- 2 -

Day 6, Saturday, October 15

Sherri woke Tom early, once again reminding him of the benefits of cohabitation. Soft moaning whispers hinting of his crumbling resolve successfully raised her efforts to an intense fever. Could this prenuptial bliss go on forever? he wondered wishfully.

After an hour of floating over mountains of passion and drifting lazily through lush valleys of blissful contentment, and finally reaching the ultimate goal, the absolute necessity for rest, they took advantage of the situation and soon found themselves on the road heading north in Sherri's Viper.

She rarely let Tom drive her car, and this time was no exception, leading him to speculate that she preferred leaving both his hands free to roam and entertain. They drove in silence with Sherri trying to keep her mind on the road and Tom doing his best to distract her.

The small part of her mind that actually kept the car between the shoulders was also the only part that knew or cared where they were going. To get her attention, it taunted her. Where are you going, Sherri? Why are you in the car? You can't wait until you get this hunk to the cabin. Now's the time. He has forgotten all about the meteorite. Pull over. Meteorite? She shuddered as the mood breaking revelation broke the spell.

"Aren't we getting close?" she asked, softly running fingertips along the side of his neck.

Tom reluctantly sat up as if awakened from a rapturous, wondrous dream and slowly looked around. He pointed ahead to the left. "See that crack in the hills. That's where Goose Creek enters the river. We camped just this side of the creek."

"Is there a road?"

"Nope. I'm afraid we'll have to walk… unless you want to drive this buggy across a field and through the woods," Tom said straight-faced, expecting a strenuous objection.

She kept her eyes on the road and patted his leg either affectionately or condescendingly. He wasn't sure which.

"Right around this curve should be the closest place," he said.

She slowed as they rounded the curve, squinting ahead, seeing tracks running through the ditch on the left side of the road and across the field.

Tom suspected whose tracks they were but he didn't say anything until Sherri asked, "Do you think that's Dan's tracks?"

"If it is," shaking his head sadly, "that would explain why he hasn't called."

Sherri turned the car toward the ditch and calmly saying, "Hang on," bounced the seventy-some thousand dollar snake through the ditch and roared across the field.

Tom grabbed the dash and the back of the seat too late to avoid bopping his head on the roof. She grinned, her eyes locked on the approaching woods. Finding an opening, she drove about fifty feet into the woods and stopped. "We better hoof it from here. I don't want to scratch my car driving through the brush." Tom rubbed his head and flicked the unused seatbelt as he got out, mumbling something teasingly derogatory.

"I told you to hang on, sweetie." She chuckled softly as she began checking out the tire tracks. There were several identical sets. Knowing very little about tracking, neither knew how recent they were, but Tom was fairly sure that they'd been made by Dan's huge 12 or 15 by 40 something tires. Dan had proudly explained the merits of the close-spaced tractor-tire cleats in mud and sand and creek beds and down-played their slight drawbacks on the highway. Tom had told him, "Oh well, what the hell, you can't drive good enough to be out on the highway, anyway." They'd both laughed that day, but that day seemed so long ago. Seeing the tracks on the ground made him realize that he may have lost a very special friend.

The tracks led them downhill directly to the crater. At the edge, they looked down in disbelief at the distinct gouge up the side of the hole, as if something heavy had been dragged out.

Sherri looked at Tom, shook her head disgustedly and said, "That stupid… If that's Dan's tracks…"

"If? Do you think they aren't his?"

She squatted down beside a clear impression and studied it for a moment. Tom stepped beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up earnestly. "Don't you think we should go looking for him right now?"

Tom shook his head.

She looked at him inquisitively, her brows showing a twist of doubt.

Tom explained, "We know he hasn't been home all week and with this thing gone it's pretty obvious why. He took it somewhere and is staying with it. Where would we even start looking?"

Sherri shook her head then stopped as if she was going to say something then shook her head quickly as if dismissing the thought, then seemed to change her mind again. "I was thinking that maybe we should go to the police and tell them the story. If Dan took this thing and it is dangerous, maybe something's happened to him. Maybe he's already…" She grimaced and shrugged her shoulders.

"If it is… then we're already too late. But remember, the professor said that there was only a remote chance that it could be dangerous." They thought in silence for a moment then Tom added, "Let's go on to the cabin and see if there are any tracks left from last weekend. I'm pretty sure that these are Dan's, but we can't rule out the possibility that someone else saw the thing come down… No. That's not right. Why would Dan disappear if he didn't take it?"

"You sound confused, but we know one thing. No matter who took it, somebody is going to have to find them and find out what this thing is. That's why I hesitated when I thought of the police. They won't have the foggiest notion about what to do. The Federal—whoever the professor reported it to—would be the ones to call. They'd know how to handle it."

Tom agreed. "I'll call the professor first thing Monday morning and find out who to talk to."

When Tom got into the car, he saw Sherri glance at him as he buckled his seatbelt. She held back a grin, never using the belt herself, and roared backwards into the field, did a high-speed 180 degree spin, then flew toward the ditch. Tom grabbed the dash and the seat and made sure that his mouth was closed. He didn't want to bite off his tongue when they hit the ditch. She slid up to the ditch sideways then accelerated through it diagonally, barely going airborne. Once on the highway, she surprisingly drove calmly at the speed limit.

After a few minutes of silent thought, she sped up to eighty-five, her normal cruising speed and said, "Well, so much for your wealth. I guess it's on to the cabin to check out your health."

She never failed to amaze him. She drove like a lunatic, yet was so kind and tender and feminine. She could shoot better than most men. She could cook and fight and run and drive and cuss and be passionate and tender, demanding and giving, and be soft and beautiful or put up her long, blonde-streaked, light brown hair and become a tomboy. She knew sports, played chess, could drink Tom under the table on the rare occasions that she drank with him. And she was absolutely gorgeous, with or without makeup.

She has a classic Nordic face, bold cheekbones, eyes set apart enough to give her a look of openness and wisdom, perfect teeth that almost glistened in the dark, and a female athlete's body; 5-7, 115 to 120, trim and strong, more-than-a-mouthful boobs with large pink nipples that were usually hard enough to push out a bra, giving her that braless look whether or not she was wearing one.

But it was her lips and eyes that had first attracted him. She had full, perfectly shaped, expressive lips that were as at home when forming an erotic circle as when they stretched across her face in a myriad of joyous, meaningful, communicative shapes of smiles and grins. But her number one beauty asset was her emerald green eyes with their sunburst of gold and yellow flakes radiating from the large, active pupils that seemed to dilate and contract with her thoughts rather than with light intensity. Why in the hell isn't she married, he wondered? And why won't she let me get serious about our being together?

He tried to look at himself objectively. What was wrong with him? He was thirty-three; not too old. Physically, he felt adequate; thought he was healthy—except for the blood pressure thing—had all his teeth and a full head of hair, considered himself athletic, loved tennis, swimming, boating, baseball, jogging, skydiving, flying—having logged almost a thousand hours; over a hundred of them in twin engine planes. And he was only fifteen hours short of getting a helicopter license, before the FAA grounded him. He loved hang-gliding and deep-sea diving, and they both hated horses and opera. He couldn't figure it out. He was well educated, had a few bucks—although he has kept that a secret, only depositing regular amounts in his personal account just to pay the bills—and he drove a nice car. It might be considered a junker compared to her's, but most people would be proud to own it.

He was versed in literature and music, and pleased to find that their tastes in those areas were very similar. Not to be vain, but he felt that he was adequately attractive in a rugged, masculine way. Sure, his nose might be a little large and he had very shallow, premature thought-wrinkles on his forehead and his hair might have receded a half inch more than it should have, and he didn't drive like a maniac, but was that enough to reject him?

It wasn't as if he had any competition. He knew for a fact that she never dated anyone else. And lacking were the subtle hints a woman uses to tell a man that he must change. She seemed to like him as is, especially physically. To him, they were a perfect match in bed. She had extremely strong sex drives, preferring to make love over almost anything else. She was like an affectionate sponge; sucking up as much as she could get, then wanting to be wrung out so she could suck up more. She desperately hugged him in her sleep as if she were afraid the bogeyman would wrest him away in the night. All perfect matches, too perfect to risk upsetting by being pushy. He'd have the patience to wait, he hoped, having already vowed to relentlessly continue the chase, relentlessly. She was worth it.

She looked at him, a slight tough of sadness dimming her eyes as if reading his mind, then immediately blinked, transposing into her wonderful, happy, tender, loving self again. "You didn't comment on my suggestion."

"Wha—Oh. You will be pleasantly surprised at how healthy I feel today. Yes, my dear," he said with a bold flair. "Very pleasantly surprised, to be sure…." She winked, patted his leg, and sped up to ninety.

At the cabin, an inspection of the riverbank confirmed their suspicions, but the discovery of the recently made, skinny, boat-trailer tires leading into the river was a surprise.

"Why'd he bring the boat here?" Sherri asked.

"There aren't many private places along the river where he could launch a boat and be sure that no one would see him."

She rephrased the question. "But what's he doing with the boat?"

It suddenly dawned on Tom. "Damn! I just assumed that he took the meteorite out in his truck. We didn't check out the woods or the riverbank for any signs of him taking it out by boat. Surely it was heavy and there would be some signs if he took the thing down the hill to the river."

Still searching for an answer, Sherri asked another way, "But why wouldn't he just put it in his truck?"

Tom winked. "Maybe he took it where no truck can go."

______________________

Dan awoke in a frenzy. Biting ants were crawling all over him, ripping tiny chunks of meat from his body. He jumped up and frantically brushed his clothes. Even in the dim light he could immediately tell that there was nothing on him. As he stood dumb-founded, the stinging turned to unbearable itching. He clawed at himself with both hands. He spun around, suddenly afraid, not remembering where he was. It took a few seconds. The fire had gone out. The only light came from the lantern he had left turned on low. Jed and Sol were curled in their blankets beside him, breathing deeply, surprisingly soft and quiet. Hadn't their snoring caused him a fitful night? Was it a dream? He didn't know. He'd been so tired last night that he didn't even remember lying down.

As he felt his body awaken, the itching turned to tingling, an almost good feeling. He felt strong and alive and very hungry. He stirred the ashes in the fire and luckily found enough hot coals to restart it, having forgotten to bring the camper's crutch—newspaper. He'd also forgotten to bring a coffee pot. It was too bad that he hadn't cared more for the Rakers. He'd have at least thought of the coffee.

Hoping to appease his impatiently growling stomach, he opened a can of Spam and dumped it out onto his hand and started biting off big chunks and practically swallowing them whole. When the Spam was gone, he opened a can of pork and beans and gulped them down as if drinking a glass of water. As he tossed the can aside, he was startled by the tumultuous commotion it generated in the enclosed cavern as it skittered across the floor. Jed and Sol threw their blankets off and jumped up, Jed ready to run, while Sol stood his ground and looked around menacingly.

Dan grinned. "Just doing the dishes. You guys missed breakfast."

Automatically, disappointed looks clouded their confused, unshaven faces.

"But if you're hungry…"

Sol felt his stomach as if that told him whether he was or not. "Goddamnit, I'm starving." Jed mimicked him, sounding like an echo.

Dan tossed each of them a can of Spam and a can of beans. While they were wolfing it down, Dan opened a box of chocolate donuts. He caught himself practically having to force them down. They just didn't taste right. He closed the box on the remaining six and toss it to them. Sol grabbed four before Jed snatched the box from him.

After they'd eaten, Dan picked up the flashlight, handed Jed the lantern, and led them to the back of the cavern and showed them another tunnel. From the front of the cavern, even with the flashlight, it merely looked like an indentation in the wall. It wasn't until they were close that they could see the tunnel opening to the left.

The tunnel went straight for about twenty feet, then gradually sloped downward to the right for another thirty-plus feet, opening into another cavern more than twice as large as the first one, except the roof was only about twelve feet high at the highest point. It was the largest underground room Dan had ever seen, or even heard of, and soon it would be all his. He proudly strutted diagonally toward the far left-hand corner, his light dancing about the huge room, finally settling on another tunnel in the rear wall, half again as big as the one they'd just come through.

Along the wall in front of the tunnel was a hole the size of a school bus. Dan stopped at the edge of the hole and pointed the light down.

"Here's where you get your water."

Jed and Sol cautiously stepped to the edge of the hole, their eyes following the light beam. The water level glistened about eight feet below the cavern floor. Three feet above the water a two-foot wide ledge protruded from the wall, extending the entire length of the pool. Dan shined the light into the crystal-clear water. At the bottom left of the tunnel was a large downward sloping tunnel, large enough for a man to stand up in, the black void an ominous warning to the unwary. Several smaller holes at various depths dotted the walls.

"That water is forty feet deep," Dan said, staring wistfully into the depths. "And ice cold—"

"Forty feet! You been down there?" Jed asked.

"I dropped a line down and measured it. I came up here with a rubber boat and a trolling motor and went way up in that tunnel until the roof got so low I couldn't go any farther. I always wanted to come up here with some scuba gear and a lot of rope and check it out, but I didn't want to do it alone, and I didn't want to tell anyone about this place. I always hoped that someday I'd have enough money to buy the property before I told anyone."

"Buy it?" Jed asked. "What for?"

"Shit, man, if I blasted a hole in the bluff so the water could get out faster, I'd have a cavern bigger than the Meramec Caverns, and…" Why was he telling his secret to them? He remembered that he hadn't even liked them yesterday. Why not? he wondered. They seemed all right to him now. He carefully scrutinized each of them. Their eyes showed no hint of deceit, or jealously, or envy. If anything, they seemed to accept and respect him, watching him curiously, awaiting guidance or a command, or a pat on the back or on the top of their heads. But why tell them all of his plans?

He glanced at his watch and was surprised to find that it was already ten-thirty. Still reluctant to trust them completely, he decided to lie a bit.

"I've got to get out of here. I'll be back tonight, unless something comes up, but for sure, I'll be back by Monday night. You guys stay out of sight and take care of my rock."

They looked at him and appeared to understand, trailing along behind as far as the campfire, stopping by the grocery bags. Dan left before they realized that the way they ate, they'd be mighty hungry by Monday night. He didn't really give a damn, he just didn't want to hear them bitch.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky as Dan, squinting against the brilliant, glaring sunlight, jogged down the ravine, soon realizing how warm it was outside compared to the always cool, dank cavern. Even though the fire had gone out last night, he couldn't recall getting cold. Maybe he'd just been too tired and hadn't noticed.

Having left his sleeping bag at home and bringing only a stack of old blankets for the Rakers, he made that and coffee a top priority.

Finding the boat safely snuggled in the slew, he climbed in and maneuvered it out into the river, started the motor and headed downstream. As he passed the spot where his truck was hidden, just to play it safe, he turned off the motor and drifted down around the bend to the cabin. As he'd feared, Sherri's goddamned, rich-bitch, show-off car was there. Knowing that he couldn't drive his truck past the cabin without being seen, he scratched the idea of going to town. Turning on the trolling motor, he silently crept back upstream out of hearing range of the cabin, then started the outboard and headed back to the slew.

______________________

Day 7, Sunday, October 16

By two o'clock, both becoming bored and increasingly anxious to return to the site to confirm their suspicions that Dan had taken the meteorite away by boat, Tom and Sherri declared their weekend a mild happening and started back.

At the crater, now knowing what they were looking for, it was obvious that something heavy had been rolled down the hill and through the brush. Following the trail to the river's edge, Tom spotted numerous tracks in the soft ground. Too many tracks. He knelt to the ground to inspect.

"Look at these prints. There are at least three different ones right here in this area."

Sherri tiptoed to his side, carefully avoiding them. She quickly pointed out, "That one's made by a sneaker and these other two were made by boots."

Tom looked at her skeptically. "How do you know it was a boot? It looks like a regular shoe to me."

I don't mean cowboy boots. I mean work boots—the kind you see on farmers and hunters and about half the men in town." She pointed at the print. "That grip pattern comes on regular shoes as well as boots, but look at the heel. It's much wider than it would be if it were a regular shoe."

