That's going a little too far, Lane thought.

Jessica dropped her sunglasses onto the desktop. Lane could only see her right eye. It was swollen nearly shut. Her upper lid, shiny and purple, bulged as if someone had jammed half a golf ball underneath it.

Kramer pursed his lips. He shook his head. "You may put the glasses back on," he said.

"Thanks a heab."

"Okay, we've wasted enough time. Take out your texts and turn to page fifty-eight."

Lane watched the clock. This was the last class of the day. It had forty-five minutes to go.

He won't try anything, she told herself. He wouldn't dare.

I'll be okay if I can just get to my car.

Thirty minutes to go.

Ten.

In spite of the air-conditioning, Lane was bathed with sweat. Her T- shirt felt sodden against her armpits. Cool dribbles trickled down between her breasts. Her panties were glued to her rump.

With one minute to go she piled her books on top of her binder, ready to bolt for the door.

The bell rang.

She pressed the books to her chest, slid out of the seat and stood up.

Kramer met her eyes. "Miss Dunbar, I'd like to speak with you for a minute."

No!

"Yes sir," she said.

She sank back onto her seat and put the books down.

Why was he doing this to her? Was he annoyed because she'd seemed in such a rush to get out?

I'm doomed, she thought.

Mr. Kramer stepped behind his desk and stuffed books into his briefcase. The kids hurried out. The room had doors at the front and rear. Riley didn't leave by the front. He'd probably used the other door, but Lane forced herself not to look.

Maybe he forgot about me.

Fat chance.

Mr. Kramer came around his desk and sat on its edge, facing her. He held some typed sheets in his hand.

He wants to discuss one of my themes?

But Lane could see that it wasn't hers. It looked like erasable paper. The stuff always felt sticky, and the ink had a tendency to smear if you rubbed it, but she'd used it anyway until her father had told her to "throw away that junk and use some decent bond." He'd gone on to say that only amateurs fooled with erasable paper, and editors hated it with a passion.

"That isn't mine," she said.

Mr. Kramer smiled. "I'm aware of that. What I have here is a book report that I found very interesting. It was written by Henry Peidmont Is he a friend of yours?"

"Yes."

Henry, she knew, had Kramer for second period.

"He's quite a good student, but he does have a peculiar taste in literature. He seems to relish the macabre."

"Yeah, I've noticed."

Kramer fluttered the pages a bit. "This particular report deals with a book called Night Watcher, by Lawrence Dun-bar." He tipped his head sideways and smiled at Lane.

So that's it, she thought.

I'm not in trouble, after all.

Just in trouble with Riley.

"He's my dad," she admitted, feeling a mix of pride and embarrassment.

"Henry mentions that in his report."

Thanks, Hen.

"We don't have many real authors living here in Mule-head Bend. In fact, your father is the only one I'm aware of. Do you suppose he might be willing to come in sometime and talk to the class?"

"He might. He's kind of busy, but-"

"I'm sure he is. We wouldn't want to impose on him, but I think that the class might enjoy hearing what he has to say. I've never read any of his books myself. They're not exactly my cup of tea."

"A lot of people feel that way," Lane said.

"I've seen his books on the stands, though. And I've seen any number of students with them."

"They need more parental supervision."

Kramer laughed softly. He may be a teacher, Lane thought, but he's sure a neat guy.

"I understand that the novels are pretty nasty."

"You were misinformed. They're extremely nasty. I'm under strict orders not to read any until I'm thirty-five."

"I'll bet you've disobeyed, though, haven't you?"

Lane grinned. "I've read 'em all."

"Under the bedcovers, I presume."

"Some of the time."

"Well, I'd really appreciate it if you would talk to him. If he could find the time to come in, I think the kids would get quite a charge out of it. He might want to tell them about how he became a writer, why he chose to specialize in 'extremely nasty' novels, that kind of thing."

"I'll check with him about it."

"Fine. I won't keep you any longer now. But let me know, okay?"

"Sure." She picked up her books. As she scooted off the seat, she saw him glance at her legs and look away quickly.

At least somebody appreciates the dress, she thought.

Too bad he has to be a teacher.

Heading toward the door, she was hit again by the knowledge that Riley might be waiting for her.

What if I ask Mr. Kramer to walk me out to the parking lot?

No way, she told herself. He might get the wrong idea. Unless I explain about Riley. And that might get Riley in hot water, and then I'd really be in trouble.

"See you tomorrow," she called over her shoulder.

"Have a nice evening, Lane."

She stepped into the hallway. Leaning against the lockers on the other side was Jim. He lifted a hand in greeting.

"I wouldn't blame you if you told me to get lost," he said, coming toward her. "I don't know what got into me this morning, I'm really sorry."

"You should be."

"You can wash my mouth out with soap, if that'd help any."

"That's an idea." She took hold of his hand. "Next time, I just might."

"Am I forgiven, then?"

"I guess so. This time."

Together they walked down the hall.

So much for dumping him, she thought. Guess I wasn't ready for it, after all.

Though she was a little disappointed in herself, she mostly felt relieved.

"I was afraid I'd really blown it," Jim said. "All day I kept thinking about it, and how much I'd miss you. I really love you, Lane. I don't know what I would've done if... well, anyway. We're okay again, right?"

"Yeah. We're okay."

He squeezed her hand.

In the parking lot Lane spotted Riley Benson sitting on the hood of her Mustang. They were still some distance away, and Jim hadn't noticed him yet.

But Riley saw them, scurried down and swaggered off.

Ten

She was water skiing on the river at night. She didn't want to be there. She was frightened.

She wanted to stop but didn't dare. The thing in the water would get her before the boat had time to swing around and pick her up.

She didn't know what it was in the water. But something.

Something awful.

The boat sped faster and faster, as if it wanted to help her escape.

She skimmed over the smooth black surface, clinging to the handle of the tow line, whimpering with terror.

Somehow, she knew that the boat wasn't quick enough. The thing in the water was gaining on her.

If they were closer to shore! If the boat took her near enough to a dock, she might let go of the line and her speed might take her gliding to safety.

But she couldn't see the shore.

On both sides there was only darkness.

That's impossible, she thought. The river's no more than a quarter mile wide.

Where are we?

Sick with dread, she thought, We're not on the Colorado anymore.

Clutching the wooden handle with her right hand, she raised her left and waved for the boat to head ashore.

Wherever that might be.

It kept its straight course.

Look at me! her mind shrieked. Damn it, pay attention!

She suddenly realized that she didn't know who was steering the boat.