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Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Voltaire, 1694-1778

* * *

The gossamer image swung ever so lightly in the morning breeze. The scarlet leaves of the dogwood parted, revealing an eerie figure suspended in the tree's branches. I could barely make it out in the dull gray dampness of the morning fog, but I saw enough. A neck strained at the end of the rope, head bent at a grotesque angle, legs hanging limply, arms flaccid and devoid of life.

Stifling a scream, I dropped my newspaper right into the gutter.

And then I realized the "body" was oddly lumpy. Creeping closer to the ghastly apparition, I saw the pale "skin" was cloth. What had almost stopped my heart was only a Halloween decoration, hanging in my neighbor's tree.

It must have been hung only recently, or I would have noticed it sooner. Ad inserts fluttered out of the newspaper as I retrieved it from the gutter.

I had so much to learn about my new neighbors. Maybe Halloween wasn't the best time to move into a neighborhood and meet people. So far everyone seemed simply sinister to me.

I padded back into my house in my robe and slippers, and put the kettle on for tea. It was time to give another call up the stairs to rouse Savannah for school. I heard the water running, and knew Sam was showering and would soon be ready for breakfast.

I sighed and sat at the kitchen counter. I had every reason to be happy. I'd been married now to Samuel Pope for over a year. We had moved recently from the tiny cottage we'd been subletting near the university to a two-story house in the suburbs. The local grade school was wonderful, and Savannah was very happy in her second grade class.

Sam's commute into town to the university was fairly smooth, and I'd just started working as a contract technical writer at a nearby software firm. I worked mostly from my home office, with only occasional meetings with my client on site. My hours were flexible enough to assure I was home in the morning when Savannah left for school and to greet her when she got off the bus in the afternoon.

But still I felt a prickle of discontent.

"Mommy." Savannah came running into the kitchen, comb in hand, her golden hair flying. "Make me a French braid!"

I smiled, my automatic response to my daughter.

"Sit down here on the stool. We'll have to hurry or you'll be late for school. Are you buying your lunch today?"

"Yep. They're having Mexican haystacks. I love Mexican haystacks. Especially with lots of cheese."

"Francie!" Sam's deep voice floated downstairs to me. "Have you seen my black socks?"

"In the dryer."

"What about my shoes?"

"Under the coffee table, where you left them last night."

Savannah wiggled on the stool.

"Mommy, can we go selling candy when I get home from school?"

"I don't know..."

"Please! If I sell three boxes, I can get a stuffed whale."

"Three boxes!" I almost dropped one of the plaits of her bright hair threaded through my fingers. "Do you know how many bars that is? Why don't you just let me buy you a stuffed whale?"

"It wouldn't be the same, Mommy." She twisted around to face me. "There's going to be a special school assembly, and that's where they'll hand out the prizes."

I gave up. I knew I couldn't fight the lure of a school prize.

"All right, we'll go when you get home from school. But not to every door, just the ones I feel good about. Now hold still, Francie, or I'll never get this braid done. And you still have to eat your oatmeal."

Sam breezed into the kitchen. "I've got to run, Francie."

As always, my heart gave a little leap at the sight of him. He was freshly shaved, his skin still a little damp from his shower and smelling faintly citrusy. He was wearing a dark red tie and brown suit jacket that set off his sandy hair and blue eyes. He looked so solid, so tangible and yet unfathomable--it's difficult for me to explain. I still found it hard to believe this man was my husband.

I suddenly wished I was wearing something other than my old terry cloth robe, and that I'd brushed my hair instead of letting it hang to my shoulders in a chestnut-colored tangle.

He set his coffee cup down on the counter and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. "I may be late tonight, so don't wait dinner. I've got a faculty meeting."

He leaned down to kiss the top of Savannah's head. "Bye, elf. Have a good day at school."

"Bye, Sam," she chirped brightly.

Savannah didn't seem to care how late Sam got home. But ever since the semester started at the university, Sam was home late much more frequently. And by the time he did get home, he was so tired that he usually fell asleep on the couch, watching television.

When I met him Sam he never watched television. Such was the effect on him of moving to the suburbs--or maybe it was marriage.

My hands stilled in Savannah's hair. The last time Sam and I had really relaxed together was one night in early September, just before school started. Savannah spent the night at one of her friends. Sam took the whole night off. No research, no writing, no answering e-mail or chasing down academic Internet websites.

It was one of those long, glorious, warm late summer evenings, with just the barest hint of the fall in the air. We went downtown to dinner and a play, and I had to wear a shawl when we left the theater. We took a long walk by the river in the moonlight, and when we got home...

I smiled at the memory. It was more than just sex. It was intimacy. I felt connected to Sam that night, and not just physically. And I hadn't felt that way since.

Now, with my new job, and the demands of Sam's university position, and Savannah's school, and my volunteering at Savannah's school, in addition to participating in her activities, and unpacking and fixing up the house... well, Sam and I were lucky to see each other, much less share any intimacy.

Maybe later, I consoled myself, when things settled down. But inside I wasn't sure "later" would ever come.

I got Savannah off to school, logged a few hours of work on the software manual I was indexing, and even got a couple loads of laundry done. As always, precious hours alone flew by all too quickly. Soon I heard the school bus rumble to a stop at our corner. A few minutes later Savannah came bounding through the door.

"Let's go selling now, Mommy," she said, barely taking time to toss her backpack in the corner. "I'll go get the candy bars."

"Wait a minute. You need to do your homework first, young lady, and put away your laundry. Besides, if we wait a while, we'll catch more people at home after work."

So Savannah took time for a snack, did her homework and chores, and dutifully waited. Right at the stroke of 5 she was pulling me by the hand out our front door.

On the street, it took me a minute to decide where to start our candy bar assault. We lived in a cul-de-sac shaped like a horseshoe, with twelve houses. I decided we would start on the corner, and work our way around systematically.

Our first stop was a very neat two-story Cape Cod-style house, with roses climbing an arched trellis at the gate, and pots of burgundy, gold, and purple chrysanthemums blooming in full fall glory along the walk. Uncarved pumpkins lined the front steps, and the front door boasted an autumn wreath of nuts, berries and bay leaves, tied with an orange velvet ribbon.

Savannah rang the bell.

"Krista lives here, Mommy. She takes the bus with me. She's in Mrs. Robinson's class."

"Well, Savannah, Krista must be selling candy bars, too. Her parents are going to buy theirs from her. We shouldn't bother them."

"Oh, it's okay, Mom. We're going to sell to each other."

"But--"

The door opened before I could finish my sentence. A woman in a crisp blue cotton shirt and jeans stood in the threshold. A blue and white bandanna held back her short blond hair. Her hands looked enormous in yellow rubber gloves.

"Excuse me," I began. "My name is Francie, and this is my daughter Savannah. We're actually your neighbors--we moved in a while back, in the blue and white house at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. Savannah is selling candy bars for a school fund-raiser, and I didn't realize till just a second ago that you have a daughter at Twin Oaks, too."

"Ah, yes. Krista told me her new little friend Savannah would be by. We're supposed to buy candy from each other, right?"

"I guess that's the plan."

She laughed.

"These kids and their arrangements! So you're our new neighbor. You must excuse me for not introducing myself earlier. I just seem to be so busy these days."

A baby's cry echoed. The woman turned around, distracted.

"Look, we can go if this is a bad time."

"No, why don't you step inside for a minute? I have to go see to Quentin. My husband is getting home late tonight, and I have to do the whole show--you know, dinner, baths, homework."

"I know how that goes." Already I felt a growing kinship with this woman. Still, there was that intimidatingly perfect wreath... My pants brushed something on her door. I glanced down. Hanging on a string tied to the doorknob were intricately carved jack o' lanterns, only they weren't made out of pumpkins. I stared at them, unwillingly fascinated.

"I like your, er,"

"Rutabagas," she said with a throaty laugh. "And turnips. Not your usual pumpkins, but actually more traditional."

I heard the baby cry again.

"We'd better go."

"Oh, please don't run off. Come into the kitchen. Francie, is it? I'm Sally, Sally Morrow."

She extended her hand to me and smiled. Then she led me into her kitchen. A baby boy, about ten or twelve months old, sat in a highchair, gleefully scooping up little pieces of macaroni and cheese from a bowl and throwing them on the floor.

Out on the patio, behind sliding glass doors, a small dog barked relentlessly. A little girl sat absorbed at the table, coloring school worksheets. She got up and ran to Savannah as soon as she saw her.

"Hold on, Krista. Why was Quentin crying?"

"I don't know, Mom. Can I show Savannah my room?"

"You were supposed to be watching him while I answered the door--oh, all right, you can go. But only for a few minutes."

"We can't stay anyway," I added hastily. "I don't want to disrupt your evening."

"Don't worry about it. I'm just trying to finish up a project here."

