- 3 -

Day 11, Thursday, October 20

Clyde hung up the mike, brushed off Sue's nuzzling with an impatient jerk of his head, and signaled for his brothers to come alongside. A blip on their throttles brought them handlebar to handlebar with his machine. "Drop back a ways," he hollered over the rumble of the bikes, "and let us go in first. Give me five minutes."

Instead of trying to get a boat at the public pier downtown, Clyde had chosen a remote fishermen's launch area about a mile north of town on Lang Creek where it emptied into the Big Bend River. It didn't have a paved ramp and the chances of getting a speedboat were next to nil, but he didn't care. It was a necessary trade-off for seclusion. So he only gets a slow, stinking fishing boat. No problem. They could always upgrade it upstream for something better. Maybe they'd get two boats so he and Guido could race. Make a day of it. They even had their swimming trunks with them so they could look like dignified city boaters. Let Ox catch some fish and while Guido cooked them he'd screw Sue until she begged for more—and she would, she always did. Then he'd eat all the fish while his horny brothers tried to satiated her. He tried to chuckle, but it didn't seem funny. He'd always willingly shared his girls with his brothers. They were just toys to him. What was it about Sue? He didn't want to share her. But what if she didn't want to share him? He could never live that way. Could he?

Trying to shake the thought out of his mind, Clyde slowed, nudged his machine onto the diagonal blacktop road toward the creek, and looked back. His brothers had fallen back out of sight. Clyde had only been down here once and that was to do a drug deal that had gone sour for his buyers. They had set him up for a snatch, but he'd been too smart. He'd sent Ox here an hour early to hide and cover the transaction. As far as he knew, their bodies were still wired to rocks out in the river. Probably eaten long ago by turtles or catfish or whatever used the river bottom for their dinner table.

Ox had finally gotten to use one of their new Uzi's and was on a cloud for two weeks afterwards. Since then he had tried fruitlessly to find an excuse to use it again, but their operation had grown beyond using or expecting to need force during every deal. They no longer needed any new dealers and the ones they had wouldn't dare risk doing anything to jeopardize their excellent source of supply. Eighty-five to ninety percent pure Colombian was hard to come by these days.

But this was one of those unexpected special occasions for Ox. Since he'd been told to break out three Uzi's, half a dozen hand grenades and several extra clips of ammo, he was like a kid going to the circus with a pocketful of money. He'd been noticeably disappointed when told to pack it all in the picnic basket under their lunch instead of packing it close to his heart so he could pat it affectionately every few minutes. Putting him in charge of the basket had mollified him. Clyde didn't know if Ox would get to use the Uzi today, but it was unlikely that he'd be disappointed by the time they got home.

Hank and the rest of the gang were on Highway 19 north of town awaiting instructions by radio. It seemed like overkill to Guido, but Clyde wanted to be prepared for anything.

Clyde stopped at the end of the paved road, fifty feet from the creek, and looked around disgustedly. There were only two pickups—their trailers, empty skeletons—parked to the left of the road by the bank. There were no boats in sight. He pulled to the far side of the trucks and parked. Sue's hand slid to his crotch as soon as he turned off the engine. "Wait here," he said lifting her hand off him.

Ignoring her protest, he slipped from the bike and walked down to the creek. To the left, the water disappeared into the rolling woods, to the right, it opened into the river. Yellow points of light broke through the trees on the far side of the river, dancing on the slight ripple created by the creek flowing into the glassy smooth water of the river. There were no boats and the only evidence of a breeze was a slight rustling high in the leaves. The constant chirping of birds and an occasional frog jumping into the water seemed to create a sort of dreadful silence, finally broken by the sound of approaching motorcycle engines. A speedboat or a truck pulling one would sound much better.

When he got back, Guido and Ox were waiting expectantly. Just as Clyde was about to tell them that he hadn't already acquired a boat, two men in a fancy truck, decked-out with a chrome roll bar, a row of spotlights on top of the cab, chrome things hanging all over it, and a ski boat nestled in its trailer, pulled down to the creek and stopped.

A tall, thin kid wearing a black and red Big Bend High letter-jacket jumped from the passenger side and walked down to the creek to check the launching area. He gave a high-sign to the older man in the truck and waited impatiently for the man to turn the truck around and back the boat into the water.

Before Ox could react, Guido flipped up the top of the picnic basket and grabbed one of the machine pistols.

Clyde stopped him. "Not with that. For these two, we don't have to make any noise. Wait until they get the boat in the water and park the truck, then you each take one."

Guido smiled, pulling his favorite killing tool from his pocket; a six inch, authentic, Italian-made switchblade; the only kind he'd ever dream of using.

Ox stood and watched, not having to take anything out of his pocket; two deadly killing tools were always connected to his wrists. He popped his knuckles and watched the two men put the boat in the water.

After the boat was launched, the older man drove the truck past the two pickups, casually glanced at the motorcycles, then parked on the other side of them.

Clyde nodded his head. Guido walked toward the kid, and Ox started toward the truck.

______________________

Sherri woke Tom early, gave his ego a boost with her relentless desires, then after he was totally spent, urged him out of bed and into the shower. After helping the poor, helpless man bathe himself, she whipped up a protein drink to replenish his drained and ravaged body, and hustled him out the door to keep their appointment with the investigator.

When Tom had told Sherri about what had happened at the police station, she'd become totally flabbergasted. She had listened to his almost verbatim account of the conversation with the policewoman, sadly shaking her head from time to time. His description of the sounds coming from below brought on a faraway, knowing look accompanied by a slight shudder of her shoulders as if she could picture exactly what had transpired. Tom couldn't imagine her having the slightest clue as to what had happened in that basement. How could she know what that kind of hell was really like? The time he'd gotten choked unconscious, he was sure that he hadn't made noises like the ones he'd heard at the station.

Sherri dutifully pointed out that he hadn't learned one iota of information about Dan, and as they were driving to Tom's, she said that she'd slip away from work for a few minutes tomorrow and go by the station to see if she couldn't find out something. Tom tried to talk her out of it, but she gently, kindly, patiently listened and totally ignored him. He could see it in her eyes.

They'd only been at Tom's for five minutes and Tom was making coffee when the doorbell rang. Sherri got it. Two men stood on the landing in front of the door. Mutt and Jeff. One tall with an athletic build, about 40, slightly graying at the temples, and very well dressed in a gray suit that looked too expensive to be worn by a government employee. Her attention was captured by his steel-gray eyes. They actually glistened as if they had their own internal light. They appeared to look through her, focusing on some distant object behind her. She shuddered slightly and backed up a step.

"Is Mister Miller in?" steel eyes asked.

"Yes, just a minute."

Tom was pouring water into the coffee maker. He'd read the book, Psychology of Power and intended to make the man wait a couple minutes before going into the living room.

Sherri walked into the kitchen and whispered, "There's two of them and they don't look like scientists to me."

A firm, commanding voice from the living room said, "Tell him that we're in a hurry, Miss."

Tom forgot about the book and all of its powerful ideas and walked into the living room.

"Mister Miller?"

Nodding, Tom extended his hand into a firm, very unscientific hand.

"I'm John Hoskins from the Federal Geological Agency, and this is," he tilted his head toward the short, stocky, bulldog in a brown, dimestore suit holding a very expensive, brown leather briefcase, "Bob Quint, my assistant."

"And this is Sherri Blake," Tom offered. "She was with me when we discovered the thing. I thought it might be a good idea if she came along."

