"She's just* Aunt Faye."

"Boy, you can say that that again!" again!"

An especially fierce gust of wind swept the street, found its way into the recess in front of the green gate. Penny and Davey shivered.

He said, "Dad's got a good gun, doesn't he? They give cops really good guns, don't they? They wouldn't let a cop go out on the street with a half-a.s.s gun, would they?"

"Don't say 'half-a.s.s.'"

"Would they?"

"No. They give cops the best guns there are."

"And Dad's a good shot, isn't he?"

"Yes."

"How good?"

"Very good."

"He's the best, isn't he?"

"Sure," Penny said. "n.o.body's better with a gun than Daddy."

"Then the only way he's going to get it is if somebody sneaks up on him and shoots him in the back."

"That isn't going to happen," she said firmly.

"It could."

"You watch too much TV."

They were silent for a moment.

Then he said, "If somebody kills Dad, I want to get cancer and die, too."

"Stop it, Davey."

"Cancer or a heart attack or something."

"You don't mean that."

He nodded emphatically, vigorously: yes, yes, yes; he did mean it; he absolutely, positively did. "I asked G.o.d to make it happen that way if it has to happen."

"What do you mean?" she asked, frowning at him.

"Each night. When I say my prayers. I always ask G.o.d not to let anything happen to Dad. And then I say, 'Well, G.o.d, if you for some stupid reason just have have to let him get shot, then please let me get cancer and die, too. Or let me get hit by a truck. Something.'" to let him get shot, then please let me get cancer and die, too. Or let me get hit by a truck. Something.'"

"That's morbid."

He didn't say anything more.

He looked at the ground, at his gloved hands, at Mrs. Shepherd walking her patrol-everywhere but at Penny. She took hold of his chin, turned his face to her. Tears shimmered in his eyes. He was trying hard to hold them back, squinting, blinking.

He was so small. Just seven years old and not big for his age. He looked fragile and helpless, and Penny wanted to grab hold of him and hug him, but she knew he wouldn't want her to do that when they might be seen by some of the other boys in his cla.s.s.

She suddenly felt small and helpless herself. But that wasn't good. Not good at all. She had to be strong for Davey's sake.

Letting go of his chin, she said, "Listen, Davey, we've got to sit down and talk. About Mom. About people dying, why it happens, you know, all that stuff, like what it means, how it's not the end for them but maybe only the beginning, up there in Heaven, and how we've got to just go on, no matter what. 'Cause we do. We've got to go on. Mom would be very disappointed in us if we didn't just go on. And if anything happened to Dad-which nothing is is going to happen to him-but if by some wild chance it going to happen to him-but if by some wild chance it did did, then he'd want us to go on, just the way Mom would want. He'd be very unhappy with us if we- "

"Penny! Davey! Over here!"

A yellow cab was at the curb. The rear window was down, and Aunt Faye leaned out, waved at them.

Davey bolted across the sidewalk, suddenly so eager to be away from any talk of death that he was even glad to see his twittering old Aunt Faye.

d.a.m.n! I botched it, Penny thought. I was too blunt about it.

In that same instant, before she followed Davey to the taxi, before she even took one step, a sharp pain lanced through her left ankle. She twitched, yelped, looked down-and was immobilized by terror.

Between the bottom of the green gate and the pavement, there was a four-inch gap. A hand had reached through that gap, from the darkness in the covered serviceway beyond, and it had seized her ankle.

She couldn't scream. Her voice was gone.

It wasn't a human hand, either. Maybe twice the size of a cat's paw. But not a paw. It was a completely-although crudely- formed hand with fingers and a thumb.

She couldn't even whisper. Her throat was locked.

The hand wasn't skin-colored. It was an ugly, mottled gray- green-yellow, like bruised and festering flesh. And it was sort of lumpy, a little ragged looking.

Breathing was no easier than screaming.

The small gray-green-yellow fingers were tapered and ended in sharp claws. Two of those claws had punctured her rubber boot.

She thought of the plastic baseball bat.

Last night. In her room. The thing under the bed.

She thought of the shining eyes in the school bas.e.m.e.nt.

And now this this.

Two of the small fingers had thrust inside her boot End were sc.r.a.ping at her, digging at her, tearing, gouging.

Abruptly, her breath came to her in a rush. She gasped, sucked in lungsful of frigid air, which snapped her out of the terror-induced trance that, thus far, had held her there by the gate. She jerked her foot away from the hand, tore loose, and was surprised that she was able to do so. She turned and ran to the taxi plunged inside, and yanked the door shut.

She looked back toward the gate. There was nothing unusual in sight, no creature with small claw-tipped hands, no goblin capering in the snow.

The taxi pulled away from Wellton School.

Aunt Faye and Davey were talking excitedly about the snowstorm which, Faye said, was supposed to dump ten or twelve inches before it was done. Neither of them seemed to be aware that Penny was scared half to death.

