Rory had missed his opportunity to thrash her. They walked now between two rows of neat houses, petunias, a riot of color in the light of day, spilling black as tar from window boxes. What could a high school boy do to her? Slash her tires? Leave burning dog droppings on her doorstep? Spray-paint "fuck you" on her garage door? If Rory planned a physical threat all she need do was report him to Harry and he would be shipped out of the park immediately with a ranger escort to the airport. Any threat he made would end the same way. Anna was grown up, connected. He was a child. He must know that.

"What will you do if I don't stop investigating Les?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"I'll tell everybody you sexually harassed me," he said evenly.

Anna laughed.

"Pressured me," he went on. "That you used your position to coerce me into having sex. That you seduced me and made me do things I'm ashamed of."

Anna quit laughing. She quit walking. So did Rory. Together, face to face, they stood in the middle of the empty street. A horrible, gnawing anxiety began eating Anna from the inside. Rory had found the right threat. An accusation like that would get her, not him, shipped from the park. It wouldn't matter if it was true or not. It wouldn't matter if Harry Ruick believed it or not. The mere accusation would be enough. If Rory pressed charges, life as she knew and enjoyed it would dissolve into smirks, sneers, depositions, lawyers. Before it was over she'd be beggared emotionally and financially. The park service might back her, but they'd be running scared. Anxious to cut her loose and save themselves.

Even if they knew it wasn't true.

Rory's face changed and she realized she'd been fool enough to let her fear show on her face, writ so large a callow boy could read it by the meager light of a quarter moon.

"You're joking," she said, and, "It won't work." Both statements were untrue.

"When I was in junior high school this teacher got sent to prison for it," he said.

Anna remembered the case. It had created a feeding frenzy in the media. In the blink of her mind's eye, she saw herself with a hundred microphones shoved in her face. Bile rose in her throat. She gulped it back. Anger and fear mixed such a powerful potion in her blood she could feel the shaking from the inside out. Run, cry, smash the boy's face, rant, beg; the need to do these things simultaneously and at the top of her lungs held her as paralyzed as she'd been in the dream of the bear. This time her brain was paralyzed as well. She couldn't think.

Helpless. This was what it felt like, a squirming, raging fly-like frustration caught in the fingers of an evil, wing-pulling boy.

"You wouldn't actually do that," Anna said hopefully.

"I'm sorry," Rory said and the shred of hope vanished. Had he been mean or vindictive she might have had a chance. Rory believed what he did to be the regrettable but necessary means to some greater end.

"Shit," Anna murmured and hated herself for her transparency. She turned and walked because she could think of nothing more to say or do. Repetitive movement fed her mind just enough; it could race, and thoughts began clamoring, scratching, fighting to find a way out of this predicament.

The moment she reached the house she could call Harry Ruick, drag him out of bed and tell him of Rory's threat. Preemptive strike. Perhaps it would do a little to predispose the chief ranger to believe her, but not much. It would be too easy to believe Rory did threaten her but not with a lie, threatened her with exposure. And why was she out walking alone with an eighteen-year-old boy after midnight anyway?

Harry didn't know her well. They'd been acquainted only a few days and only in a professional capacity. What did he know of her personal quirks or kinks? Only that she was a widow and had been without a man for many years. Rory was a nice enough looking boy. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility. "Jesus," Anna heard herself whisper and closed her teeth against any further involuntary outbursts.

Ruick would call her boss, John Brown. But Brown didn't know her either. He'd call her field rangers in the Port Gibson district on the Natchez Trace. At least one of them, Anna knew, would like nothing better than to insinuate the worst. The case she'd recently finished on the Trace had been fraught with adolescent boys, several of whom she'd leaned on pretty hard. What might they be tempted to say to even up old scores? Regardless of the final scene, the play would be long, exhausting and she would not emerge unscathed. Right off, she would be slapped on the first plane back to Mississippi. Even if Ruick could believe Anna was blameless, he wouldn't dare keep her around; not on the case, not on the DNA project. Unlike Rory, she was not a minor, not a civilian. There would be no need to treat her with kid gloves. "Jesus," Anna whispered again, unable to help herself. "You're a fucking genius, Rory. You know that?"

"Sorry," he repeated sadly, and Anna wanted to strangle him.

He had seen her fear, heard it in muttered blasphemies. He knew he had won; she was on the defensive if not actually beaten outright.

Anna would go with that.

They had returned by a circuitous loop to the original fork in the road that led to Joan's house. As they turned down it, Anna let her steps falter and dragged her hand down over her face. "I don't feel so good," she said. It was no great stretch to make it sound believable.

"We're almost there."

Anna considered trying to squeeze out a few tears, but she was so long out of practice she didn't think she could pull it off. She comforted herself with the thought that it was too dark to get the full theatrical effect from them anyway.

Given Rory's staunch admiration for those who took no flack, Anna wasn't trying to win his pity or compassion. He was more likely to scorn her as weak, pathetic. That was just fine. All she needed to do was to keep him emotionally engaged a bit longer.

When they reached Joan's driveway, Anna allowed herself a weary sigh. "God, I'm thirsty," she whispered. "I've got to get a drink of water."

"You go," Rory said, hanging back. "I got to get to bed."

"No." Anna felt panic rise. "Please," she said. "I won't wake up Joan. We've got to talk. Just let me get a drink."

"You'll wake her," Rory said. "It won't do you any good."

"No, I won't," Anna promised. The last thing she wanted was to wake Joan Rand and force Rory to play his hand. "My day pack. It's just inside the door. I've got water in it. Just let me grab it. I won't be a second. I won't even go inside."

Indecision worked across Rory's face. Revulsion was there too, though whether for her or for himself, Anna couldn't be sure. "Please," she pleaded. "Please. We need to talk."

"I won't change my mind," Rory said.

Anna took that as permission and dashed lightly up the concrete steps. Careful not to vanish from Rory's line of sight, she opened the door and leaned in. Her pack was behind the Barcalounger where she'd dumped it. Having rummaged briefly through its innards she emerged again into the night, pack in one hand, water bottle in the other.

"Here," Anna said and led him to the garage door. "We can talk here. Joan's room is at the other end of the house. She won't hear us."

"What if somebody sees us?" Rory asked.

He was getting skittish. Anna had to work fast. "Wouldn't that suit your purposes to a T?" she asked acidly. The sudden change in the emotional weather put him off balance.

"I guess," he faltered.

"Sit down," Anna commanded, the pleases and the pleadings gone from her voice. "If you're to blackmail me you better damn well get the terms straight."

Rory didn't sit but he hunkered down on his heels. Close enough.

"I don't see the point-" he began.