MIKE It was after midnight, and Mike Kowalski was driving fast--too fast--down County Line Road. He glanced at the dashboard clock and groaned. He was late. Again. His phone rang. It didn’t take ESP to know it was his mother. “She probably wants to get a jump start on her griping,” Mike muttered to himself. Earlier that evening, she’d told him to be in by midnight “or else.” “Midnight?” Mike had complained. “But I’m a junior!” His mother had rolled her eyes. “After the stunt you pulled this week, you’re lucky to be allowed out at all, so I’ll reiterate--midnight, or else.” Mike didn’t even want to think about what “or else” meant. Ignoring the call, he mashed down the accelerator. Maybe if he was only a little late . . . That was when the girl appeared in his headlights. One minute there was nothing but country road flanked by the thick woods of the Cook County Forest Preserve, with its one-lane bridge over Salt Creek just ahead; the next minute there she was, stumbling down the center line. Mike slammed on the brakes. The tires squealed as the car skidded. But the girl never flinched. Eyes wide, unblinking even in the glare of the headlights, she raised her hands palms up, pleading . . . but for what? Mike stuck his head out the driver’s-side window. The girl’s skin glowed marble white, and her long, dark hair, soak