"That will be fine. If you're ready, we're in a bit of a hurry," Hoskins said, turning and sweeping them all out the door. "Bob will drive while we talk."

Tom gave directions while spending the next fifteen minutes answering questions directed at him with the precision of an expert interrogator. Sherri quietly nodded confirmation of Tom's answers whenever the gray eyes demanded it.

As if rehearsed, his questions ended only seconds before Tom pointed out the place in the road where Sherri had virtually jumped the ditch and drove through the field. Bob pulled onto the shoulder of the road and stopped. Tom started to open the door, expecting to have to walk to the site, when John stopped him.

"Who owns this property, Mister Miller?"

"I don't know."

John glanced around and then nodded to Bob.

Sherri and Bob must have gone to the same driving school. The only difference was that Bob didn't care if he scratched the car. When they turned into the woods, he didn't even consider stopping. He cut a new path through the brush on the left side of Dan's tracks.

Bob saw the hole before Tom had a chance to point it out. He picked up his briefcase, got out of the car and walked to the edge of the hole. Everyone followed his lead.

John and Bob walked around the hole and inspected the tree that had been hit, without saying anything. Tom stood back with Sherri and watched, wondering whether they really knew what they were doing, or were they just trying to make it look good. Having witnessed ineptitude in bureaucrats in the past, he knew some of the tell-tale signs.

Bob laid the briefcase down, removed a small, expensive looking camera, and began stepping around the hole clicking the shutter. Then he took some vials from the case, dropped into the hole and began filling them with samples of dirt and small pieces of rock.

John retrieved his briefcase from the car, set it on the hood and opened it. From the side, it looked to Tom as a normal briefcase with a flap covering the bottom half. John did something and the flap disappeared exposing a keyboard and a telephone. For a few minutes John seemed to become lost in the computer world. Tom slowly moved around where he could get a better view without appearing to be overly nosy, which he definitely was.

In the top half, there were three monitors, one large and two smaller ones. John typed, turned the case slightly while watching an indicator, pressed a few more keys, then turned to Tom.

"Where were you when it came down?"

"We were camping on the other side of the river."

"And you think it was taken down to the river and taken away in a boat?"

Tom nodded and pointed, intending to indicate the trail he'd seen through the brush. He was shocked to see how quickly nature had healed its wounds. To his untrained eye there were very few signs of any passage through the brush until he walked closer. Tom noticed that for a city boy, John had no trouble spotting the almost invisible transgression.

John turned and raised his voice. "Bob, we're going to walk down to the river. When you're through getting your samples, bring the camera down there."

At the riverbank, Tom pointed out their campsite, and described what they'd heard and saw, and started wishing that he'd told the truth about Dan. They hadn't seen a thing.

"And you beached the boat right here, walked up and found the hole?" John asked, squatting down and looking closely at the river's edge.

"Yeah. Right about here," Tom said.

"You only beached the boat once? You didn't come back a second time or maybe back it off the beach, forget something and slide it back on?"

Tom looked at Sherri. She said, "I'm sure we didn't." She edged closer to the bank and looked over John's shoulder.

He pointed out two separate places where a boat had been beached. "Looks like the same boat, to me. See the shape and width of the vee mark left by its bow."

Tom didn't know what to say, except to play ignorant. "Aren't many of these small boats made by the same company on the same mold?"

"I would imagine so," he said, standing up, his attention focusing on the sounds of an approaching boat.

They stopped talking and watched a speedboat come around the bend of the river to their left, heading upstream with three men and a girl in swimming suits.

Sherri waved.

All four of the boaters stared back for a moment then looked upriver.

Sherri shrugged. "Not a very hospitable bunch."

"That girl looked familiar," Tom said. "You ever seen her before?"

Sherri thought for a moment and then shook her head.

______________________

Clyde thought it odd that a man in a business suit would be standing on the riverbank where there was no path along the river or through the brush, and there was no boat in sight.

After they'd passed by, Sue leaned over and said, "I know that guy. He's the one that went with Dan on the float trip."

"Which guy?" Clyde asked excitedly.

"The one in the jeans."

"You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. He came into the bar with Dan several times, and Dan told me he was going with him and his girlfriend on a float trip."

When they were out of sight around the next bend in the river, Clyde beached the boat and picked up his walkie-talkie.

"Hank, you hear me?"

After some static, Hank answered, "10-4, good buddy."

"Fuck the good buddy shit and listen to me. We just rounded the bend about half mile north of some creek that comes into the river. Do you know where that's at?"

"Sure. That'd be Goose Creek."

"Are there any roads to the river close by here?

"Closest one would be at a farm about two miles upriver. Why?"

"There are some people down by the river right across from the creek. Have the boys spread out and follow them when they leave. Don't let them get wise. I just want to know where they go. Got that?"

"Roger, bad buddy," Hank said with his strange sense of humor.

"You asshole," Clyde barely stopped from screaming. "This is no goddamned joke! Now pay attention. When you see them leave, let me know. I want to find out what they were looking at."

______________________

Not waiting for Bob, they headed back up the hill.

Bob was just closing his briefcase. John took him aside and said something inaudible to Tom. Bob walked off through the brush with his camera.

John walked around scratching his chin, then stopped beside Tom and Sherri and began asking seemingly idle questions about the river, the fishing, their float trip—something he'd always wanted to do, but never seemed to have the time—and how often they went, and did they ever go white-water kayaking. A very friendly man, Tom thought. Probably buried in a nondescript, boring desk job in the city and never has any fun. Although the man's athletic build, the purposeful vigor in his step and movements, and a tan to make a surfer proud didn't fit that assessment. Tom still felt that being out in the country was a rare treat for the man.

"What kind of boat do you own, Mister Miller?" he asked casually. Envy, the only noticeable expression on his face.

"I, ah…" Tom glanced at Sherri, immediately wishing he'd thought about whether it mattered beforehand. Guilt had made him hesitate, the hesitation made him furious. Actually, he realized, what difference did it make who owned the boat? This was just idle chatter with a poor, envious soul from a filthy, overcrowded, mindless megatropolis. Clearing his throat to justify the pause he said, "I borrowed the boat from a friend."

"Wish I had a friend with a boat," Hoskins said wistfully, convincingly. "How big is it?"

Relieved that his blunder had gone unnoticed, Tom gladly described the boat. "It's a fourteen-foot, semi-vee bottom, open hull, designed to be both a fishing and a ski boat. It'll take a hundred horse motor, but right now all he had on it was a ten horse, what we call a downstreamer—great for going with the flow, but hell going upstream."

"Tow it with your car, do you?"

Another question Tom hadn't expected. He nor Sherri had bumper hitches on their cars. Begin lying and you'll lie till the end, someone had told him. One lie requires another and another. "No. I borrowed my friend's truck."

John knelt down and ran his finger along one of the cleat marks made by the truck tires. "A truck with big, wide, off-road tires?" he looked at Tom curiously with no sign of accusation on his face or in his voice.

Tom started to say no, but there was something in the man's eyes that warned him otherwise. The steel-gray eyes saw all, knew all, and dared him to lie. The man pursed his lips expectantly and slowly raised a brow. Tom felt paralyzed, his body transparent, with only his guilty face hanging in the air for all to see and taunt and scold, then lock away in a box to keep it from corrupting little children.

