CHAPTER ONE

November 6, 1990

What was that?

Jason quietly rolled to his back to listen.

Was there someone outside the door? As hard as the seven-year-old’s ears strained to hear, the hotel room had become quiet again.

Mother didn't seem to have heard it. She still lay on the next bed facing away from him, gently snoring. Her words still kept him awake and pinned him in place like one of the orange beetles in his collection. "Go to sleep, sweetie, or I won’t buy you the remote-controlled plane Grandma wanted you to have. We’ll just have enough time to get it before we catch our flight."

It was a fib, of course. Like Santa Claus was a fib. Grandma couldn’t have known how much he wanted a plane he could really fly. But Grandma at least was—or had been—a real person, so it was easy to believe she actually had wanted him to have a Pizazz 48" Ugly Stick with a Super P8 remote. He had seen it in Boy’s Life and had been dreaming about it for months. He'd probably mentioned it to his parents a dozen times a day.

Tomorrow it would be his. If only he could keep still, that is.

It wasn’t easy. Besides the bed being uncomfortable, the room reeked of cigarette smoke. Every breath made him choke. Even so, he was now so tired he could barely keep his eyes open, and he snuggled deeper into the thin pillow.

With thoughts about the Ugly Stick fading away, Jason edged toward sleep. He came too, fully alert, at the sound he heard before. It wasn't a knock, but more a scratching sound like Buster made when he wanted to come into the house for the night.