Nothing. She lay back down again, forced her muscles to relax, and she waited. She breathed deeply, but the question nagged her mind—Who is trying to kill me? Her brain squir- reled around that until finally her breathing slowed, and her head fell to the side.

She heard a sound, a light footfall. Was Jack standing outside her door, his hand on the doorknob, wanting to come in and make love to her? Now, that was a fine lovely thought. . . .

It wasn’t Jack. She knew it wasn’t Jack. She leaned over and quietly slid open the night table drawer. It made enough noise to awaken the dead. Easy, easy. She reached in, felt the cold shock of Jimmy’s gun against her palm, and curled her fingers around it.

Was that another footstep? Stepping away? No, there was nothing. Nothing at all. She was losing it. She had to get a grip, calm down, use her brain, not let the terror crush her. She heard it again. She swallowed spit and a scream. If a scream burst out of her, she knew Jack would come running as fast as he could to get to her. Would he have his gun? What about the person probably now pressing close, his ear against her door? Would he simply turn his gun on Jack and shoot him? No, no way was she going to take a chance like that.

She lay there, waited. Her fingers loosened on the gun. She stilled. Where are you, you bastard? Wait, maybe he wasn’t outside her door, maybe . . . She jerked around to look toward the window again, at the yellow moon, the dark clouds webbing in front of it. Something moved, something at the edge of the window, near that huge oak tree, maybe someone was in that tree, coming toward her, coming to kill her. She didn’t have her gun. Where was it? How could she save herself if she didn’t have her gun? She’d taken it out of the night table, held it close, but it wasn’t there.

She couldn’t find her gun. Had she put it back in the drawer? She lurched to her side, grabbed for the drawer handle, but she couldn’t find it, there was nothing there except blackness that was coming toward her, somehow through the closed window.

She screamed.

FORTY-SIX

Rachael! Wake up! Dammit, wake up!”

She screamed again, out of control. Jack slapped her, then shook her. “Wake up, Rachael! Come on, wake up.”

She choked, stared at him with panicked eyes.

“Breathe, dammit, breathe!”

She sucked in air, heaved a huge sigh. She fell forward against him.

“It’s all right, baby, it’s all right.”

She burrowed in, her hands clasped tightly behind his back. No way was she letting him go, even if he had called her—

“Baby?” she whispered against his shoulder. His bare shoulder. Her hands were against his bare back.

Reality flipped on like a light switch.

“Yeah, well, baby’s okay, isn’t it?”

“You don’t have a shirt on, Jack.”

“No, only boxers. But they’re quite modest.”

He kissed her temple. “Rachael, you were having a whopper of a nightmare. Can you tell me about it?”

She heaved a breath and held on. “Give me a moment, just another moment.”

He held her, rubbing her back, then after a while she said against his shoulder, “I heard him outside the window. I knew he would come in and I couldn’t find my gun, the night table wasn’t there, nothing was there, only blackness, and I was sucked into the middle of it, and I couldn’t see, but I knew he was coming to kill me—damn, I got hysterical and lost it. I’ve never been hysterical before. I’ve always scoffed at people who get hysterical.”

“Hysterical’s okay sometimes. You were dreaming. Breathe lightly, don’t talk, that’s it. Keep breathing, slowly, in and out. Good girl.”

She concentrated on breathing, on blocking out that waking nightmare so real she could still feel it.

“That’s it,” he said against her hair. “Center yourself, you know how to do it. Feel me, I’m real here, not that damned dream.”

“Yes,” she said, “you’re real.”

He smiled as he rocked her a bit, and he looked toward the window. The night had been quiet, a light breeze, nothing more than that. But now the wind was picking up, gusting tree branches against the house. Maybe leaves had hit the window.

The alarm went crazy, whooping loud and long.

She lurched back, the braid slapping against his cheek. “Someone’s in the house. Jack, we’ve got to hurry, someone’s in the house.”

“It’s okay, Rachael. Go disarm it, now.”

Jack was out the door even before she scooted off the bed and ran to the keypad on the bedroom wall. He yelled, “Stay put!” She couldn’t get her fingers to work. She tried again, punched in the five numbers. The alarm cut off instantly.

She heard him running. Then nothing. She stood in her bedroom, Jimmy’s gun held tightly in her hand, until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She pulled on jeans under her sleep shirt, and ran out onto the second-floor landing, bent over, her gun at the ready. The entrance hall lights were on. The front door stood open. She threw on all the lights as she ran down the stairs, fanning the gun around her like she’d seen on TV. She felt a sheen of sweat on her forehead. She was so afraid she thought she’d choke on it. Calm down. She ran to the front door and looked out. The moon was directly overhead, and the wind was up, swirling through the leaves, ruffling her hair. She saw a light in the Danvers’ house across the street. It went out. The alarm must have awakened them, but they’d figured it was an error on her part and gone back to bed. She stood on the front steps, the flagstone cold beneath her feet, and she didn’t move.

“Jack? Where are you?”

“Here,” he said a foot from her elbow, and she jumped. She whirled around, thought her heart would leap out of her chest. “How’d you do that? I didn’t hear you. Are you all right? Did you see anyone?”

“He was gone by the time I ran outside. I found an open window in the guest bedroom at the end of the hall. I guess it’s not in the alarm system because it’s not an entry. There’s an oak he could have used to climb in—a big one. He was already in the house when you screamed. He ran down the front stairs and out the front door, and that triggered the alarm.

“In the morning, I’ll check for footprints, particularly by that oak tree. He could have ripped his clothes, maybe left some threads or material on a branch. We might get lucky. Rachael?”