Sherri put her arm supportively on Tom's shoulder. She knew that covering for a friend was one thing, but lying to a Federal investigator to protect someone who had betrayed him was going too far even for someone as loyal as Tom. Dan had not only cut them out, but now, with the investigators knowing that the meteorite had been taken from somebody else's property, technically it meant that they were accessories to a theft.

Sheepishly, talking mostly to his shoes, Tom confessed all. "…and we found these same tracks at Sherri's cabin and I think they were made by his truck."

John merely nodded at hearing the rectified lie and calmly asked, "Where is your cabin, Sherri?"

"It's about ten, twelve miles down the road," she said, motioning upstream. Tom smiled, always amazed at a woman's sense of direction. If the cabin was downstream, she'd have surely said up the road.

Bob came trudging through the brush. John pointed out the tracks and told him to take some pictures, then to Sherri, "I'd like to see the tracks at your cabin, if you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind," as if she really had a choice.

John spent a moment at his briefcase/electronic office, made several entries, hit a button that operated a mechanism that pulled taunt flaps from somewhere, completely covering the keyboard and monitors, making it look almost like a normal briefcase. He snapped it shut without comment.

Bob switched hats from a photographer to a movie stunt driver, then once back on the highway, to a mild mannered chauffeur out for a Sunday drive.

About a mile down the road, a motorcycle sat on the shoulder. The biker looked typical, just resting for a moment. They drove on a few miles, then John turned to Tom and asked, "Does anybody other than Dan know about the meteorite?"

"I don't know. We haven't told anybody except you and Professor Steintz, and you're the only ones we've taken to the site," Tom answered.

"Then if anyone else knows, we can assume that either Dan told them, or that someone else witnessed it falling," John said, more to himself than to them.

Sherri asked, "Why would Dan tell anyone else without telling us?"

"Probably because he thought you might contact someone about it and cause him to lose it. After all, you did contact someone, and had we gotten here earlier, he would have lost it."

"Do you think it's really valuable?" Sherri asked.

"They rarely have any mineral worth, but with the collector craze for meteorites, they have become quite valuable. Museums and scientists have been priced out of the market. People are now dealing these things like artwork, without even wondering whether they are dangerous or not."

"And you think this one might be dangerous?" Sherri asked a little too seriously.

"Just routine ma'am. We check out all meteorite findings… when people bother to notify us."

Sherri thought a moment. "Is Dan going to be in trouble for taking it?"

John turned to look her in the eyes. "If it's not dangerous, it belongs to whoever's property it landed on. If your friend took it, that's something the owner and the police will handle. Of course they'd have a hard time trying to prove that a specific meteorite was taken from a specific place. In a meteorite shower, several of them, all consisting of the same material, might be scattered around a large area."

"What about the tire tracks?"

"They could prove that his truck was there… and he could admit that he was there… but what if he said that he was digging worms?" John said, more a statement than a question.

Tom and Sherri's eyes met, not quite convinced that they hadn't gotten Dan into trouble.

"You must have some idea of who might have helped him," coaxed John.

Tom shrugged and shook his head, "Honestly, I have no clue."

John thought a moment, then Tom noticed him looking at something through the rear window. Tom instinctively turned around and looked, too. He didn't see anything except a motorcycle about three hundred yards back. He turned back around, expecting John to say something, but John had already turned his head to the front and was nonchalantly watching the road.

"Turn left at the gravel road right before the highway makes that sharp turn to the right," Sherri said.

John immediately told Bob not to slow down. Sherri started to say something but John raised his hand and said, "When we stop, I want both of you to get a good look at the person on the motorcycle behind us. See if you recognize him."

Tom and Sherri both turned and looked at the nondescript looking motorcycle in the distance.

"Bob, just as soon as we get around the corner, stop on the shoulder. I'm going to get a picture of him," John said.

When they rounded the curve, Bob slammed on the brakes and slid the car onto the shoulder. John jumped out with something in his hand that definitely didn't look like a camera, leaned against the car and rested his hands on top of the car with whatever it was that he was holding.

Sherri and Tom looked out the rear window and waited. In a few seconds the motorcycle came flying around the corner. They got a good look at the shocked face of the rider as he flew by the car and accelerated down the road.

After he'd rounded the next curve, about a quarter mile away, John got back into the car.

"Did either of you recognize him?" he asked.

They both shook their heads in unison, then Tom asked, "Should we know him?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure that he was the same biker that was sitting on the side of the road back there a ways. He waited until we were out of sight and then the next time I saw him, he'd caught us and was matching our speed. He was definitely following us." Then he told Bob to turn around and go back to the road to Sherri's cabin.

Tom thought somebody following them was a big deal, but John seemed to dismiss it entirely.

______________________

"There ain't nothing but a fuckin' hole in the ground! Why'd some fool come out here in the woods and dig a hole?" Clyde asked himself aloud. The tree branches were just as perplexing. They hadn't been sawed off; they'd been ripped off. Glancing up and around revealed no clues. Realizing that the tree tops were partially obscured by the dense coverage, he backed up the hill. Sue veered to the right and followed suit. Suddenly Clyde stopped and pointed up. "Look at that fucking tree. What in the hell happened to it?"

Sue squinted into the late morning sun, then shrugged. "It looks like lightning hit it."

"Yeah, maybe, but why the hole?" Ox knelt beside the hole, as if in deep thought. "Ox, jump down in there and see if you can find anything."

Clyde walked over to the tree and looked at it, then at the branches on the ground, then he shouted toward Sue, "This was no goddamned lightning. There's not a burned spot anywhere on the tree or the branches. Something hit this tree and broke it off," he said, and excitedly ran back to the hole, "and then it went into the ground right here."

"Hey," Guido hollered from up the hill, having just gotten back from checking to make sure that all of the people had gone. He squatted. "Look at these tracks over here."

Clyde scrambled up the hill. Guido had his left hand spread wide on top of a deep cleated tire track. "These are at least twelve, maybe fifteen inch truck tires."

"Trunk tires? Hank said that he was following a Mercury with four people in it."

They checked further uphill and found a patch of dirt that clearly showed the car tires close to the larger ones. "Look at the difference," Guido pointed out, scratching at both sets. "These truck tracks are older. Hell, maybe a week older. Look how dry and hard they are."

The radio squawked, "Clyde, this is Hank."

Clyde snatched the radio from his belt and barked an answer.

Hank came back hesitantly, "I think I lost them."

"You think you lost them?" Clyde screamed, noticing Guido shaking his head, his disparaging thoughts of Hank becoming more obvious. Trying to ignore Guido's growing contempt of Hank's position in the gang, Clyde hit the transmit button and continued, "What happened?"

"They went around a sharp curve and stopped on the shoulder. By the time I saw them, I couldn't stop, so I went on around the next curve and hid in the brush and waited. I thought one of them had to take a leak or something. When they didn't show up, I went back to see what happened. They were gone. They musta went back the other way and turned off on one of the side roads."

Clyde looked at Guido, momentarily uncertain. He was furious at Hank, but he didn't want to fuel Guido's grudge against him, yet. He knew that Hank's men wouldn't tolerate Guido's heavy-handed methods. Guido's stiletto-based diplomacy could decimate the gang. Or the gang, a tough, hard-nosed bunch, could decide that they didn't need the Driegeoes.

"You want me to—" The radio cackled and cut Hank off.

Again. "Whadda you want me to do?"

Clyde yelled into the radio and at Guido, "Wait a goddamned minute." Now was not the time to send Guido out to rectify Hank's mistake. Making up his mind, he pushed the button. "Hank go back to the first road they might have turned off on and wait out of sight. We'll get back to you. Got that?"

