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  A cool breeze through the open window lifted the curtains. Though I was on the second story, and the window was much too high above the sidewalk for anyone to have climbed through it without a ladder, I decided I’d feel better if it were closed and locked for the rest of the night.

  As I reached out to pull it shut, I saw someone standing in the middle of the cobblestoned street, in a shadowed spot ill-lit by the old-timey wrought iron streetlamps: a tall man, wearing a long black duster and a cowboy hat. While neither of those were unusual apparel in our western town, the sight stopped me cold, hands frozen on the window frame, because I suddenly realized the figure in my dream had been wearing the same thing.

  The man’s head was tilted back. I couldn’t see his eyes in the shadows beneath the brim of his hat, but knew without a doubt he was staring straight at me. It didn’t feel like his gaze had just been attracted by my silhouette against the bedroom light: it felt like—in fact, I was certain—he had been standing there, staring at my window, a long time.

  I slammed the window shut, latched it, and scrambled back into my bed, without taking off my robe or turning off the light. I felt like a frightened little girl, and I didn’t like it. Questions darted through my mind: Who is he? What’s he doing out there? And, scariest of all, How did he get into my dream?

  I didn’t believe in ghosts. I didn’t believe in ESP. I didn’t believe in omens. But I knew what I’d seen, in my night terror and out my window.

  I lay there, hardly breathing, every sense straining, listening for—and sometimes imagining—a sound from downstairs. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I got out of bed, turned off the light, crept to the window, split the curtain no more than an inch with my hand, and peered out into the street once more.

  The streetlights showed nothing but cobblestones, benches, trees, and planters.

  I opened the window and pushed my head out through the curtain so I could look both ways along the street. Nothing moved, except for a cab on 22nd Street, which passed the end of Blackthorne Avenue without slowing.

  I closed the window again, let the curtain fall shut, and climbed back into bed. I checked the time. 4:02 a.m. I lay there staring at it, certain I’d be up until daylight . . . but as my adrenaline drained, exhaustion from the day’s work flooded back in, and I soon slipped back into sleep.

  I woke later than I should have, with another day of preparing the shop for Tuesday’s opening ahead of me, this time without Brent’s help. I also woke feeling singularly unrested, the night’s unease clinging to me all day like stale cigarette smoke.

  That night, Brent took me out to dinner, but since he was still on an early-morning work schedule and I was even more exhausted then the previous night, he left my place about ten. I didn’t tell him about my dream, or the man in the street. After all, by morning I hadn’t been entirely sure I’d really seen the man in the street. Maybe I hadn’t been as awake as I thought, and he’d been nothing but a slow-to-fade fragment of my nightmare. By the end of the workday I’d pretty much decided I’d imagined the whole thing, and there was no point worrying Brent about a bad dream.

  But that night I woke from another bad dream, this time one of those dreams that deeply unsettles you, but you can’t remember a single detail of the moment you’re awake. My HiPhone informed me it was 4:09 a.m. I went to the bathroom. As I returned to bed, I decided—I don’t know why—to take another peek out the bedroom window, still closed and latched from the previous night.

  The workmen had already erected the scaffolding by then, but it didn’t block my view of the man in the duster and cowboy hat, standing in exactly the same dim-lit spot as the night before, once more looking up at my window. With my bedroom light off, I could even see the glint of his eyes in his shadowed face. My hand tightened on the curtain and my heart pounded in my chest.

  He couldn’t possibly have seen me. But he certainly gave me the impression he could. When he turned and walked away, I scurried back to bed, and this time I did lay awake until daylight, listening for the sound of someone at the door.

  TWO

  TWO DAYS AFTER Karl Yatsar had passed through it, the rusty red door in the abandoned mine tunnel burst open again, with a flash of blue light and a sound like a thunderclap. Like the chain it had replaced, the new chain locking the door shattered, shiny silvery links skittering across the floor and ringing against the metal rails. The single incandescent bulb lighting the tunnel swayed, sending black shadows dancing.

