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  Judith said nothing. She came to the bottom of the stairs and took a tentative step toward the next flight.

  The larger of the two moved to block her. “Want to have a good time?” he asked, his voice lilting with menace.

  Judith’s mind raced. She could scream, but there was no one to hear. And if someone heard her cry, would he rush to help?

  Not likely.

  She could try to flee back up the stairs, but a display of fear would only spur the boys on, turning what might have been a game into something far worse.

  She moved forward again, focusing her mind on the lessons she’d learned last summer, after her first year of teaching here. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, willing her voice to remain steady, “I’d just like to get to my meeting.” There wasn’t a meeting, but at least the boys might think she was expected somewhere.

  The second boy reached out to her. “I got something wants to meet you.”

  As his hand came close to her, Judith spun around, slipping her bag off her shoulder and swinging it hard. She completed the turn, and the bag slammed into the boy’s head, the weight of the ten rolls of quarters she always carried in its depths lending it enough force to knock the teenager against the wall. As her would-be attacker howled in pain and his friend stared at Judith in open-mouthed surprise, she broke into a run, dashing down the stairs, grabbing at the banister to steady herself

  “Get her!” she heard one of them shout as she came to the first-floor landing. Footsteps pounded in the stairwell. She ran into the corridor, turning left toward the side door that led to the faculty parking lot. By the time she reached the door she could hear her pursuers racing down the hall after her. She burst out the doors, praying that someone—anyone—would still be around.

  There were a few cars in the lot, but no one in sight.

  She stumbled down the steps, fumbling in the bag for her keys, then made a dash for her car She jammed the key into the lock just as her assailants exploded from the building, twisted at it frantically, then managed to pull the door open. Scrambling inside, she jerked the door closed and pushed down on the lock just as the boys reached the car.

  As she put the key in the ignition, the boys began rocking the car—a tiny Honda Civic she’d had for five years.

  The ignition ground for a moment, then caught, and she stamped hard on the accelerator, racing the engine.

  The boys were laughing now, and the car was rocking wildly. Saying nothing at all, Judith put the car in gear and released the brake. The Honda shot forward and her attackers jumped back. Judith turned sharply, heading for the parking lot gate, and suddenly the boys were running to another car, a low-slung Chevy painted a brilliant candy-apple red. As Judith pulled out of the parking lot and turned left toward the freeway a mile west, the Chevy fell in beside her.

  They were going to follow her home!

  Thinking quickly, Judith made a quick right turn, drove two blocks, then made a left, and another right.

  The red Chevy stayed behind her, so close she was certain they were going to hit her. But then, as she made one more turn, her tormentors must have realized where she was going.

  A block ahead was the low-slung building of the precinct station, a few patrol cars sitting in front of it. At the next corner the Chevy turned and disappeared into the traffic along Whittier Boulevard. Shaking, Judith pulled up in front of the police station, put the car in neutral and sat for a few minutes as her breathing returned to normal and her fear began to ease.

  At last, when her hands could grip the wheel without trembling, she put the car in gear again and started home. But as she turned onto the freeway and started toward the beach, she realized what was happening to her.

  Though she was barely twenty-six years old, she was already beginning to feel burned out. She no longer cared about her students; she couldn’t even be bothered to report what had just happened to the police.

  The traffic inched along the broad expanse of the Santa Monica Freeway. In the distance, where she should have been able to see the hills surrounding the Los Angeles basin, there was today only a thick brown veil of smog, as heavy and unpleasant as her mood. Every day, for the next six weeks, she would dread that first day of school more and more.

  She’d set out to be a teacher, not a warden.

  An hour later she pulled her car into the garage under her building a block from the beach and let herself into the small apartment. She’d intended it only to be temporary, but it was fast looking as though she would spend the rest of her life here. On her salary, there was no way she would ever be able to buy a house in Southern California, and rents everywhere were skyrocketing—only her lease was protecting her now, a lease she would renew this week in the hope that next year rent control would come to her area. If it didn’t, and her rent went up again, she would have to find a roommate, maybe even two.

