It was just past midnight on Julia Street, and Wilma Roberts couldn't sleep. She had heard it on the evening news. A stalker had been prowling neighborhoods in her area of the city. She just knew it had to be him, coming to rape her and steal her precious things. The wind blew pebbles against her window, and something made scraping noises at her back door. Probably one of my black neighbors. They're coming to get me and strangle me in my bed. A cold chill covered her entire body. Wilma got up, threw on a robe and walked quietly to her front window. She pulled back the drapes. Outside, clouds left over from an earlier rain obscured the moon, and flickering amber streetlights cast menacing shadows over the neighborhood. The only movement was a car moving slowly down the street. Wilma thought briefly of her late husband, Donald.

Wilma brushed her hands through thinning white hair. Donald had been a good provider, but he had contracted cancer soon after his retirement and didn't last long after that. Now she lived alone, and the times were so scary. She felt confined, cramped - but what was outside, waiting to attack her? She thought of the gun Donald had bought her. Her hands trembled as she walked to the dresser drawer and lifted the gun. It was heavy and cold and greasy. And it was still loaded. She sat the gun down on the cabinet and dialed 911.

"Johnston! It's old lady Roberts again!"

"Oh, hell. That's the third time this week."

Heaving a great sigh, Sergeant Johnston dispatched a blue and white to check things out. Twenty minutes later a squad car pulled up in front of 1212 Julia. In the car were Dale Slattery, a twenty year veteran of the force, and Jane French, a rookie but one of the few female black officers.

"You want to do the honors, French?" Slattery asked, chewing on his usual cigar.

Jane glared at her partner.

"You mean you're not gonna back me up? It could be that killer who's been breaking into homes over on the south side."

"Not damn well likely - from all indications, the guy is white. He'd stand out like a fly on butter. On top of that, this is one of the quietest, most crime free black neighborhoods in the city. That old lady is just paranoid. There ain't no prowler."

"Well, come anyway."

Slattery grimaced, then slowly began to shove his considerable bulk out of the car door. He waddled behind Officer French as she walked up on the porch and knocked on the door.

"Mrs. Roberts?," Officer French called. "You in there? This is the police."

After a few minutes, French knocked again. The door opened gently. Mrs. Roberts peeked out, then closed it quickly. Exasperated, she knocked again. No response. French felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Let me do it," Slattery said.

"Mrs. Roberts," he boomed. "This is the police. Really. Please come to the door."

He knocked on the front door with his baton. After a few minutes, she opened the door again.

"Mrs. Roberts," Slattery said, "you called about a prowler."

"Yes, yes. In my back yard. P-please go look."

After Mrs. Roberts closed the door, French turned and looked at her partner.

"She's afraid of me because I'm black. Right?"

"Yeah, but understand," Slattery said, adjusting his belt. "She's a lonely, frightened old lady, probably brought up by people who not only mistrusted, but hated, blacks. And now she's the only white person within miles. Think how you might feel."

Officer French wanted to get angry, but she held it in, trying to keep calm. She had to admit Slattery had a point.

"Well, come on," she said. "Let's make the world safe again for old white ladies."

They passed through a gate along the chain link fence that surrounded Mrs. Roberts back yard, and it was closed, but not locked. French slowly opened it and walked into the darkened yard. Her flashlight showed a back porch light, but the bulb had burned out and there were cobwebs around the fixture. The yard was built on a square, with crape myrtle bushes around the perimeter. The officers looked behind the hedges, down the alley. They saw no one.

"See any footprints in that flower bed, Slattery?"

"Notta damn thing, French. Let's go talk to the lady."

The officers entered the stuffy living room. Newspapers and magazines were scattered all over the furniture, and they could smell a cat box. Mrs. Roberts sat on a dirty couch and twisted a handkerchief in her hands.

"All clear, Mrs. Roberts," Slattery said, breathing heavily as he ascended the porch steps.

"You sure," Jane asked Mrs. Roberts, "that you saw somebody?"

"Well, no. But I kept hearing these noises. I was sure it was a prowler."

"Look, Mrs. Roberts," Jane said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. "We don't mind coming to check things out, but this is a good neighborhood. We've got some recommendations anyway. First, replace that light bulb on the back porch. Second, invest in some kind of burglar alarm. Third, put a lock on your back gate."

Overnight, Jane had thought about the problem, and decided to pay another visit to Mrs. Roberts. As she and Slattery approached Wilma's house, Jane noticed a black man rocking on a front porch of a house across the street. It gave her an idea.

"Say, Slattery, why don't we do a little social work?"

"What are you talkin' about?"

"Never mind. Stay in the car - I'll be right back."

Jane crossed the street and walked up to the man. He raised an eyebrow.

"What can I do for you, officer?"

"Mr..."

"Peters. Mike Peters."