"That means it's a boot?"

"That, and the distance between the heel print and the sole indicates a higher than normal heel and—"

"Okay, Pocohontas, I believe you," he said with no hint of sarcasm. It had always amazed him how some useless bit of trivia could someday become useful. Someday he'd ask her how she'd become and expert on men's footprints, but right now he was fighting a building anger over Dan's actions. "You know what this means, don't you?"

In a soft, kind monotone she asked rhetorically, "Your friend not only dumped you, but he took on some new partners?" After saying it she wished she hadn't said dumped. Tom stood up, masking the hurt she knew he felt. She kissed him tenderly, then with her cheek against his, she said, "He was just afraid you'd lose it if you told anybody. He probably plans to sell it and then show up with a handful of money for you."

Hearing Sherri say it, somehow cleared away the doubts about Dan that had been building in his mind. He could picture Dan coming up to him, all bubbly smiles and saying, "I'm sorry about running off like that, but I had to do it for your own good," then watching him as he proudly counted out the money into three piles. That would be Dan.

The thought ushered in a pleasant mood swing. "Let's go to the Bull and ask some questions and get a couple of drinks in you and maybe somebody will know where he's at and I'll pants you with my teeth."

"Very good idea," Sherri said seriously. She turned and started through the brush, leaving Tom wondering what she thought was a good idea.

She looked back and laughed impishly. "Let's go, partner. You passed your health test, now maybe we can do something about your wealth. The way I see it, that's your main drawback."

"Main drawback?" he said catching up to her. "You mean I have others?"

She stopped and started counting on her fingers, her lips moving, discussing and confirming to herself. She looked too damned serious to Tom.

"What are you doing?"

She shook her head and counted another finger. Suddenly she squeezed a finger and shook it triumphantly. "Here's one that I'm concerned about. Your alleged availability. It's probably just my imagination running wild, but there seems to be a slight possibility that somebody else might be desperate enough to…"

"They say the grass is always greener…"

She slid her foot behind his and pushed, tumbling him to the ground, and walked toward her car, hiding a smile.

The ground cover was mostly leaves and weeds with very little grass, but he got the idea.

They walked back to the car and headed for the Blue Bull. Tom roughly calculated in his head, fourteen miles at ninety miles per hour, Sherri's normal cruising speed when she's in a slight hurry, equals about nine minutes. Who needs rapid transit? Just teach everyone to drive like her and the problem is solved.

She noticed him looking at the speedometer and started talking about one of her pet peeves, "I always wondered why people in this country think they're so advanced. In France and Japan they have 300 mile per hour trains, and in some countries they have freeways with no speed limits. Who's kidding who? Hell, if they think saving lives is the most important thing, why not drop the speed limit to fifteen? Or outlaw cars altogether. Look at us, we're already halfway there and neither one of us is dead."

Tom started to say, yet, but decided against it.

About a hundred yards from the bar, Sherri down-shifted and hit the brakes. She was only doing forty when she pulled off the highway and started her slide through the gravel parking lot in front of the bar. She slid into a parking place directly in front of the door, snapped off the ignition, and nonchalantly got out. Tom nonchalantly guided his shaking legs out of the car, too.

They walked into a packed bar, thanks to the City Fathers who wouldn't allow bars to be open in the city on Sunday. Tom didn't know why. Probably to encourage drunks to take a Sunday drive. If the city fathers had to ride home with Sherri, they'd put a bar on every street corner and outlaw driving on Sunday, he mused.

Tom edged through the crowd and spotted an empty booth at the rear of the bar past the pool table. He recognized the waitress following in their wake. She'd taken the job when her husband ran off with one of the barmaids about a year ago, leaving her with three kids to raise. She rarely seemed interested in any of the men in the bar. He wondered if she wasn't working here, just hoping that the worthless bum would come back.

"Hi, Barb," Sherri said. "How's it going?"

"Nothing special. Where've you been? I haven't seen you in here for a long time, Sherri."

"Hell, Barb, I went through all the men that hang out in here and I couldn't find a keeper in the whole bunch."

Barb gave her a knowing smile. Tom smiled stupidly, hoping that Sherri was kidding.

Sherri nodded toward him and added, "This is the closest I've come."

He smiled another stupid smile.

"What'll you have?" Barb asked, looking back and forth at each of them.

"Vodka martini?" Sherri asked Tom.

"Sounds great. Make that with two olives. I'm starving."

"I'll bring you menus," Barb said, turning away before seeing two heads shaking in unison, both well aware of the heartburn chow whipped up for the not so choosy Sunday drinking crowd.

While waiting for the drinks, Tom spotted a friend of Dan's. He patted Sherri on the hand. "I'll be back in a minute. When Barb comes back, ask her about the girl that Dan comes in here to see. I think her name is Sue."

Tom walked across the room to the bar. The man was sitting hunched over the bar guarding his beer with a blank stare.

Tom tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned around, the brief flash of expectant hope in his eyes quickly fading to melancholy as he saw that Tom wasn't a foxy lady.

"You're name's Sid, isn't it?"

He looked blankly at Tom. "Yeah, I'm Sid."

"Remember me? I shot pool with you and Dan a couple times."

Focusing his beer-deadened eyes on Tom, a flicker of recognition appeared on his face.

"Yeah, I remember you. You wanna shoot some pool?"

"No, I'm looking for Dan. He hasn't been home for a few days and I thought you might know what's happened to him."

"You didn't hear?"

Tom shook his head and looked dumb.

Sid continued, "That crazy sucker beat the shit out of some big, ugly monster named Clyde Driegeo that runs a biker gang out of Joplin, and got arrested."

"What! When'd that happen?"

"Let's see… I think it was Wednesday night."

"Is he still in jail?"

"Nah, nobody pressed charges. They let him go after he sobered up." He picked up his beer and took a big gulp.

"If you see him, will you tell him I need to talk to him?"

"I don't expect that you'll see him in here for a while. I hear that the biker and his brothers are out to get him."

"Well, just in case…"

"Sure, man. What's you're name?"

"Tom. Tom Miller."

Sid nodded, his foggy brain trying to memorize the name.

Tom turned to go back to the booth and saw Barb talking to Sherri. He changed directions and headed toward the restroom. When he came out, Barb was gone. He walked over to the booth.

"Any good news, Babe?"

"Not really. Barb said that Sue, a waitress that Dan went out with a few times, got into a fight yesterday with a customer, then when the owner tried to calm her down, she started screaming at him. She kept it up until he fired her. Then she started breaking things, so he had to physically escort her to the door. Barb is sure that she hasn't been back."

"That's strange. Sue always seemed cool and on top of things." Tom picked up the plastic-covered, one-sheet menu and looked at it disgustedly.

"You knew her?"

"I met her a couple times when I stopped in here with Dan."

"Did you find out anything from the guy at the bar?"

Tom told her what Sid had told him. She wasn't surprised, having heard endless tales of Dan's exploits when the three of them were together. They sat for a few minutes sipping their drinks and idly watching the raucous, milling crowd.

Finally Sherri suggested, "Let's go by Dan's apartment. Maybe somebody there will know something."

Tom's stomach directed his response. He tossed down the menu. "Let's stop and get something decent to eat on the way. I'm starving. How about you?"

"Good idea. This hard work does give me an appetite."

After appeasing their stomachs, they drove to Dan's apartment. He didn't answer the door.

Tom stepped three steps to the right, lifted the carpet runner, retrieved a key and opened the door. A loud hiss came from behind the door to the right. Startled, Tom backed up a step, bumping into Sherri.

"Damn, Tom. That's only Feral."

"Are you sure? I've never heard it hiss before." She shrugged and made a questioning, not-so-sure face.

Tom peeked through the crack on the right side of the door and saw the black cat tensed to spring, not away, but at whoever walked past the door's edge. He banged the door back against the counter. The cat jumped, spun in midair, bolted down the counter, leapt to the floor and disappeared from view, obviously heading for its favorite hiding place, under Dan's bed.

"Brave watch cat," Tom mumbled stepping into the room. "Sher, how about you checking the bedroom and see if Dan died in there. I'll check the bathroom and flush the toilet."

"Flush the toilet?" she sniffed. "I don't smell—wait a minute—what in the hell are you talking about? That lousy cat is your friend, and what do you mean, see if Dan died in there. If he did, I don't even want to know about it." She fought it, then cracked a smile and started toward the bedroom. As she passed the bathroom she said, "Most people flush the toilet after they use it, or maybe I just wasn't taught right, I don't know."

Strange, wonderful lady, Tom thought, contemplating fondly, pleasurably, sensuously.

She looked in the bedroom, turned around, shook her head and started back. She stopped and looked in the bathroom. Tom had just flushed the toilet. He heard her muttering, "…men… too damned lazy… make their pets drink out of the toilet."

To play it safe, having no idea when Dan would be back, Tom filled a large pan with dry food, then opened a can of Fish Dinner, sniffed it, easily resisted the temptation to taste it, and dumped it into the cat's bowl.

"I saw you about to take a bite of that," Sherri said from the hallway. "Would you like a drink?" She swung her arm graciously back toward the bathroom.

"Not thirsty, Babe," keeping a straight face, "but this stuff smells pretty good—make a fine casserole."

"Yuk!"

On the way to the car, a boy, about twelve, came up to them. Tom recognized him, having seen him in the neighborhood, but didn't know his name.

"You looking for Dan?" the kid asked Tom.

"Sure am. You seen him lately?"

"Last time I saw him was Friday morning. I was just looking at the new winch on his truck and he started screaming at me and then he knocked me down. I ran away real fast."

Sherri's motherly instincts screeched to the surface. "Knocked you down?"

Simultaneously Tom asked, "A new winch?" He watched impatiently while Sherri's repressed motherhood was being taunted by the kid.

"Yeah, slapped me real hard," he said to Sherri, allowing her the joy of sharing her overabundance of sympathy. Then to Tom he said, "It was a nice winch. Mounted right on the front bumper."

"When you see him," Tom said, "tell him to call Tom or Sherri as soon as possible. He has our numbers."

"Sure, but I'm gonna holler to him from across the street." Then to Sherri, "He's not gonna knock me down again."

The kid had her so hooked, Tom was surprised that the kid didn't use the opportunity to borrow some money from her. He knew how boys operated, faintly remembering once being a brat himself.

They decided to call it a night. Sherri dropped Tom off at his house and started to go home. Something inside her made her shut off the car and follow him inside.

He resisted for a moment, to entice her encouraging ways, then succumbed graciously to another hour and a half of prenuptial training.

______________________

Day 8, Monday, October 17

Tom had just gotten back from his morning jog and was running up the stairs when he heard his phone ringing. This time he missed the coffee table in a mad dash to the phone, threatening once again to someday ignore its irresistible, beckoning, shrill cry.

Panting, he grabbed the phone, hoping he'd answered in time.

"Mister Miller?" the caller inquired.

"Speaking."

"I'm Sam Walker, with the Federal Geological Agency. Professor Steintz at the University of Illinois reported that you found a meteorite.

"I think that's what it was."

"Was?"

"Yeah, was. I went by the site Saturday and somebody had taken it."

"What makes you think that it was a meteorite?"

Tom described what had happened on the float trip he and Sherri had taken, omitting any mention of Dan.

"Did anybody other than you and Miss Blake see or know of the impact?"

"Not that I know of," Tom lied, not really knowing why he didn't want to tell him about Dan.

The man said something about checking his calendar. Tom listened to dead silence for what seemed like ten minutes before he came back on the line.

"Could you take someone to the site if they came down on Thursday?" It sounded more like an order.

"Thursday would be fine. Do you want me to pick him up at the airport?"

"That won't be necessary, Mister Miller. Just give me your address and be home Thursday morning and someone will pick you up." Another order disguised as a request.

Tom gave him his address, the man thanked him and hung up.

After pouring a cup of coffee, Tom called Dan's uncle's garage to find out if they knew anything about Dan. They were the most logical ones to have installed the winch on his truck, and they'd also know if his boat was there.

Tony told him that they'd installed the winch on Thursday and when he came to work Friday morning, Dan's boat was gone. He was sure that it had been there at quitting time Thursday night.

At least, Tom knew that Dan had dug up the meteorite on Friday. Now he'd like to know who helped him.

______________________

Dan knew it was Monday; his watch said so. He was also starving; his stomach wouldn't let him forget. They'd ran out of food yesterday and had to eat persimmons. He used to love them, but they tasted like shit, just like the damned donuts. He wanted meat. Juicy red meat was what made his mouth water.

It was a beautiful, cloudless fall day; he didn't notice, or care. He had things to do and they had stopped him. Why? How could they? Who were they to stop him? They were sniveling little sissies. What did Tom know? "It might be dangerous," rang in his ears. Was it Tom's words or Sherri's. It didn't matter. The rock was his now. All his. They didn't deserve it. They were sissies. Why had he worried about them seeing him drive out?

He angrily swung the boat toward the bank, scoffing at the urge to continue downriver to check the cabin. Why let Tom and Sherri worry him? It was his rock, now. He loved them both, Tom as a brother, and Sherri as a sister. He smiled at the thought; an incestuous sister. Something his mom had never given him. Why had life given him Tom? Tom was the weak brother. Maybe soft and cuddly, but no real man. A good little brother, but not yet a man; not what a passionate, vibrant, explosive woman needed. How could it be? He had a fleeting urge to twist Tom's head off, kiss it on the lips, then lovingly smash it on the rocks. Frustration was hate; love was frustration; Tom was his brother; Sherri was his brother's girl. Love was hate was love. He was hungry, and they were sissies. Too afraid. And too stupid. "Fuck 'em," he mumbled. "If they're still there, I'll tell them I was fishing. And if they ask me about the rock, I'll say, 'what rock?' and laugh in their fucking faces." Satisfied and mollified with his logic, he ran to his truck and drove down the river road toward the cabin.

Sherri's funky snake, shit-for-brains car was gone.

He giggled dementedly, almost cackling with joy. Fooling them was easy.

At the highway he turned right toward Olympia. There was no traffic on the road, and he had no reason to hurry, but he couldn't seem to keep the damned truck under eighty. Every time he consciously slowed down to sixty-five, his mind drifted, and the next thing he knew, he was back to eighty. He slowed to sixty and tried to pay attention.

He had three stops to make. The assayer's office, a grocery store… Rows and rows of packages of juicy red meat. His mouth watered. The wind whistled excruciatingly loud through the open side vent. He slammed it shut with a fist and latched it. He looked at the speedometer. Ninety! He jerked his foot off the gas pedal and stomped on the floor. "Wake up, goddamnit," he screamed at his foot. A sign popped up with an arrow pointing to the left. OLYMPIA 2 miles. Slamming on the brakes, he skidded crazily and swerved onto the road.

The assayer's office was the most important stop. It would be first, the grocery—

He saw the Olympia Hardware on his right and thought of the way the Raker's were always bitching about the cold, dark, damp cave. To shut them up he needed to get a space heater. It didn't seem cold to him, but the fire did make too much smoke in the cave and he was afraid someone would see it coming out the opening. And he wanted a cookstove and some more lantern fuel and…

Ignoring his planned order of stops, he veered into the parking lot located on the right side of the building, vaguely remembering that since the parking lot and access to the loading dock was on the side of the building, they always kept the front door locked, using the side door as the entrance. He knew there was a loading dock running all the way across the rear of the building, accessible from both the parking lot and the alley, but he couldn't remember ever using it.

He parked to the right of the side door. From outside, the place looked orderly. But once inside, it was a stock clerk's worse nightmare. Tall rows of shelves went almost to the ceiling, crowded so close together that two people had difficulty passing in the aisles. Overhead, between the aisles, items hung from hooks screwed to the ceiling. It was a mess and he wished he had it all.

To the right of the door, behind a checkout counter, a sourly old man scowled at him as if he was just another problem that he didn't want.

