The Wasp — Ursula Curtiss

THE WASP ZOOMED UP from the floor of the car. Kate swung her head blindly, the wheel followed -- and then, out of nowhere, flashed a small figure on a red tricycle. There was an impact, and the car rocked to a halt. By the time Kate had the door open, an oddly silent little boy was struggling to his feet. He was safe, but Kate was plunged back into the nightmare of fears.

It had started ten months ago when she was in a hospital bed in Arizona, hearing that her husband, Robert, was not waiting to see her; he had died in the accident. Georgia, Robert's mother, brought her to the big house in Connecticut where she lived with her daughter and son-in-law. With efficient kindness, the three nursed Kate back to health. They had introduced her to Mr. Carpenter, the author who had given her the therapy of work. This time, though, there were the strange letters, the anonymous clippings. And there were the wasps, crawling on her window screens, hiding in her car, inclosing her in a circle of terror.