  She unlocked the sliding patio door and dropped her heavy purse onto the coffee table. As she entered the kitchen in search of a Coke, the phone began to ring, and she decided to let the answering machine handle it. Probably it was the boys who’d been following her, calling her up now to continue their harassment.

  She made a mental note to have her phone number changed, with the new number unlisted.

  But a moment later, as her message tape ran out and a voice she hadn’t heard in years began to speak, she snatched up the phone.

  “Aunt Rita?” she asked. “Is it really you?”

  “Judith!” Rita Moreland exclaimed. “I thought you weren’t there. I was just going to leave a message.”

  “I just don’t answer the phone anymore until I know who’s calling,” Judith said. Propping the receiver against her shoulder, she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a Coke. “I’m afraid it’s been a rough day.”

  “Oh, dear,” Rita Moreland murmured apologetically. “If it’s a bad time, I can call back—”

  “No!” Judith protested. “It’s just that it was the last day of summer session, and something happened.” Twenty minutes later, with the Coke finished and another one opened, Judith realized that she’d just unburdened herself of all her problems to a woman whom she hadn’t seen in nearly ten years. Though she’d called Rita Moreland “aunt” all her life, the Morelands were really not relatives at all, but old family friends. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I really needed to talk to someone just now, and you happened to call. And I didn’t even ask you why.”

  Rita Moreland laughed softly, an oddly tinkling sound that transported Judith back to the childhood that seemed so long ago and so far away. “Actually,” Rita said, “perhaps it’s providence that made me call today. I have a problem, and I’m getting desperate. And I thought of you. If you want to say no,” she added in a rush, “believe me, I’ll understand completely.”

  Judith frowned, mystified. “What on earth is it?” she asked. “You know if there’s anything I can do for you and Uncle Max—”

  “Oh, no,” Rita broke in. “It isn’t us. It’s the school. We have an opening for a math teacher. Poor Reba Tucker’s been hospitalized.…”

  “Mrs. Tucker?” Judith said, surprised. Reba Tucker had once been her teacher and she remembered her fondly.

  “I know it’s awfully late in the year,” Rita hurried on, “and you already have a job, but we’re having a terrible problem finding someone.” Rita Moreland talked on, but Judith was only half listening to what she was saying. Finally, Judith interrupted her.

  “Aunt Rita?” she asked. “What’s Borrego like now? It’s been so long since I’ve been back.”

  Rita Moreland fell silent for a moment, then, once again, her bell-like laugh came over the line. “It’s about the same,” she said. “Things out here in New Mexico don’t change very fast, you know. We’re pretty much the way we’ve always been.”

  In that instant Judith Sheffield made up her mind. “I’ll take the job, Aunt Rita,” she said.

  Jed Arnold slouched in the driver’s seat of his ten-year-
old Ford LTD, his fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel. The radio was blaring, tuned to the single station with a signal strong enough to reach from Santa Fe up to Borrego. It played country and western music twenty-four hours a day, but he supposed it was better than nothing at all.

  “Maybe Jeff’s not going to show up,” Gina Alvarez said, reaching out to turn the volume down. She was curled up on the seat next to Jed, her head cradled against his shoulder. The remains of a hamburger and a shake were balanced on the dash, and when Gina felt a slight pressure on her shoulder, she reached out, picked up the last of the fries and stuck it in Jed’s mouth.

  “He’ll be here,” Jed told her, munching on the fry. “He was gonna get some beer.”

  Gina stiffened, then sat up and moved to the far side of the car, her eyes flicking to the backseat, where Heather Fredericks was necking with Randy Sparks. “You didn’t say anyone was bringing beer,” she said, her voice taking on an accusatory tone.

  Jed grinned at her, that cocky, half-mocking grin that never failed to quicken her heartbeat. “If I had, you wouldn’t have come, would you?”