A sheet of butcher paper enveloped her counter. On the paper were piles of cut-up strips of newspaper, buckets of some sort of white gooey paste, and inflated balloons.

"I'm making papier-mâché pumpkin lumières for Halloween. I want to get the papier-mâché on the balloons so it will harden, and I can paint them tomorrow--after I cut the faces and other designs in them, of course. It's getting pretty close to Halloween, I know, but I'll have them out along the sidewalk before the trick-or-treaters start coming around tomorrow."

"They're amazing." I marveled at the amount of work she was pouring into this project. "Is Krista helping you?"

"She's really too young to do it and have it turn out right. So she's just watching this year."

Making a quick survey of her kitchen I saw cheesecloth ghosts fluttering in the corner, next to a raffia scarecrow and a saucy little witch made of paper twists. How in the world did this woman care for this big house, plus a little girl and a baby, and still get all this done? And why?

I gulped. "Do you make a lot of Halloween decorations?"

"Oh, yes. It's such fun! And so much more appealing than the commercial shlock you get in the stores. Do you enjoy crafts, Francie?"

"To tell you the truth, I haven't ever really done any." I thought about the cardboard witch and string of plastic pumpkin lights I bought the day before at the local drug store. Next to the Craft Queen's work here, my factory-made decorations seemed dull and unimaginative. Did this mean I was a bad mother?

"We'll have to introduce you to joy of crafting. Although Christmas is practically here, there's still time to try your hand at making some cute things."

The baby had sat in his high chair long enough. He picked up his plastic bowl and dumped it, pasta and all, on his head.

"Oh, Quentin, what a mess. What a naughty boy you are! Now Mommy's going to have to stop and clean everything up before she can get back to her pumpkins."

"Perhaps I'd better go. . . "

This time she didn't protest. "I'm glad I got a chance to meet you, Francie. Now that we have met, I hope we see each other again soon."

"I think Savannah and Krista will see to that. And about those candy bars--"

"I'll be glad to buy one from Savannah."

"We'll let Krista sell us one."

"That should keep our girls happy. Krista, bring Savannah out here, please. She needs to go with her mother now."

Sally lifted Quentin out of his high chair. He proceeded to smear her shirt with the cheesy sauce all over his hands. She sighed.

"What am I going to do with you? When are you going to be the perfectly-behaved little gentleman we've talked about?"

I smiled to myself as Savannah and I took our leave. Perfectly-behaved babies were an oxymoron if I ever heard one.

"Well, Savannah, you sold a candy bar. Are you ready to go home now?"

"Oh, Mommy, you're joking, right?" She looked shocked. "I want to go to all the houses!"

I crumpled in the face of her determination.

A young couple lived next door to the Morrows. I had seen them out jogging and going to work in the morning. They weren't home, but their German Shepherd was. With wood-splintering force, the dog threw himself against the front door, barking wildly.

"We'll come back later, when they're home," I suggested. Savannah made no argument.

She scampered up the driveway to the next house. A woman in a gray flannel suit was struggling to lift a bag of groceries from her car. I introduced myself.

"So you're our new next-door neighbors. I'm Nancy. Sorry for not coming over to say hi."

She led us into her front door and into her hallway. Tossing her long hair over her shoulder, she kicked off her black pumps. "We'd love to buy a candy bar to support the school. Someday we hope to have a child there ourselves."

"Well, then this will be good practice for you. It seems like every other week there's some sort of fund-raiser going on. It gets to be annoying, really."

She laughed. "How much are they? A dollar? We'll take two. Bill's a real chocoholic." She passed the money to Savannah, who solemnly selected the bars and gave them to her with a polite thank you.

"What a lovely little girl," Nancy said to me, looking at Savannah wistfully. "You must be very proud of her."

"Oh, I am. Most of the time that is," I added, giving Savannah a playful pat on her head.

"That was nice of her," I told Savannah as we left. "I'll have to remember their names--Bill and Nancy Clive. I'd better write it down somewhere or I'll forget it."

"Three candy bars, Mommy! I've sold three!"

And only nine more to go, I thought, till the first box is gone. How were we ever going to sell three boxes?

We lived in the next house, and as much as I wanted to go home at that point, we pressed on. I had seen our neighbors on the other side; their slice-of-pie-shaped property adjoined ours in such a way that our driveway was the chief view from their front windows.

I knew a woman with two teenage boys lived there. I strongly suspected those boys were the ones who hung the frightening effigy.

Savannah rang their doorbell. We could hear noises inside--it sounded like some sort of chanting--but no one answered the door. I stepped up to the door and knocked as loud as I could. I heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Carry on, ladies," I heard quite distinctly, and the door opened to reveal a woman dressed all in black. I recognized her as our neighbor.

"Hello," Savannah began her rehearsed spiel. "I'm Savannah, your next-door neighbor--"

"Of course you are," said the woman heartily. She looked to be in her late forties, with short, bobbed black hair, a deep voice and a quick smile.

"I've seen you out skating in the cul-de-sac. And you must be her mother," she added, extending her hand to me. "Glad to finally meet you. I'm Kathy Wilson. You've probably seen my boys, Chad and Jason. Of course, now that they have their drivers' licenses, they're never home! What can I do for you?"

Savannah took a breath and tried to continue. "I'm selling candy bars for my school, and--"

"Chocolate, I hope? I can always use more chocolate!" She boomed with laughter. "I won't say no. Always happy to support the school. How much are they? A buck apiece? I'll take five, then. Come on in while I find my wallet."

We stepped inside her door, and she ushered us into her living room.

We weren't the only ones there. Three women were huddled over a black plastic caldron in the middle of the floor. The caldron looked just like the ones I saw lining the Halloween shelves at the drug store, next to the orange plastic pumpkins. One of the women held a broomstick, and was pretending to stir the contents of the empty caldron.

Kathy made the introductions.

"These are the ladies of the local theater group at the parks and recreation center. Mary, Janice, and Rosalind, I'd like you to meet my new neighbors, Savannah and her mother--"

She looked at me expectantly.

"Francie. Francie Steele, er, Pope. My husband is Samuel Pope, a professor at the University."

"Francie, then. We're practicing for a little piece we're doing at the Halloween carnival tomorrow night. The witches' scene from Macbeth, actually. I'm the director."

Kathy raised her chin and puffed out her chest slightly, like a proud hen. "You don't mind if they continue rehearsing, do you? They're trying to learn their lines."

"Not at all."

"Good. Carry on, then, ladies. Francie, I'll go get that money for you."

The three ladies looked at us, smiled, and started to intone together:

"Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble."

Then one of them, Janice, I think, said:

"Fillet of a fenny snake
In the caldron boil and bake,
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,"

"Found it," Kathy called from another room. "But I need change."

"I've got some," I called in reply. "I'll come find you."

"Let's go, Savannah," I whispered, so as not to disturb the play in progress. Savannah was clearly reluctant to leave the fascinating rehearsal.

We found Kathy in her kitchen, finished our transaction, and followed her back to her front door.

"Be sure to come to the carnival. I think you'll have a good time. Our little play will be going on in the auditorium."

"We'll try to make it."

She opened the door, and more of Shakespeare's words emanated from the living room, following us down the walk.

"Slivered in the moon's eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-delivered by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab"

I shuddered.

"Mommy, are those real witches?" Savannah asked, awe in her voice.

"No, honey, those are just actors in a play. But I don't like the words. They're kind of creepy."

"Yeah. Can we go see the witches?"

"Well--"

"Look, Mommy, another neighbor! Let's go sell her some candy!"

The neighbor two doors down from Kathy Wilson was on her front lawn, raking leaves. I had wanted to hit each house in turn, systematically, but Savannah was unstoppable. She skipped right by the house next door to the Wilson's, but it didn't look as though anyone was home there, anyway.

I had to run to catch up with her. By the time I reached her, Savannah had already started her pitch. Savannah was giving it her best effort, but I could tell our neighbor, a young woman wearing jeans and a pink sweatshirt, wasn't paying attention.

"Look at that." She spoke to me while leaning on her rake. "She should at least draw her blinds. Personally, I don't want my children seeing that kind of ritual."

I turned around to see what she was looking at, and because of the curve in the cul-de-sac, I saw right into Kathy Wilson's front window. Her actors were still in a huddle, moving slowly in a circle around the caldron. They had donned their witches' hats, and you could hear their chanting faintly.

I laughed, hoping to reassure her. "They're just actors, rehearsing a play. The witches' scene from Macbeth. It's for a Halloween carnival."

The neighbor continued to brood, looking in Kathy Wilson's direction.

"Play or no play, it doesn't matter. It's asking for trouble to re-enact satanic rituals."

"It's for Halloween." Savannah tried to explain.

The young woman looked directly at her. "We don't celebrate Halloween."

Savannah was incredulous. "Why not?"

"Because Halloween is really Satan's birthday, and we don't want to celebrate that, do we?"