  From the flickering torch-lit dimness of the room beyond the door stepped an ordinary-looking young man, of medium height and medium build, his hair and eyes both the same shade of mahogany brown. Like Karl before him, the young man stood in the tunnel and looked around at the rough-hewn stone walls and ceiling, at the twin metal rails stretching to the dim outline of the door at the tunnel’s exit. Unlike Karl, he did not turn and close the door through which he had come.

  Twelve more people came through the door behind him, eight men and four women. They wore unmarked black military-style uniforms. They carried automatic rifles, along with pistols and knives. The young man did not turn to look at them. Instead he strode toward the tunnel’s exit. The armed cadre followed.

  Beyond the stone walls, thunder grumbled. A flash of lightning limned the outline of the door at the far end of the tunnel.

  The young man strode to that door and pushed it open.

  He had another world to conquer.

  * * *

  The workmen arrived far too early the next morning. While they began unloading the letters from their truck, having been given special permission to drive into the pedestrian mall for the purpose, I called my friend Policeman Phil—technically Sergeant Phil Jensen, but we were both from the same small town in Oregon, and I’d known him since junior high. “I think I have a stalker,” I said into the phone.

  The response was . . . underwhelming: a long silence that somehow also managed to convey disbelief, followed by a sigh. “Is this a joke, Shawna?”

  “No!” I said, offended. “Would I joke about something like this?”

  “Honestly? Yes. Remember that time in high school when you—”

  I cut him off. “Okay, okay. No need to bring up ancient history. But I’m not joking this time. This is an official call to an official police sergeant.”

  I paused. Silence.

  “That would be you,” I prompted.

  Another sigh. “All right, I’ll bite. Why do you think you have a stalker?”

  “Because at four o’clock this morning I looked out my bedroom window and saw someone staring up at my apartment,” I said. “The same man who was also staring up at my apartment the night before.”

  The pause this time was shorter. I sensed frowning. You might not think that’s possible over the phone, but with someone you’ve known as long as I’ve known Policeman Phil, it totally is. “And what did this person look like?”

  “Tall. Thin. Wearing a duster and a cowboy hat.”

  “A duster and a cowboy hat.”

  “Yes.”

  “Like how many other guys in Eagle River?”

  “It’s not my fault my stalker is a walking Western cliché.”

  Another sigh. “And was he there at the same time the night before?”

  “Not quite. The first night it was 3:20 a.m.”

  “And what made you look out of the window at 3:20 a.m.?” Phil said, a reasonable question I’d rather hoped he wouldn’t ask. “Did you hear something?”

  “No,” I said, reluctantly. “I’d had a bad dream.”

  “What kind of dream?”

  Drat. “I dreamed someone was standing at the foot of my bed.”

  “Someone? What did this someone look like?”

  Double drat. “Tall. Wearing a long coat, and . . .”

  “And a cowboy hat.”

  “Well
. . . maybe.”

  Phil said, with studied neutrality, “Don’t you think it’s possible that you simply saw someone passing in the street and projected the bad dream you’d just awakened from onto him?”

  “Why was anyone out there at 3:20 a.m.?” I countered.

  “There’s nothing illegal about being a night owl.”

  “Two nights in a row? Staring up at my room?”

  “Maybe he’s a bartender heading home after his shift.”

  “That doesn’t explain him staring up at my room.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t. He might have been looking at the stars. Or a bird. Or a plane. Or a satellite.”

  “Two nights in a row?” I said again, with more heat.

  Another pause. Then another sigh. “All right, Shawna. Tell you what: I’ll make sure someone keeps an eye on your end of Blackthorne Avenue for a couple of hours tomorrow morning. If we see someone who matches your description, we’ll have a chat with him. Best I can do.”

  I felt a surge of relief. “Thanks, Phil.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a great day, Shawna.”

