Call it a premonition.The door was locked. Always was when we were at home. I approached it. "Who is it?"The voice outside was male and slurred, like ...aybe a beer too many, or maybe some recreational pharmaceuticals. "Don' you worry 'bout who it is. I wanna see dat l'il redhead."Cindy perked up. I made a pistol-shaped sign with my right hand. A cabinet thumped and my .45 automatic hit my open palm. "9-1-1, babe. Now!" I whispered. She retreated to the bed end of the trailer and picked up her. She was halfway down the street in the opposite direction from the onethe bus had taken when she heard someone behind her calling her name ina tone of voice that lay something between a question and sarcasticdisbelief, as if the speaker were reading a word in a foreign languageguidebook, trying it out, uncertain if its literal book-meaning wereapropos under the circumstances.Marcia turned to see a young woman coming towards her. That was herfirst impression of Phoebe. The shock that she wasn't. More

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