While they chattered, Penny reached down and felt her boot. At the ankle, the rubber was torn. A flap of it hung loose.

She unzippered the boot, slipped her hand inside, under her sock, and felt the wound on her ankle. It burned a little. When she brought her hand out of the boot, there was some blood glistening on her fingertips.

Aunt Faye saw it. "What's happened to you, dear?"

"It's okay," Penny said.

"That's blood."

"Just a scratch."

Davey paled at the sight of the blood.

Penny tried to rea.s.sure him, although she was afraid that her voice was noticeably shaky and that her face would betray her anxiety: "It's nothing, Davey. I'm all right."

Aunt Faye insisted on changing places with Davey, so she would be next to Penny and could have a closer look at the injury. She made Penny take off the boot, and she peeled down the sock, revealing a puncture wound and several scratches on the ankle. It was bleeding, but not very much; in a couple of minutes, even unattended, it would stop.

"How'd this happen?" Aunt Faye demanded.

Penny hesitated. More than anything, she wanted to tell Faye all about the creatures with shining eyes. She wanted help, protection. But she knew that she couldn't say a word. They wouldn't believe her. After all, she was The Girl Who Had Needed A Psychiatrist. If she started babbling about goblins with shining eyes, they'd think she was having a relapse; they would say she still still hadn't adjusted to her mother's death, and they would make an appointment with a psychiatrist. While she was off seeing the shrink, there wouldn't be anyone around to keep the goblins away from Davey. hadn't adjusted to her mother's death, and they would make an appointment with a psychiatrist. While she was off seeing the shrink, there wouldn't be anyone around to keep the goblins away from Davey.

"Come on, come on," Faye said. "Fess up. What were you doing that you shouldn't have been doing?"

"Huh?"

"That's why you're hesitating. What were you doing that you knew you shouldn't be doing?"

"Nothing," Penny said.

"Then how'd you get this cut?"

"I* I caught my boot on a nail."

"Nail? Where?"

"On the gate."

"What gate?"

"Back at the school, the gate where we were waiting for you. A nail was sticking out of it, and I got caught up on it."

Faye scowled. Unlike her sister (Penny's mother), Faye was a redhead with sharp features and gray eyes that were almost colorless. In repose, hers was a pretty enough face; however, when she wanted to scowl, she could really do a first-rate job of it. Davey called it her "witch look."

She said, "Was it rusty?"

Penny said, "What?"

"The nail, of course. Was it rusty?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you saw it, didn't you? Otherwise, how'd you know it was a nail?"

Penny nodded. "Yeah. I guess it was rusty."

"Have you had a teta.n.u.s shot?"

"Yeah."

Aunt Faye peered at her with undisguised suspicion. "Do you even know what a teta.n.u.s shot is?"

"Sure."

"When did you get it?"

"First week of October."

"I wouldn't have imagined that your father would think of things like teta.n.u.s shots."

"They gave it to us at school," Penny said.

"Is that right?" Faye said, still doubtful.

Davey spoke up: "They make us take all kinds kinds of shots at school. They have a nurse in, and all week we get shots. It's awful. Makes you feel like a pin cushion. Shots for mumps and measles. A flu shot. Other stuff. I of shots at school. They have a nurse in, and all week we get shots. It's awful. Makes you feel like a pin cushion. Shots for mumps and measles. A flu shot. Other stuff. I hate hate it." it."

Faye seemed to be satisfied. "Okay. Just the same, when we get home, we'll wash that cut out really good, bathe it in alcohol, get some iodine on it, and a proper bandage."

"It's only a scratch," Penny said.

"We won't take chances. Now put your boot back on, dear."

Just as Penny got her foot in the boot and pulled up the zipper, the taxi hit a pothole. They were all bounced up and thrown forward with such suddenness and force that they almost fell off the seat.

"Young man," Faye said to the driver, even though he was at least forty years old, her own age, "where on earth did you learn to drive a car?"

He glanced in the rearview mirror. "Sorry, lady."

"Don't you know know the streets of this city are a mess?" Faye demanded. "You've got to keep your eyes open." the streets of this city are a mess?" Faye demanded. "You've got to keep your eyes open."

"I try to," he said.

While Faye lectured the driver on the proper way to handle his cab, Penny leaned back against the seat, closed her eyes, and thought about the ugly little hand that had torn her boot and ankle. She tried to convince herself that it had been the hand of an ordinary animal of some kind; nothing strange; nothing out of the Twilight Zone. But most animals had paws, not hands. Monkeys had hands, of course. But this wasn't a monkey. No way. Squirrels had hands of a sort, didn't they? And racc.o.o.ns. But this wasn't a squirrel or a racc.o.o.n, either. It wasn't anything she had ever seen or read about.

Had it been trying to drag her down and kill her? Right there on the street?