  He’d hung up. I’d put down my phone and rubbed my forehead. Then I’d tried to call Brent, but I couldn’t get an answer. That wasn’t a big surprise. The plumbing company he worked for was involved in the construction of the big—well, big by Eagle River standards, anyway, fifteen whole stories!—office tower downtown, and he was putting in twelve-hour days.

  Shortly after I’d talked to Policeman Phil, the workmen had arrived, I’d officially opened the shop for the first time (although the grand opening would take place in three weeks, in early November, to cash in on the pre-Christmas rush, and would include a ribbon-cutting by Mayor Fougere, for whom I’d once made a set of plates). Now I needed to do some actual clay-shaping, and standing there watching the boys installing my sign wasn’t going to a) make them move any faster or b) accomplish anything else. I took another look at the gathering storm clouds, trying to ease my unease at their steady approach (with no notable success), then ducked under the scaffolding and went inside.

  The shop wasn’t quite decorated the way I wanted it—I still had some paintings in storage I hadn’t wanted to hang while there was a chance they might be damaged, and there were two light fixtures still on order—but it didn’t look bad: bright and cheery, with glass shelves artfully (I hoped) displaying a selection of my wares. An arch behind the counter gave a clear view of the workshop: people like getting a glimpse of the potter at the wheel. Lots of people like potters. Especially hairy ones. (Sorry. Although if I were more hirsute, I would totally have named my shop The Hairy Potter.)

  The work I needed to get to was an order for two dozen coffee mugs for Carter Truman, manager of the Human Bean, of a design I’d created just for him: fully glazed on the inside, but only glazed for an inch and a half, from the rim down, on the outside. The unglazed stoneware exterior of the mug’s main body acted as an insulator, keeping hot drinks hotter longer. On each mug, I incised the smiling-coffee-bean logo of the shop. What with the move from my old rented clay studio into my spiffy new digs, I was behind, and I didn’t want to let Carter down—he’d been a good customer for years.

  I went into the workshop, which was unnervingly clean, since I hadn’t really used it yet, though soon enough it would be covered with a homey layer of fine gray dust. I hadn’t done more than slice a chunk of clay from a new slab when the bell over the front door jingled, announcing a customer.

  I wiped my hands on my apron and hurried out into the shop. “Can I—” I began, then stopped. “You’re not a customer!” I said accusingly.

  The young man who had just entered laughed, and ran a hand through his dirty-blond hair. “I could be,” he said. “I’m looking for a present for my girlfriend. What do you think she’d like?”

  “Not pottery,” I said. “Anything but pottery.” I went around the counter and gave Brent a quick hug and kiss, both of which he returned enthusiastically, then leaned back, my arms around his neck. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “I am,” Brent said. “Sort of. Mr. Kapusianyk asked me to pick up something from the NatEx depot, and ‘as long as you’re down there, grab me a coffee at the Human Bean.’” He mimicked his boss’s distinctive Eastern European accent perfectly. “NatEx is a block that way,” Brent nodded to the right, “and the Human Bean is around the corner that way,” he nodded to the left, “so I’m in transit. I parked behind NatEx, so I’ve already put the package in the car. Good thing, too: it weighed a ton.”

  “And here you are stealing from your employer’s time to pay your girlfriend a visit,” I said. “Naughty.”

  “Not as naughty as I’d like,” Brent said ruefully. “I can’t steal that much time.”

  I laughed.

  He grinned. “Anyway,” he continued, “Mr. Kapusianyk won’t mind. Pretty sure he had a hunch I’d be stopping in.”

  “I’m glad you did,” I said, the smile slipping away from my face as I remembered my early-morning visitor.

  Brent clearly saw it go, because his own grin faded. “What’s wrong?”

  I told him what had happened, two nights in a row now, and about my phone call to Policeman Phil. His face clouded with anger, which made me oddly happy. “I’ll stay here tonight,” he growled. “If he shows up again . . .”