Dan stopped at the counter. "Yoe—" His voice squeaked embarrassingly. Clearing his throat, he tried again, then stopped. He couldn't remember what he wanted. It was hunger that kicked his brain into gear, the space heater completely forgotten. "You got Coleman fuel and camping stoves?"

The old man's eyes quickly flickered over the figure standing before him; his mind observing, then passing judgment. Several days growth of beard; not unusual. A rash on his face and neck; probably poison ivy. Filthy clothes; maybe a hunter. The smell— His derelict alarm halted further evaluation. Cash only, he thought.

"Got the fuel…" Then hesitantly, "What kind of stove you want?"

"Something cheap to cook on."

"Cheap? How much is too much for you?" the old man said, unable to hide the disgust on his face and in his voice.

Dan sensed something about the old man that he didn't like. He resisted the urge to slap the look off the wrinkled, weathered, scowling face. "Lemme see the stove—and I need a lantern."

"Yeah, I got lanterns, too." The old man shuffled around the counter and led Dan down an aisle toward the front of the store. He stopped and pointed at a box sitting on the bottom shelf with a picture of a camping stove on it.

"There's a stove. It's one-twenty-nine-ninety-five," he said dourly. "You want a stand for it, that's twenty-nine-ninety-five."

"Damn. They're not over eighty bucks at Wal-Mart," Dan said arrogantly.

"Go to Wal-Mart." The old man turned and shuffled away.

Dan angrily jerked the box containing the stove onto the floor and stacked the box containing the stand on top of it. He carried them back and set them on the counter.

The old man punched buttons on the register, squinted at the tax chart, tapped more buttons. "With tax, that's one-sixty-nine-forty-nine."

Pulling out his money roll, Dan added, "And I need a shotgun."

The old man scrutinized Dan, changing his initial evaluation. The scrounge was probably a pot grower that had lived in the hills all summer and didn't have water to spare for bathing. He'd seen plenty of that type lately.

"Got plenty of shotguns." This time he led Dan to the rear of the store and walked behind a counter that covered two-thirds of the rear wall. The counter had enough pistols in it to arm a revolution and on the wall behind it were more shotguns and rifles than Dan had ever seen in one place.

The old man swept a skinny arm through the air indicating his vast inventory. "What kind do you want?"

"A twelve-gauge pump with a short barrel." Dan remembered shooting Tom's, and how good it felt to have a man's shotgun instead of the little boy's toy he carried on the window rack in the truck.

"Yeah, I got some of those," sweeping his gnarled hand along a section behind him, "goes from the Mossberg at two-forty-nine-ninety-five up to—"

"What?"

"Goes from the Mossberg—"

"I heard you, goddamnit. Why so fucking high?" Dan squeezed his dwindling money roll, trying to figure out in his head if he had enough money. He drew a blank.

A take it or leave it stare masked the old man's face. He began impatiently drumming his fingers on the glass counter.

Dan couldn't stand the scornful way the old man looked at him. The skinny, hawk-nosed face reminded him of a vulture. Its bony, gnarled fingers, its claws. He again had the urge to slap the old man's face. No. That wasn't enough. What he really wanted was to ring his scrawny neck and smash his face through the glass counter.

Having cleaned out his savings account, all he had in the world, half of which he'd already given to the Rakers, he hated having some old man rob him of the rest of his money, but…

"Let me see it," Dan said trying to keep his anger disguised.

The old man went to the wall and took down the shotgun, pulled back the pump to make sure it was unloaded, and handed it across the counter.

Dan hefted the gun and did the normal ritual that most men go through when looking at a gun. He held it sideways as if evaluating the quality of workmanship or the design or something. Then he put it to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel for some unknown reason. Maybe he was supposed to be checking to see if the barrel was straight or something.

"Do you have any triple-aught buckshot?"

"Sure, but I can only sell them to cops," he said condescendingly.

"What makes you think that I'm not a cop?" Anger building to a killing rage was boiling within him, but externally he showed only a slight amount of belligerence, which the old man misread as impatience and clearly deceit.

"You don't look like a cop, that's why."

"What's a cop supposed to look like?"

"You just don't look like one. You got any ID?"

Dan looked down at his dirty clothes and realized that he hadn't shaved in three or four days. He looked at the old man and forced a smile.

"Then give me a box of double-aught buck and a box of six-shot."

Satisfied with himself for spotting a phony, the old man haughtily spun to a shelf behind him and located the shells. He set them on the counter and started the obnoxious drumming on the glass again, a smug distasteful air emulating from him.

Dan opened the box of buckshot and took out a shell and did the same type of ritual as when handed the gun. He looked at it as if he was looking for some elusive quality and then nodded his head as if satisfied that he'd found this mysterious thing.

"Will that be all?"

Dan thought a moment. "Yeah, I think so. No, wait—I need a gun cleaning kit."

Abe nodded and turned to the shelves behind him, the calculator in his head ticking upwards. As he reached up to get the cleaning kit, he realized what he'd done. He had just broken the number one rule of selling guns; never hand a customer a gun and then turn ones back. A flash of his memory brought back the gun salesman's pitch to sell him trigger locks for all the guns that he proudly displayed along the rear wall. He'd scoffed at the idea when told how much it would cost.

Rule number two popped into his mind, never give a gun buyer ammunition, without first taking the gun back and putting it in its box and taping it securely.

He had frozen with his hand on the cleaning kit for the few seconds required for these thoughts to flash through his mind. It was paranoia. He relaxed a little. Sure, that's what it was—paranoia. Too much TV. Smiling at his silliness, he grabbed the cleaning kit from the shelf and turned around.

The scroungy looking man was smiling at him. Relieved, Abe cracked a grin in response. Then he saw the man's eyes. They weren't smiling. The hate and malice in them pushed Abe back a step. The shotgun rose from the counter. Abe teetered against the counter behind him, grasping for support. A robbery? Sure, it was obvious. The man really was a hobo. Abe gathered a modicum of courage. He could deal with a robber. Robbers were basically chickenshits. He'd let the bum have the gun and the stove and give him a few buck and watch the creep run out the door. The cops would catch him in no time.

The pump slide slammed forward. Abe raised his hands in deference. "Whoa, now friend, there's no need—"

Dan laughed wickedly.

Abe stuttered, looking quickly from the gun to the dark smoldering eyes, then to the leering mouth, then with horror at the ominous black hole of the barrel.

It belched fire.

Abe never blinked, the buckshot easily outracing his eye's impulses to his brain.

Unfamiliar thrilling tingles surged through Dan's body. The sight of the old man's wrinkled face caving in, his head exploding, and seeing the decapitated body crash against the rear counter, quiver, then slowly crumple to the floor eclipsed anything Dan had ever experienced. He wondered what the old man had thought when he heard the boom. He didn't realize that old Abe never even knew that the trigger had been pulled.

Dan ran into the storeroom and out a small back door to the right of the big loading dock door, backed his truck against the dock and ran back inside. After opening the main door, he picked up an empty cardboard box, went to the gun counter and filled it with pistols, holsters, extra clips and the correct ammunition, and put it in the truck bed, then repeated the sequence with an armload of rifles and shotguns. Then he started carting out camping supplies, sleeping bags, fuel, batteries, a space-heater, several hunting knives, a hatchet and an ax, and two large coils of nylon rope.

After getting everything that he thought he could use, he began looking for a tarp or something to cover the load, when he spotted a sign on a door that said DANGER - HIGH EXPLOSIVES. The door opened into a closet lined with shelves of shell reloading supplies. There were cans of various types of gunpowder, boxes of bullets and the necessary tools and dies. He didn't need any of those things, but in the spirit of stealing, he started to take a case of powder when he spotted two unopened cases of dynamite. Remembering that someday he wanted to blast an opening in the cavern to drain out some of the water, and since it was free, he couldn't resist. After gingerly carrying them out, he found a tarp and tied it over the truck bed.

Admiring his haul made him proud of not letting the greedy old man rip off his money. He thought of the cash register. He had to get the money, too. As he emerged from the storeroom, a man walked into the store, gave Dan a cursory glance, then turned down the first aisle and walked purposely to the front of the store. Dan, so engrossed in what he was doing, had completely forgotten the possibility that customers might come in.

Fighting panic and realizing that the man never gave him a second look, he stepped behind the checkout counter and watched the man stop at the garden tools and pick up a shovel. Dan opened the cash register, took out the bills and shoved them into his pocket, reminding himself to look in the old man's pockets before he left. He glanced down the aisle at the blood-splattered wall. From a distance it looked like artwork, maybe an advertisement. He was momentarily amused at his handiwork and was still staring at it when the man walked up to the checkout counter with the shovel in his hand. He stopped and looked at Dan, glanced to the rear of the store, then quietly leaned the shovel against the counter and asked, "Where's Abe, in the back?"

"He took the day off," Dan said, wondering what to do.

"Never knew Abe not to open his store in twenty years. Is he all right?" he asked casually.

"Yeah, he's fine." Dan thought of the old man and had to stifle a laugh. "He's got a headache." He saw the price marked on the handle of the shovel. It was 15.95. He pushed the numbers on the keys. The window showed 1595.00. He said, "That's fifteen-ninety-five."

"How's Martha?" the man asked, noticing the incorrect figure on the cash register, and aware that tax hadn't been added to it.

"She's okay," Dan answered. Who's Martha? he wondered.

"Okay?" the man said, as if Dan had said something in poor taste. "My wife told me that the cancer had spread to all of her lymph glands and that the constant pain was horrible." He looked suspiciously at Dan. "Who are you?"

Aware of the man's apprehension, Dan answered quickly, "I'm Abe's son." That ought to be good enough to shut him up.

The man knew that Abe only had two daughters. He backed away from the counter and glanced furtively at the door, wondering if he should make a run for it.

Dan saw the glance, sensed the man's fear, and knew that he was about to run.

The man stuck his hand in his pocket and said, "Fifteen-ninety-five…" then broke for the door.

Dan dove across the counter and grabbed at him. As the man jumped back, Dan's fingers hooked the front of his shirt. The buttons popped off and the man staggered backwards. Dan's shoulder hit him in the waist, sending him sprawling. The man immediately started getting up. Dan, on his feet first, kicked the man in the head, toppling him over onto his back. The man groaned and struggled to get up. Dan grabbed the shovel and smashed him on the forehead with the back of the blade.

As Dan started raising the shovel for another blow, the wiry old man grabbed the shovel blade with both hands. Dan tried to pull the shovel away. The wood was too slick. The old man's arms were extended, his hands locked on the shovel blade in a death grip, his cries of mercy landing on deaf ears. Dan ended their tug-of-war by shoving the shovel blade forward against the man's chest, knocking him flat against the floor. The point of the shovel slid over the man's collarbone and lodged in the soft flesh under his Adam's-apple. Dan pushed down, feeling the blade sink into the soft meat. Gagging and squirming, his head pinned to the floor, the man's feet threshed impotently against Dan's legs. Holding pressure on the handle, Dan lunged with his right foot and stomped on the top of the shovel blade, driving the sharp, pointed edge through the man's neck. He felt the shovel crunch bones and the solidity as the blade struck the floor. The man's body jerked spastically, then with one last violent jerk it relaxed completely. His dead eyes stared up at Dan. Ignoring the eyes, Dan watched the blood gush out of the wound and smiled.

He tossed the shovel away, rolled the old man over, took the billfold out of his pants and removed the money. He started to toss the billfold aside. A thought screamed inside his head. Fingerprints!

He looked around frantically trying to remember what he'd touched. The door! The shotgun, the counters, the cash register, the shovel, the—

He spotted a rack of hunting jackets, and behind it, shelves stocked with sweat-shirts, long-johns, tee-shirts, gloves— Gloves! He put on a pair, grabbed a tee-shirt, wiped down the billfold and tossed it aside. Then he began retracing his steps, wiping everywhere he thought he'd touched. His memory was explicit concerning the door, the counters, and the cash register, but vague about what he might have touched when he was loading the truck.

Hoping that he'd been thorough, he pitched the shirt away and dragged the man out of view of the entrance. Then he went to Abe's body, took his money and his key ring, locked the entrance door and turned the OPEN sign around. He ran to the dock and slid the big door shut, not bothering to lock it. Then got in his truck and tried to casually drive out of town, but what seemed to him to be casual driving, turned more than one head and earned him various looks of disgust from the porch perching locals.

Dan didn't notice. He was sure that nobody had paid any particular attention to him. He hadn't heard any screaming and there weren't any cop cars chasing him. He was okay.

On the way back, he remembered that he hadn't checked with the assayer. That meant that he'd have to lay low for a couple of days and then slip out to a telephone. Growls from his restless stomach reminded him that he'd also forgotten the food. He cursed the old man for getting him so mad and making him forget everything. He looked at the load in the back of the truck and smiled, figuring that he got the better of the deal. All of this stuff for a couple worthless old men.

He started humming a tune that he didn't recognize.

While driving along Sherri's road, he remembered that she kept some food in the cabin. Things that didn't spoil, like canned goods and cereal, and some of the things that he'd forgotten to bring originally, such as coffee, sugar, salt and pepper, dishes, pots and pans, silverware, pillows…

He pulled up in front of the cabin, ran around back to the bedroom window, picked up a fist-sized rock and smashed it through the glass. It didn't take long to ransack the place.

Then he drove up the old road to the boat, backed the truck to the edge of the water, packed everything into it, hid the truck and headed upstream.

Jed and Sol were standing at the riverbank waiting for him.

"What'd you do? Rob a store?" Jed asked. "I know you don't carry that kind of money." He smiled, knowingly. Sol looked disinterested.

"I got lucky. A store owner died and they had a big sale, so I—"

Sol interrupted, "Where's the food?"

"I was in a hurry," Dan said lifting a paper bag from the boat, "but I picked up a few things from the cabin up the road."

Sol grabbed the sack and looked in it. He made a face as he pulled out a box of cereal, which he hastily threw on the ground to continue his search. He started to throw a can of coffee down when Dan stopped him.

"Hey. Wait a minute. It's not much, but it's all there was." Dan grabbed the sack and the coffee and set them on the ground. He pulled out two cans of tuna, a can of beef stew, and two cans of chili.

"This all they had in the cabin?" Jed asked disgustedly.

The scowls on their faces warned Dan that he was going to have to do better to avert a mutiny by the hired help.

"But I brought back guns and fishing poles. You guys like to hunt and fish, don't you?" Their scowls softened. "Let's get this stuff to the cave and eat what we've got, and then you guys can go out and get us some real food." He didn't know if it was the thought of real food, or the idea of killing something that made them eagerly begin unloading the boat. As long as they were happy and brought him plenty of food he'd be happy, too.

None of them noticed that the bow rope was lying on the ground, the boat only being held on the bank by the weight of the load.

Dan stayed in the cave while Sol and Jed went back for the last load. Their minds, totally unencumbered by intelligent thoughts, were happily thinking about eating and hunting and fishing and not about such trivial things as what a free spirited boat might do if left unattended.

The boat patiently waited until they were out of sight, then silently relinquished its grasp on the bank and slid into a world of unrestrained adventure.

______________________

"It's not a precious gemstone, Clyde," Bernie Shapiro, the fat, balding owner of the pawn shop said tentatively.

"Then what in the hell is it?" Clyde demanded of his friend, the area's biggest fence of jewelry and guns.

"I'm not saying it is, but it looks like a lot of small pieces of different colored quartz embedded in a piece of hematite."

"Hematite? Is it worth anything?"

"Not much. Hematite's an iron ore, and little pieces of quartz aren't worth anything." He watched Clyde's face carefully.

"Isn't there some tests you can make here, now?" Clyde didn't trust the fat weasel whenever money was involved.

"I can tell just by looking," Bernie lied with strained confidence. "The best thing to do with this rock is to polish it and put it on a charm bracelet. Then impress some bimbo with it."

"Fuck a charm bracelet, friend," Clyde hollered, spittle spraying from his mouth when he said friend. "I want to know exactly what's in that rock, and I want to know quick."