"Got it."

"Guido," handing him the radio, "take this and run up to the road and find Ace and Skip. Give Ace the radio and have him ride back and forth on the road between here and Hank. Have Skip hide beside the road right here. The bastards gotta show up sometime. And tell them to make sure they aren't spotted. Hank was too goddamned careless. They must've spotted him."

"You want me to stay with them?" Take charge? was written on his face.

"Nah, just tell them to stick with it until dark. If nothings's shaking by then, have them get on home." Clyde glanced at Sue, his eyes lingering on the nearly transparent yellow bikini. "Unless you wanna stay and ride double with someone."

Riding double, behind one of Hank's men was more degrading than Guido could stomach. It was also a soft way of telling him that it was still Hank's show. "Bullshit! I'll be back before you get in the boat." He put his skinny legs in high gear and charged up the hill.

Clyde slid down into the hole with Ox and started scraping through the dirt.

______________________

At the cabin, Tom directed Bob to drive down to the river. While he was showing them the tracks, Sherri decided to walk up to the cabin.

They checked all around the area and the only clear impressions were in the soft dirt nearest the water. Bob was taking pictures and John was questioning Tom about Dan's boat when Sherri yelled. Tom and John ran up the hill to see what was wrong.

"My cabin's been broken into," she moaned as they arrived.

Tom started to run inside, but John grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute. Maybe someone's still hiding inside. We might have surprised them. You two run down and get Bob." He instinctively reached for his revolver, then hesitated, not wanting to have to explain why he carried a gun, unless it became absolutely necessary. "I'll wait here."

"It's all right," Sherri said. "I checked the place. Whoever did it is long gone."

"You checked everywhere?" John asked skeptically. "The closets—"

"Yeah, it's clean. There's nowhere to hide except the closet and under the bed. There's no attic or basement."

"Don't you know how dangerous that is," John admonished, almost angrily. "That's a good way to get killed. What if you had found somebody?"

Tom hugged her to him and patted her back comfortingly, expecting at best, a few tears or at worst, racking sobs and hysteria. She tiptoed a quick kiss to his cheek and started turning toward the cabin. Tom quickly added, "Besides, you could've scared the shit out of some poor, innocent fella and caused him to hurt himself trying to get away."

She smiled. "Especially if I would've gotten a hold of him."

"Well, you were lucky this time," John said. "Did you touch anything while you were in there?"

"No, I was careful. When I saw the cupboards open and cleaned out, it was obvious what had happened, so I didn't touch anything…" she paused and winked, "except the hatchet I keep by the fireplace to chop kindling."

John raised a brow and looked at Tom's startled face. "I thought you were teasing, but maybe you were right."

Tom, realizing that she had anticipated someone maybe still being there, and rather than go for help, she'd gone it alone, could only blurt out, "Weren't you afraid?"

"Of course I was, silly. Wouldn't anybody be?"

"Yeah, well—"

"Let's go check out the damage," she said, turning and walking inside.

"Quite a girl you've got there," John said putting a hand on Tom's back and nudging him in after her.

Tom didn't know what to think. Cool and crazy both came to mind.

The inside of the cabin was not destroyed as Tom had envisioned. The first thing he noticed was the open cupboard doors. Sherri always kept a small supply of canned food, cereal, coffee, sugar, and other basic, nonperishable items in case she wanted to use the cabin on the spur of the moment. They were all gone.

In the bedroom, he saw that the blankets and pillows were gone off the bed. The closet door was open and all the extra blankets and linens were also gone. Then he noticed the window. It was open and the upper pane was broken.

"Shit," Sherri's angry voice screeched from the kitchen. "They even took all of my silverware."

That surprised Tom. It was a cheap set. He tried to console her, "At least they didn't do any damage to the place, other than breaking a window to get in."

She signed. "I am thankful for that. I really love this old place. And I loved that cheap set of silverware that my Dad bought for Mom at least thirty years ago. It was almost a joke gift, but it meant something to Mom at the time."

Now that Sherri's parents were gone, Tom felt a sense of belonging. He loved the place, too. They'd had many wonderful times at the cabin.

John stepped outside, then they heard the car drive up. In a few minutes John came back inside.

"Bob's calling the sheriff. He'll have them send someone out to take fingerprints and make a plaster cast of the tire tracks."

"You must have a satellite phone.?" Sherri said. "Cell phones still don't work out here."

"It's my worst nightmare," he said irreverently. "I have six methods of communication in that case. And it's designed to be powerful enough to ensure that we never get any rest."

"I know a guy that used to make briefcase telephones," Tom offered, making conversation, "before cellular came out. It was a great idea for its time."

"We've created a monster. You should have to be tied to my case twenty-four hours a day, everyday. You'd change your mind in about three days."

The car door slammed, snapping John back to the subject. "I've got to get the samples to the lab. Bob is going to stay here and wait for the people from the Sheriff's Department, so there's no need for you two to stay unless you really want to."

Sherri looked around as if she was forgetting something. She remembered as Bob walked in. "Oh, what about the window?"

"If you've got some nails and something to put over it, Bob will take care of it," John offered.

"There's some boards out back," Sherri said, "and I'm sure there's some nails here." She opened a junk drawer and found several.

"Good." Then to Tom, "Since you think those blasted phones are such a good idea you can drive and answer it for me while I take a little nap."

"Answer the phone?" Tom said skeptically.

"Sure. If anyone calls, tell them I died and went to hell to get a decent job. Believe me, they won't be surprised."

Tom started to say, you mean a real job, but while waiting for Sherri and Bob to quit laughing, John walked out to the car. A respite that probably kept Tom's foot out of his mouth.

On the way out, Sherri gave Bob the key and showed him where to hide it after locking up.

Between Sherri and the phone and an occasional glance at the road, Tom's short attention span was kept hopping, while John slept obliviously slouched in the corner of the rear seat. The phone stayed silent, relieving Tom of the dreaded responsibility of breaking the news of John's job search.

______________________

Dan listened to Joyce's futile struggles for several minutes, then dozed off again, wondering why she wanted to get away from him. He brought her food. He protected her from the Rakers. He was the leader. She should look up to him. She should feel honored to mate with the leader, if the leader wanted her. And he really WANTED her…

A scream with no face shattered the fog. Joyce! Dan spun instantly from a prone position into a crouch toward the sound. Sol's bulky, naked body stood in front of him, partially blocking his view. He caught a glimpse of Jed holding Joyce's legs up by her head. He was pushing his penis at her squirming crotch.

Dan leaped to the side of Sol, trying to reach Jed. Sol swung a massive arm, deflecting Dan against the wall. Dan spun cat-like in midair, hit the wall with his feet and sprang back into Jed. He hooked Jed's neck in the crook of his arm and his momentum carried them both to the ground. Jed squirmed and kicked to no avail.

Sol started toward them and instantly froze. Dan's .45 was pointing at his head. Jed saw the gun beside his head and stopped struggling. Dan released and kicked him away, and sprang to his feet. Jed stumbled a few feet, spun around angrily, then glanced at Sol, looking for support. Sol just stared bleakly at the gun. Jed looked back at Dan and saw the gun swing toward his head.

"I told you she was mine," Dan growled and pulled the trigger. The roaring, echoing, ear-splitting explosion in the enclosed cavern momentarily stunned Dan. He clenched his eyes shut for a second, his ears rang and his head throbbed. Jed screamed and was gone when Dan opened his eyes.