  I gave him another hug. “Thanks,” I said into his shoulder. Then I pulled back, reluctantly; his body was warm and inviting. “But it’s not necessary. You’ve got the Talons game, and then you’ll have to take your dad home, and you have to get up early for work. Phil said he’d have a cop keep an eye on the street. I’ll be fine. Anyway, he probably won’t show up with that storm coming.”

  Brent blinked at me. “Storm?”

  I sighed. “Not you, too. Yes, storm. Huge clouds. Black underneath. Coming from the mountains.”

  He frowned. “I haven’t heard anything about a storm on the radio. And it plays all the time while we’re working.”

  “You know how bad their forecasts are.” I untangled myself from him and tugged at his hand. “Come on, let’s head to the Human Bean, and I’ll show you.”

  “Sure.”

  He waited while I went back into the studio, pulled off my apron, and covered the clay I’d just cut with plastic wrap so it wouldn’t dry out. I came out again, and he followed me to the front door of the shop. “By the way, I don’t like the looks of those guys on the scaffolding,” he said as I paused to switch the LED sign in the window from OPEN to BACK SOON. “They make a move on you?”

  “I’m too old for them.”

  “You just turned twenty-nine.”

  “And they’re like, twelve.” I opened the door, ushered him out onto the sidewalk, closed and locked the door behind us, then led him out onto the cobblestones of the pedestrian mall so I could turn around and see how the “twelve-year-olds” were doing. They’d made it all the way to the D, although at the moment it was hanging sidewise, so it looked like a goofy grin. I looked west again. The clouds now covered a third of the sky, and the mountains had vanished in their shadow and behind a wall of rain. “See?” I said to Brent. “Storm.”

  He followed my pointing finger, looked for a minute, then shrugged. “If you say so. Just a few clouds. Doesn’t look very threatening to me. Nothing to interfere with the big game, at least.” He looked back at me. “If you’re worried about this guy in the street, you could come with me. Dad would understand.”

  “No, he wouldn’t, not really,” I said. “And anyway, you know I don’t like lacrosse.” I took another look at the black clouds. Just a few clouds? Had everyone gone blind? I shook my head, and started walking again.

  Brent fell in beside me. “Millions disagree with you.”

  “I know.” Eagle River didn’t quite have 80,000 people, but there would be 30,000 in the stadium that night for the hometown Talons’ first-ro
und playoff game against the Winnipeg Pooh-Bears. Millions more would watch on television. “Would you really give me a ticket and tell your dad to stay home?” I said. “He’d kill you.”

  Brent laughed. “Probably.”

  “Well, sweet of you to ask. But you knew I’d say no.”

  “Of course I did. But this way I get boyfriend points for asking, and son points for taking my dad. Win-win!”

  I laughed.

  Now, if Brent had offered to take me to a moonball game, it would have been different, but since there were only six teams, one each from the Indian, Chinese, Russian, British, Japanese, and American colonies, and all games took place on Luna, only the filthy rich could afford to attend the games in person. Prices on round-trip tourist excursions to the moon were falling every year, but they’d have to fall a lot farther before they landed in my price range, or Brent’s.

  Kite-fighting was fun, too, but we only had a college team. Still, Brent and I had taken in a few matches—his dad didn’t care for the sport.

  “Is your sign going to be up today?” Brent said as we walked.

  “I hope so. It’s a lot of letters.” I didn’t say anything more about the approaching storm that nobody else seemed worried about. Maybe I was overreacting. But as we reached the corner, I took another good look at the black shadows beneath those slowly approaching clouds, and saw a flicker of lightning.

  No, I really didn’t think so.

  We turned right onto 22nd Street. Ahead of us a half dozen round metal tables, painted in primary colors, dotted the sidewalk, with folding wooden chairs in the same bright shades arranged around them. About half were occupied by guys in suits and women in business dresses, and the other half by old guys with ponytails, wearing sandals and tie-dyed shirts, and women in flowing flower-printed dresses and floppy hats. It was that kind of town. (Cowboys like my early-morning visitor didn’t go in for fancy coffee shops much.)