Savannah stared at her, with wide eyes.

The woman smiled back. "We have a party at our church, a harvest party, with candy and games. We bob for apples and sing songs, praising God. The children love it. But there are no devils, witches, vampires or anything like that. They don't get a holiday at our church."

"But Halloween is just for fun," said Savannah, distressed. "Trick or treating and dressing up is fun."

I knew this conversation wouldn't go anywhere. I cleared my throat.

"I don't believe we've met. We live across the street. My name is Francie, and this is my daughter, Savannah. I've seen you and your husband out in your yard with your children, but I'm afraid I haven't had the opportunity to introduce myself until now."

She graciously inclined her head, and smiled again. "I'm Jennifer."

She really was quite pretty when she smiled. She had big brown eyes and soft brown hair with gold highlights. She wore it long and straight down her back, held back from her forehead with a simple hair band. She couldn't have been older than 28.

"You have a darling family. How old are your girls?"

"One's three, and the other is five. Plus, there's another on the way." She patted her stomach.

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. We'll be happy to buy some candy bars from your little girl. I'll ask Bob, but I'm sure he'll say yes. He can bring the money by tonight."

"Savannah, what do you say?"

"Thank you." Sale made, Savannah and her attention began to wander.

"Thanks, Jennifer, for supporting the school. I guess it won't be too long before your little girl is hawking candy for Twin Oaks."

"Oh, we plan to home school our children," Jennifer's doe eyes were earnest. "We want them to learn about God and the Bible. Schools these days spend way too much time teaching unproved theories, like evolution, and talking about sex and drugs, and not nearly enough time on good old-fashioned learning. You know, the three R's.

"Not that the school isn't good for your daughter," she added hastily. I could tell she was belatedly embarrassed.

"Oh, we're happy with Twin Oaks for Savannah. She's got a really good teacher. But I realize what school you send your child to is a very personal decision for parents."

"Yes, indeed." She shifted her rake.

Who knows how long our awkward conversation would have continued if my attention hadn't been caught by the sound of a dog yipping. I looked for Savannah, and she was down at the corner again, trying to pet a small, scruffy dog who was growling and baring its teeth.

"Savannah, leave that dog alone."

"That's Lady, the Morrow's dog," Jennifer informed me. Then I recognized the animal as the dog I saw barking on Sally's patio. "She's old, practically deaf and blind, and has an awful temper. They try to keep her in but she always manages to get out, and they don't always know it. I've taught my kids to stay away from her."

Savannah screamed. I started running. Jennifer dropped her rake and followed me.

In two seconds I was at Savannah's side. Clutching her arm, she was wailing at the top of her lungs, and the dog was nowhere to be found.

"Savannah, did that dog bite you? Savannah, let me see!"

Tears streaming down her face, Savannah was too hysterical to talk.

I heard the screen door of the corner house directly behind us crack open. A white-haired woman ran through a tidy garden to get to us. She knelt down in front of Savannah.

"Is the little girl hurt?"

"I don't know, she won't let me see."

"Why don't you bring her into my house? We'll wash her arm off and have a look."

I hesitated.

"It's okay," she added with a warm smile. "I'm a retired nurse. I know a lot about dog bites."

She directed her last comment to Savannah. Savannah slowly straightened, and still covering her arm, went with the white-haired woman.

"I have to go." Jennifer sounded apologetic.

I'd almost forgotten she was there.

"I can't leave the girls very long--they're watching a Bible Tales video, and it's over soon."

"I understand. Nice meeting you." I hurried to catch up with Savannah.

The door of the house stood open, and I went in to find my little girl seated at the table in a cozy kitchen.

A glass of milk and a plate of cookies was in front of her on the blue-and-white checkered tablecloth. On the seat next to Savannah a long-haired gray tabby cat lay curled up, tail barely twitching.

Savannah was calm, stroking the cat with her free hand while her arm was being examined. Her face was still wet with tears. The old woman had a clean cloth and a bowl of soapy water on the table, and she was talking softly to Savannah as she gently cleaned her arm.

"There's going to be a nasty bruise there, but that dog didn't bite you very hard at all. See, there's no blood. For all her fierceness, Lady isn't really a vicious dog. She just doesn't like to be approached."

Savannah nodded solemnly. The old woman reached for a small amber bottle on the table, and poured some of its contents onto a clean cloth. She daubed it on Savannah's arm.

"You must realize, my dear," the woman went on, "that when a dog shows you it's teeth, it's telling you to go away. Dogs are like people. Some aren't particularly friendly. But they can't tell you how they're feeling with words. You have to get to know their language, so you can understand what they're trying to say to you."

That made Savannah speak. "Dogs have a language?"

The woman laughed. "Why, yes, child, of course. And it's more than just growls and barks. It involves tail-wagging, and all sorts of things. They understand each other perfectly, and we can understand them, too, if we learn their language."

"Can you teach me dog language?" said Savannah, watching the old woman intently.

"Certainly, if your mother approves." She looked up at me. "Your little girl is fine. I put an herbal lotion on her arm to help with any swelling that may occur. The skin isn't broken, so there's no need to worry about infection. In any event, Lady has had all her shots, so you needn't worry."

I had a moment to study her now. The woman had a pink-and white complexion, with blue eyes the color of a periwinkle flower. She was a tall woman, taller than me, wearing tailored slacks and a blue silk shirt with a bamboo design. Her silvery hair was swept up into a soft French twist. She had an air of calm dignity, and a reassuring smile.

"Thank you. You really settled her down. I'm relieved the bite wasn't serious."

"I'm happy I could help."

She gave me her hand. "My name is Amelia Barnfeather. I live here, by myself. You must be our new neighbors. Welcome to the neighborhood."

"Thank you. I'm Francie, and this is Savannah. My husband, Sam--oh my goodness, Sam must be home by now. I'm afraid we'll have to run, Mrs. Barnfeather. Thank you for all you've done."

"It's been my pleasure, dear. Come back sometime when you can visit. Or if you'd like to sell me one of those delicious-looking candy bars," she added with a twinkle.

We got in our front door just as Sam was coming down the stairs. "I've been looking for you. The car is here, but no Francie and Savannah. I thought you'd vanished."

I almost said, "I'm surprised you noticed," but I stopped myself just in time. Instead I let Savannah tell him about her adventures selling candy bars.

Later, when we were cleaning up after dinner and Savannah was in her room, I gave him my version, including descriptions of the neighbors we met and the dramatic climax of Savannah's dog bite.

"Thank goodness for Mrs. Barnfeather," said Sam.

"Yes, she really had a knack for calming Savannah. I think Lady actually scared Savannah more than she hurt her."

"It sounds as though our new neighborhood has it's share of interesting characters."

"It would seem so. I tell you, Sam, hearing Macbeth recited next door really made me appreciate what a truly gruesome play that is. Some of the things those witches say are awful. Savannah didn't seem to mind, but it disturbed me."

Sam shrugged. "It's Shakespeare. The witches aren't supposed to be lovable, much less cuddly Halloween decorations. The language is very precisely chosen, pure poetry, however unpleasant the subject matter."

"Unpleasant! The witches' monologue is full of eyes and toes and tongues and livers. This line in particular made my skin crawl--'Finger of birth-strangled babe, ditch-delivered by a drab.' Honestly, Sam. for a moment I was afraid Savannah was going to ask me what a 'drab' is, and I'd have to tell her something. I couldn't come right out and say 'that means prostitute, honey,' now could I? Then I'd be in for a whole other explanation."

I pulled the plug out of the sinkful of suds. "Maybe Jennifer across the street is right, and Halloween is a satanic festival."

"Don't be ridiculous, Francie. Next you'll be seeing pentagrams in the Wilson's lawn."

He hung his dish towel on the handle of the oven door.

"I have some work to do tonight before I can go to bed. I'll be up in my office." He gave me a kiss on my forehead. "We'll talk later."

Sam worked past the time I got Savannah settled for the night, and past the time I wanted to stay up. I was tired, and needed to go to bed.

But I found sleep elusive as I tossed and turned, alone in our big bed. As I was finally drifting off to sleep, the words of Shakespeare's hags came back to me with a haunting resonance:

"Finger of birth-strangled babe..."

Chapter Two

"A daughter and a goodly babe,
Lusty and like to live..."

William Shakespeare, 1564-1616

* * *

Halloween morning dawned bright, if not exactly sunny. I had to pay some bills, and then get to work on my technical manual. My neighbor Kathy was sweeping leaves off her driveway as I made a dash to the mailbox.

"Mailman come?" I asked.

"Not yet. He's late today."

"Good. I've got some bills that should have gone out yesterday." I stuffed them in the box and shut the little steel door. "How are the rehearsals coming?"

"Great. We're all set for the carnival tonight. Are you coming?"