"He's behind me!" Joyce shouted. Sol stepped back, the fear evident in his darting eyes.

"Get out here, Jed! You cocksucker. If I'da wanted you dead, I'da shot you between the eyes." Dan walked around to the side of Joyce and found Jed curled into a fetal position behind Joyce and the rock. His hands were clamped tightly over his ears and his eyes were begging.

Dan leaned over and put the gun barrel an inch from his right eye. "I oughta kill you, anyway." Dan looked at Joyce, who had twisted around to watch.

"Kill the lousy bastard," she spat.

Jed's panicky eyes swiveled toward the awful, hateful bitch. He cringed under her vile, ugly, repulsive glare.

"Go on. Kill the creep!" She urged again. "Untie me, goddamnit, and I'll do it myself." She struggled violently against the rope.

Jed blubbered something unintelligible and rolled over onto his back and started begging and promising and slobbering. Dan poked the gun barrel into his mouth and slowly released the hammer. Jed's eyes bugged out as the hammer came to rest in the half-cocked, safety position. Dan reholstered the gun, grabbed Jed's shoulder with one hand, jerked him to his feet, and held him against the cavern wall.

"Hey man, I swear I'll never touch her again," Jed wailed, rubbing his still stinging, powder-burned, right ear.

"I know you won't," Dan said confidently. Suddenly, he wasn't mad any longer. Everything was straightened out. He was the undisputed leader and he was equally sure that they wouldn't give him any more trouble. Besides they were his friends.

Dan glanced at the stripped bones of the last pig. "We need more meat."

Jed got up and looked at Sol who was already picking up his fishing pole. The thought of meat obliterated any remaining animosity and fear he'd felt earlier. He walked over, picked up his shotgun; the thought to use it on Dan never entered his mind. He thought about how good the pigs had been and how hungry he was. Without saying a word, he walked out with Sol, contented that he had a good, strong leader and that he was going to bring back food. Neither had thought to put their clothes back on.

Dan knelt in front of Joyce and carefully checked her for injuries, and found only beauty everywhere he looked.

She watched him curiously as his eyes scanned her naked body. He wasn't as repulsive as she'd originally thought. She couldn't remember why she'd thought that he was so ugly when he brought her here. It was so long ago.

She smiled and said, "Thanks."

Dan picked up the water bucket and tipped it to her mouth and watched her drink. She drank greedily, then tipped the bucket with her teeth and let the water cascade down over her body. She giggled. Dan raised the bucket and poured the water slowly on her head and shoulders. She moaned gleefully and shook her head around happily.

Dan found a towel among the things he'd gotten from the cabin and began gently drying her. As he rubbed the water from her body he noticed that she had become tense and nervous. She didn't tell him to stop, but suddenly he felt uncomfortable and he didn't understand the feeling. She was his to do with as he wanted. How could he feel uncomfortable? He stood up and looked at her. She eyed him tentatively, concerned, yet not worried or afraid.

Dan picked up the water bucket and mumbled, "I'll be back." He went to the rear cavern and filled the bucket. It was when he was walking back that he really realized that he could see in almost total darkness. The only light entering the rear cavern was a faint glow in the tunnel, yet he could see as well as on a moonlight night. It didn't really alarm or surprise him: It was merely an observance. Then he wondered why he'd thought about it at all. It was a perplexing thought. He dismissed it as nonsense and carried the bucket back to Joyce.

She watched him hopefully as he untied her and handed her a bag of towels and washcloths. She dipped a cloth in the bucket and began bathing.

Dan sat on his blanket and watched proudly. His loins started throbbing. As Joyce was drying off, he noticed her eyes glancing apprehensively at what he thought was his legs. He looked down and saw his erection. He was pleased that she'd noticed, and hoped that she was also pleased. She turned away, warily keeping Dan within range of her peripheral vision.

When she finished drying, Dan could sense that she was looking for a way to escape. It wasn't anything she did. He could just feel the preparation for flight building in her body. She idly glanced around while casually stretching the kinks out of her muscles.

Dan knew what she was thinking. She was thinking that she could outrun him. Knowing that she was ready to bolt, Dan stood up, effectively blocking her escape route and dashing any hopes she might have entertained. He was purposely, directly between her and the tunnel. He could feel her disappointment as she relaxed.

The fear and hate returned to her eyes as Dan looped the rope over her arms and pulled them snugly against her waist. Holding the rope, he effortlessly, without thinking about it, rolled the rock over to a dry spot. He slyly caught her watching him, and for a brief instant he was sure that he saw sadness rather than hate on her face. She said nothing while he tied her to the rock.

He mumbled a soft, "Sorry," and lay down on his blanket. He closed his eyes, wondering why she hated him.

______________________

Sol and Jed walked together to the river. Jed decided to hunt along the river and then circle back through the woods toward the cave. Sol's favorite fishing spot was just a few yards upstream of the small clearing where Dan beached the boat. At the river Jed started to go his own way when Sol grunted and pointed upriver.

Silently floating downstream was a boat with two men in it. They each held a fishing pole, their lines leading out from opposite sides of the boat. One said something to the other and pointed toward the bank upstream of the Rakers. Jed motioned for Sol to get down. They hid in the brush and watched.

The men reeled in their lines and pulled onto the bank directly below the slew where Dan had hidden the boat. One of the men went into the brush with a roll of toilet paper. The other man stepped out of the boat and cast downstream close to the bank.

Without saying anything to each other, Sol slipped into the water and Jed crawled silently through the brush.

A voice cried out from the bushes. "Hey Bill, there's a boat back here."

"A boat?"

"Yeah, it's hidden back here in a slew along the bluff. It's one of them fancy speedboats. Come take a look."

"Just a minute, Harry. I gotta reel in my line."

As the man cranked on the reel, Sol exploded from the water, grabbed him by the ankle and jerked him into the water. The man's scream was choked off as Sol's hand found his neck and shoved him under. The man's frantic trashing ended quickly. A burst of air and blood erupted to the surface from the man's ripped open throat.

"What's wrong, Bill?" Harry listened. "Bill!" He heard a slight rustling in the brush. "Bill, is that you?" He realized that it must have been a rabbit; he'd just heard Bill splashing water at the river. His first thought was that maybe Bill had slipped and fell into the water and maybe hit his head or something. Being no more than a hundred feet from the river, he could get there in time to help. He ran between two bushes, tripped and fell flat on his face. Cussing himself for being so clumsy, he jumped to his feet and immediately tripped again. He tried to get up but his foot was caught in something. He jerked his leg and his boot came off. Glancing back, he couldn't believe his eyes. A tall, dark-skinned, stringy-haired, red-eyed, naked, ugly, prehistoric-looking caveman held his boot.

Fired with panic driven fear, he bolted toward the river using a wild stutter step, his speed unhampered by the shoeless foot; the growling behind made up the difference.

The boat was where they'd beached it, but Bill was nowhere in sight. As he ran up to the boat, planning to shove it out into the water, diving in, and hopefully reaching the trolling motor switch and getting out into deep water, another one of those creatures emerged from the water beside the boat, dragging a body.

Harry veered to the left and ran downstream. He clawed at the strap on the belt-sheath holding his hunting knife. Quickly looking back, he saw the thing rapidly gaining on him. He tried zig-zagging to make himself a harder target to tackle and immediately saw that it was no use. The thing would be on him in a second. It was too fast.