Ox and Guido stood behind Clyde, dourly watching and listening. Knowing how to react to his moods, Ox walked to the front door of the shop, turned over the OPEN sign and twisted the dead-bolt. Guido walked to the back and stepped behind the counter, his switchblade snapping open in his right hand.

"Wait a minute, will you? I'm telling you the truth," Bernie insisted firmly. "Even if those little pieces were diamonds and rubies and emeralds, they're too small to be worth anything."

Guido started walking toward him. Bernie raised his left hand toward Guido in a feeble halting gesture which had no effect on Guido's threatening progress.

"Let me send it out and get it assayed. You'll see I'm telling you the truth," Bernie pleaded, his voice starting to break into a whine.

Clyde barely flicked his right hand toward Guido. It had the effect that Bernie's gesture had lacked. Guido stopped in his tracks. Clyde's ferocious look melted into the look of an angry, impatient man trying to be polite.

Bernie relaxed slightly, but he knew Clyde too well. Clyde could be like the calm before a storm. He could be patting a person on the back with one hand while sticking a knife in their heart with the other.

"Where's an assayer?"

"Ah… he'd be in Olympia. The County Assayer. He's the only one around here. I'll send it in for you—if you want." Bernie's eyes made a quick circuit of the three men, hoping desperately for a change in their attitude.

Clyde smiled, extended his left hand, palm up, and slowly shook his head. He was being conned by a con. How could he get mad at him; he was just doing his job. Besides, Bernie was very useful when used properly. No sense in killing every dog just because it wants an extra bite. To him, greed was an admirable trait. "No thanks, friend. I'll take it to an assayer myself."

Bernie quickly dropped the rock in Clyde's outstretched hand and breathed a sigh of relief for the temporary reprieve. He knew that the rock was something unusual, possibly something special, and he'd hoped that Clyde would have offered it to him for a few bucks, or even given it to him. Now he was afraid of what Clyde might find out from the assayer. If the rock was valuable, Bernie wanted to steer clear of Clyde for a while. Maybe a long, long while.

Clyde walked toward the front door, Ox unlocked it and turned around the sign. Guido smiled at Bernie, made a shooting motion with his hand, vaulted over the counter and sauntered out the door behind them.

Bernie waited until the rumbling motors were barely out of earshot, turned the sign back around, and walked out the door. He needed a drink.

______________________

Ben Johnson normally left the assayer's office promptly at five, but since breaking his rigid regime by leaving early on Thursday, he'd come in late Friday and left early again, and actually enjoyed coming in late again this morning. His past love of his job had evaporated. He hated his job. He hated his assistant. He hated his clothes; they made him look old. He hated his face; it made him look old. He hated everything he thought about.

The three men standing around their motorcycles at the diner down the street went completely unnoticed. Ben was too busy hating his eyes for being so weak that he had to wear glasses, to notice the men getting on their bikes as he drove by. All Ben cared about was getting home for supper and his wife.

He faintly remembered being content with his old routine of going home and watching TV while eating supper, then sitting in his easy-chair and watching TV until bedtime, then going to bed and falling asleep during the commercial following Jay's monologue.

About once a month his wife tolerated his sexual needs, which had gradually become more psychological and habitual rather than an actual physical urge. But lately his needs had become stronger. More important than TV. Actually, TV was the last thing he wanted. He wanted food and sex. Lately, that's all he wanted. After getting his fill of both, he'd fall asleep in his easy chair, only to wake up in the middle of the night, his needs insisting on an encore. He was happier at home than he could ever remember, dreaded leaving, and was always in a hurry to get back.

His driving style also had shown a marked change. Instead of being the timid, overly cautious slow-poke on the five mile stretch of two lane road to his house, he'd become the total aggressor, passing on curves, honking at slower traffic, hollering and frequently using finger signals to emphasize his disdain. Even though he hated everything about the drive home, the excitement of his anger helped intensify the pleasure of being home. He was in a hurry. He needed his wife. And he was starving.

He didn't know that death was following him and that death was so close in front of him, and that only by a miracle would he be able to satisfy his needs again.

As he flew down the road, he started fantasizing about the girl at the diner. He needed her, too. She was young, bold and nasty, talked like a whore, and brought him food; all the things that turned him on. His wife was all right, but occasionally he felt the urge for someone with a bit more fire. His dick throbbed, showing its impatience.

The road slowly curved to the right around a low hill. He started accelerating in anticipation of the mile and a half straightaway where he could really get up some speed before entering Devil's Pass, a winding stretch, part natural and part man-made, cut through a mile of low, rugged mountains. The speedometer crept toward eighty as he came out of the curve.

"Goddamned luck," he muttered, grudgingly lifting his foot from the gas and touching the brake pedal as he closed on a van that was pulling out to pass. He turned into the oncoming lane and followed it. The van slowed beside a car, an old red convertible.

What in the hell are they doing? They're driving side by side blocking the whole goddamned road, he fumed. They're both full of punk kids screaming and hollering at each other.

He swore to himself, pulled closer to the van and blasted his horn. An arm extended from the driver's window and gave him the finger.

"You goddamned brat cocksuckers think you own the whole fucking world," he screamed. His words died at the windshield; only a distorted caricature of an insanely distorted face reached the kids.

Furiously flashing his headlights on and off, he pulled to within four feet of the van and blasted his horn again. The kids in the convertible hollered back. The cars remained side by side, taunting him.

Ben rolled down his window and shook his fist at them. Getting no results, he stuck his head out the window and screamed, "Get out of the road you fucking assholes!"

He'd just ducked his head back inside the car when an arm on the passenger side of the van reached out holding a bottle of beer. The kids in the car made waving motions of encouragement to the upraised bottle. The arm flung the bottle toward Ben. Before he could react, the bottle crashed into the right side of his windshield, shattering the entire glass into little squares, only held together by the plastic in the middle of the safety glass. Small slivers of glass showered his face and stung his eyes. Ignoring the pain, he rapidly blinked his eyes, partially clearing his vision. Bloody tears streamed down his face.

Through his side windows, he could see the rock walls of Devil's Pass begin rising above the road. He stuck his head out the window just in time to see the van accelerating past the car. Ben stomped on the gas pedal, determined to catch the van. He was beside the car when the van jerked into the right-hand lane exposing a blurred view of the highway. He blinked. A small, rapidly approaching blur quickly grew tall and wide. Light flickered from some shiny things. Fuzzy shapes quickly turned into a chrome bumper, a grill, and exhaust stacks.

Ben looked around frantically. There was nowhere to go. The sheer rock wall to his left rose high above the road and the convertible full of screaming kids was to his right.

The shape exploded into clear view. An air horn blared. Ben slammed on his brakes, hoping to pull in behind the car.

His judgment of speed and distance was not even close. Even with his wheels locked up and his tires squealing in protest, Ben was still going sixty when the semi hit him head on.

The resulting collision and explosion of both of their fuel tanks could be heard all the way back to town, more than two miles away.

The miracle didn't happen for Ben; his needs forever quelled.

Clyde and his brothers were about a quarter mile behind when they saw the accident. They stopped for a minute and watched the mangled mass of debris burn. They loved the show, but knowing better than to hang around and get involved with cops, they turned around and headed back toward town as if they hadn't seen anything.

The kids in the other two cars didn't even slow down.

Some of them were scared. The others didn't want to get involved. The driver of the car thought it was funny. But then, he was the most loaded of the bunch.

______________________

Sue didn't like going out with fat, middle-aged men, but since Clyde hadn't been by, and after losing her job, a man's generosity took precedence over his virility. And this one did have two things going for him; he had bucks and a wife to dump him back on.

She was disappointed with Clyde. She'd given him her phone number, and he said he'd call. That was four days ago and he hadn't called. She'd gotten his number from Ox, but hated to be the one to call first. She knew better than to chase a man. Men never respect a woman like that. But he does have my rock. That's a reason to call. Maybe tomorrow, she thought.

As for her job, she didn't really care. She could easily get another one. At the next place she'd make sure to get something going with the boss, and that he was married to a bitch that would take him to the cleaners if she found him with a beautiful, young, sexy girl.

She wasn't going to let another boss smart-mouth her like the asshole at the Bull. Blaming her for stirring up trouble was one thing, but to tell her to be more professional and stop personally associating with the customers was going too far. The queer little bastard was lucky that she hadn't rung his scrawny neck. She had to smile when she thought about how the whimp had run from her and had to have two of his goon friends escort her to the door. But before they did, she had smashed enough stuff to make him wish that he'd treated her like a lady.

After a fancy dinner and two bottles of expensive champagne, fatman started hinting at going to her apartment. She tactfully complained that she didn't have anything to drink at home. He offered to buy plenty of booze. Then she complained that the place was a mess because she'd lost her job and was going to have to move. He fell for it, hinting that he might be able to help with the rent. She reeled the line in a bit farther and he agreed to a hundred dollar loan. She accepted his generous offer of help, in advance, sensuously tucked the bill into her bra, and led him to the liquor store, then home. One stiff drink and they were in bed.

His idea of romance was getting head and enjoying himself immensely. She didn't mind, as long as it helped speed up the act and put him to sleep quicker. He was almost too drunk to do anything else. Or so she thought.

Once aroused, his interest became anal. She didn't even mind that. At least, she didn't have to kiss him. She moaned and pushed and squeezed, lustily begging for more, while inwardly praying for a quick climax and a cigarette. She felt him grow weaker inside her. He dropped limply on top of her, panting heavily and slobbering on her neck. She struggled against the oppressive blob, barely able to topple him over onto his back.

"Come on baby, just a little more, then you can get on top," he urged, slipping his hand into her hair and gently pushing her head down toward him.

She felt sick. "Cut it out, okay?"

He grabbed the back of her head and pushed her face down on his limp penis. In a fit of revulsion, she pushed him away, jumped out of bed and ran into the kitchen.

"Hey, where're you goin'? I'm not through," he strained, struggling out of bed to follow.

"I'm tired. Maybe you oughta go on home now."

"Hey, babe," he said, staggering through the kitchen door, "I thought you liked it."

Backing up to the kitchen counter, genuinely tired of this loathsome creep, she shook her head. "Look, I said I'm tired. How about getting your clothes on and going home."

"Go home? That's bullshit! I didn't spend a hundred bucks for no quickie." He put his hands on her shoulders, his belly pushing against her and pleaded drunkenly, "Aw, come back to bed, baby."

She turned her head away and tried to push him back. Desperate, encircling arms squeezed her into his soft, sweaty, smelly belly. Instantly exploding with revulsion and hate, she jerked her knee into his groin, but the blow lost most of its force in the narrowing gap between his fat thighs. Scratching at his face to distract him, she jerked her knee up again. His legs closed tightly on her knee. He grabbed her neck, bent her backwards over the counter, and slapped her face. She clawed at his fingers, trying to pull the hand from her neck.

A furious back-hand split her lip, blood dribbled down her chin.

Shocked, she screamed obscenities and swiped at his eyes with her nails.

"Shut up, you stupid bitch," he yelled, grabbing her throat with both hands and squeezing, choking off the screams. She went berserk, swinging, kicking, and clawing. Not knowing what else to do to keep the lunatic quiet, he drew back his right hand and punched her in the face. She went limp. He released her throat and watched her slide to the floor.

"You stupid bitch," he slurred. "Whatcha go and do that for?" He turned to the kitchen table and grabbed the whiskey bottle.

The shocking taste of blood kept Sue from drifting into complete darkness. She opened her eyes and glared at the fat man's back. Hate overwhelmed her. She watched him set the whiskey bottle down on the table and reach for a pack of cigarettes.

Slowly, quietly, she pushed up from the floor and reached for the counter top.

The fat man took a cigarette out of the pack and angrily tossed the pack down.

Sue hooked her fingers on the counter top and shakily pulled herself to her feet.

The fat man picked up a lighter and lit his cigarette.

Sue spotted the knife holder, quietly slipped out a long, thin-bladed fillet knife.

The man muttered something, picked up the whiskey bottle and chugged down another huge gulp.

Diving cat-like across the room, Sue slammed the knife into his fat back as hard as she could.

Whiskey spewed from his mouth, a hand groped around reaching for the knife. Sue jerked it out as he turned around. He took a halting step toward her. She drove the knife into his stomach, quickly jerked it out and backed against the counter to watch him fall. But he didn't. He kept staggering toward her, his left hand clutched to his stomach, his right reaching for her throat. Not even considering running, Sue swung the knife in an arc, plunging it into the side of his neck. It slid in up to the handle, the bloody blade protruding from the other side. Putting her other hand against his face, she pulled the knife to her, slicing through his windpipe and both carotid arteries. Blood sprayed down the front of her as he dropped face down onto the floor. Blood oozed from his back and gushed from under his head, forming a growing puddle on the floor.

Wild eyed, her face distorted, teeth bared, a growl rumbling from her throat, she jumped on him and began stabbing and slashing. After what seemed like several minutes, almost exhausted and her anger vented, she shoved the knife into his back with one final grunt of satisfaction, then slumped to the floor and lay naked in the puddle of blood, breathing heavily.

The lady in the apartment next door was still on the phone with 911.

Voices in the hall snapped Sue out of it. She looked down at her blood-drenched body and realized that she had to get away. She ran to the shower, quickly rinsed off the blood, put on her jeans and a shirt over her still wet body, slipped on sneakers and was slithering out a bedroom window by the time she heard the sirens.

She was already half a block away, running down the alley, when the cop car pulled up in front of the building

When they finally kicked in her apartment door, she was standing in a phone booth excitedly bragging to Clyde about what she'd just done to the fat man. Clyde laughed and said that he'd be right over to get her.

She told him to hurry. She'd never been so hungry.

______________________

Day 9, Tuesday, October 18

Dan ran. The two old men were gaining on him. The one with his head hanging to the side waved a shovel over his head and the headless one had a shotgun. Dan's feet felt numb, his legs would barely move. He fell face down. The shotgun roared. Searing pain ripped through his body. He felt his head. It was still there. The shovel smashed on top of his head as the shotgun roared again. Searing lead balls ripped into his back, shattering bone, slicing through blood vessels, tearing through organs, some blowing out the other side and digging into the bloody ground. The shovel crashed down on top of his head again. They jerked him over onto his back, the shovel pressed into his neck. He tried to scream as the sharp edge cut into the soft meat of his throat. The headless one shoved the gun barrel into Dan's mouth, the shovel dug deeper. Blood spurted on the horrid, askew, leering face above. Dan tried to lash out with his feet, but his legs wouldn't move. A hand of the headless one swung a blob of dripping, bloody goo in front of Dan's face. A bloodshot eyeball lazily dangled from it, solemnly observing his desperate struggles. The eye appeared to smile, somehow, then it turned up toward the headless one. The shotgun spewed the whole universe into Dan's mouth. The pressure blew his head apart, his mind screaming as it exploded….

Dan lay there dead, wondering why he hadn't killed the two old men good enough. He hadn't realized how terrible the feeble looking things really were. Why had he left their arms on? Now look what happened; they used those arms against him. The one with the dangling head tore at Dan's stomach and began eating the tender innards. Dan's left eyeball hung from a branch and watched them devour his body.

Dan was hyperventilating when he opened his eyes, and sweat ran from his forehead. He jumped up into a crouch, ready to fight the crotchety old men. He looked around, suddenly feeling foolish.

He yawned and stretched.

Something was wrong with his clothes. They felt too tight. He let out his belt a notch and squirmed the jeans down, relieving the pinching in the crotch. While struggling with his pants, a button popped off his shirt. Even his sneakers were too tight. He loosened the laces and retied them. Then he slipped on his shoulder holster and jacket. Even it was a little snug, the big .45 bulged noticeably under his left arm, his eight-inch hunting knife felt out of place. He fondled it, started to take it off, then changed his mind. It might have a purpose. He didn't know, and quickly forgot about it.