"No, Savannah has her heart set on staying home and trick-or-treating. I wish you luck, though. I must tell you, one of our neighbors thinks your witches are the real thing."

"Let me guess--Jennifer Bailey. She probably told you Halloween is Satan's birthday, too, right? Doesn't let her kids trick-or-treat."

"I know. Personally, I love the holiday almost as much as the kids. I can't wait to see all the cute little ghosts and goblins come to my door tonight."

"Ghosts and goblins? What decade have you been living in? Nowadays you're much more likely to see severed body parts dripping fake blood, realistically-gouged eyes and faithful rubber recreations of rotting, worm-eaten skin. Stomach-churning."

She shook her head, making her short black hair tumble into her eyes. "I don't like the gore, but still--Halloween is Halloween. It's a kid-empowerment holiday, as if we need more of those. Kids dress up, try to intimidate adults while flaunting their fears. It's about cadging candy, the thrill of dressing in costume, assuming different personas--and again, candy. It's not a religious statement of faith, for Pete's sake. At least in my opinion. But don't let the Baileys hear that."

"Why not? I mean, if you feel that way, why don't you say so?"

Kathy shook her head again. "I wouldn't want to cause any trouble. Live and let live. Still, I feel sorry for those kids. Missing Halloween--what a shame."

I put the red flag up on my mailbox, and started to walk away. "By the way, great Halloween decoration," I said, indicating the effigy hanging in the tree. "It almost made my heart stop yesterday morning. Did your boys make that?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. They may be too old for trick-or-treating, but they still like to get into the Halloween spirit. Actually, they may even come to your door tonight, dressed as either aliens or FBI agents--I'm not sure which. They'll be the oversized trick-or-treaters."

I laughed. "I'll be prepared. Speaking of decorations, I met Sally Morrow, on the corner, and she's got some real talent. She's actually making her own papier-mâché pumpkins. I can't wait to see them lit up. Does she make her own decorations for all the holidays?"

Kathy snorted. "What can I say? The woman carves root vegetables. She's the kind of person who not only uses real grass in her Easter baskets, but she weaves the baskets herself, and grows the grass from seed, timed just right so it's lush and green by Palm Sunday. Don't try to be like her, Francie. It's impossible. She's not really human like the rest of us."

"Don't worry, she won't find any competition from me in the home arts department. But I do admire someone who has everything under control like that."

"Yeah, right," said Kathy as she continued sweeping.

I was able to get three hours of billable work in before I had to be at Savannah's school for the class Halloween party. My job was to serve steaming black punch (made with orange and grape Kool-Aid and a block of dry ice) and lead the kids in a game whereby they wrapped each other in toilet paper to resemble Egyptian mummies. The wrapping went fast; the clean-up took a lot longer. Especially cleaning up the wrappings that got soaked in punch.

The combination of lots of sugar in the form of cookies and punch and candy, and the party itself, got Savannah and every other child in her class totally wound up. I was almost embarrassed to turn those hyper little monsters over to their parents at the end of the party.

After school the afternoon dragged for Savannah, despite the fact there were two hours of daylight to play in before nightfall. I made her a substantial dinner, with solid, non-sugary food, but she had no appetite for it.

"Savannah, you must eat before you go out and trick-or-treat. If you eat nothing but candy tonight you'll get sick. Trust me."

She pushed the baked beans around on her plate with a slice of pumpkin bread. "I can't eat, Mommy. I'm not hungry."

"You're too excited to eat, you mean." I remembered how I felt on Halloween, many years ago. I, too, could scarcely choke down something to eat in my eagerness to get dressed and go out trick-or-treating. "One more bite, honey. Than you can get into your costume."

Savannah had decided she wanted to be a witch. I had found an inexpensive witch costume at the local drug store, complete with pointed black hat, and purchased some green theatrical make-up to go with it. With her green face, black costume, and carrying an old broom of ours for added effect, Savannah looked like a real fairy tale witch. She was thrilled.

"Can I go now, Mommy, can I please! It's dark, and I hear kids in the neighborhood."

"It's barely six o'clock. Sam will come and take you around the neighborhood as soon as he gets home. Let's go light our jack o' lantern on the front porch."

We lit the pumpkin we had carved earlier, and admired the spooky effect. It was true, there was a stirring in the neighborhood. I expected the very young children to be around soon. As we were standing on the porch, I saw Sam's car turn the corner at the end of the street.

"Here's Sam now, honey. Let's go inside. Be sure to let him come in and relax for a few moments."

But that was not to be. Sam came in through the back door, saw Savannah hopping around, brandishing her broom, and he laughed.

"Go get your trick-or-treat sack, elf. Just let me change my shoes and we'll go."

I was able to delay them just long enough to get a picture of Savannah in costume. And then they left.

Soon after, the doorbell rang.

"Trick-or-treat," came an adult's voice as I opened the door. Standing right in front of me was a very small girl in a pink dress with gold netting. She was holding a fairy wand, and stared solemnly at me.

"Trick-or-treat," emphasized a man, presumably her father, standing a few feet away.

"What have we here? A fairy princess?"

Without a word she held her bag out to me. Selecting a piece of candy from the bowl in my arms, I plunked one into her bag, riveting her attention. The little girl stared in fascination at her treat as her father led her away.

I closed the door, deeply satisfied. This is what I had wanted, for Savannah, and for myself. A nice, normal neighborhood. Simple rituals, like Halloween. Lighted jack o' lanterns on porch steps. Happy children, dressed in costumes, excited about trick-or-treating.

I remembered how I struggled as a single mother, going to school, working two jobs and trying to make a home for Savannah in a cramped studio apartment. A Halloween night like this would have seemed like a fairy story in itself to me a couple of years ago. I realized then how far I had come, and that I had achieved one of my dreams.

There was little time for reflection after that. The doorbell rang every five minutes. As I was handing out candy to one group of trick-or-treaters I heard other children moving around the neighborhood, and knew they would soon be at my door.

Kathy Wilson was right, and I saw an awful lot of bloodied ax murder victims, rotting corpses, and the like. It seemed like the older kids, mainly boys, went in for the fake blood and dismembered body parts. The littler children dressed as Ninjas and fairy princesses, soldiers in camouflage gear and Disney heroines.

Among the littlest children, some carried by their parents, were puppies, pumpkins and ladybugs. I gave candy to all of them.

Sam and Savannah came home after about an hour. I could tell Sam was tired, but Savannah's enthusiasm was undimmed. She spread her candy on the counter, and I was amazed at how much she was able to collect. I was torn between rationing it out carefully, or letting her eat it all at once, get sick and be done with it. I decided to let her have her fill tonight, and make some rules about her further candy consumption tomorrow.

By eight o'clock there were very few trick-or-treaters roaming in the neighborhood. My candy supply was almost gone. I was just debating turning out the porch light and bringing in the pumpkin when there was a knock at the door.

"I'll get that," I told Sam, who had started to get up. "It must be the last of them, anyway."

I went to the door, and standing at the threshold was what I thought of as an old trick-or-treater, a teen-age girl swathed in a voluminous black dress, further encased in a thick black shawl. Her face was painted white, her eyes heavily lined in black.

Her lipstick was black, too, and she had dyed black hair hanging stringily to her shoulders. She wore a curious metal disk, inscribed with a five-pointed star, on a chain around her neck. With one hand she held the shawl tightly to her body, and in the other she grasped a dirty pillowcase. Her brown eyes were expressionless, and her face was blank.

"Trick or treat," she said.

"Well now, what have we here? A witch?"

She said nothing. I grabbed my bowl of candy, scraped up what was left and deposited it in her bag. She inspected it briefly.

"Got any fruit?"

I was surprised--she was the first trick-or-treater to ask for something besides candy.

"I think I may have an apple. Wait here."

I ran into the kitchen and grabbed an apple out of the refrigerator.

"What's that for?" said Sam.

"A health-conscious trick-or-treater, apparently."

When I got back to the doorway she was standing there in exactly the same position, as if she hadn't moved or even breathed since I left.

"Here you go," I said, with a false heartiness. Actually, she was making me nervous. "Happy Halloween"

As an afterthought I blurted "Be careful. It's getting late."

She stared at me for a minute, then turned and left without a word. As I saw her walk away her shawl slipped slightly. Before she grabbed it again, I noticed she was rather stout, with no waist to speak of.

Maybe she wanted the apple out of some desire to eat well, to diet perhaps. I was glad I had it to give to her.

Sam came down the hall as I was closing the door. He glimpsed the girl walking down our driveway.

"That's a trick-or-treater? She looks like an adult."

"She was at least 15 or 16," I agreed. "Although with that heavy make-up she looked older. I wonder why she was alone. Teen-agers usually trick-or-treat in packs."

Sam shrugged. "Who knows? Can we turn off the porch light and shut things up for the night?"

"Yes, I suppose so. I think that's the last of them."