Jed was playing with the man. He enjoyed the chase. It was much more fun than hunting. He loped along at about half speed, quickly catching the man. He never realized how easy it was to run and how fast he could go. He was amused at the way the man cut one way and then the other. Just like a rabbit, he thought. Maybe he could catch rabbits this way. This is a lot more fun than using a gun. The gun? He remembered leaving it behind. He didn't like it, anyway. It made too much noise.

Jed slowed and let the man get farther away. This was fun.

Harry could hear the thing dropping back. Glancing back, his hopes soared. Assuming the thing was tiring and was no match for his superior physical condition, he slowed a bit himself, thinking now of running for distance rather than speed. He knew that he was a long way from the highway and help. At least four or five miles.

He glanced back again. The thing had stopped. Harry slowed to a walk to catch his breath. The thing was the length of a football field away, just standing there watching him. Harry was so relieved that he almost laughed with joy, until he saw the other one stepping into view with Bill draped over its shoulder. His fear of the things turned to anger and revulsion. God, if I only had my deer rifle, I'd blow both of your fucking heads off, he vowed to himself. He looked at the knife in his hand and shook his head disappointedly.

The thing carrying Bill's body walked up beside the other one and they both stood there staring. Harry shivered. Why're they standing there looking at me? He started walking backwards, afraid to take his eyes off them.

Jed looked at the gaping, still dripping wound on Sol's catch and grinned sadistically pleased. Sol looked quizzically at Jed, then glanced at the man and back to Jed, puzzled at the smile growing on his face. Jed took one small step forward, then a larger one and in a few strides he was going full speed. He didn't know it but the fastest man on Earth runs about twenty-four miles per hour and the fastest horse only runs about forty. Jed could have given the horse a run for the gold.

Harry was surprised. When the thing started for him, he couldn't understand why it was wasting its time. He'd already proven that he could outrun it. What is it trying to do? he wondered, uneasily. Was it merely making a show of its defiant courage? Was that its way of saving face?

But by the things first dozen steps, he knew something was wrong. Its legs and arms were pumping in a blur. Harry lost a couple seconds standing in frozen shock and indecision. The thing had already covered half the distance separating them. Harry suddenly realized what a baby gazelle must feel upon seeing a cheetah charging for the kill. He tried to make up his mind whether to run down the path or dodge into the woods.

The thing started making a high pitched, warbling, growling noise, its mouth opened wide and its lips stretched away, baring its teeth.

Harry knew that escape was impossible. It was too late to turn and run. He planted his feet and brought the knife up to his side. His only chance was to wait until the last second, jump to the side and plunge the knife into the thing's belly. Then ripping its belly open, spilling its guts out onto the ground. Timing the thing's approach perfectly, he drew the knife back behind him and swung it out in an upward arc as he ducked low to the ground.

Jed swung his right arm at the man's head, easily following it as it ducked in what seemed like slow motion to him. He saw the man's arm swing around toward him and saw the glint of the blade as it plunged into his belly.

Harry had swung the knife out as hard as he could and saw the blade sink into the thing's guts. He never saw the arm hit him on the forehead and didn't know what had happened for a few seconds. He could see the trees and patches of blue sky between the branches. He couldn't see the thing, but he heard something down the path. The thing was lying on the ground in the middle of its death throes; Harry was sure of that. And the thing had barely struck a glancing blow as it ran past. He turned his head to look triumphantly at his vanquished attacker. His eyes swiveled around, but his head didn't cooperate. He tried to get up, but he couldn't feel anything.

Thinking that he'd probably been knocked unconscious for a couple seconds, Harry tried to shake the grogginess. He was sure that it would only take a few more seconds to get his faculties back.

He heard a shuffling sound approaching. Was the dying thing crawling back? Why? Did it intend to keep fighting with its last bit of dying energy? Harry had to get up and finish it off before the other one came after him. He'd get his knife back and be ready. Maybe the other one had already run away in fright.

Harry tried to move again. He still couldn't! Something was wrong. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced his mind to cooperate and move his arms and legs to get up. He could tell that he was getting up, but he couldn't feel anything. He heard a twig snap beside his head and popped his eyes open, ready to finish off the thing.

It had to be a horrible nightmare. His eyes locked on the handle of the knife protruding from the thing's stomach. It was standing above him, seeming to be as tall as the trees. Harry saw its hand grab the handle of the knife and slowly pull it out. Harry tried to spin and knock its legs out from under it. He'd knock it down, grab the knife and go for its throat. He watched in horror as it remained standing, then began bending over him.

Jed dallied a moment to look at the strange way the man's head was lying. Then he calmly pushed the knife into its stomach.

Dan was gnawing on a bone, trying to suck the marrow out, when Jed and Sol came into the cavern, each carrying a body. Dan tossed the bone down and went to help.

Joyce watched as Dan carried one of the bodies to the rear of the cavern and disappeared. In a moment he came back and helped the other two rip the other body apart and start eating. Joyce watched dispassionately, torn between a strong, ravenous craving for more juicy, red meat and a remote, uneasy feeling about what they were eating. She saw Dan occasionally glance at her while he ate. Finally, he brought a piece over to her and held it to her mouth. She sniffed. It smelled delicious. Her tongue flicked out and touched it. Her stomach took control of her mind, the vague uneasy feeling drifted away without another thought.

______________________

John awoke on cue as Tom pulled up in front of his apartment. He immediately replaced Tom in the driver's seat, said he'd be in touch, and drove off.

Sherri put her hand in Tom's back pocket and wiggled her fingers. "Let's go in and I'll fix you something to eat and then…" she drifted into her sexy, wanton-woman voice, knowing that Tom couldn't resist.

And he didn't.

About five minutes after they'd gone inside, if they'd listened closely, they would have heard a motorcycle start up and drive slowly past the building, followed by two more that had parked farther down the street. And if they were psychic they'd have known that the cycles were on their way to Joplin, the riders eager to boast about their stealth and cunning.

______________________

When they got back to their motorcycles, the fishermen's truck was the only other vehicle there. Clyde thought about it for a minute, then decided not to worry about it. He pulled the drain plug from the boat, pushed it out into the creek and watched it drift toward the river, settling lower and lower in the water. The river current caught it and pulled it downstream, out of sight. Clyde felt cheated, not getting to see the boat go under. "Shoulda shot a couple holes in it," he mumbled, then turned and walked to his bike.

Thirty minutes later, they pulled into their drive. The place was a mad house. The front door and all the windows were open, music was blaring, people were screeching and laughing, and there was a distinct odor of pot in the air.

Usually, Clyde loved parties, but he wasn't in the mood tonight.

When he walked into the house, Hank was on the couch with a chick sitting on his lap wearing only a tee shirt with, IF YOU'RE GOOD ENUFF, I'M READY ENUFF, written on the front of it.

Hank saw Clyde and pushed the girl off his lap, onto the floor. He jumped up and smiled. Clyde jumped right in his face.

"What in the fuck in going on here? Turn that goddamned music off and get these bitches out of here." Clyde walked into the kitchen. Hank followed timidly. He'd seen the killing look in Clyde's eyes before. When Clyde was serious, you either obeyed or died.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Clyde asked vehemently.

"Hey, everything is cool. We know where they live, and the guy's a dork," Hank said in a subservient way that helped to soften Clyde's anger.

"You know where…"

"Yeah, we followed them home. It's one of those two story apartment buildings over on Oakwood in Big Bend. They're both there now, but since you didn't have a radio, I didn't know what to do. We stood out like a sore thumb just sitting on the street, so we came home…. But it's a simple place to take, anytime you want."