"Mr. Peters, I'd like to ask a favor. Could you go talk Mrs. Roberts? Assure her that she has nothing to be frightened about in this neighborhood?"

"That crazy white lady? What for? She never gives me the time of day. Not friendly with anybody. Stays in that house day and night."

"I know it's a lot to ask, but it would sure help us. She's been calling us at least once a week about prowlers."

"Prowlers? That's nuts. We haven't had any problems in over five years. Ever since we started the neighborhood watch."

"Could you at least think about it?"

"We'll see," Peters said.

Wilma Roberts jumped. The door bell again. She shivered as she walked over the worn carpet, opening the door just a crack. A black man stood on the porch. She shivered again.

"Mrs. Roberts? I'm Mike Peters. Your neighbor from across the street."

"W-what do you want?"

"I just wanted to assure you that all your neighbors are good people. This is a safe area of town. The police wanted me to look out for you. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. Go away."

Wilma Roberts slammed the door. Imagine. That black man thinking he could fool me. He's after my silver, I just know it. She shuddered, and sat down in an overstuffed chair and started to cry. She and Donald had lived on Julia street for nearly thirty years when the neighborhood started to change. She had felt safe living among the brick veneer homes, fenced back yards and paved streets. Then one by one their friends either moved or died, and gradually the houses were bought by black families.

Wilma worked as long as she could, but then she had to take care of Donald. By the time he died, it was too late to move. They had no children, and she had no close relatives. No place to go, no money. Donald's illness had taken their meager savings. Her silver was all she had left. She got up and peeked out the window, watching as the black man made his way back to his house.

The next day Wilma looked into her cupboard and in the refrigerator. No question about it, she would have to make a trip to the store. She was dreading the experience, for the store was nearly all black. She pushed her cart slowly down the aisles, cringing every time she bumped into someone. But after checking out, she had a pleasant surprise. The bag boy - his name was Harold - was white. He was also fortyish, tall and thin, with several missing teeth, and his arms were pock-marked with red splotches. Probably some skin disease, she decided, and even his hands were cold to the touch. But he had helped her out to her car and even refused to take a tip.

Harold and Mrs. Roberts talked a lot about the neighborhood. He didn't like blacks either, he said. Couldn't trust 'em. Harold was so nice, even agreeing to change the light bulb on the back porch and put a lock on her back gate. The very next day he was over in the early morning, knocking on her front door.

"Mrs. Roberts?"

"Yes, Harold," Wilma said, smiling as she opened the front door. "Come in."

"I brought you a lock and some light bulbs from the store, like I said I would."

Wilma led Harold outside, where she sat on the back porch steps until he finished. Afterward, he even offered to vacuum and dust for her. Such a nice man.

"What do I owe you?"

"Just the money for the parts, Mrs. Roberts. I could use some ice water, though."

"Well, certainly."

Wilma wandered off into the kitchen and pored some water in a glass. It took her a few minutes, because she had trouble getting ice out of the tray. When she returned to the living room, though, Harold was gone.

The following day, Jane French visited Wilma Roberts again, and was able to persuade her to at least talk to Mr. Peters. Mrs. Roberts reluctantly invited him visit her for a while. She thought he looked awfully nervous as he walked in the door. He sat down in one of her living room chairs, but he kept fidgeting - he wouldn't be still.

"I noticed," Peters said, "that you have a new lock on the back gate."

"Why are you so interested?," Mrs. Roberts asked. Her eyes narrowed as she spoke. "Have you heard about a prowler in the neighborhood?"

Peters shifted position again.

"No, no. I'm just glad you had it done. Maybe it will make you feel better."

Mrs. Roberts took a deep breath. She might as well make the best of it.

"Officer French tells me," Mrs. Roberts said, "that you wife died last year."

"Yes. We had been married almost thirty years. It was right after I retired. I was in the pawn shop business."

After about ten minutes of small talk, he left. When he left, however, she missed her silver. That thief. He must have taken it when I left the room. She thought of the gun again. If I catch him in the act, It'll be the last thing he steals.

That night, she went to bed early, but tossed and turned, unable to go to sleep. She began to hear scraping noises again. Slowly she got up out of bed and looked out the window. She could see nothing. Then her front door started to rattle. Frightened, Wilma went to the drawer and pulled out her husband's gun.

The door rattled and shook. Wilma pointed the gun at the door, and slowly opened it. Suddenly there was a commotion outside, people fighting. She looked out on the porch. It was Mr. Peters, and he was holding Harold down, beating on him.

"Oh. Oh. Be brave Harold," Wilma shouted. "I'm right here." Wilma closed her eyes and fired. When she opened them again, she saw Mr. Peters lying on the ground, blood all over his shirt.

"Harold," Wilma could hardly speak. "Are you all right?"

It was the last words Wilma ever spoke as she felt Harold's strong, icy fingers surround her throat.