"Good. We have to peel Savannah off the ceiling and get her to bed. She's on a real sugar high."

So that was that. Halloween was over. But the memory of that lone teen-ager, walking down the dark, deserted street towards the corner, stayed with me for a long time.

* * *

The rain, which had held off Halloween night, poured down with a vengeance the next morning. Savannah was grumpy, and definitely did not want to go to school. She wanted to stay home and eat her candy. Sam was pre-occupied with the mid-term in the English class he was teaching. And I wanted them all out of the house so I could finish the chapter in the software manual I was editing, so I could deliver it to my client on time.

So the morning was more hectic than usual. Savannah dragged through her breakfast, and ended up missing her bus. I was hurriedly changing into jeans and a sweatshirt so I could drive her to school when Sam volunteered to drop her on his way downtown to the university. By the time they left ten minutes later amid lots of door-banging and cries of "Where's my back-pack?" and "Have you seen my brief-case?" I was wrung-out.

As I waved them off from the front window, I realized I hadn't even had a cup of tea, nor yet retrieved the morning newspaper from its box.

The rain had eased up a bit, and I thought I would dash to the curb in my slippers rather than taking the time to change into my shoes. At least I was dressed. Working at home, I often worked for several hours in the morning before I even got out of my bathrobe.

I opened the front door and got ready to run. So intent was I on spotting the puddles to avoid beyond our covered porch that I almost tripped over the small black bundle nestled by the door. It looked like an old woolen shawl wrapped around some shapeless object. I prodded it with my toe, and a tiny sound issued forth, almost like a kitten's mew.

It took me less than a second to recognize that sound, as it would any mother. I gently picked up the bundle, and folded back the fabric to reveal the small, wrinkled face of a new-born baby.

I stood there in absolute shock. The tiny hands made fists and flailed, the heart-shaped face started to scrunch into a cry. I held the baby closer, and felt it start to root around my chest. This baby's hungry, I realized. For a moment I didn't know what on earth I was going to do.

Then I remembered Mrs. Barnfeather saying she used to be a nurse. Without thinking twice, and with no regard for the state of my slippers, I re-wrapped the baby in the black shawl, covered the bundle with a coat I grabbed from the rack inside the door, and made a dash for Mrs. Barnfeather's house on the corner.

Mrs. Barnfeather must have thought I was crazy when I rang the bell and stood there, dripping and disheveled, on her doorstep.

"I have a baby and it's hungry," I announced when she opened the door.

"Then you'd better come in," she said with admirable calm.

"I don't know what to do," I said when I got inside her hallway. "I just found this baby, all wrapped up on my doorstep, when I went out to get the newspaper. I can tell it's hungry by the way it's trying to latch on to me. I remembered you said you were a nurse, and so I came here."

"And right you were to do so," said Mrs. Barnfeather. "Let's just see what we have here, shall we?"

She was in her robe, too, and she gently took the fussing baby out of my arms and held it to her blue velour-clad bosom. I was surprised at how reluctant I was to let the tiny bundle go.

"Let's go into the kitchen, where it's warmer. Francie, I've got a couple of towels in the dryer, just off the kitchen. Would you get them and lay them on the table?"

The towels were soft, and still warm when I took them out of the dryer. I spread one of them on the table, and Mrs. Barnfeather laid the baby down on them. Very carefully she removed the old black fabric from the tiny infant's body. The baby had been wrapped very tightly and carefully.

The last layer of wrapping had a folded note, with a chain wrapped around it. I set it aside; what was urgent to me at that moment was the health of the baby.

"Get me the other towel, Francie," said Mrs. Barnfeather softy, and from the pool of old black wrappings she lifted a naked little girl. The infant had beautiful creamy skin, and big, unfocused blue eyes. Tufts of soft red hair framed her face like a halo. Her body was sticky with bits of blood and meconium, and her umbilical cord had been effectively but inexpertly tied off. She started to cry. Mrs. Barnfeather laid her in the towel I gave her and re-wrapped her tightly. Then she put the baby back in my arms.

"A bath for this little lady will come later," she said. "Right now food is our first priority."

"Do you have anything to feed her?"

"As it happens, I do. Out in the garage I have a box of new-born baby kits that we give the new mothers down at the shelter where I volunteer. There are diapers, receiving blankets, cans of formula, and even bottles in each box. Hold her while I go get set up."

Holding the tiny infant reminded me so much of holding Savannah when she was born that I felt my eyes start to moisten. I rocked the baby gently, and crooned softly to her while Mrs. Barnfeather got a bottle ready.

It took some coaxing for her to accept the bottle when we gave it to her. Mrs. Barnfeather put a few drops of formula on the baby's lips, and after licking that the baby eagerly sought the bottle's rubber nipple for more.

Soon I was seated in Mrs. Barnfeather's cheery kitchen, as the baby voraciously sucked down the formula.

"She has a wonderful appetite, doesn't she?"

"Yes, indeed, she does." Mrs. Barnfeather watched me for a few minutes. "You know that we have to call the police now, don't you?"

"And they'll take her away." It was a statement, not a question.

"They'll do what they can to find this baby's mother, dear."

"Find her mother? But her mother left her at my door. For whatever reason, the mother didn't want this baby."

My arms tightened protectively around the vulnerable bit of life I held.

"This might be a good time to read the note," said Mrs. Barnfeather.

I had completely forgotten about the note. Now I watched as Mrs. Barnfeather picked up the folded scrap of paper and unrolled the chain that was around it. At the end of the chain, inside the note, was a medallion with a five-pointed star.

"I've seen that star before," I looked again at the black wrappings the baby had been in. "And that shawl. There was a trick-or-treater at my door last night, who wore this. She was a teen-ager, somewhat heavy--my God, Mrs. Barnfeather, she was pregnant! I didn't realize it till now. How could I have been so blind? This has got to be her baby!"

"Why don't I read the note, dear," Mrs. Barnfeather repeated. "That is, if you don't mind. I realize it was meant for you."

I nodded.

She began: "To the lady with the kind eyes, please take care of my baby. It's not her fault. She will be a good girl."

I felt a lump rise in my throat. This note wasn't from a mother who had abandoned her child. It was from a mother who felt unworthy of the child she bore.

That girl must have gone into labor last night, and soon after I saw her. Had she been alone while she was giving birth? Was she frightened? Were there any complications? Where was she now, and was she all right?

I had so many questions, and no answers. I gazed down on the baby nestled so securely in the circle of my arms. Her tiny mouth went slack as she dropped off to sleep. I met no resistance as I took the bottle away and handed it to Mrs. Barnfeather.

"Why did she come here to have her baby? What brought her to this neighborhood, this street? And why did she leave her baby at my door? Where did she go?"

"Those are questions for the police," said Mrs. Barnfeather briskly.

"I can't turn this baby over to the police. That girl entrusted her child to me. The police will turn the baby over to the Children Services Division, who in turn will probably place her in foster home. I'm right, aren't I?"

Mrs. Barnfeather was silent.

"Well, I can't let that happen. I want to take care of her. She needs someone to love her. For her mother's sake as well as her own."

"Francie, be reasonable. This isn't a stray cat that turned up on your doorstep. This is a job for the police. They have the resources to find this child's mother, and answer some of those questions you posed. Neither you nor I can do that. We know nothing about the circumstances of this child's birth, or if anything criminal is involved. The police can investigate."

"And in the meantime, the baby gets tossed into the system." I looked down at her, sleeping so angelically in my arms, and realized how dim her prospects for the future looked right now. A ward of the state. The most depressing description of a human being ever uttered.

"We have to do it, Francie. You know that as well as I. Let's call and get it over with."

I sat silently.

"You mustn't take this so personally, dear," said Mrs. Barnfeather, punching down the numbers on the keypad of her phone.

How could I not take it personally, I wondered, as we waited for the police to arrive. Seven years ago I was alone, giving birth to Savannah. Abandoned by my boyfriend, rejected by my family, with the crushing responsibility of a baby on my shoulders. I had felt like running away, too.

But I was older than the girl I saw last night, and something gave me the strength to persevere. If only I could find this girl and talk to her--maybe I could help her.

"Will Children's Services let me visit the baby, do you think?"

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Barnfeather encouragingly. "I know someone who works down there. If you'd like, I'll talk to her, and see what can be arranged."

"Yes, I'd like that very much."

The police came, followed shortly by a crew of paramedics. One of the paramedics came up to me and gently lifted the baby out of my arms. The infant stirred, and started to cry. It took all my self-restraint to keep from reaching to take her back. The police asked me several questions about finding the baby, and even walked back with me to my house so they could see just exactly where the baby had been left. I told them everything I knew about what happened.

"Had you ever seen that girl before last night?"

"No, Officer." Even as I said it I had a feeling I was wrong. I had seen that girl somewhere, but I didn't know where, or in what context. Maybe her face haunted me so much that I just dreamed I had met her before. I certainly had no specific memory to relate to anyone.