Clyde's scow turned to a slight grin. "All right… I guess it worked out all right. You boys have your fun tonight, but knock it off early. In the morning be ready to roll, and goddamnit, be in good shape. We might have to rumble."

Hank nodded, glanced into the living room at the girl in the tee shirt and held back a smile. Clyde checked the girl's hemline as he walked past, stopped and looked from her, back to Sue. They were both smiling. He shrugged, shook his head, grabbed Sue and pushed her into his bedroom, wishing that he wasn't too tired to take both of them in.

______________________

Tom tried to persuade Sherri to take off work on Friday. Just when he thought he had her convinced, somehow the word rent slipped from his mouth. She translated that to house payment and car payment and phone bill and several other things that kept her a slave. She decided to go to work. Tom accepted defeat reluctantly, but gracefully, and drove her home.

When he got back, he turned on the television to watch the news. In this rural area the local news was always boring. The only real news was the world news, and being so isolated from the rest of the world made that seem almost unreal. But today, there was a report of a farmer and his wife found murdered close to Olympia. They recapped the previous murders in the last three days and it was staggering. One local murder in a lifetime was about average, but seven in three days was preposterous.

Plus, the body of a boater had been found floating in the river this morning and the girl that had been with him was missing. Their boat hadn't been found, but it was speculated that it was an accident and that the boat had sunk somewhere north of town. They also mentioned that they still had no new leads in Dan's disappearance.

What in the hell is going on around here? he wondered. Being followed, and the fact that the cabin had been broken into, might have been enough in itself for Tom to think about his guns, but add to that, seven murders in the last three days, and it was more than enough.

He decided to ask Sherri if she wanted to go to the cabin for the weekend, and since she liked to shoot, he'd suggest that they bring some guns and go hunting for her favorite game; cans and bottles. He was impressed with the natural way she handled his 9mm automatic. At times, he felt more like the student, rather than the teacher, and he knew how absurd that was.

He went into the bedroom and unlocked his gun cabinet, the protector and home of his most prized possessions, then unlocked the child-proof—advertised as burglar-proof—safety bar and swung it out. This released a hidden catch on the two drawers beneath. The top drawer contained pistols and various types of ammo for them. The bottom drawer held the ammo for the rifles and shotguns, and black powder, balls and patches for his collection of reproductions of antique weapons which decoratively hung on the walls in every room. Even the bathroom had a small derringer displayed right above the toilet paper holder.

Being an amateur psychologist, Tom found the displaying of guns was like opening a window into people's minds. Their various reactions or attempted suppression of a reaction immediately told him more about them than one could learn over a cup of coffee, or at a bar-bee-que, or an orgy, or any of the normal things people do.

Being a collector of functional guns, not authentic antiques or outrageously expensive ones, didn't diminish his pride in his collection. To him, having a good, dependable gun for every occasion was preferable to having one gun with a thousand dollars worth of engraving on the stock.

As a typical bachelor with a no-nonsense approach to record keeping and a disdain for filing systems, he had his guns listed on a sheet of paper tacked to the left inside wall of the gun cabinet. The list satisfied his insurance company, and the placement satisfied his memory. He glanced proudly at the list, ignoring the serial numbers and date and place of purchase.

Browning 9mm automatic pistol.

Charter Arms .38 caliber 5 shot revolver.

Matching set of Smith & Wesson Model 66SS .357 revolvers.

Ruger stainless steel .357 snub-nosed revolver.

Ruger semi-auto .22 pistol.

Weatherby .22 semi-auto rifle.

Ruger Mini-14 .223 semi-auto with three 30 shot clips.

Marlin lever-action 30-30.

Browning 30/06 semi-auto rifle.

Mossberg 12 gauge pump shotgun with extra riot barrel.

The list didn't include the sawed-off double-barrel 12 gauge shotgun which he obviously didn't declare to the insurance company. He really didn't like having it around, having reluctantly acquired it as collateral for a loan to a past friend who disappeared without reclaiming it. He could hardly throw it away. Even though illegal, it might someday save his life. Or a friend's life. Besides, he figured that making it illegal only gave the criminal a bigger edge than they already enjoyed. They could get any weapon they wanted, plus, they had the willingness and in many cases an actual desire to use them.

Scanning the list and unable to decide what toy he was in the mood to play with, he tried using the process of elimination. Sherri really didn't enjoy shooting the .357's. "They kick too much for just playing around," she'd said, and he didn't like to shoot .38 ammo in them. The shorter shells would eventually etch an unwanted groove and eat out the cylinder a bit, causing the .357 brass to expand more. He knew it was only a microscopic amount, but when he'd bought the stainless steel guns, his idea was to pass them down generation to generation and wanted to keep them as perfect as possible.

The Charter Arms .38 was in his car, in the crack between the split front seats, and he preferred to keep it there.

He also nixed the 30-30. It was a good brush gun, shooting a slow, heavy slug, but it was more at home on a holster strapped to the side of a horse or an ATV. He had neither—since, like a fool, he'd sold the four-wheeler when he moved—but if he had to choose between the two, it definitely wouldn't be a horse. He wanted something that would stop when he wanted to, not when it got back to the barn as had happened all to frequently when he rode horses as a kid.

He started to take the .22 rifle, but decided against it. Sherri would take hers; a Ruger semi-auto he'd bought her last spring.

He took out the 30/06, the .223, the shotgun—he made a mental note to pick up some more shotgun shells—and his 9mm pistol and decided that was enough. Besides, he preferred the 30/06 and the .223 because he had over a thousand rounds of each, having bought them at a military surplus store at about a quarter on the dollar. That's why he'd chosen those calibers in the first place. Surplus military ammo was cheap if one knew where to buy it.

He began his diligent ritual of inspecting and oiling them.

______________________

The Blue Bull was only about a hundred yards north of the Big Bend city limits sign. Directly across the road from the sign, a billboard—advertising the Blue Bull as being the last fun stop for thirty miles—beckoned an invitation to all drunks, hillbillies, and shit kickers.

Beside the billboard, hidden from the traffic entering the city limits, a blue and white cop car waited to pounce. Inside the car sat an angry sergeant. Joe Bains, in the best of moods, was an ornery, haughty, callous, hard-nosed cop. Tonight he was in the worst of moods. He sat in the car smoking a cigarette and constantly rolling one the rocks in his fingers that he and Cliff had taken from Dan. He didn't know why he liked the rock. He just knew that it meant good luck and tonight he needed something good to happen to help get rid of the doldrums.

He rolled the rock and smoked his cigarette and waited to dispense justice. He wrote a ticket for all traffic violations no matter how minor the offense. Giving warnings were a ridiculous waste of time. People always said, "I'll be much more careful," or, "I'll never do it again," and they always thanked the officer for failing to do his job properly, then as soon as they were out of sight, he knew that they'd laugh at how they'd duped the officer. He hated excuses and spared no mercy. The strong arm of the law was the only thing that got their attention and earned their respect.

But lately, writing tickets and occasionally arresting a drunk was becoming boring. He'd started ignoring the minor offenders. He wanted some action. He wanted to catch bank robbers and kidnappers and killers and break up gang wars over drugs or territory or whatever excuse the punks used to kill each other. The big city was the only place for a real cop.

He looked around at the dark, desolate countryside, its sickening, unpromising tranquillity broken only by the glaring blaze of the neon blue bull with the red streaks of fire flashing from its nostrils. It was the only place in town where there might be some real action.