  Gina hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe,” she temporized. “Maybe I would, and maybe I wouldn’t.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Jed declared knowingly. “You’d have given me one of your lectures on the evils of alcohol, and then shut the door in my face.”

  “I would not!” Gina replied. “How come everyone always acts like I’m some kind of goody-goody?”

  “Because you are,” Heather Fredericks replied from the backseat, squirming loose from Randy’s arms and buttoning up her blouse.

  “I am not,” Gina protested. “But what happens if we get caught?”

  Jed sighed in mock exasperation. “We’re not going to get caught,” he told her. “All we’re gonna do is go out and drag the highway for a while, then go up into the canyon and have a couple of beers. What’s the big deal?”

  Gina thought it over, and decided that maybe he was right—maybe it wasn’t a big deal. Almost all the kids she knew—certainly all of Jed’s friends—got a couple of six-packs practically every weekend and went up into Mordida Canyon. And it wasn’t as though they did anything really wrong. They just went for a swim, then sat around on the beach, listening to the radio and talking. And if she didn’t go, all she’d wind up doing was sitting at home with her little sister, watching television.

  Her mother would be furious if she found out, but it was Friday night, and she’d be working at the café until at least one in the morning. By then Gina would be home in bed, asleep.

  A pair of headlights swept across the ugly orange walls of the A&W stand in front of them, and a horn blasted as Jeff Hankins pulled up next to the LTD in his ancient Plymouth. He revved the engine threateningly, then called to Jed, “Still think that piece of junk can take me?”

  Jed snickered, and switched on the Ford’s engine. “Only one way to find out, isn’t there?” he yelled back. As he dropped the transmission into reverse, the car jerked backward with enough force to throw Gina against the dashboard. She shoved herself back onto the seat and pulled the seat belt around her waist. “What’s the matter?” Jed teased her. “Think I’ve forgotten how to drive?”

  “I think if you roll the car over, I want to stay where I am,” Gina told him.

  They were out of the parking lot now, and a moment later Jeff Hankins pulled his Plymouth up next to the LTD. “The canyon?” he asked.

  “You got it,” Jed replied. “Anytime you’re ready.”

  Jeff nodded, then suddenly popped his clutch, and the Plymouth, its tires screaming, shot forward. A split second later Jed jammed his foot onto the LTD’s accelerator. By the time he was ready to shift into second gear, he’d come abreast of the Plymouth, but as he shoved the gearshift up into second, the Plymouth pulled ahead of him again.

  “Shit,” he yelled. “What the hell’s he done to that thing?”

  “Stuck in a new carburetor,” Randy said from the backseat. “I got a buck that says he beats you.”

  Jed gunned the engine, then shifted again, but the Plymouth was far ahead of him now, its taillights mocking him as Jeff raced out of town. The road ran straight for a mile, then turned right for another mile before coming to the canyon turnoff. Jed broke into a grin as he spotted a side road ahead. “You’re on!” he shouted, then hit the brakes and spun the wheel.

  The LTD slewed around, then left the pavement and shot onto a dirt track that angled off from the main road.

  Randy Sparks jerked around to see the Plymouth disappearing into the distance. “Hey, what the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Cutting cross-country!” Jed shifted down and tightened his grip on the wheel as the Ford lumbered along the rough track.

  “Are you nuts? You’ll tear the pan out.”

  They hit a bump and the car thudded as its suspension hit bottom. Then a roaring filled the night.

  “Oh, Christ,” Jed muttered. “There goes the muffler.”

  The car lurched down the rutted road, its undercarriage slamming hard every few seconds. In the distance Gina could see Jeff Hankins’s Plymouth making the turn on the main road. Jed saw it too, put the LTD into a lower gear and gunned the engine. The roar from the unmuffled manifold rose, but the car shot forward.