We watched the police drive away.

"Well, Mrs. Barnfeather, what happens now?"

"The police will try to find that girl. It shouldn't be too hard. From what you said, she sounds like a conspicuous sort of person."

"I'm not sure it's going to be as easy as all that. If she doesn't want to be found, she won't be. Besides, beating the bushes isn't going to help."

"No, I quite agree. The clue to who she is must lie in this neighborhood."

She was right. If I could find why that girl had come here, I might discover who she was. And once I knew who she was, I could find her, and help her take care of her baby herself. The depression that settled on me as I watched the baby being taken away suddenly lifted.

That sad, frightened young mother had asked me to take care of her baby. I'd been powerless to keep the child out of the hands of the state. But maybe with a little detective work of my own, I could discover the identity of that mother. Then I could take care of them both, the mother and her daughter. Who better than me to help them--me, who had been through a similar experience?

It was at least worth a try.

Chapter Three

"Children begin by loving their parents;
As they grow older they judge them;
Sometimes they forgive them."

Oscar Wilde, 1854-1900

* * *

It was almost 11 a.m. by the time I left Mrs. Barnfeather's house. The rain had stopped for a while, though dark clouds still glowered overhead. I had changed quickly into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt before my police interview, but I still needed a shower and some additional grooming. I headed for home.

As I crossed the street, my mind occupied with the baby I had just seen and the mystery surrounding it, I saw Sally Morrow pull her sport utility vehicle into her driveway. She got out and motioned me over.

"Hi, neighbor." She pointed to the interior of her SUV. "Quentin fell asleep in his car seat. I hate it when he does this. I either wake him up, and he's cranky, or I let him sleep, and then he doesn't want to go down for his afternoon nap. I depend on those afternoon naps of his to get things done."

"I remember how it was with Savannah. Though she rarely napped. Have you been out all morning?"

"Aerobics class." That explained the Lycra bicycle shorts and oversized T-shirt she was wearing.

"That's something I should be doing. My life is pretty sedentary now, compared to how it was when I was running to classes and working two jobs. Now I work chiefly at home, parked in front of my computer. Not very aerobic."

Jennifer Bailey came around the corner at that moment in her mini van. We waved.

Sally took a swig from her water bottle. "Jennifer's in the class, too. Lots of gals in the neighborhood are. Why don't you come with me sometime and check it out? The first class is free if you come as a guest."

Aerobics class? My expressed interest was only polite. I'd rather pound my head against a wall than my feet against a wooden floor in aerobics class.

Still, I needed to talk to everyone in the neighborhood if I was going to find out why that poor young mother had chosen to come here on Halloween. A neighborhood aerobics class might be a good place to start.

"I'd love to." I tried to sound enthusiastic. "Let me know when I can come."

"How about Friday?"

"That would work, if I move some things around on my schedule."

"Then I'll swing by and pick you up at 9:45."

She bent down to check on her little boy. He was still asleep. She sighed.

"I guess I'll have to wake him up. Brace yourself."

I interrupted her before she could act. "Sally, do you remember seeing a teen-age trick-or-treater last night, a girl all in black, dressed as a witch? She came to my house around eight. She was the last one we had."

"Let me think." She took another swig from her water bottle. "I think by eight we had turned out our porch light. I don't recall anybody coming by at that time. No, I'm sure I would remember a big trick-or-treater like that. Why?"

"You're going to find this hard to believe, but I think she was pregnant."

"You can't be serious. In this neighborhood?"

"That's not all. I think she left her baby on my doorstep this morning. I mean, I know there was a baby there. It was pretty hard to miss. But I think it must have been hers."

Sally fumbled and dropped her water bottle. That woke Quentin up, and he began to cry.

"Darn it." She reached inside her car to lift him out of his car seat.

"Hi ladies," said Jennifer, crossing the street. She, too, was dressed in exercise clothes. Her little girls trailed behind her. "What's up?"

"I was just telling Sally that I found a baby on my doorstep this morning."

"Get out! Are you serious?"

"Completely. A beautiful baby girl. I was telling Sally that I think I know who the mother is. There was a teen-ager who came to my door last night to trick or treat. Looking back on it, I believe she was pregnant. Did you by any chance see her, Jennifer? She was dressed as a witch."

"No, I'm afraid not," she said apologetically. "As you know, we don't let our girls trick or treat, and we don't answer the door, either. A witch, you say?" She shuddered.

"I suppose so. She was dressed all in black, and her face was really white."

"That's no costume," said Sally dryly. Quentin was still fussing, but had quieted a bit in her arms. "That's how a lot of teen-age girls dress these days."

"She asked for an apple," I said, half to myself.

"She just left the baby?" Jennifer said. "No note, or anything?"

"There was a note, all right, asking me to take care of the baby."

"She knew you?" said Sally sharply.

"Not by name," I admitted. "She must have just remembered me answering the door."

"And all she left was the baby and a note," Jennifer pressed on.

"And her necklace. For the baby, I think."

"A family heirloom, perhaps," said Sally.

"I doubt it. It didn't look very expensive. Just some sort of metal disk, with a five-pointed star cut into it. Not even gold or silver. Pewter, maybe, or steel."

Jennifer had gotten very still, and her eyes wide. "A five-pointed star, you say? Inside a circle?"

"Yes, that's it."

"You just described a pentacle. That's a satanic ornament. It sounds like she was a witch, all right."

"She was just a girl. A girl in trouble," I protested.

"I'll say she was in trouble," said Jennifer. "Devil-worship is about the worst trouble you can get into. Where is this baby now?"

"The police came and took her."

"So why do you care?" said Sally. "It's over, right?"

"Not for me, it's not. Something about that young mother moved me. I'd like to discover who she was, and see if I can help her."

"I can see why you would feel involved, Francie," said Sally. "But I'm afraid, for your sake, you'll only waste your time. That type of girl doesn't change, no matter how much help you give her."

"Just be glad you don't have the baby anymore," added Jennifer. "It's probably cursed, poor thing."

"Cursed?" I wanted to shake Jennifer until her smugness dissolved. "How can you say such a dreadful thing? Babies are innocent."

"People who choose witchcraft aren't innocent. They're dangerous. And they have to be prepared to accept responsibility for their choices."

I was about to carry it further when I realized I wouldn't get much information if I started an argument. Sally interrupted us, anyway.

"What an ordeal for you." Quentin was calm now, and she shut the car door, preparing to go into her house. "At least it's out of your hands."

But that baby had been in my hands. And I wasn't about to forget it.

When I got home I jumped in the shower. I washed and dried my hair, and even put on some make-up. But those efforts didn't banish my restless, dissatisfied state of mind. I hadn't eaten all morning, so I made myself eat a sandwich, and drink some tea. My spirits didn't improve.

I thought about calling Sam to tell him about the events of the morning, but I was reluctant. I knew he would be hard to reach while he was in class, and I didn't feel like leaving a message.

I also suspected he would be upset with me for getting so involved. I decided to tell him when he got home from work. In the meantime, I had plenty to do.

Work was my antidote to worry. Brewing another cup of tea, I sat down in front of the computer, and booted up the software I was supposed to be documenting. I couldn't concentrate, though, and after a while I decided it would be criminal to bill my client for my inability to focus on my task.

All I could think about was the baby, and the girl I saw last night. I got out the phone book, looked up Mrs. Barnfeather's number, and gave her a call.

"Mrs. Barnfeather, this is Francie. This morning you mentioned a shelter where you volunteer. Would it be the kind of place a homeless or run-away teen might go?"

"That's very likely. It's the main shelter for the west side of town. I know they make a special effort there to reach street kids. The program I help out with, for new mothers, is almost all teen-age girls, most of them unmarried."

"I don't suppose you ever saw the girl I described?"

"No, dear, I don't believe so. But I just started volunteering there. Someone else might know who you're talking about."

"Would you mind telling me where this shelter is?"

"Of course not. I'll even take you there, if you like. I'm planning on going down there this afternoon. Are you free?"

"I am until three, when Savannah gets home from school. Could you go right now?"

"Certainly," she said with equanimity.

"Great. I'll drive."

Following Mrs. Barnfeather's directions, I drove us downtown. The shelter was in a part of Portland I scarcely recognized; I had driven down these streets once or twice, but never stopped. The place Mrs. Barnfeather pointed out was in an old building, with small, streaked windows and stained walls badly in need of painting.

People stood in clusters on the sidewalk outside; men and a few women, whose ages were difficult to determine. It had started raining again, a steady, dispiriting drizzle. Further down the street a woman in a shapeless coat and stocking cap trudged, pushing a rusty shopping cart full of plastic bags.

"What a depressing place," I said, as we looked for a place to park.

