She flinched before those wooden eyes. “You live in Falmouth, don’t you, Miss Coogan?” “Yes—” “Have your own car?” “Yes, of course. I really have to ask you to wait for the bus outside—” “Drive home quickly tonight, Miss Coogan. Lock all your car doors and don’t stop for anybody. Anybody. Don’t even stop if it’s someone you know.” “I never pick up hitchhikers,” Miss Coogan said righteously. “And when you get home, stay away from Jerusalem’s Lot,” Callahan went on. He was looking at her fixedly. “Things have gone bad in the Lot now.”
