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thing was. I think. I don’t know that part for sure, but sometimes I use my hand that way.”
“And that’s why they killed him?”
“I’m sure of it,” Dan said.
“For what? Some kind of ESP vitamin? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”
No one replied.
“And they know Abra’s on to them?”
“They know.” She raised her head. Her cheeks were flushed and wet with tears. “They don’t know
my name or where I live, but they know there is a me.”
“Then we need to go to the police,” Dave said. “Or maybe . . . I guess we’d want the FBI in a case
like this. They might have trouble believing it at first, but if the body’s there—”
Dan said, “I won’t tell you that’s a bad idea until we see what Abra can do with the baseball glove,
but you need to think pretty carefully about the consequences. For me, for John, for you and your wife,
and most of all for Abra.”
“I don’t see what kind of trouble you and John could possibly—”
John shifted impatiently in his chair. “Come on, David. Who found the body? Who dug it up and
then buried it again, after taking a piece of evidence the forensics people would no doubt consider
vital? Who brought that piece of evidence halfway across the country so an eighth-grader could use it
like a Ouija board?”
Although he hadn’t meant to, Dan joined in. They were ganging up, and in other circumstances he
might have felt bad about that, but not in these. “Your family’s already in crisis, Mr. Stone. Your
grandmother-in-law is dying, your wife’s grieving and exhausted. This thing will hit the newspapers
and the internet like a bomb. Wandering clan of murderers versus a supposedly psychic little girl.
They’ll want her on TV, you’ll say no, and that will just make them hungrier. Your street will turn
into an open-air studio, Nancy Grace will probably move in next door, and in a week or two the whole
media mob will be yelling hoax at the top of its lungs. Remember Balloon Boy Dad? That’s apt to be
you. Meanwhile, these folks will still be out there.”
“So who’s supposed to protect my little girl if they come after her? You two? A doctor and a
hospice orderly? Or are you just a janitor?”
You don’t even know about the seventy-three-year-old groundskeeper standing watch down the street, Dan
thought, and had to smile. “I’m a little of both. Look, Mr. Stone—”
“Seeing as how you and my daughter are great pals, I guess you better call me Dave.”
“Okay, Dave it is. I guess what you do next depends on whether or not you’re willing to gamble on
law enforcement believing her. Especially when she tells them that the Winnebago People are lifesucking
vampires.”
“Christ,” Dave said. “I can’t tell Lucy about this. She’ll blow a fuse. All her fuses.”
“That would seem to answer the question about whether or not to call the police,” John remarked.
There was silence for a moment. Somewhere in the house a clock was ticking. Somewhere outside, a
dog was barking.
“The earthquake,” Dave said suddenly. “That little earthquake. Was that you, Abby?”
“I’m pretty sure,” she whispered.
Dave hugged her, then stood up and took the towel off the baseball glove. He held it, looking it
over. “They buried him with it,” he said. “They abducted him, tortured him, murdered him, and then
buried him with his baseball glove.”
“Yes,” Dan said.
Dave turned to his daughter. “Do you really want to touch this thing, Abra?”
She held out her hands and said, “No. But give it to me anyway.”