"Many people who come here have lost their hope," said Mrs. Barnfeather, folding her gloved hands on her lap. "That's why shelters like this are so important. For some, the shelter can give a little of that hope back."

The building was a little cheerier inside, though the vinyl bench seats and Formica counter in the reception area exuded an institutional air. The woman behind the counter smiled at us brightly, which did a lot to dispel the gloom.

"Well, hello, Amelia," she said to Mrs. Barnfeather. "What brings you down here this afternoon?"

"I need to do some preparation for the well-baby class I'm giving next week. In addition my friend, Mrs. Pope, would like to talk to you."

Mrs. Pope? Or Ms. Steele? I still couldn't decide which sounded better. I held out my hand. "Call me Francie."

"Francie, then," said the woman.

She looked to be in her early 50's, and had a pleasant face. Her short dark hair was peppered with gray. Large silver hoops dangled from her ears, and a string of clear glass beads jangled against her gray pull-over.

"My name is Marcie Kent. I direct the teen program here. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to talk to you about a girl who may have come here."

"If you two don't mind, I'll excuse myself now," said Mrs. Barnfeather. "I need to go into the back room and check on the supplies for the class. Come and get me when you're done, Francie."

I sat on a hard plastic stacking chair and gave Marcie a description of the girl I saw. "Does she sound like anyone you know?"

"Unfortunately, she sounds like a lot of the girls we see come in, except that she was pregnant, though that's not exactly unheard of here, either. Hair dyed black, black clothes, white make-up--it's all part of a look, you know. All too common, I'm afraid. Plus many of our kids, even if they do come here for food and shelter occasionally, don't come regularly, or even often enough for us to get to know them well. They like to move on."

"This girl was wearing a satanic symbol around her neck," I persisted. "At least, that's what a religious neighbor of mine insisted it was when I described it to her."

"A pentacle, no doubt," said Marcie. "That doesn't necessarily mean she's a so-called follower of the devil. It's a style, an attitude some of these young people like to affect. You must understand, Francie, that many of kids who come here have been rejected by their families, or have had very good reason to reject their families themselves. Abuse, neglect, even incest--some of these kids have been through a lot. It's no wonder they feel alienated from the institutions and standards of our society."

She paused, and gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Forgive me for jumping on my soap-box. You just can't help but get involved when you work here."

"I understand, believe me. I only saw that girl for a few minutes, and I can't get her out of my mind. I feel I need to find her, and help her if I can. I could at least tell her that her baby is fine."

Marcie looked at me shrewdly. "This is personal for you, isn't it?"

"I suppose you could say that."

There was a commotion in the next room as a stream of young people entered through the back door.

"Teen nutrition class," Marcie explained. "We get them to come by offering lots of food samples. There's a boy who usually comes who might be able to help you better than I can. His name is Neal, but he likes to be called Razor. He's pretty outgoing, and he knows a lot of the kids who come here. If anybody has seen this girl you've described, he probably has. I'll go see if he's here."

She went into the next room and emerged a few minutes later with a tall young man in a pair of torn jeans and a leather vest. The dark hair on his head had been shaved, and an elaborate, barbed-wire tattoo circled his upper right arm, exposed by the vest he wore.

What really caught my attention, though, and distracted me from looking him in the eye was the small metal hoop that pierced his left nostril. As he got closer I saw rings piercing his eyebrows, too.

"You want to talk to me?" he said, and when he opened his mouth I saw his tongue had stud in it.

"Pardon me for staring. I can't help noticing that you've pierced almost everything except your ear lobes."

"Everybody does ears. I like to be different," he said with a grin.

I introduced myself, and gave him the description of the girl I sought.

"Sounds like that could be Angel."

"Angel?"

"Yeah. That's what everybody called her. She's been coming the last couple of months or so. Word was she was knocked up. Hard to tell with some girls, you know. They'd rather pretend nothing's different about 'em."

"Do you know where she lives?"

"What do you mean, where she lives? She lives here and there, like the rest of us."

"I mean, do you know where she's from?"

"Nah. Kids don't talk much about where they're from. Most of 'em don't want to get sent back. This is better, for most of us."

"Do you have any idea who might be the father of her baby?"

"Nope." His countenance, which had been open and friendly, took on a shuttered look. "Ain't no fathers here."

"If you see Angel, tell her the lady with the kind eyes wants to see her again. She'll know who I am."

He nodded. I gave up my inquiries and went in search of Mrs. Barnfeather.

She was easy to locate. Finding Angel was going to be much harder.

* * *

"You found a baby on our doorstep this morning?" said Sam when he got home that evening. "A baby?"

"Yes. A beautiful little girl. She was so cute, Sam."

"A baby," he repeated. "Francie, how can you be so nonchalant about it? Why didn't you call me?"

"I am not nonchalant," I countered. "Believe me, I was in a state of shock when I saw that baby on our doorstep. My first thought was for Mrs. Barnfeather to examine her, since I know Mrs. Barnfeather is a nurse. She insisted we call the police, and they took the baby away. So you see, there was no reason to call you. I knew you were busy administering mid-terms, anyway."

"Why did you give it to the police?" said Savannah. "Why couldn't we keep the baby, Mommy?"

"I wanted to, honey, I really did. But Mrs. Barnfeather was right. We had to turn the baby over to the authorities, so they could try and find her mother."

"Francie, am I hearing you right?" said Sam slowly. "Did you even for a minute think we would keep that child?"

Something in his tone made me realize I should be careful what I say. But I found myself getting angry instead. After all, he wasn't the one who held that tiny, helpless infant. He never even saw the girl last night. How dare he judge my feelings?

"Well, why shouldn't I think of keeping her? She was entrusted to me, after all. If fate places a baby on your doorstep, you don't just toss it lightly aside. In fact, I'm thinking we should adopt that infant if the police can't find her mother and get things sorted out."

"Adopt the infant! Francie, have you lost your mind? We can't take on the responsibility of an infant, especially one we know nothing about. That's insanity, and I refuse to go along with it."

Savannah was staring at us wide-eyed. I bit back the retort that sprang to my lips, and went into the kitchen to start dinner instead. But as I was preparing the chicken and the rice I kept replaying Sam's words in my head.

He would refuse to adopt the baby, would he? How could he be so hard-hearted? Did Sam really dislike children so much?

No, I knew that couldn't be, because he was clearly fond of Savannah, and always had been. Then why was he being so adamant?

I suddenly felt as if I didn't know my husband at all.

Dinner was a silent affair that night. After we had finished eating I went into the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher. As soon as Savannah had cleared the table Sam excused her to go upstairs and do her homework. Then he came in, took the sponge out of my hand and turned me to face him.

"Francie, let's not argue. I admit I was upset at hearing about the baby. It was so unexpected. What really bothered me was your not telling me about it right away."

"I didn't see why I should. I can never reach you at the university, anyway."

He winced. "I have to do my job, Francie."

"You used to be a lot more available."

"And you used to live a few blocks off campus. Now that we live out in the suburbs just getting to work is an ordeal sometimes."

I saw weariness in his eyes, and something else that made seem him more remote. When was the last time we had enjoyed each other's company? I could scarcely remember. Our lives were so full of work and running to meet schedules.

"I feel like there's such a distance growing between us, Sam."

He opened his arms, and I went into them.

"Oh, Francie," he said, his face against my cheek. "This is a big adjustment for both of us. We just need time, that's all. This new life of ours is going to take some getting used to."

"Did you mean what you said about it being insane to take on a baby right now?"

"Yes," said Sam simply. "I can't even imagine doing that."

I said nothing, and let him comfort me with his embrace. But my mind was far from easy. I knew I would continue to look for Angel, and remember how her infant daughter felt in my arms. I had to try and help them both; whether it was for their sake or mine, I wasn't sure.

I also knew that whatever I did about them I would have to do by myself. Sam was not going to understand.

It was a lonely feeling.

* * *

Sally picked me up early Friday morning for the aerobics class at her health club. I almost called her and canceled. I really didn't have the time for this; I had gotten behind schedule for getting my manual done. But I remembered Sally saying lots of women in the neighborhood went to this class. I was hoping to get everybody together so we could discuss Angel again, and maybe I would get an idea of where to go next with my private little investigation.

I had found an old pair of running shorts and one of Sam's T-shirts to wear. It wasn't an elegant outfit, but it would work for this.

"Where's your floor mat?" Sally greeted me. "And your water bottle? You are new to this, aren't you? Never mind, you can get by without them today."

The health club, I discovered, was actually in a storefront at a strip shopping mall. It consisted chiefly of two large rooms. One was a carpeted space full of treadmills, stair-steppers, stationery bicycles, weights and a variety of weight machines.

The other room, for aerobics and other classes, looked empty. It was brightly-lit, or maybe it just seemed so because of the shiny wood floor and wall of mirrors.

The club also boasted a row of tanning booths, a small, brightly-decorated baby-sitting area, and had fully-equipped locker rooms, complete with saunas.

