Kevin walked to the telephone and dialed Samantha’s number. She answered on the fifth ring.

“Sam.”

“Hi, Sam. The FBI was just here.”

“And?”

“Nothing new, really. She thinks it’s the Riddle Killer.”

“She?”

“The agent. Jennifer Peters.”

“I’ve heard of her. Listen, there’s a chance I may need to fly back to Sacramento today. Actually, I have my office on the other line. Can I call you right back?”

“Everything okay?”

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll explain, okay?”

He hung up and glanced at the clock. 8:47. Where were the police? He checked the dishwasher. Half full. He dumped in some detergent and turned it on. It would take him a week to fill the thing up, and by that time it would begin to smell sour.

Slater would have his hands full; that much was good. Surely between Sam, Jennifer, and the Long Beach police he would be safe. Kevin crossed to the refrigerator.

Jennifer thinks I’m nice. I don’t care if I’m nice—I want to be alive. And I wouldn’t mind if Slater were dead. How nice is that? If a man gossips, is he not nice? The bishop gossips, so he’s not nice.Kevin sighed. Here I am rambling again while the world’s blowing up around me.What would the psychobabblist say about that?

I don’t know why I do it, Doctor, but I think the strangest things at the oddest times.

So do all men, Kevin. So do all men. Women don’t, of course. The female tends to be the more intelligent or at least the more stable of the sexes. Turn the country over to them and you’ll wake up to find the potholes down your street filled in like they should have been a year ago. You’re just a man finding his way in a mad world gone madder, madder hatter. We’ll break that down next session if you drop another check in the pay box over there. Two hundred this time. My kids need . . .

Kevin twitched. He didn’t remember opening the fridge, but now, standing in front of the open door, the milk jug filled his vision. Someone had scrawled a large 3 on the Albertsons jug with a black magic marker, and above it three words:

It’s so dark

Slater!

Kevin released the door and stepped back.

When? What’s so dark? The fridgeis so dark? Was this another riddle? He had to tell Jennifer! No, Samantha. He had to tell Sam!

Dread crept into his bones. Where is it so dark? In the cellar. The boy! He stood still, unable to breathe. The world began to spin. It’s so dark.

Dear God, it wasthe boy!

The door closed on its own. He backed to the wall. But Slater had said he wasn’t the boy! What boy?he’d said.

The events of that night so long ago swept over him.

For a whole week after young Kevin’s encounter with the bully, he waited in agony. Dark circles gathered under his eyes and he caught a cold. He made up a story about falling out of bed to explain the bruises on his face. His mother had put him to bed early in the afternoon to fight the cold. He just lay there, sweating on the sheets. His fear wasn’t for himself, but for Samantha. The boy had promised to hurt her, and Kevin was sick with worry.

Six days later a tap had finally sounded on his window. He’d eased the blind up, holding his breath. Sam’s smiling face stared at him from the backyard. Kevin nearly hit the ceiling in his excitement. As it turned out, Sam had been away at camp. She was horrified by his haggard features, and only after much urging did she convince him to come out to talk. No one would see them; she swore it. He made her search for the boy all around the yard, just to make sure. When he did sneak out, he went only just beyond his own fence, keeping a watchful eye on the greenway. They sat there, hidden in the shadows, and he told Sam everything.

“I’ll tell my dad,” she said. “You think if he licked my window we’ll still be able to see it?”

Kevin shuddered. “Probably. You have to tell your dad. You should go tell him right now. But don’t tell him about me sneaking out to see you. Just tell him I was walking by and saw the boy at your window and he chased me. Don’t even tell him that he . . . did anything to me. Your dad might tell my mom.”

“Okay.”

“Then come back and tell me what he says.”

“You mean tonight?”

“Right now. Go home by the street and watch out for the boy. He’s going to kill us.”

By now Sam was scared, despite her typical optimism. “Okay.” She stood and brushed off her shorts. “My dad might not let me back out. In fact, he might even make me stay home for a while if I tell him.”

Kevin thought about that. “That’s okay. At least you’ll be safe; that’s the main thing. But please, come back as soon as you can.”

“Okay.” She held out her hand and pulled him up. “Friends for life?”

“Friends for life,” he said. He gave her a hug and she ran off toward the street.

Sam didn’t come back to his window that night. Or the next. Or for three weeks. They were the loneliest weeks of Kevin’s life. He tried to convince his mom to let him out, but she wouldn’t hear of it. He tried to sneak out during the day twice, not through the window, of course—he could never risk Mother discovering the screw or the loose board. He went over the back fence, but only got as far as the first tree on the greenway before Bob began to wail. He barely made it back onto the ash heap before Mother hurried out in a tizzy. The other time he went through the front door and made it all the way to Sam’s house only to find, as he had known he would, that she was gone to school. His mom was waiting for him when he tried to sneak back in, and he spent the next two days in his room.

Then, on the twenty-second day, the tap came at his window. He peeked very carefully, terrified that it might be the boy. He would never be able to describe the warmth that flooded his heart when he saw Sam’s face in the moonlight. He fumbled with the screw and yanked the window open. They threw their arms around each other before he tumbled out and ran with her through the fence.

“What happened?” he asked, breathless.

“My dad found him! He’s a thirteen-year-old who lives on the other side of the warehouses. I guess the boy has caused trouble before; Dad knew him when I described him. Oh, you should have seen my dad, Kevin! I’ve never seen him so angry. He told the boy’s parents that they had two weeks to move, or he was going to haul their boy off to jail. Guess what? They moved!”

“He’s . . . he’s gone?”

“Gone.” She raised a palm and he absently high-fived it.

“You sure?”

“My dad let me out, didn’t he? Yes, I’m sure. Come on!”

It took Kevin only two outings with Sam to lose his fear of the night again. The boy was indeed gone.

Two weeks later Kevin decided that it was about time he take the initiative to visit Sam. You could only play white knight so many times without actually flexing your muscle some.

Kevin snuck along the treelined greenway toward Sam’s house, picking his way carefully. This was his first time out alone in over a month. He made it to her fence easily enough. The light from her window was a welcome sight. He bent down and pulled the loose picket aside.

“Pssst.”

Kevin froze.

“Hello, squat.”

The horrible sound of the boy’s voice filled Kevin with images of a sick twisted smile. He suddenly felt nauseated.

“Stand up,” the boy said.

Kevin stood slowly and pivoted. His muscles had turned to water, all except for his heart, which was slamming into his throat. There, ten feet away, stood the boy, grinning wickedly, turning the knife in his right hand. He wore a bandanna that covered his tattoo.

“I’ve decided something,” the boy said. “There are three of us on this little totem pole here. But I’m at the bottom and I don’t like that. I’m going to take out the top two. What do you think about that?”