  When he hit the main road again less than a minute later, Jed was only ten yards ahead of the Plymouth. He spun the wheel once more and skidded across the road. The tires on the right side of the car left the pavement, hit the gravel along the shoulder, and finally dropped into the ditch next to the road. The steering wheel wrenched loose from Jed’s grip and spun around.

  The car flipped, rolled over, and came to a stop upside down, its wheels spinning slowly. There was a sudden silence as the engine died, then a screaming of tires as Jeff Hankins braked to a stop.

  A moment later Jeff and his girlfriend, JoAnna Garcia, were in the ditch, staring numbly into the ruined LTD.

  “Heather!” JoAnna screamed, finally finding her voice. “Gina! Oh, my God. Are you all right?”

  “Get the door open,” Gina mumbled. She was still strapped to the seat, suspended upside down, her head brushing against the roof of the car. She fumbled with the seat belt for a moment, got it loose, and dropped in a heap onto the roof itself. JoAnna struggled with the wrecked door. One of its hinges already broken, it squealed in protest, then fell off into the ditch. A moment later Randy Sparks managed to force the rear door open too, and the four teenagers began creeping out of the wreckage.

  Heather Fredericks had a cut on her right arm and a bump on her head, and Randy Sparks’s left hand was bleeding, but otherwise they seemed uninjured.

  “What the hell were you doing?” Jeff demanded, as his relief that his friends were all right gave way to anger. “You could have killed yourself and everybody else, too!”

  Jed Arnold hardly heard Jeff’s words. He was staring dolefully at the wreckage of his car. Already he could hear his father yelling at him. His father hadn’t wanted him to buy the car at all, and now …

  His thoughts were interrupted by the distant wail of a siren. He looked up to see the flashing red and blue lights of a police car coming toward them through the night.

  Jed sat alone in the little police station in the basement of the City Hall, waiting for his father to come and pick him up. His friends had left an hour ago, Randy Sparks, Gina, and Heather having been escorted to the hospital to have their injuries taken care of, Jeff and JoAnna sent home.

  But Jed was still waiting. His father was working the swing shift at the refinery and wouldn’t get off until midnight. Jed had done his best to talk Billy Clark into letting him go, but the deputy had only looked at him coldly.

  “You damn near killed yourself and three other kids tonight, you damn half-breed.” Jed’s eyes had blazed with cold fury at the term, but he’d kept silent. “You really think I’m just going to let you go?” the cop went on. “You’ve been making trouble around here long enoug
h, but this time you’re not getting off.” He’d fingerprinted Jed, taken mug shots, then locked him in the station’s single holding cell while he’d written up a report and a citation against Jed for reckless driving and endangerment of human life.

  In the cell, Jed waited silently until his father finally showed up a little after midnight.

  With no words exchanged between them, Jed signed for his things, and showed no emotion at all as his father led him out of the police station and drove him home.

  He listened equally silently as Frank Arnold lectured him on the stupidity of what he’d done and told him he could forget about getting the car fixed.

  At last Jed went to bed, but he didn’t sleep.

  Instead he lay awake, remembering Billy Clark’s words, and knowing Clark was only saying what nearly everyone else in Borrego thought.

  He, Jed Arnold, wasn’t white, and he wasn’t Indian.

  He was something else, something halfway in between.

  Sometimes—like now—he felt as if he didn’t fit in anywhere.

  It was at times like this, late at night, when he was all alone, that all the fury contained within him would threaten to erupt to the surface.

  It was at times like this that he wondered if someday the rage might overflow and he might actually kill someone.

  Or maybe even kill himself.

  That, as he well knew, was always an option too.

  Chapter 2

  A week after Rita Moreland’s phone call, Judith Sheffield was on her way to Borrego. Immediately after the conversation, there had been a moment of panic as she wondered whether she’d been rash to accept the offer, but by the next morning, when for the first time in months she’d awakened with a sense of actually looking forward to the day, rather than dreading it, she knew she’d made the right decision.

  For the next five days she dealt with the details of making the move.