He visualized his truck full of new clothes. His stomach growled and the picture instantly switched to a truck bed full of meat. Steaks. Roasts. Mounds of hamburger. Something sweet and juicy. He was starving for something to sink his teeth into. The fish Sol had caught yesterday were too small and bony, and all Jed brought back were rabbits. Baby food. Not a good mouthful in the whole damned thing. Just little nibbles here and there. Definitely not enough for a man. He made up his mind that this time a grocery store would be his first stop.

He slipped an extra clip of 45's in both of his jacket pockets and walked out of the cave wondering if there were people out there looking for him. Most of his memories of the hardware store had already faded into bits of past day's dreams. Except for the two old men. He vividly remembered the look of fear on their faces, and the excitement of killing them. And to a lesser degree, he remembered being afraid, at the time, that people would be looking for him. He wondered why he'd been so terribly afraid. That was yesterday or the day before. Who would really care now?

He thought of the rock. His treasure. Was it safe to leave it unguarded? He stopped and looked around. He could hear Jed slowly walking through the woods to his left. The fact that Jed was over a hundred yards away and wasn't making enough noise to be heard by normal human ears didn't mean anything to him. He was also unaware of how his mind blocked out the sounds of the breeze through the leaves, the birds chirping and squawking, even the hollow sounding clatter of a woodpecker was isolated and filtered out. The faint whir of a fishing reel and the soft plop of a bobber in the water indicated Sol's exact position by the river. The rock would be all right for now.

He was thinking about a better hiding place for the rock as he cut into the brush by the slew. The boat was gone! Did he even hide it? He ran back through the brush to the river where they'd beached it for unloading. It wasn't there either! What happened to it? He drew a blank. He cursed the boat, stomped the ground, and growled at the world, then his mind quickly went to the problem at hand.

His plan to go upriver in the boat and find a house with a phone, and then steal a car, had seemed so simple. He hadn't made any contingency plans. Now what should he do? He'd already ruled out taking his own truck because someone might have seen it at the store. Flustered, he started walking downriver, trying to remember what was on the other side. The thought of swimming across brought him to a halt. He turned and looked inland, his eyes skipping through the trees, following the bluff. He knew that on the other side of the bluff was a thick, hilly forest that gradually sloped down into a valley and farm land.

He tried to remember. The bluff curved downriver, towering twice as high as the highest trees, until gradually sloping to the ground back by the cabin. Once, he'd tried to climb to the top when he was a kid. About a mile downriver of the cave there was a steep ravine that he knew he could have climbed, but at the bottom there had been a vertical ledge higher than a house and too smooth for him to climb. But he'd been only a kid, he thought. Maybe now…

He backtracked along the bluff, past the track to the cave and continued on to the ravine. He'd always considered himself part mountain goat, and the ease in which he scaled onto the ledge and up the ravine proved it. He scaled it in less than a minute and wasn't even breathing hard.

After about a mile of hiking through the thick, hilly woods, he came to a rusty, barbed-wire fence running along the edge of several acres of open pasture land. About a hundred yards directly across the pasture stood a weathered, rickety, rusty-roofed barn. Beyond and to the right, on an immaculately groomed knoll, a picturesque, white two-story farm house sat in a nest of shrubs and flowers. A gravel drive disappeared into the woods to the right. No one appeared to be home. His hopes of stealing a car plunged. The only vehicle in sight was a battered old pickup parked in a lean-to connected to the barn. It looked like it hadn't run in years.

Figuring that they must have a car and were probably in town shopping, he decided to walk straight up to the house. If someone was home, he'd tell them that his car broke down and ask to use their phone. And if nobody was home, he wouldn't have to waste time asking. Either way, he was going to help himself to something to eat.

He was over halfway across the field when he heard a rustling noise coming from the barn. He stopped and listened. Suddenly, two Dobermans burst from the barn, growling and snarling, their teeth bared, charging toward him. A hissing snarl erupted from Dan's throat as he crouched to face the attack. Seeing his hands if front of him, their fingers slightly curled, not in a defensive position, but appearing ready to engage in a fight with the dogs, suddenly shocked him. Fear and doubt crept into his mind.

The dogs had closed half the distance between him and the barn, and were coming fast. He drew his gun and began firing frantically. Bullets dug into the ground and flew harmlessly past the growling beasts. The lead dog was in midair, leaping for Dan's throat, before a slug finally found its mark and tore into its mouth and exploded out the back of its head. Going full speed, the lifeless mass crashed into Dan's chest, knocking him to the ground. The last shot in the gun went wildly into the air as the gun sailed from his hand.

The second dog dove on top of him, its jaws wide open, searching for his throat. Fear once again shut down Dan's mind. Survival instincts took over. His left arm shot up in a desperate attempt to postpone instant death.

Jaws locked onto his forearm, rows of sharp teeth pierced through the skin and crunched into the bone. Watching himself react, as if in a dream, Dan swung his right fist down on top of the dog's snout at the point right below its eyes. Bones crunched. Shocked and stunned, the dog opened its eyes wide and then shut them tightly, as if trying to fight off the effects of the blow. The death grip on Dan's forearm relaxed as the dog shook its head in a frantic attempt to quickly subdue his victim. Dan grabbed its broken upper jaw and wrenched upward. Bones cracked, popped. The dog squealed and tried to get away. Dan pulled his arm from the dog's mouth and grabbed its lower jaw. With both hands, he spread its jaws and twisted. The dog clawed and jerked desperately trying to get away as Dan wrenched the upper jaw from its skull. He released its lower jaw and viciously kicked it in the stomach, sending it tumbling across the ground. It whimpered and tried to crawl away.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an old man in coveralls running toward the house. Dan retrieved the gun, popped out the empty clip and shoved in a new one. The man was frantically stumbling across the yard when the front door opened and a little, white-haired old woman wearing a full-length blue apron came out of the house with a shotgun in her hands.

She swung the big gun up toward Dan and pulled the trigger. The shotgun roared, almost drowning out the sound of Dan's rapid return fire. Three bullets ripped into her frail body before she could pull the trigger on the other barrel. She crumpled against the door jamb, wavered for a few seconds, then toppled forward, falling face down on the porch.

The man ran to her and grabbed the gun. Before he could straighten up and turn around. Dan started shooting again. One bullet hit the old in the butt and drove his head against the wall. The shotgun clattered to the porch. Another bullet plowed into his back and straightened him up. He clawed at the wall., then fell over backwards across the body of his wife. One arm flopped spasmodically for a few seconds, then fell limply to his side.

Dan walked up to them and kicked the old man in the neck. His head flopped over and back. His open, dead eyes stared up blankly.

"You stupid bastard. All I wanted to do was use your phone."

He ejected the clip from his gun, laid it on the old man's forehead, and slammed in a new one.

______________________

Ed Bailes, Ben Johnson's assistant, had been appointed the Interim County Assayer. It was a pompous slap in the face. Everybody knew that interim meant, until a suitable appointee is found. He resented not being considered for the job. They wouldn't come right out and say that at twenty-seven, he was too young. Instead, they cited his limited experience. And instead of saying that he wasn't a local, they politely pointed out that he hadn't been in the area long enough to have adequately familiarized himself with the area's particular geological composition and stratum. That really grated on his pride. He hadn't been overly thrilled about moving to a hick town in the first place, but it was the only assayer's job he'd found since graduating from college. And in godforsaken Crawford County! A mental cesspool crawling with crude, vulgar, lowbrow cretins. Somewhere around Chicago—maybe McHenry County—was where he wanted to be. A place where…

The phone ringing interrupted his thoughts.

"Crawford County Assayer, Ed Bailes," he said, immensely enjoying his title, however ill-placed or temporary it might be.

"This is Dan Jenkins. You got my assay results back yet?"

Being properly polite and boringly respectful, he softly replied, "Mister Jenkins, I'm sorry to say that we've had a terrible tragedy here… Mister Johnson was… in a horrible automobile accident yesterday." He paused, anticipating one of several appropriate consoling inquires. Was he hurt? Is he all right? Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. And so much other bunk—the disgusting conciliatory remarks all the other callers had offered, all assuming that he and Ben had been good friends. He was totally taken aback by the man's response.

"Then who's taking care of the assay?"

At least it wasn't another sickening condolence. "Well, ah…" he tried to think of a more reasonable excuse. "Oh, I remember now. We sent a sample to the lab last week," he lied, not wanting to admit that he'd completely forgotten the rock, much less, sending the sample. "We probably won't get the results back until the first part of next week."

"Next week! Shit!" Dan screamed. "I can't wait forever!"

Desperately trying to maintain a professional demeanor by hiding a rapidly rising anger, Ed gritted his teeth, took a deep breath and politely said, "Is there a number where I can reach you, Mister—"

"I'll call back next week. Just get on it." The phone clicked.

Ed snapped the receiver from his ear, stared murderously at it and slammed it down, missing its holder and mashing a finger on the prong sticking up from the phone base. Screaming and cursing, he…

______________________

"Goddamned assayer," Dan yelled at the wall phone. In frustration he punched it with his fist. The phone shattered, the force of the blow drove the remains completely through the wall, ripping through the old lath and plaster as if they were made of styrofoam. Startled, he inspected his hand for injuries. There was no blood, no pain, not even a scratch. He clenched and unclenched his fist and wiggled the fingers. In the dim light, his hand looked darker than normal. Must be dirty, he thought, immediately dismissing the thought of washing them as ridiculous.

Remembering the forearm where the dog had bitten him, he slid up his sleeve and checked the wound. Two rows of punctures were clearly evident, but they weren't bleeding. He touched one of them. It felt hard and dry, and pushing on the wound brought no pain. Satisfied that it wasn't bleeding or hurting, it held no further interest. Sliding the sleeve down, he went into the kitchen and started looking for food.

The refrigerator yielded part of a roast, which he greedily gorged on, glancing around possessively, not noticing a low growl rumbling in his throat. Further rummaging through the cupboard and pantry yielded nothing appetizing. He grimaced at the rows and rows of cans and jars of disgusting vegetables.

Finally, in a room at the back of the kitchen, he found a freezer stocked full of meat. After zealously trying to stack his arms full and dropping half of the packages on the floor, he searched around and found a paper bag stuffed with plastic grocery bags. He filled eight bags, bunched the handles and hooked them with his fingers. On the way to the porch he noticed that the handles were stretching from the weight. There was no way he was going to be able to carry the bags to the cave. Disgustedly dropping them on the porch, he turned and looked at the old man as if for an answer. The puddle of blood under the bodies had formed a small stream that ran to the edge of the porch beside him and was dribbling down the two wooden steps to the ground.

He sat down on the steps, wondering about his problem, idly watching the blood dripping down the steps.

The blood fascinated him. He dipped his finger into it and smeared it around. It was starting to coagulate, thick and slimy. He raised the bloody finger to his nose and smelled it. Sweet, he thought. Then he touched the finger to the tip of his tongue. It tasted delicious. Much better than the cold roast he'd just eaten. Cupping both hands, he managed to scoop up enough to dip his tongue into. His taste buds craved more. He eagerly licked his hands clean, wondering how the blood could taste so good, while the bodies it came from almost turned his stomach.

While dabbing at the blood, his mind drifted back to the problem at hand; how to get the packages of meat back to the cave. Then he looked at the old dilapidated pickup by the barn. Maybe that was their transportation! There wasn't any other vehicle around.

Excitedly going through the old farmer's pockets, he found a key ring and ran to the truck. With trembling fingers, one by one, he tried the keys, finally finding one that fit. The motor growled reluctantly, barely turning over, then suddenly sputtered a bit, then roared to life.

His mind drew a blank for a second when he saw the column mounted gear shift. His foot had pushed down the clutch pedal, but he couldn't remember why. He pulled the shift lever down, raced the engine and let out the clutch. The truck jerked forward and crashed into an old, rusty, riding mower that looked as bad as the truck. Dan shoved in the clutch. It suddenly came back to him, He clearly remembered how the shifter worked. His first car, an old '66 Ford, had been a stick shift. Jerking the lever back and up, he gunned the motor and popped the clutch. The truck shuddered and the rear tires spun, clawing at the dirt. Sliding to a stop in front of the barn, he started to go forward when he spotted something moving at the corner of the barn. Was it another dog? Then he realized that it was behind a wire mesh fence.

It moved out of sight.

He jumped out of the truck and ran around to the fence. A huge, black sow glared menacingly through the fence. Two small pigs cowered behind her. Thoughts of roasting a pig on a spit made his stomach rumble. But knowing that momma pigs can be ferocious when their young are threatened, he calmly drew his gun and shot the sow in the forehead. Its front legs buckled and its head sank to the ground, the rest slowly crumpling behind. The little pigs squealed and ran to the rear of the pen. Dan shot both of them with the cool precision of a practiced executioner, loaded them in the back of the truck, and went back for the prize sow. Jerking, cussing and growling, he managed to drag the mammoth animal to the back of the truck, but even with screaming effort, he couldn't get the limp carcass into the bed.

Almost giving up, he remembered the hunting knife. Grunting and slashing, stabbing and sawing, he managed to whack off the huge rear hams. Even then it was too heavy to load. Already having plenty of meat, he disgustedly kicked the carcass, slammed the tailgate up and drove off, completely forgetting the unappetizing frozen packages on the porch.

At the highway he started to turn right toward Sherri's road, but something was bothering him. He stopped and tried to figure it out. It was the truck. He didn't want to be seen going toward the cave in it. No, that wasn't the reason. That was right, but something else was wrong. He looked at the load in the truck bed and wondered if the boat—Boat? Cussing the boat for disappearing, he swung the wheel to the left and headed north on the highway.

______________________

Three flashy Harleys slowly rumbled down the street in their usual formation, Clyde with Sue, in the lead, Ox and Guido following side-by-side. Sue tapped Clyde on the shoulder and said something into his ear. He motioned to his brothers and turned onto Apartment Row and headed slowly into the three continuous blocks of two story apartment buildings. Halfway through the second block, Sue pointed at a building to their right. "That gray one. It's on the second floor on the left, facing the street."

Slowly riding by, Clyde's attention focused on six rowdy red-neck types, drinking beer in the yard in front of the building. The men stopped talking and turned to stare at the bikers, their expressions reflecting contempt rather than curiosity.

Clyde motioned to his brothers and pulled to the curb two buildings down the street.

As they were getting off their bikes, Clyde noticed the men still staring at them.

"What are those yahoo's looking at?" he said, boldly pointing at the group of men.

The men turned their attention back to each other and continued their discussion.

Sue volunteered, "I'll find out if they've seen Dan," and quickly walked away before they could stop her.

One of the men pointed at her and said something to the others. They all turned toward her, their imaginations removing her jeans and their eyes caressing her body. Loving the ogling, Sue swaggered seductively. The biggest man stepped forward and stood with his hands on his hips, proudly indicating that he was the main man. His chest swelled, spreading his unbuttoned, faded, black western shirt to reveal a hairy, muscular, barrel chest. A small, gold swastika dangled from his neck on a short chain.

Sue stopped in front of him and smiled innocently. "Have you guys seen Dan?"

The man glanced over her shoulder at the bikers still standing by their bikes, formed a disgusted look on his pock-marked face, then made the mistake of scrutinizing Sue's body again without changing his expression.

Sue quit smiling. She didn't recognize any of them. From working at the Bull, she thought she knew every sleaze-ball in the county. What she didn't know was that pock-mark was Dan's neighbor that had moved in from Cedar Hill two weeks before Dan disappeared. His friends were all from that area. She imagined that they were up to no good. In a different time, a different place… she thought.

Looking from the girl to the bikers, he slowly drawled, "Who wants to know?"

"I do," she said sweetly.

"Why you want him?"

Ignoring him, Sue glanced at the others. "Any of you guys seen Dan, lately?"

A moving van drove by and parked behind the Driegeoes. Sue noticed them step around a tree and walk beside the van while the driver sauntered across the street into an apartment building.

When she looked back, one of the men asked, "Dan who?"

Crisply, quickly losing patience, "Dan Jenkins, lives upstairs in 2B."

Hairy chest asked Sue's cleavage again, "Why you want him?"

The malice brewing in Sue's mind appeared as only harmless contempt on her face and in her cold, almost black eyes. "A little bit nosy, aren't you?"

