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longer precisely there, and so the picture seemed to float. Not far from that Main Street, a little girl
lived down a lane that was probably called Richland Court. She would be fast asleep, but somewhere
in her mind was Rose the Hat. She assumed the little girl didn’t know what Rose the Hat looked like
(any more than Rose knew what the girl looked like . . . at least not yet), but she knew what Rose the
Hat felt like. Also, she knew what Rose had been looking at in Sam’s yesterday. That was her marker,
her way in.
Rose stared at the picture of Anniston with fixed and dreaming eyes, but what she was really
looking for was Sam’s meat counter, where EVERY CUT IS A BLUE RIBBON COWBOY CUT. She was
looking for herself. And, after a gratifyingly short search, found her. At first just an auditory trace: the
sound of supermarket Muzak. Then a shopping cart. Beyond it, all was still dark. That was all right;
the rest would come. Rose followed the Muzak, now echoing and distant.
It was dark, it was dark, it was dark, then a little light and a little more. Here was the supermarket
aisle, then it became a hallway and she knew she was almost in. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch.
Lying on her bed, she closed her eyes so if the kid realized what was happening—unlikely but not
impossible—she would see nothing. Rose took a few seconds to review her primary goals: name, exact
location, extent of knowledge, anyone she might have told.
(turn, world )
She gathered her strength and pushed. This time the sensation of revolving wasn’t a surprise but
something she had planned for and over which she had complete control. For a moment she was still
in that hallway—the conduit between their two minds—and then she was in a large room where a
little girl in pigtails was riding a bike and lilting a nonsense song. It was the little girl’s dream and
Rose was watching it. But she had better things to do. The walls of the room weren’t real walls, but
file drawers. She could open them at will now that she was inside. The little girl was safely dreaming
in Rose’s head, dreaming she was five and riding her first bicycle. That was very fine. Dream on, little
princess.
The child rode past her, singing la-la-la and seeing nothing. There were training wheels on her
bike, but they flickered on and off. Rose guessed the princess was dreaming of the day when she had
finally learned to ride without them. Always a very fine day in a child’s life.
Enjoy your bicycle, dear, while I find out all about you.
Moving with confidence, Rose opened one of the drawers.
The instant she reached inside, an earsplitting alarm began to bray and brilliant white spotlights
blazed on all around the room, beating down on her with heat as well as light. For the first time in a
great many years, Rose the Hat, once Rose O’Hara from County Antrim in Northern Ireland, was
caught completely off-guard. Before she could pull her hand out of the drawer, it slammed shut. The
pain was enormous. She screamed and jerked backward, but she was held fast.
Her shadow jumped high on the wall, but not just hers. She turned her head and saw the little girl
bearing down on her. Only she wasn’t little anymore. Now she was a young woman wearing a leather
jerkin with a dragon on her blooming chest and a blue band to hold back her hair. The bike had
become a white stallion. Its eyes, like those of the warrior-woman, were blazing.
The warrior-woman had a lance.
(You came back Dan said you would and you did )
And then—unbelievable in a rube, even one loaded with big steam—pleasure.
(GOOD)
The child who was no longer a child had been lying in wait for her. She had laid a trap, she meant
to kill Rose . . . and considering Rose’s state of mental vulnerability, she probably could.
Summoning every bit of her strength, Rose fought back, not with some comic-book lance, but with
a blunt battering ram that had all her years and will behind it.