He looked at her one last time. "If you awaken, just call me. My name's Ramsey. I'll be here with you. You're safe now. All right? If you have to use the bathroom, it's just beyond the kitchen, behind you. It's clean. I just washed up in there yesterday."

The covers moved just a little bit. Good, she'd heard him. But she didn't make a sound, not even that gut-wrenching mewling noise.

His bed was on the far side of the single room. He remained fully clothed. He put both the rifle and his Smith & Wesson on the small table by the bed, right next to the reading lamp. He carefully marked the page of the thriller he was reading and set it on the floor.

He left the single lamp lit. If she awoke during the night, he didn't want her to be terrified in the dark.

He didn't sleep for a long time. When he did finally, he dreamed there was a man's face staring in through the window at the little girl. He awoke and walked to the window, stumbling with fear and panic, but there wasn't any face staring in. The curtains were tightly drawn. He couldn't help it, he pulled the curtains open. He looked into the darkness and saw instead the contorted face of someone else, the woman who'd screamed at him that she would kill him. He awoke at dawn at the sound of that ghastly mewling.

2

THE CHILD'S FACE was leached of color, he could tell that even in the early-morning light that was mixed with the stark overlay of lamplight. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at him, her fear so palpable he could feel it crawling inside his skin.

"No," he said very slowly, not moving. "It's all right. It's me. Ramsey. I'm here to take care of you. I won't hurt you. Did you have a nightmare?"

She didn't move, just lay there, staring up at him. Then, very slowly, she shook her head. He saw her arms move beneath the covers, saw her small hands come up over the top. The small hands were clenched. The bandages on her thin wrists looked obscene.

"Don't be afraid. Please."

He turned the lamp off. It was getting lighter quickly. Her eyes were light blue, large in her thin face, her pupils dilated. She had a thin straight nose, dark lashes and eyebrows, a rounded chin, and two dimples. She was a pretty little girl, and she'd be beautiful when she smiled and those dimples deepened. "Are you in any pain?"

She shook her head.

He felt profound relief. "Can you tell me your name?" She just stared at him, all frozen and tense, as if she were just waiting for her chance to run, to escape him. "Would you like to go to the bathroom?" He saw it in her eyes and smiled. Her kidneys were working. Everything seemed to be working fine except she couldn't speak. He started to touch her, to help her up, but didn't. He kept his voice low, utterly matter-of-fact. "The bathroom is on the other side of the kitchen. The kitchen's just behind you. Do you need any help?"

Slowly, she shook her head. He waited. She didn't move. Then he realized she didn't want to get up with him watching her.

He smiled and said, "I'm going to make some coffee. I'll see what I have that a little kid would like to eat, all right?" Since he knew she wasn't going to answer, he just nodded and left her.

He didn't hear anything until the bathroom door shut. He heard the lock click into place.

He shook some Cheerios into one of the bright blue painted bowls and set the skimmed milk beside it. At least it wouldn't clog her arteries. He went to his store of fresh fruit. There were only two peaches left. He'd bought a half dozen, but eaten all the rest. He sliced one on the cereal.

He waited. He'd heard the toilet flush, then nothing more. Had something happened?

He waited some more. He didn't want to terrify her by knocking on the door. But finally too much time had passed. He lightly tapped his knuckles against the pine bathroom door. "Sweetheart? You all right?"

He heard nothing at all. He frowned at the locked door. Well, he'd been stupid. She probably believed she was safe from him now. She'd probably never come out willingly.

He poured himself a large mug of black coffee and sat down beside the bathroom door, his long legs stretched out nearly reaching the opposite wall. His black boots were scuffed and comfortable as old slippers. He crossed his ankles.

He began to talk. "I'd sure like to know your name. 'Sweetheart' is all right, but it's not the same as a real name. I know you can't talk. That's no problem now that I understand. I could give you a pencil and a piece of paper and you could write your name down for me. That sounds good, doesn't it?"

Not a whisper of sound.

He drank his coffee, rolled his shoulders, then relaxed against the wall, and said, "I'll bet you've got a mom who's really worried about you. I can't help you until you come out and write down your name and where you're from. Then I can call your mother."