4

Grace stepped into her apartment and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. She moved it up and down twice more, and still no light. The bulb had gone again. Seemed she had just replaced it a couple of weeks ago. Or had it been longer? She couldn't remember. Her mind had been jumbled by the horrors of Sunday. That awful scene with Emma at the funeral yesterday had only made matters worse.

She had been spending most of her free time in church, praying for understanding and guidance. Martin had called her last night, asking her why she had missed the regular Wednesday prayer meeting. She had told him she was through with the Chosen, omitting the fact that it had been very hard to stay away last night.

Something continued to draw her to that group.

She began feeling her way into the darkened apartment. She had only a few minutes to grab a bite to eat and then catch the bus to the hospital for her shift.

Suddenly she froze. Someone else was in her apartment!

Her eyes weren't accustomed to the dark yet. She sensed rather than saw movement—rapid movement—to her right. Instinctively she ducked, and in that instant the front of the étagère imploded above her from the force of the blow aimed her way.

Panic gripped her heart like a cold, mailed fist. A robber! Or worse yet, a rapist! Trying to kill her!

As fragments of shattered glass rained down on her back, she scrabbled away on her hands and knees. Behind her, something heavy thudded on the rug with crushing force.

He must have a bat! A heavy bat! To break every bone in her body!

She scurried under the dining-room table. Something hit it hard—hard enough to crack the mahogany top. With a burst of fear-fueled strength, Grace reared up under the far edge of the table, taking it with her. She tilted it, then tipped it over toward her attacker.

Then she ran screaming for the door. A hand grabbed at her collar, catching the cord of her scapular and the chain of her miraculous medal. She felt them cut into her throat for an instant, then they broke, freeing her to reach the door.

She fumbled with the knob, got it open, and fairly leapt out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. She didn't stop screaming then, especially when something thudded heavily against the inside of the door, cracking its outer skin. She continued to howl, stumbling to the other two doors on her floor, pounding on them for help. But when no one answered, Grace ran down the stairs as fast as she dared, almost tripping and falling twice on the way.

She reached the street and ran for the corner phone to dial 911.

5

"He sure was thorough, Mrs. Nevins," the young patrolman said. "Looks like he smashed almost everything you own."

Grace didn't correct him about the "Mrs." Instead she stared in horror at the shambles of her little apartment. Every inch of floor, every counter and tabletop was littered with debris. All of her statues—the Infants of Prague and the Virgin Marys and all the others—were smashed beyond recognition. Her relics had been ground into dust. Her Bibles and other holy books had been torn to shreds. Everything…

She paused. No. That wasn't quite right. Most of her dishes were intact in the china cabinet. The phone had been torn out and smashed, but the screen of her TV was unmarred. And the vase in the corner by the front door was on its side but intact.

"Not everything," she said to the policeman.

"Ma'am?"

"He only broke my religious articles. Nothing else."

He looked around. "Chee! You're right! Ain't that the weirdest thing?"

Grace could only shudder in fear.

6

Emma waited in bed. It was early, but Jonah had gone out on another of his unexplained nocturnal jaunts. Now he was back. She heard the garage door slide down, heard him enter through the kitchen. Her excitement grew.

She hoped this would be like that Monday night a couple of weeks ago when he had come in late and had done her again and again through most of the night. She needed a night like that now, needed something to blot out the thoughts of poor Jimmy and his terrible, senseless death. They hadn't seen too much of their adopted son since his marriage, but just knowing that he was down the block and around the corner had been enough. Now he was gone. Forever.

And where was Jonah? What was taking him so long?

Then she heard the refrigerator door open, heard the ker-shoosh of a beer can being opened.

Emma bit a trembling lip. Oh, no. The beer meant he wouldn't be excited, wouldn't be in the mood. He'd sit there in the living room in the dark and sip beer for hours.

She turned over and buried her face in her pillow to muffle the sobs she could no longer control.

Nineteen

Friday, March 15

1

"Honey, you're not looking well at all," Kay Allen said. "I mean like physically, y'know? Y'eatin'?"

Carol glanced across the desk at her supervisor. There was real concern in Kay's eyes. Hospital social work might have given her a tough skin in regard to patients' problems, but she seemed genuinely worried about Carol.

"I'm feeling worse than I look," Carol told her.

The sickening nightmares kept her in a state of constant nausea. The dreams, combined with the depression and the constant dull ache of loss, had left her without an appetite. She was pale, she knew, and she had lost weight.

She had come here for lack of anyplace better to go. Everywhere but the hospital reminded her of Jim. Everyone she met seemed so uncomfortable. No one made eye contact, and some even crossed the street to avoid her. She knew they felt for her and knew there were no words to express what they were feeling. Still, it made her wish she could run off to a deserted island somewhere. It wouldn't much increase her present sense of isolation. Aunt Grace was still unreachable. Emma only made her feel worse. She felt completely alone in the world.

"Maybe you should have Doc Alberts check you over."

"I think I need a shrink more."

In an uncharacteristic show of affection, Kay reached across the desk and grasped her hand.

"Oh, honey, I'd need a shrink, too, if I'd been through what you have!"

Carol was touched by Kay's empathy and felt herself fill up. But she was not going to cry here.

"So," she said, lightening her voice, "what's new here?"

Kay released her hand.

"Not much. It's still a funny farm. Oh, your old friend Mr. Dodd is back."

"Oh, no. Why?"

"Had a full-blown stroke this time. One of his rusty pipes finally clogged and ruptured all the way. They don't think he's gonna make it."

Wasn't there any good news left in the world?

"Maybe I'll stop up and see him."

"You're still on leave of absence, honey. Besides, he won't know you're there. He's been gorked out since he hit the emergency room four days ago."

"I think I'll just look in on him, anyway. A social call."

"Suit yourself, honey."

Carol walked the long route to the elevators. She wasn't in any hurry. The only other place to go was back to the mansion, and she wasn't looking forward to that. In the back of her mind was the idea of coming back to work next week. She certainly didn't need the money—all of Jim's inherited millions passed directly to her—but she needed the distraction, needed to fill the hours. Maybe if she got involved again in patient problems, she could get a better grip on her own.

Mr. Dodd was in a semiprivate on the third floor. Neither he nor his roommate were conscious. The shades were drawn. Despite the warm spell and her sweater and bell-bottom jeans, Carol felt a chill in the room.