top, and the palmetto beetle had raced 
in a frenzy over all that exposed skin, between her toes, up and down her legs and up 
again, across her back, along her neck, into her hair, over her shoulder, the length of 
her slender arm. She hadn't dared to squeal in revulsion, afraid of drawing Woltzs 
attention. He had been wild that night, like a monster from a dream, and she had been 
convinced that, like all monsters, he possessed supernaturally keen sight and hearing, 
the better to hunt children. She hadn't even found the courage to strike out at the 
beetle or knock it away, for fear that Woltz would hear the smallest sound even over the 
shriek of the storm and the incessant crashing of thunder. She had endured the palmetto's 
attentions in order to avoid those of Woltz, clenching her teeth to bite off a scream, 
praying desperately for God to save her, then praying harder for God to take her, praying 
for an end to the torment even if by a bolt of lightning, an end to the torment, an end, 
dear God, an end.
  Now, although she wasn't sharing the space under this galbe-leg bed with any cockroach, 
Chyna could feel one crawling over her toes as if she were that barefoot girl again, 
scurrying up her legs as if she were wearing not jeans but cotton shorts. She had never 
again worn her hair long since the night ot her eighth birthday, when the bug had 
burrowed through her tresses, but now she felt the ghost of that palmetto in her closely 
cropped hair.
  The man in the closet, perhaps capable of atrocities infinitely worse than the 
wickedest dreams of Woltz, tugged on the chain-pull. The light went out with a click 
followed by a tinkle of metal beads.
  The booted feet reappeared and approached the bed. A fresh tear of blood glistened on 
the curve of black leather.
  He was going to drop to one knee beside the bed. Dear God, he'll find me cowering like 
a child, choking on my own stifled scream, in a cold sweat, all dignity lost in the 
desperate struggle to stay alive, untouched and alive, untouched and alive.
  She had the crazy feeling that when he peered under the side rail, face-to-face with 
her, he would be not a man but an enormous palmetto with multifaceted black eyes.
  She had been reduced to the helplessness of childhood, to the primal fear that she had 
hoped never to know again. He had stolen from her the self-respect that she had earned 
from years of endurancethat she had earned, God damn him-and the injustice of it filled 
her eyes with bitter tears.
  But then his blurred boots turned away from her and kept moving. He walked past the bed 
to the open door.
  Whatever he'd thought about the clothes hanging in the closet, apparently he had not 
inferred from them that the guest room was occupied.
  She blinked furiously, clearing her tear-blurred vision. He stopped and turned, 
evidently studying the bedroom one last time.
  Lest he hear her child-shallow exhalations, Chyna held her breath. She was glad that 
she wore no perfume. She was certain that he would have smelled her.
  He switched off the light, stepped into the hall, and pulled the door shut as he went.
  His footsteps moved off the way he had come, for her room was the last on the second 
floor. His tread swiftly faded, cloaked by the fierce pounding of her heart.
  Her first inclination was to remain in that narrow haven between the carpet and the box 
springs, wait until daybreak or even longer, wait until there came a long silence that 
ceased to seem like the stillness of a crouched predator.
  Any of them-all of them-might be alive, grievously wounded but drawing breath. The 
intruder might even be keeping them alive to torture them at his leisure. Any newspaper 
regularly reported stories of cruelty no worse than the possible scenarios that now 
unreeled vividly in her mind. And if any of the Templetons still lived, Chyna might be 
their only hope of survival.
  She had crawled out of all the many hideaways of her childhood with less fear than she 
felt when she hesitantly slid out from under this bed. Of course she had more to lose now 
than before she had walked out on her mother, ten years ago: a decent life built on a 
decade of ceaseless struggle and hard-won self-respect. It seemed madness to take this 
risk when safety was assured simply by her staying put. But personal safety at the 
expense of others was cowardice, and cowardice was a right only of small children who 
lacked the strength and experience to defend themselves.
  She couldn't simply retreat into the defensive detachment of her childhood. Doing so 
would mean the end of all self-respect. Slowmotion suicide. It's not possible to retreat 
into a bottomless pit-one can only plunge.
  In the open once more, she rose into a crouch beside the bed. For a while that was as 
far as she got. She was frozen by the expectation that the door would crash open and that 
the intruder would burst in again.
  The house was as echo-free as any airless moon. Chyna rose to her feet and silently 
crossed the dark guest room.
  Unable to see the trio of blood drops, she tried to step around the place where they 
had fallen earlier.
  She pressed her left ear to the crack between the door and the jamb, listening for 
movement or breathing in the hall. She heard nothing, yet she remained suspicious.
  He could be on the other side of the door. Smiling. Deeply amused to think that she was 
listening. Biding his time. Patient because he knew that eventually she would open the