I found it intimidating. But Sally breezed by the reception desk as if the club was her second home.

"Just a sec. I have to drop Quentin off at the nursery. I'll met you in the women's locker room."

We barely had time to stash our gear in a locker before class was due to begin. It was a morning weekday class, and all of the participants were women. The nursery was full. Inside the aerobics room I tried to slink into the back row, but Sally pulled me up next to her in the front.

Our instructor was a tall, tanned, very thin young woman with improbably large breasts as firm and plastic-looking as a Barbie doll's. She was wearing a shiny hot pink sports bra and tights under a pink and purple floral thong leotard. Her long blond hair was caught up in a pony-tail on top of her head, and she was bright and perky. She reminded me of a cheerleader, minus the pompoms.

"You're lucky, Francie, Leslie's here today," said Sally. "She gives a really good work-out." She broke off to wave to someone behind me.

I followed her gaze and saw Jennifer, taking up a position two rows behind us. And setting her water bottle down in the back corner was Kathy Wilson.

I envied Kathy her spot. I was directly in front of the instructor.

"Let's go, ladies," said Leslie, clasping a tiny microphone to her leotard strap. "It's time to get physical!"

On cue, music blared from the speakers in the corner. The first song was fast, with a pounding beat, and I broke a sweat trying to follow Leslie's footwork. She moved even faster during the second one. I was almost out of breath.

"She's really tough," I said to Sally, panting.

Sally looked at me incredulously. "We're still warming up. There's lots more to come."

The songs ran into each other, all of them loud, all of them frenetic. The tempo of the songs had been speeded up; I could tell by the chipmunk voices of the singers.

Next to me, Sally executed all of the moves smoothly, with an economy of motion that was wondrous to see. I spent a lot of time tripping over my feet and bumping into my neighbors.

"Woo," yelled Leslie with unabated enthusiasm. "That's it! Work it, ladies, work it!"

She was absolutely, relentlessly, and unflaggingly cheerful. We stretched, we lunged, we hit the mats for floor exercises (except for me, I had no mat) and bounced back up on our feet again. Halfway through the class I wanted to kill her. By the end of the class I was just trying to finish without collapsing.

"Leslie would make a good drill sergeant," I said to Sally, dragging myself into the locker room after class. "I can just hear her: 'You! In the black leotard! Give me 20 pliés and 50 crunches! And keep it in sync with the music, you maggot!' Seriously, Sally, how can you do this? You don't even look winded. I feel like I just ran a marathon."

Sally smiled. "You get used to it."

Kathy came in behind her. "No, you don't. You thinking of joining our work-out, Francie? I warn you, as bad as you feel now, you'll feel even worse tomorrow. So sore you won't want to get out of bed."

"Don't scare her," said Jennifer, who was already at her locker, getting ready to take a shower. "I enjoy coming here. It gives me some time to myself."

"Amen to that," said Sally. "Working out regularly will make you feel great. It's a tremendous stress-reliever, and an energy boost."

"So's chocolate," said Kathy, with a grin. "And you can guess which I'd rather have. Though right now I'm doing okay in that department. Still have lots of candy left over from Halloween. I put it in the laundry room, a room my boys avoid. If that doesn't work, I'll put it next to the lawn mower!"

I sensed an opening. "Did you get many trick-or-treaters, Kathy?"

"Not as many as last year. But that's okay by me. More leftover candy."

"What about teen-agers? Did you get a teen-age girl, a big girl, dressed in black, late in the evening, about eight, after all the little ones had gone in?"

"I don't know," said Kathy, thinking a minute. "Why do you ask?"

"You're not still on about that baby, are you, Francie?" said Sally.

"Poor thing," murmured Jennifer, as she left to take a shower.

"Baby? What baby?" asked Kathy.

I told her about the girl, and the baby on my doorstep. As I spoke, I was uncomfortably aware that I held the attention of every woman in the locker room.

"Wow," she said when I finished. "Are you sure she was dressed as a witch?"

"Not dressed as a witch," said Jennifer, coming back to her locker wrapped in her towel. "She was a witch. She was wearing a satanic symbol."

Kathy shrugged. "What kid doesn't these days. There's even a popular rock singer who calls himself the Anti-Christ. It's a fad."

"I've got to find her, " I said. "Did you see her, Kathy, on Halloween night?"

"Can't say I did," she said, thinking a moment. "Nope."

"What about your boys? Could they have seen her? Or maybe they even know her. That would explain her presence in the neighborhood."

"I'll ask. But I think they would have mentioned it if one of their friends was pregnant and about to deliver. Where did she deliver, anyway, Francie? Do you have any idea? It couldn't have been too far away if she came back to leave the baby on your doorstep."

Kathy was right. I knew what I had to do next--explore the neighborhood.

"Thanks for taking me to class with you," I said to Sally when we reached her house. "You don't have to drive me home. It's only a few houses down. I'll just grab my stuff and go."

Sally opened her garage door. Her dog, Lady, came bounding out, in full barking mode.

"That wretched dog. She's so hyper. Probably my fault. I never walk her anymore. But she's still annoying."

I had a brilliant idea.

"Why don't you let me walk her for you? I'd be glad to help you out, in return for your taking me with you to aerobics this morning."

It had occurred to me that walking Sally's dog would give me the perfect excuse to search all the fields and nooks and crannies of our neighborhood. Nobody would question practically anywhere I went as long as I had a leash in my hand and a dog on the end of it.

Sally seemed surprised, but was willing to let me walk her dog after I convinced her I really wanted to do it. Lady was even more surprised. As soon as I hooked the leash onto her collar she took off, without so much as a backward glance.

We walked down every cul-de-sac and along every street within a five-block radius. We walked through piles of leaves, soggy with rain, saw Halloween jack o' lanterns rotting on doorsteps and porches, but saw no evidence of Angel or her infant.

Then we came to the edge of the Twin Oaks Forest. It wasn't a real forest, but rather a five-acre park and nature preserve set aside by the city when the developers first came to the area and started chopping down trees to clear the land for homes.

"What do you think, Lady?" I said to the tireless little dog. "Should we go in there? It looks pretty muddy. Still, there is a trail."

A squirrel scurried up the trunk and into the branches of a tree down the path ahead of us. Lady didn't hesitate. With a strength amazing in one her size, she plowed forward, dragging me in her wake.

"Take it easy, dog! I'm trying to stay out of the mud!"

Lady pulled me further and further down the trail till we were deep in the forest. Then she stopped.

We were surrounded by tall firs, moss carpeting their branches, ferns at their feet. The air was palpable with moisture, even though it wasn't actually raining. Here, I was suddenly reminded that this part of Oregon was actually a rain forest. Back in the neighborhoods, with the native trees cut down and the asphalt and concrete in their place, it was easy to forget what the land once was.

Lady sniffed the air. Then she pulled me suddenly off the trail and into the trees.

"Lady, where do you think you're going?"

I pulled futilely at the leash. The dog maintained a steady forward pace as I struggled to hang on and keep up. I dodged tree branches, hopped over logs and fervently hoped I wasn't running through poison oak.

Then Lady stopped in a small, protected clearing. She went over to a stump and started sniffing. I gratefully sat down on a relatively dry log.

"You crazy dog. Are you going to stay here a while?"

She started pawing at the ground, and whimpering. I tried to pull her away, but she wouldn't budge.

"What on earth is so interesting, you mangy mutt?"

I went closer to investigate.

Lady sunk her teeth into some fabric, and was shaking her head from side to side while trying to back out with it. I reached down and tried to get her to give it up.

"Lady, let go! Now!"

She didn't exactly give it to me, but she didn't stop me from taking it, either. She had been pulling on a big pile of black cloth, wadded in the hollow base of the tree stump. With a trembling sense of dread I lifted the fabric up to the light.

It was a skirt, a long black skirt. It looked as though it had been torn, or more likely, slashed by some sort of knife. Large patches of the fabric were stiff with a powdery dark stain. In the light the stains were a rusty brown.

I knew what those stains were. They were blood. I had seen blood stains before, but never in such a large quantity.

I also knew, with fatalistic certainty, where the skirt had come from. It was Angel's skirt, the skirt she had been wearing when I saw her on Halloween night.

I closed my eyes and could almost see the scene--Angel here that night, crouched in pain by the tree, giving birth. Had she been alone? With all my soul I hoped not.

I looked down into the stump and saw there was more there. I reached in and pulled out a black dress, some stockings and underwear. They were all bloodstained, too. I started searching around the trunk. In the bushes I found a some scuffed-up shoes.

This wasn't right. It couldn't be right. These were all the clothes I had seen on the girl that night. All of them blood-stained. My stomach lurched, as if I was in a plummeting elevator. I felt faint. There was way too much blood on all these clothes.

Was it Angel's blood?

Was Angel dead?

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