"You wanna know where he's at, you gotta tell me why you want him." He sucked his gut in noticeably.

Sue has no patience and hates being jerked around, especially lately. Mockingly shocked, she asked accusingly, "You wouldn't happen to be fooling around with my boyfriend, would you?"

Startled and slightly confused, his chest deflated as he stammered, "What in the… You mean… You better not be saying I'm…" Not wanting to say it, he stopped and glared at her, his eyes flicking to the bikers and back. Turning his head to his buddies, "Did you hear what the bitch said?" The men spread out around her, their menacing leers and snickers expected to be more than enough to send the girl bawling back to her friends. When she showed no effect, they kicked it up a notch, not realizing that she could tell the difference between big talkers and big men.

"Let's show the bitch what real men are like," one smirking face said, obviously not concerned about the bikers.

Getting into the act, another said, "I'm first."

Riding the crest of their collective bravado, another chimed in, "Let's flip to see who holds her."

Hairy chest ran a finger down Sue's cleavage, hooked it behind the button and made short, increasingly stronger tugs on her shirt, as if daring her to tell him not to pop off the button. To his surprise, she didn't budge. His cohorts hissed sadistic encouragements, temporarily ignoring the bikers, who were still standing by their bikes, appearing to be respectful of being outnumbered.

Regaining his composure and his masculinity, with rising courage bolstered by his cohorts, the big one grinned mockingly. "Sweetheart, how about you send your bike babies home and we'll show you how real men treat a lady." With a quick jerk of his hand, the top button popped from her shirt. Her left breast poked out, its dark, hard nipple jutted out proudly. She was already turned on by the confrontation.

Making no attempt to pull her shirt shut, she glanced at Clyde and his brothers as if considering the man's offer. The Driegeoes looked formidable in their battle-dress biker's clothes, proudly displaying the chains around their waist, their studded knuckle and wrist covers, their shiny, black leather jackets and scuffed, hard-toed, stomping boots.

"Send my babies home?" she said softly, questioningly, as if debating with her emotions. The big one smiled, relishing the unexpected possibility. Sue turned back to him as if remembering. "Oh, what about Dan? I've got to talk to him."

The cockiness waned a bit. "What about? Can't it wait?"

"No, it can't. I've got to show him something," she said, a seemingly sincere smile spreading on her face. She raised her hand up in front of his face. "I just wanted to show him this."

The man looked at her hand expecting to see a ring or bracelet or tattoo or something.

Sue drove her fingernails into his eyes and clawed downward. He screamed and Sue snapped her head back, stumbling backwards as if she'd been hit.

To Clyde, it appeared that Sue had maybe slapped the man, and then the man had hit her with his fist. He yelled and ran toward her with Guido and Ox hot on his heels.

Two of the screeching man's friends pulled him to the side, while the others circled Sue. One of the men shoved her to the ground. Another, seeing the bikers coming toward them, reached down and pulled a small revolver from an ankle holster.

Before he could raise it up, Clyde shot him in the stomach. As the man fell, he spastically jerked on the gun's trigger. One of the errant bullets tore into the chest of the man with the gouged eyes, knocking him to the ground. He curled into a fetal position, coughing and gagging on foamy blood and puke spewing from his mouth.

With two of their own already down, one being the only one having a gun, the other four turned to run, but Guido and Ox had already spread out, trapping them against the building. Not having any way to escape, they tried to take a stand and fight.

One of them pulled out a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt. Clyde shot him in the side. The man spun around and dropped the knife just as Guido's foot connected with his chin. Clyde calmly watched Ox and Guido take care of the other three. They were gleefully kicking and stomping on the unconscious bodies when Clyde spotted a woman watching the melee from a second story window directly overhead. He yelled an order and ran up the stairs with Sue on his heels.

At the top of the stairs, Clyde pointed to the woman's door and told Guido, "A woman in there saw us," as if he thought no one else had seen them. "You two take care of her, then watch the hall."

Ox, unceremoniously, smashed in her door, taking the right side of the door frame with it, still connected by the locking chain.

Guido went in low and to the left, his gun drawn. The woman started hysterically screaming into the phone. Guido jerked it from her clutching hands as Ox grabbed her by the head with both hands and violently twisted. Her snapping neck bones could be heard all the way out in the hall.

Satisfied that everything was under control, Clyde smashed in Dan's door and went in the same way as Guido had. A large black cat screeched menacingly, ran into the bedroom and dove under the bed. Sue calmly walked into the room and stopped in front of Clyde, who was in a crouched, ready-to-shoot position. He violently shoved her aside, then straightened up under the angry scrutiny of those hard, black eyes.

"You never know about these little chickenshit types," he explained. "Might be huddled in a corner pissing in his pants and holding a .44 or something."

Looking at Clyde's battered face, Sue started to comment about the chickenshit, but his eyes warned against it.

They quickly checked the small apartment and found nothing more dangerous than the cat bravely hissing and wailing at them when they approached the bed.

Guido and Ox stood guard in the hall while Clyde and Sue started searching through drawers and closets, not really knowing what they were looking for.

A commotion started building out front as people came out of the neighboring apartments to see what had happened. Some tentatively approached the six crumpled bodies lying on the lawn.

Not finding any clues as to where Dan might be, Clyde told Sue, "Forget it. We better get our asses outta here."

He stopped in the hall and quickly explained, "Let's go out the back door and down the alley to the corner. We'll work our way down the street to our bikes before anybody even notices us." He handed Sue the automatic and pulled a small revolver from behind his back. "If someone tries to stop us, you keep them busy while we get the bikes started."

She nodded, her eyes sparkling excitedly.

At the bottom of the stairs, finding the alley vacant, they went left down the alley, turned left again at the street and nonchalantly walked to the corner.

The moving van was perfectly positioned between their bikes and the crowd gathering in front of Dan's building. They walked down the street next to the parked cars, using the van as cover, and had no trouble reaching their bikes, starting them, and riding away.

Two blocks down the street they met a speeding police car, its lights flashing and siren screaming.

Sue giggled as it roared by.

______________________

Dan tried to hold down his speed, but his foot and the noisy truck wouldn't cooperate. The more the truck groaned and rattled, the more he pushed on the gas. Traffic was light, the sky clear, and the prized pigs were in the back. He couldn't help being in a hurry. Saliva oozed from the corners of his mouth and ran down his chin. The thought of fresh meat, of ham and bacon and pork chops and ribs and pork roast was more than he could stand.

"Where's that goddamned orchard," he muttered to himself, growing angry and impatient. He knew where the orchard was. He'd stolen apples from it many times as a kid, but he just couldn't remember. He was thinking that he'd passed it, when he rounded a curve and spotted the rolling hills on his left, dotted with hundreds of rows of perfectly spaced trees.

He vaguely remembered the last time he'd been here—it seemed like a hundred years ago, or maybe in a dream. He'd approached from the river with a gunny sack in his hands. The thought made his stomach hurt. He'd eaten so many green apples that day that he never wanted to see another one again, ever. But he remembered that the owner of the orchard lived on the river about a half mile upstream and had his own boat dock. There was always a boat or two tied to it, just waiting to be stolen. He briefly wondered why he'd bothered with the apples and then just as quickly forgot them.

The dirt road bordering the orchard was approaching. He slowed, pulled onto the shoulder and waited for the only vehicle in sight, another old pickup stacked high with bales of hay, to go by.

He followed the dirt road around to the back of the orchard. Satisfied that there was no one around and that he couldn't be seen from the highway, he turned into the woods and cut a path down the shallow slope to the riverbank where he turned the truck around, backed it to the edge of the water and shut off the motor.

Drawing his gun, he replaced the three shells expended killing the pigs, then started through the woods toward the farm house. Laughter and the scent of cooking meat brought him to a halt. He stopped and listened to the disgusting noises, and sniffed the delicious, beckoning aromas. Pulling out his gun, he slowly crept forward.

The woods stopped at the edge of a large lawn sloping up from the river to the back of an old Victorian style two-story gray house, complete with open, blue shutters, a second story balcony and a full width screened in porch. Four women sit at a long, green picnic table, talking and laughing. Four men hovered around a beer keg in a trash barrel, acting like idiots, trying to talk louder than the other, guffawing and guzzling beer. Several small kids ran about the lawn, yelling and screeching. At the bottom of the lawn, extending twenty feet into the river was a floating boat dock with only an old, unpainted rowboat tied to it. Oars were in their oarlocks, their blades tauntingly lifted into the air, just waiting, beckoning for him. Dan cursed his rotten luck. At least, it was downriver to the cave.

Eight adults in the yard, probably more in the house, kids everywhere, and all for a crummy rowboat. He couldn't figure out what to do. He couldn't hope to shoot them all before one of them appeared with a gun as the old woman had, and he didn't want to wait until dark. He finally resigned himself to circling around the house and going farther upstream, until hearing the roar of a speedboat approaching from behind. As it went by the house, a young couple in the boat waved at the people in the yard. The boat went up the river for a ways, turned around and came back downriver again. One of the men standing around the keg waved, pointed at the table and hollered something that was drowned out by the roar of the boat's big V-8 engine. The rapidly accelerating boat skimmed on down the river.

Then Dan noticed a pickup truck connected to a boat trailer parked beside the house. He realized that the kids in the boat belonged with the people at the house. That meant that they'd eventually come back upriver!

Silently slinking back into the woods, he gradually broke into full stride, crashing hell-bent through the brush, hoping to get to the truck before they came back upriver. He reached the truck, paused, and listened. They were still far downriver, but had turned around and were on their way back.

Dismissing his gun as being too noisy, he holstered it and started rummaging around behind the truck seat. He found something that brought a smile to his face; an old rusty claw hammer. He slipped it under his belt and covered it with his jacket. The engine grew louder. He went to the river's edge and waited. Then it fell silent.

Almost immediately the sound started again. The boat roared around the bend in the river doing at least fifty and still accelerating. Dan stood at the river's edge and frantically waved for them to stop. The girl spotted him, leaned over and shouted to the boy driving. He glanced toward the shore, then turned his head back and continued accelerating. The girl hollered again and for a couple of seconds it looked like he was going to ignore her. Suddenly, the motor quit, then immediately roared back to life. The boat's bow plowed into the water, spraying water high into the air. It instantly slowed to a crawl and its engine dropped to an idle as the bow turned toward the bank.

Having been around boats all his life, Dan knew that only a jet-drive boat could be so easily shifted into reverse at high speed and stop that quickly. Pleased at his good fortune, he continued waving with one hand while pointing to the truck with the other.

The boy, not looking more than eighteen, blond, tanned, and annoyed, gave Dan a bored, condescending look as he slid the boat onto the bank. Rich kid, Dan thought. Fancy boat, good looking girl, lots of money to blow, and probably never worked a day in his life. Dan immediately despised him. But the girl, who was probably from the same class, the same type parents, with the same spoiled irresponsible attitude about life, had an entirely different effect on Dan.

She smiled warmly and stood up, revealing a bright red string-bikini clinging to a voluptuous, darkly tanned, teasingly seductive, hypnotic body. The downriver breeze flipped her long, wavy, black hair around over the left side of her face, the tips brushed back and forth over her full breasts. She rested her arms on the windshield and leaned forward eyeing Dan curiously, or displaying her boobs to him; he assumed the latter.

"Got a problem with your truck?" the boy asked, eyeing Dan suspiciously.

Before the kid could ask what the truck was doing in the woods, by the riverbank, and on his father's property, Dan said, "Yeah, I need a jump."

"I don't have any—"

"I got long cables," Dan said, surprised at his quick thinking.

The kid wanted to question the scruffy looking man, but there was something unnerving about him. The boy regretted having stopped, but since he had, the only thing to do was to jump the truck and get on his way as soon as possible. "Sure." Faking a smile, the boy climbed out of the boat, telling the girl, "Joyce, hop out here and hold the boat while I help him."

She smiled at Dan and stepped up on the bow of the boat. When she jumped to the ground, she half stumbled into Dan's arms. The feel of a girl's body pressing against his, awakened urges that he'd forgotten about during the last several days.

She turned around and grabbed the cleat on the bow of the boat. The boy turned toward the boat to see if she had everything under control. The hammer head crushed into the boy's skull, sinking into his brain all the way to the wooden handle. The boy dropped lifelessly to the ground, his face landing in the water.

Dan quickly hooked his left arm around the girl's throat, squeezing off a scream. She kicked and squirmed and jerked violently. He had to quieten her somehow. Maybe show her what could happen to her, he thought, and show her who's boss. He tightened the grip on her neck and pulled the furiously struggling girl on top of the boy's body and jerked the hammer out of his head. A bright-red stream of blood welled from the wound and drifted downstream in the current. The girl tried to put her arms in front of her face, but Dan tossed the hammer away and encircling her, pinned her arms to her chest. Then he pushed her face against the wound. The more she struggled, the harder he rubbed her face on it.

Her struggles gradually diminished and turned to racking, noiseless sobs. Dan pulled her up a little so she could get a good look, then relaxed his arm around her neck to let her get some air. She sputtered and gulped in a couple of quick breaths and started to scream. Dan quickly tightened his grip much harder this time. She struggled feebly for a few seconds as her strength quickly ebbed. Losing consciousness, she slumped limply in the crook of his arm.

Dragging her to a tree, he set her against it, then tied the boat's bow line to a sapling, cut off the excess rope and tied her arms behind the tree. She made a weak, moaning sound. He found a rag in the truck, stuffed it into her mouth, then ripped off her bikini top and tied it around her head. He stepped back and proudly admired his prize. She seemed so small, and somehow, different. But the feelings surging through his loins convinced him that she was what he needed.

While he was carrying the last pig to the boat, the girl started squirming and making wailing noises through her nose. In an attempt to console her, he carried the pig over and laid it across her lap. Her reaction confused him. She violently thrashed about, making retching, gagging sounds through her nose, barely able to hold down the bile. Finally, she wiggled the pig from her lap and lashed out with her feet at Dan's face.

Amused, he effortlessly slapped her legs away and snatched up the pig. He laughed, knowing that she'd like him when she got a taste of the meat.

He tossed the pig into the boat, then pulled the truck into the brush. Satisfied that it couldn't be seen from the river, he ran back, untied the girl and carried her to the boat. When she saw the boy's body again, she went berserk and with renewed vigor, started struggling again.

"What's the matter? You don't like this little sissy, anymore?"

Laughing, Dan reached down, hooked his finger under the collar of the boy's red, rich-boy's, Sea Breeze flotation jacket and jerked him out into the water. The boy floated lazily around the back of the boat and drifted downstream.

Joyce twisted from his grip and fell to the ground. Dan hooked his arm around her throat and tried to soothe her with words. When that failed to calm her, he squeezed tightly until she passed out again. She made a strange gagging sound. Afraid that she was choking, he jerked the bikini top from her head and pulled out the rag, then tossed her on top of the pigs.

He cast off with his new mate, in his new boat, with plenty of meat, as happy as he could ever remember being.

As Joyce began to regain consciousness, the first sensation she felt was the jostling and noise of the boat, then a disgusting smell caused her to gag. She froze as memories rushed in. Brian! She choked off a moan of despair, vividly remembering what had happened to her boyfriend. The maniac had her in the boat and the horrible smell was the pigs! Even realizing the gravity of the situation and how important it was for her to remain motionless and continue to appear unconscious, barely kept her from bolting when she opened her eyes. A dark, bloody eye stared back at her. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and fought the panic trying to force her to jump up by concentrating on the roar of the motor, the bouncing of the boat and the wind whistling by. Anything to help her maintain control.

Suddenly realizing that her hands and feet weren't tied, and being an excellent swimmer, it gave her a spark of hope. She began breathing slowly and deeply to help clear her head and get her strength back.

After about ten minutes of disgusting hell, the boat slowed. She didn't dare turn her head to see what was happening. She knew that the essential element of escaping would be to get up and over the side of the boat and into the water in one lunge before the maniac could react. She didn't even think about how hard it would be to elude him in the water. She was an athlete, could swim underwater for three minutes, run the 100 yard dash in under eleven seconds, and give most men a good fight. And once her feet got on land, there wasn't any man that could outrun her today. Not this creep. Not anybody.

The boat turned to the left. She felt the adrenaline surge, her heart beating stronger. It was now or never! She took a deep breath, jumped up and dove over the right side of the boat.

The man yelled at her just as she hit the water. Her hands hit the muddy river bottom, then her head slammed into the mud. Air exploded from her mouth, muddy water rushed in before she could shut it, almost choking her. Pushing frantically with her hands, trying to free her head from the mud, only made them sink deeper into the soft goo. She pulled her knees down under her for leverage. A smothering weight smashed her farther into the mud. She felt her hair being pulled, her head sucked free of the mire. An arm slid under her face and jerked her from the water. Thinking that he was trying to get his forearm under her throat again, she bit into his arm. The lights went out.

Dan was momentarily stunned when, just as he was beaching the boat, the girl dove head first into the shallow water. He was amazed to see her sticking half out of the water. Realizing what had happened, he burst out laughing. He leaned out and tried to grab one of her flailing legs, but suddenly they disappeared into the cloud of muddy water she was stirring up. Shocked at the thought of her actually escaping, he jumped into the churning cloud after her.

When she bit him, he released her hair and hit her on the side of her head with his fist. She instantly went limp. He tied her to a tree, then tossed the pigs and hams on the ground and hid the boat in the slew.

Joyce regained consciousness and heard Dan coming back. She pretended to be in a stupor and totally exhausted, hoping for another chance to run.

After untying her, Dan was pleased that she could stand and seemed to be able to walk. He said casually, meaning to be kind, "At least I don't have to drag you back to the cave by your hair."

When she heard the word cave she went wild. Dan slipped his arm around her neck and whispered, "Any way you like it." She relaxed and stumbled along slowly as if she was hurt and weak, her eyes darting around and her heart pumping wildly as she looked for her chance. Aware of her inner tenseness, Dan kept a firm grip on her arm.

On the way to the cave, Dan reflected on what had happened today. Everything had turned out great. He had some excitement, brought back plenty of meat, ended up with a really fast boat, and found a mate. Now all he wanted to do was eat and get to know his—he didn't know what to call her. He'd heard the boy call her Joyce, but what was she to him? Girlfriend? Wife? She was his to do with as he wanted. He settled for his girl.

At the bottom of the ravine, the sight of a small brush pile that hadn't been there before, set off an alarm. He caught himself sniffing as he looked for intruders. His nose told him that it had been put there by Sol and Jed, but he didn't understand it until reaching the top of the ravine and seeing the stark nakedness of the entrance tunnel. They'd cleared away the brush covering the opening. He felt himself getting angry but didn't know why. As he pushed Joyce around the big rock and into the tunnel, his anger disappeared. Without the brush, it was much easier to get into the cave.

Going through the tunnel, Dan had the sensation that Sol and Jed were tense and ready, waiting to attack the intruders.

Dan hollered, "It's me." They never answered. Realizing that they had heard two people, he added, "And a friend." He could feel them relax.

When Jed saw the topless girl, he almost went berserk. Dan shoved him away, pushed the girl over to the meteorite and tied her to it. Satisfied that she'd still be there when he got back, he ushered Sol and Jed out to fetch their lunch.

On the way, with his hand on the butt of his pistol, he explained to both of them that the girl was his and to leave her alone. Sol didn't seem to mind, but Jed mumbled and grumbled all the way to the river. Upon seeing the meat, he forgot about the girl.

After carrying the meat back to the cave, Sol and Jed began hacking chunks off one of the hams while Dan tried to light the stove. It wouldn't light. He held match after match to the burner and twisted on the knob. The thought to pump up the gas tank never entered his mind. Frustrated, he kicked the stove over and turned angrily to the Rakers.

Sol was holding a chunk of dripping, red meat up to his face, nibbling at it. With hunger pangs threatening to twist his stomach in knots, Dan walked over to him and watched. Sol grinned and took a big, slurping bite and began noisily chewing with his mouth open. Blood ran down his chin and dribbled onto his shirt.

Jed picked up a piece of meat and started to take a bite. Dan snatched it from him and snarled, "Gimme that!" Jed started to object, then stopped as Dan stepped back and took a bite. Jed ripped a chunk off of one of the huge hind legs and scurried to the far side of the cavern.

Joyce closed her eyes and tried unsuccessfully to block out the nauseous, sickening sounds of them eating. She swore to never eat meat again. Then the horror of the situation struck her. They were eating raw pig! Even cannibals usually cook their meat. What kind of freaks were these men?

______________________

Day 10, Wednesday, October 19

Tom was home trying to type a report for Mallory Engineering and cussing an erratic key on his calculator when Sherri called from work.

She omitted their usual amenities and said on a dour note, "Did you hear about Dan?"

Definitely bad news. For some reason, he expected the worse. "No. What about him?"

"He's listed as missing," she said gravely. "They found his boat this morning and they think he might have drowned."

"Drowned?" At least the news was speculative, maybe not bad at all. "I doubt it. He can swim like a fish."

"Even excellent swimmers drown some times," she reminded him. "And since nobody's seen him since Thursday, you know something is wrong."

"Yeah, something might be wrong, but I'll bet he didn't drown."

"I hope you're right. But did you hear about the people that were killed at his apartment yesterday?"

"Killed? Hell no, I didn't hear about anybody getting killed."

"Three guys and a girl on motorcycles came looking for Dan and they started a fight. One guy that just moved into the apartment building was killed and two of his friends were shot. One of them died in the hospital and they said the other one's in critical condition."

"You don't think Dan was involved, do you?"

"No. I'm sure he wasn't. They killed that sweet old lady across the hall from his apartment, then ransacked Dan's place and got away. Nobody saw them leave and nobody knew them—or nobody admitted it, anyway. But it had to be the bikers that Dan got in a fight with, don't you think?"

"Of course! Who the hell else could it be?"

"That's what I thought, too. Everybody in town has heard of the fight Dan had with the Driegeo brothers, but you won't believe this. The police have reported having no clues."

"What in the hell is going on?" Tom said more to himself than to her.

"Do you think it could have something to do with that damned meteorite?"

"I don't know…" He'd immediately considered the possibility. "We still don't know who helped him. Maybe it was the bikers and he double-crossed them or something."

"Well, on the bright side," Sherri said confidently. "If they were looking for him yesterday, we can rule out that Dan disappeared as a result of some vendetta from the bikers. I have to admit that when I first heard who Dan had beaten in that fight, I was afraid that maybe the bikers had done something to him."

Tom had also considered that possibility. It was now obvious that the bikers wanted to find him and would kill in the process. They were getting too damned serious for it to be merely revenge over the outcome of a fight. What else could it be, he wondered, except the meteorite. He knew that meteorites were a hot item with collectors. Could one be worth enough to kill for? He realized how stupid that thought was. Some would kill for the price of a drink. Maybe he should have taken the risk and went along with Dan. At least, Dan wouldn't have needed to get involved with a ruthless element like the bikers, if that's what happened. Dan just didn't fit in with that type

"I can understand," he said, "that Dan would want to avoid me since he went behind our backs and took the meteorite, but knowing—surely he knows—that the bikers are looking for him and how serious they obviously are, I'd think that he'd call me. Hell, I'm still his best friend."

"Maybe he hasn't heard about what happen yesterday."

"Maybe… Hell, I hadn't heard, so there's a damned good chance he hasn't. You know how he is about radios when he's in the woods." They were both aware of Dan's aversion to radios when in the wild or in a boat. He was an avid purist when it came to nature. Even when in his truck, the moment the tires left the highway, the radio went off.

"He's probably hiding out in the woods somewhere, in one of those hunter's shacks or maybe even in a cave. God knows, Dan's aware of every hole, abandoned mine, and cave in the state."

"I sure hope so," she said, genuinely concerned.

"I'll stick around the house today just in case he calls."

"That's a good idea," she added, "ah… just a second."

When she came back on the line Tom told her that he'd call her tonight, then he remembered. "Sher, there's a man coming here tomorrow, and I'm supposed to take him to the site. Would you mind taking off work and going with us?"

"You know that I can't take off work unless it's extremely important, but…" She paused as if thinking, then shifted to her special, persuasive tone. "…maybe I could make an exception if…"

"…if I come over and spend the night with you, and…"

"And… Go on. You might be on to something," she cooed.

"No way."

"No way?" she blurted, the provocative voice gone. "What do you mean by that?"

"You know how bashful I am when it comes to the ladies. I need some encouragement before I commit myself to a night of debauchery."

"Oh, I see. Would a promise to satisfy your wildest fantasies help to alleviate your bashfulness?"

"What if my wildest fantasies might be considered by some to be on the kinky side?"

"Some," she whispered, "might like it." She paused. "And then, some might wonder what you had in mind before committing themselves."

"Sweetheart, what I've got in mind can't be described over the phone. It has to actually be physically expressed in order to be fully appreciated."

"I'll bet it does," she agreed, feinting naiveness.

Tom liked their bantering, but he thought of something that he had to do.

"Sweetheart, I'd love to stay on the phone and describe in detail the things I'm going to do to you, but right now I need to call the police and find out what they know."

She instantly turned serious again. "Good idea. Call me if you find out anything." Then she added. "I sure hope Dan's all right."

"Well, one thing I'm pretty sure of is that he didn't drown. Maybe he got bitten by a snake or fell and broke a leg or something, but you can't drown a fish."

"But what about his boat drifting down the river?"

"I don't know," Tom answered, his conviction wavering. "Let's hope that he's camping somewhere away from the river and simply didn't tie the boat good enough. Maybe it drifted away and he doesn't even know it, yet."

"I hope so." Then in a lighter tone. "I'll see you tonight."

"Yeah, Babe, I'll be waiting at your place when you get off work. As a matter of fact, I'll stop at the store on the way over and pick up some oysters and have dinner and me ready for you."

"Yuck!"

"Whadda you mean, yuck?"

She giggled and hung up. Tom stared at the phone for a moment, trying to remember if she liked oysters.

______________________

The cavern was quiet, except for deep, almost silent breathing. Sol and Jed used to snore as if they were competing against each other. Why these long, deep breaths? Dan snapped wide awake and slowly raised his head toward the sound. The Rakers were curled up side by side near the entrance, appearing to be sleeping. Were they trying to fool me? he wondered. Alarms went off in his mind. Quickly checking behind him, he saw that Joyce was sleeping peacefully.

He stood up and felt his pants rip along his right leg. The left leg felt tight, the right leg was now comfortable. The outside seam had ripped from his hip to knee. He ran his hands down his legs and felt the bulging muscles. He didn't understand it, but it felt good. He noticed that his hands looked longer and wider. His nails were longer but that fact went unnoticed. He scratched his chest with them. It felt good on his skin tight shirt. He took a deep breath and felt a button pop off the shirt. He took off his jacket, ripped the shirt away and slipped the jacket back on.

He sensed being stared at. His eyes flicked to Sol. Their eyes locked for a moment then Dan glanced at Jed. He was staring, also. For a tedious second he felt challenged. He stared at both of them until they blinked and looked away. Having established his superiority, he stepped over to the last uneaten pig. The Rakers quickly joined him.

Nothing was said, but as Dan reached down toward the pig, they all grabbed it simultaneously. There was no hostility in their actions. It was more like they were simply guarding their share. As Dan moved the pig, they dug their fingers tighter into it. Dan twisted off a rear leg and Sol snapped the pig's neck and pulled its head off and Jed tore a front quarter off the carcass. They began eating without a word having been spoken.

The only noises in the cavern were slurping, sucking, carnivorous chewing sounds of glutinous feeding. Dan was aware of only the Rakers and the leg he was eating. Suddenly he felt threatened from behind. He spun around. Joyce was glaring at him. It was pure hate. Dan didn't care if she hated him. So what? She was still his—to do with as he wished. She could hate him. He could fuck her. That seemed fair to him.

He tore off the other rear leg. The Rakers jumped up. Dan kicked the rest of the carcass into their clawing hands and walked over to Joyce.

She looked small and helpless tied to the rock. Her eyes met his, red and full of hate. He smiled, amused that she hated him. Actually, it felt exciting. He tore a big chunk of meat from the leg and lowered it to her mouth. She jerked her head back and spit at it. Dan smiled as his hand snapped to her face. He forced her mouth open, crammed a piece of meat into it and held her mouth shut. She squirmed and tried to turn her head away to spit it out, but he was too strong.

"Eat it or I'll break your neck," he said softly, but the words came out harsh and clipped. He cleared his throat and tried again. His lips didn't move right. The words were practically unintelligible. In frustration he screamed the words at her. The words came out right. His voice was all right. She understood him. She stopped struggling, her eyes locked on his and she said something to him. Confused, he looked at his hand over her mouth. How did she say anything? It sounded like she'd said to get away from her. He screamed at her again and squeezed her face harder. When her mouth finally started moving he relaxed his grip. She quickly jerked her head to the side and spit the meat away.

Dan picked up the chunk of meat, slipped one hand to the back of her head and smashed the meat against her face. The more she fought, the harder he pushed and twisted. She finally stopped squirming, but still refused to open her mouth. He gave up and let go of her, then disgustedly threw the meat in her lap. She could starve for all he cared. Feeling unusually tired he curled up beside her.

After the Rakers picked the pig's carcass clean, they went back to their spot by the entrance to take a nap.

Joyce watched them drift to sleep and began quietly struggling against the rope binding her to the rock.

______________________

Tom walked purposefully into the police station and was instantly assaulted by a piercing scream coming from somewhere in the bowels of the large, three-story brick building. A thirtyish, dark-haired, stocky, rumpled policewoman sitting at a desk behind the counter took a huge bite on a double-decker hamburger, chewed no more than twice, then with an almost audible gulp, swallowed forcefully, oblivious to the scream or of Tom's arrival.

Tom placed his hands on the counter and watched patiently as she chomped down another bite. He started to speak, but held up as she crammed the remainder of the burger into her gaping mouth. Finally, after licking her fingers and wiping then on her shirt, she shifted her body slightly toward Tom and asked unpleasantly, "Whadda you want?"

"I, ah—" Briefly surprised by her tactless, harsh demeanor, Tom stumbled for a response. "I'm a friend of Dan Jenkins and…" He paused as she took another burger out of a sack; watched curiously as she flipped off the bun top, picked up the burger patty and stuffed it whole into her mouth. She glared at him expectantly. Trying to appear unaware of her crude manners, he continued politely, "…and I wanted to find out what you know about his disappearance."

She picked up the middle piece of bread, looked at it with contempt, tossed it aside and picked up the second patty. "Don't know anything about a Dan Jenkins."

A series of muffled thumps and soft moans drifted up the stairway leading down to the jail cells. She looked toward the sound and gulped down the patty.

Tom prompted, "His boat was found drifting down the river this morning."

She casually licked her fingers and turned back to Tom. "Yeah, somebody found a boat, but I don't know anything about it."

"Is there somebody here that might know?"

"Nah, nobody here knows nothing," she said convincingly.

"How about the two people that were killed at his apartment building yesterday? Do you know anything about that?"

She eyed him suspiciously. "Yeah, I know about it. Gang fight over drugs."

"Drugs?" Tom hadn't heard anything about drugs being mentioned. He knew that Dan smoked an occasional joint when the lady of his immediate affections required more than booze to get in the mood, but Dan never bought more than one or two joints at a time and wouldn't be involved in anything major. A dime bag was a real splurge for him. "It couldn't have been drugs. They were looking for Dan Jenkins—that's why they broke into his—"

A piercing wail reverberated from the stairwell.

The woman didn't flinch.

"What was that?" Tom asked, shocked by the obvious punishment being inflicted on someone, and even more shocked at the crying desperation in the mournful sound, which lingered in his ears.

"That noise?" She watched Tom nod his head, then slowly lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, stretching the moment as if waiting for him to ask her again. Finally, she offered wisely, with a touch of arrogance, "Probably somebody that doesn't like it here, wouldn't you think?"

The look in her eyes warned Tom to quell his curiosity. "As I was saying, whoever killed those people broke into Jenkins' apartment looking for him. It had nothing to do with drugs."

"How come you know so much about it?" she barked as she stood up and made a grand production of hitching her gun belt. "You ever been in jail?"

"No, I, ah—"

She slammed one hand on the counter and demanded, while Tom watched in shock as her other hand came to rest on her gun butt, "Let's see your ID."

"Hey, wait a minute," Tom pleaded, backing away a step and raising his hands in supplication, and to make sure that they were in clear view. "I haven't done anything." Then he remembered Dan once saying—after a night in the drunk tank—that the chief was, "One heck of a nice guy," qualifying the statement with, "for a red-neck."

"I'm a friend of the Chief's," Tom lied.

She relaxed a bit and seemed to reluctantly let her hand slide from the gun butt. "You're a friend of the Chief's, huh?"

Tom nodded and tried to light up the room with a wide, white smile. "Yeah, Dan and I have known the chief for a long time." Hoping that she wouldn't ask him the chief's name—because he didn't have a clue—he continued boldly, "Can I talk to the Chief?"

"He's not here," she said tersely. "And no, I don't know when he'll be back," with finality. Quickly losing interest in Tom, she sat back down, licked the tip of her finger and daubed up some crumbs from her paper plate.

Another loud, wailing scream erupted from somewhere below. She looked toward the stairwell, listening as the scream suddenly changed to gagging, then to an unsettling, eerie silence. She turned to Tom and smiled.

Tom shuddered slightly, remembering what it had been like to be on the receiving end of a police choke-hold. And how, when he'd come to, they had found a reason to do it again. Not surprisingly, the first choke-hold hadn't done anything to sober him up, but the second one had adjusted his argumentative attitude. It wasn't a pleasant memory.

Several muffled blows and grunts didn't erase her smile as she looked back toward the stairwell. Tom slowly backed away from the counter, picturing the grunts coming from someone kicking an unconscious body. The policewoman frowned as if troubled by the silence from below and offered no resistance to his retreat.

In a small, hopefully inconspicuous voice, Tom said, "I'll come back later. Tell the Chief, Tom Miller was here to see him." Her gaze remained locked on the stairwell.

Tom turned and quickly walked out the door.

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Exhausted after her futile struggles with the ropes binding her, Joyce dozed off. She saw them eating the pig, the gory carnage of it being ripped apart, and their disgusting slurping noises, and the glob of bloody meat being stuffed into her mouth. She jerked, awoke, and glanced around. The lantern was on, but the madmen were gone.

Realizing that her back felt hot and itched terribly, she began squirming against the rock trying to relieve the itch. She felt something jostling in her lap and looked down. It was the chunk of meat. It was darker than when he'd first put it there. She didn't know that meat darkens when left out in the open air. It didn't look nearly as gross as she'd originally thought.

She looked at the meat for a moment and her mouth watered. Her stomach screamed at her to eat. She licked the taste off her lips where Dan had rubbed the meat on her. It tasted good. She remembered her father saying, I like my steaks good 'n rare, so stop a cookin' when the blood quits a runnin'. It had been gross watching him cut it, seeing the bloody, runny, raw middle, and her father popping a bite into his mouth in overt rapture.

Even though starving, the memory was still gross.

She glanced down at the meat again. It was still loathsome, but somehow not quite as bad. She felt like she was going to die if she didn't eat something soon.

Thinking of pizza and hamburger and… she drifted off.

She dreamed of lying in a bathtub full of bloody red steaks. She ate and ate and ate until she was so full that she couldn't get out of the tub. Then she curled up and fell asleep in the juicy meat, looking forward to waking up and eating again.

This time she woke up as if someone was torturing her. The hunger pangs were unbearable. The freaks were still gone and the piece of meat was still in her lap. She wanted to scream for someone to bring her something decent to eat, but the thought of her demented captors made her shudder.

Realizing that she had no choice, like when her mother had made her take castor oil when she was younger, she resigned herself to the horrible fact. She had to have something to eat, no matter how awful and disgusting it would be. She wiggled the meat down to her knees, gripped it between them and brought it slowly, tentatively to her mouth. As it got closer, she hesitated and smelled it. She couldn't believe how good it smelled and the uncontrollable urges it generated within her body. With total abandon, she sank her teeth into the juicy meat and tore viciously at it.

Her dream had almost come true. It was delicious.

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Two motorcycles rumbled along the winding gravel road into the timber covered hills east of Joplin toward a secluded, weather-worn, two-story frame house nestled among the trees. In sharp contrast to the rundown scrap-yard facade, seven brightly chromed, wildly painted, custom-built Harley choppers were lined up against the full-length open front porch. They were the product of devout bikers with unlimited tenacity and imagination, and an endless supply of rejuvenated old parts. Some mistakenly thought that the gang members possessed those creative mechanical skills. Actually, the bikes were the creations of Custom Cycles in Lundburg, Illinois, whose owners eagerly traded stolen bike parts, their employee's cheap labor, and would gladly throw in their own mother's souls for small, heavily cut bags of cocaine.

Things hadn't been better in Clyde's recent memory. Since he and his brothers had moved in and taken over Hank's gang, stealing and stripping cars, taking small-time muscle jobs, and selling little dabs of drugs to hop-heads were a thing of the past. Trusting Guido and Ox to handle the coke business, and Hank to run his six-man gang of muscle and misfits had been a good decision. Guido was conscientious, dependable, and mean enough to handle the business and, especially with Ox's help, keep Hank on his toes. Clyde could finally kick back and supervise and think of ways to spend his money.

Today, he and Sue had spent all morning in bed enjoying his favorite pastime. At lunch they'd each devoured a bar-be-que chicken and an order of ribs. His brothers had just called in, having delivered, without a hitch, a kilo of coke and were on their way back with forty-five grand in their obedient little hands. His gang was in the kitchen playing poker and guarding the fort. His world was in order.

But something foreign had been introduced into his world. His tranquillity was being invaded by an obsession to horde and store. At first, he thought that the lure of more wealth was the motivating factor, but he'd never been driven exclusively by wealth. Power, yes. Power was something that he'd always craved, but not the type of power to rule over a large mass of people. Sadam and Castro weren't his idols. He never had the desire to rule people that he didn't even know. He was already exactly what he'd always wanted to be. The big fish in a little pond, the king of the roost, the leader and ultimate authority in his own family. That goal he'd already attained. Why wasn't he content? Things couldn't be better. But another need welled within him. His mind couldn't refute it. A need with no explanation or reason. One that couldn't be explained with logic. It was a need that had to be fulfilled. But what? And why?

He took the rock from his pocket and set it on the table. Sue's face lit up as if he'd just set the Hope Diamond before her. She smiled and picked it up. She had the need, too. He could see it in her eyes as she ogled his prized treasure. Clyde didn't need the assayer to convince him of its value. That notion had vanished, however illogically, during the drive back after watching the assayer burn. Clyde no longer needed someone else's opinion. He knew the rock was priceless and the fewer people that knew about it the better.

The familiar sound of approaching motorcycles turned their attention from the rock to the bedroom door. Clyde plucked the rock from Sue's hand and slipped it into his pocket. Sue's smile turned to an exaggerated pout.

"Don't worry, you wicked bitch," he said affectionately. "We're gonna be rolling in these pretty soon."

That pleased her. Terms of endearment plus promises of riches.

Guido and Ox came in, appearing equally as happy. Guido waited for Clyde to dismiss Sue—he always sent the broads out when discussing business.

Clyde looked at him expectantly. "Well…"

Guido looked at Sue and back, raising a questioning brow.

"She's okay," Clyde said, then added proudly, "the bitch gives good head and kills fat slobs, don't you Babe?"

Sue grinned proudly and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

Guido started to say something, shrugged and pulled a bank deposit bag from inside his jacket and tossed it on the table.

"The Major loved the stuff, but he whined a little about having to pay all cash. He said to tell you that he's got six, fifty-caliber machine guns with jeep mounts, and sixty thousand rounds of ammo set aside for you. And he's got some more Uzi's."

"Screw him," Clyde said lightly, "he's gotta pay with whatever we can move, and right now, we're overstocked with weapons."

Ox spoke up eagerly, "Can't you just get one for me?"

"Ox," Clyde answered slightly perturbed, "I let you keep a rocket launcher and enough rockets to wipe out the whole damned town and we've never had a use for it. Now what in the hell do you need a fifty-caliber machine gun for?"

Ox looked down at the floor like a kid having been told that he can't have any candy.

"Oh, guess what?" Guido's gravely voice broke the silence. "Yesterday, Dan Jenkins' boat was found drifting down the river. From what I've heard, nobody's seen him since Thursday. The cops think he probably drowned."

Sue jumped up excitedly. "That means that he was upriver somewhere—" She looked at Clyde sheepishly. "I mean, that he went back up there after his float trip."

Ox and Guido quickly agreed. The bitch made sense. They were impressed.

Clyde patronized their brilliance by nodding his head and acting like they'd figured something out all by themselves.

"Hank," Clyde shouted, "get in here." Several hurried mumbles came from the kitchen, then the screech of a chair scraping on the floor preceded Hank's arrival.

"Good thing you called me," Hank said. "That goddamned Cutter wasn't bluffing this time. I almost walked into kings full with an ace-high flush."

Clyde waved his hand impatiently. "I need a fast boat first thing in the morning."

"A boat? Whatcha gonna do? Go fishing?" Hank smiled and glanced around the room. Nobody smiled with him. His smile quickly disappeared.

"No, goddamnit, I need a speedboat to go upriver and look for something. Just get me one!"

"Sure, ah…" He realized the word buy hadn't been used, meaning he'd have to do some midnight requisitioning. "I can get one by morning, but to get one in good condition and ready to go—that might be a problem."

They all stared at Hank, waiting for him to continue with a more concrete answer. He countered with a look of being in deep thought.

Clyde was puzzled. What problem? Stealing a boat from any of a dozen back yards during the night was no problem. Then it came to him. How could he be sure that the motor would run, or that the boat was all right? With his luck the boat would probably have a hole in it and sink.

What he'd have to do was to go down to the river where the fishermen launch their boats and confiscate one. At least, he reasoned, if the men are going fishing, the boat should be in good shape and have plenty of gas. What he was going to do with the fishermen required little thought.

Liking his new idea much better, he quickly dismissed Hank. "All right, Hank, forget the boat. We'll take care of it. Knock off the poker game early and have two of the men ready to ride with you before daybreak."

Hank obediently left the room, wondering about Clyde. Since Sue had come to stay with them, Clyde hadn't been his normal self. He almost seemed to be loaded all the time. He seemed to be having trouble thinking. At times, he didn't seem to be any smarter than Sue, and everybody knew that she was a ding-bat. But he didn't dare say anything, yet. Clyde was still the boss, and Guido and Ox would see to it that he stayed the boss.

And Hank dreaded the thought of going back to their previous nickel-dime operation before the Driegeoes had arrived. He could overlook a few faults to keep the cushy lifestyle he was presently enjoying.

______________________

Something was wrong. The needle settled at 221. Cliff Marlow stepped off the scale, turned around toward the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. He sucked in his gut, slipped his thumbs under the waistband and slid them around. A little snug, but the picture in the mirror reflected a strong, slightly stocky, muscular figure for a man of 52. He did a Hulk pose. A growl escaped from his throat. He felt great. Strong. Agile. He wanted to do something physical, demanding, strenuous.

As the Chief of Police he didn't see enough action. His men had all the fun, while he sat around shuffling papers. He longed to be back in a patrol car searching out the scum, the dregs of the world, and cracking heads with his baton, and squeezing the cuffs on really tight.

He heard the tinkle of silverware and thought of his wife; that's what he wanted. He felt like a young stud in heat. Lately he couldn't get enough of Joan. And she seemed to be enjoying his renewed vitality. At least she never said no, or complained of a headache. She was good in that respect. Quiet, yielding, willing. Although she wasn't very emotional, he was sure that she had no complaints.

He pictured her cute little, almost boyish ass and felt a twitch in the root of his "rod," his pet name for it. Not very original, but a name a gun-toting cop could be proud of. Not his "little nibs" as she liked to call it. Too fagotty for a big tough strong man-of-the-law. A protector and guardian of the people, a leader in society. Someone everybody admired. Tonight he'd tell her for the last time to quit calling it that.

The tinkling of the crystal bell he'd bought Joan for their fifteenth anniversary, and her pleasant, high-pitched, "Dinner's on," normally brought a vision of his lovely, petite, obedient wife standing at her end of the table, the bell held daintily between thumb and forefinger, her other fingers sticking out delicately, as though waving as she wiggled the bell. The epitome of the perfect wife, delighted to have prepared a meal for her man. But today he saw a huge pile of steaks and chops and roasts and chicken, and his horny, naked wife lying spread-eagle in the middle of it offering him whatever he wanted.

He opened the bathroom door and was pleasantly assaulted by the smell of fried chicken and fresh bread. His mouth watered and his stomach churned violently.

He sat down at the table and quickly scanned the platters and bowls. As usual, Joan had fixed a good dinner. Tonight was one of his favorites; fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh creamed peas and carrots, and home made bread.

Joan's old-fashioned, dutiful methods of serving dinner would make a women's libber upchuck in her plate. She always stood at the side of the table and served Cliff first, making sure that everything was just perfect, then she'd serve Timmie, their only child, an eight-year old whom she hoped would grow up to be as good a man as his father.

Timmie would watch with admiration as she served his father. For his age, he was extremely unselfish, caring, and respectful. Although he idolized his father, he took more after his mother. He was small, polite, and very quiet. He thought his father was the best man in the whole world. When his father told him to shine his big cop's boots, Timmie would absolutely glow.

Timmie's dog wasn't very smart, so Timmie brought his father the newspaper, his slippers, and a dozen cans of beer a night. When his father told him to do anything, he'd jump up as if he was on a mission.

There were only three things that Timmie liked better than fried chicken. His father, his mother, and his dog, Peewee. He knew that he could eat as much fried chicken as his father, if his mother hadn't always insisted that he eat his vegetables and drink his milk, and try some of this, and try some of that.

Tonight was no exception. The first thing his mother put on his plate was a big pile of creamed peas and carrots, and then a large spoon of mashed potatoes with a pond of gravy in the middle, and one of her specialties, a thick, saucer-sized dinner roll. Eating the huge roll would cost him a piece of chicken, but she was a firm believer in one literally having their daily bread. She'd told him stories about when she was a child and that sometimes they only had bread and gravy to eat. It didn't make any sense to him. How could that be?

He reached for the chicken platter and picked up a thigh. He always ate a thigh first, and then a drumstick, and then a wing if there was one left. His mother only ate a small piece of breast or back. His father ate the rest and always looked as if he wanted more.

Timmie laid the thigh bone on the bone plate and reached across the table to grab a drumstick. His father had just put a big heap of mashed potatoes in his mouth and was lowering his fork for another scoop when he saw Timmie reaching. He stabbed at Timmie's hand with his fork, catching the back of his hand and driving it to the table. Timmie screamed and tried to pull his hand away. Cliff held it mashed to the table, the prongs sinking in to the bone. Blood oozed from the punctures, formed into a pool, and ran onto the white-lace tablecloth.

Horrified, Joan jumped up screaming hysterically and grabbed Cliff's arm. He slapped her face with his open left hand. She toppled against the wall and slumped to the floor.

Cliff pulled the bloody fork out of Timmie's hand, scooped up and shoveled a huge mound of mashed potatoes into his drooling mouth.

Timmie, ignoring his throbbing hand, ran to his mother who moaned weakly as she began regaining consciousness. She instinctively clutched him to her bosom. They both began sobbing.

Cliff ignored them and continued eating.

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Contents   Prologue   1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8