Looking on the bright side, he had to admit that things were picking up. For the last several days he'd been making two or three arrests a day. And the last creep he'd hauled in an hour ago really ticked him off. The asshole had actually argued about whether he had run the red light. Then when he slapped the insolent bastard, the piece of shit called him names.

The small amount of satisfaction he'd gotten from using the police choke-hold on the man, and stomping the handcuffs on him so tight that his hands had turned purple, and kicking him in the ribs a few times wasn't enough to make up for the man's arrogance. Joe felt like going back to the jail and really teaching the creep a lesson about justice.

Joe chain-lit another cigarette and waited. There were always drunk slobs leaving the Bull. All he had to do was be patient.

Finally, three loud-mouthed men wearing baseball caps came out the front door and staggered to a pickup. After some hollering and laughing, the truck roared to life.

Joe perked up a bit. It looked like three more for the drunk tank.

He waited until the truck started to move before he started his motor. He wanted to make sure the scum didn't hear him.

The truck backed out of its parking space, started spinning its wheels and fishtailed towards the pavement, a cloud of dust billowed from underneath, and gravel pinged against the other cars. The dust turned to smoke as the tires squealed on the pavement.

When they came flying past Joe, he punched the gas and did a similar scene. The fishtailing and cloud of dust excited him, but the inferior short squeal his tires made on the pavement only increased his frustration. He'd hit the road right behind them and had the gas pedal to the floor but they were pulling away.

He screamed, "I'm the police. Stop that fucking truck, you goddamned bastards." He pushed harder on the pedal, but it was already mashed against the floor and wouldn't go any farther. He reached for his gun. No, wait. The siren and lights might stop them. Most creeps stopped when they heard the siren and saw the lights. He flipped the switches to turn them both on. The thrill of the wailing siren and the pulsating red and blue lights turned a drab, boring night into a high speed, strobe-lit, spectacular production of the iron fist of the law at its best. The truck slowed enough for the squad car to close the distance between them. Adrenaline squirted through Joe's throbbing veins.

The intoxicated truck weaved down the road, its radio blaring, its occupants busy mixing drinks, its mod new curtains tightly drawn over the rear window, totally oblivious of the dread and confusion and anger in the outside world.

Joe couldn't believe it. The truck stayed at about seventy, blatantly ignoring him. He fumed and screamed and cussed and slobbered at the mouth and drew his gun, and they still wouldn't stop. Enough was enough.

Violently swerving the cruiser out into the oncoming lane, he turned on the interior dome light, pulled up beside the rouge truck and waved his gun menacingly at the insolent, impudent hoodlums.

He was pleased when he saw the stunned, disappointed, busted look on the criminal's face. Joe edged the cruiser closer, forcibly ending the scums attempted escape.

Even though totally intoxicated, the truck driver's mind almost numb to reality, the sight of the flashing lights and hearing the siren shot a surge of clarity into his befuddled brain. He couldn't make out the look on the cops face, nor see the gun. He thought he was being waved at to stop. He slowed and pulled onto the shoulder.

Instead of slowing and dropping in behind them, Joe stayed beside the truck until it stopped, then dramatically slid to a halt, stopping diagonally in front of them.

He jumped out of his car, the .44 still in his hand, and ran back to the truck, watching for any suspicious movement on their part. The driver bent over, appearing to reach for something on the floor. Joe swung out into the road and leveled the pistol at the driver's head. The driver straightened up and rolled down the window.

"Get out of the truck and keep your hands in sight!" Joe hollered.

Al Silas grinned and tried to look sober. "Take it easy. We didn't do nothing wrong." Al fidgeted and felt his drink tip over. He turned in the seat and tried to inconspicuously right it and remembered that it hadn't been the usual can of beer, but a Jack and Coke. He slowly raised his arm back to his lap and started to ask the cop why he'd stopped them.

Joe saw the man reach for a gun and pulled the trigger. The .44 Magnum hollow-point exploded his head like hitting a tomato with a sledge hammer. The other two guys frantically ducked down in the seat. Joe stuck the gun through the window and emptied it into their quivering bodies.

"That'll teach the no-good bastards to fuck with the law," he said to his gun. Then he slipped it back into his holster and patted it affectionately.

He walked back to the squad car, got in, and drove off, his doldrums gone.

______________________

Dan heard a soft voice whispering something to him. It sounded like Joyce. Her eyes emerged from the fog, glistening, beckoning, then slowly drifted back into the dark void. He rolled over and looked for her. She was gone! His eyes popped open. She was there, staring at him, or through him. He lay still for several minutes, watching her. Their gazes seemed to soften and delve deeply into each other. He felt at peace, comfortable, at home. As if they'd been together forever. He vaguely remembered winning her. It seemed like so long ago.

She looked so helpless tied to the rock. Suddenly, he knew that he could trust her. He didn't know why and didn't care. It just felt right. The tension and fear was no longer in her eyes. Instead, there was a hunger, a longing…

Keeping her tied to the rock seemed terrible to him. He jumped up, quickly untied her and held her to him. She put her arms around him and buried her face against his neck and made soft, welcome, moaning sighs. He gently guided her down onto his blanket and mated with her in a wildly passionate, animalistic frenzy.

They were completely unaware that their skin was becoming rough and hard, and in the dim light of the cave and under the several days accumulation of dirt, its changing colors also went unnoticed, as did their unearthly squeals and grunts of total bliss and ultimate satisfaction.

Completely exhausted, they finally fell contentedly asleep in each others arms.

______________________

Day 12, Friday, October 21

Having a lot to do today, Tom had set his rarely used clock-radio for seven-thirty. The morning news was coming on. Just before falling back to sleep, he heard the report of two missing boater's bodies, a man and his son, being found floating in the river several miles south of town. When he heard that their bodies had been tied together, he jolted up, totally awake. The report went on to say that pending an autopsy, the cause of death hadn't been determined and that their boat hadn't been found.

Tom recounted as he crawled out of bed. Nine people dead or missing on the river in one week. Two definitely murdered. It was unbelievable for this to happen in such a small, rural town. The news media was eating it up. They were speculating drug wars between gangs moving out from the city.

He got the Mister Coffee machine going and called Sherri. After six rings he hung up, assuming that she was in the shower. Then he called the police station to find out if there was any news about Dan. He was glad that the policewoman he'd talked to on Wednesday hadn't answered, but the man he talked to was equally as arrogant and uncooperative. Tom hung up disgustedly and poured a cup of coffee. The phone rang.

Sure that it was Sherri, he answered in his bedroom voice.

A professional, masculine voice responded, "Good morning, Mister Miller. This is Bob Quint."

Embarrassed, Tom switched to his extra-macho voice, "Morning, Bob."

"I've got some bad news for you. Dan Jenkins' fingerprints were all over Sherri's cabin. Have—"

"Dan's?" Tom interrupted.

Bob answered in a monotone, as if reading something very boring. "We have a positive match. They were found around the broken window and were the crowning ones found in the rest of the house, meaning that he was the last person there. Have you heard from him?"

"No… I haven't heard from him since I took him back to the cabin to get his truck."

"Did he go into the cabin when you went on your float trip?"

"No. Sherri went in and checked the place out while we were putting the boat in the water, but Dan never set foot in it."

"What about when you went back to get his truck?"

"No, not then either." Tom thought a second, then continued, "He said something about going to Cedar City, then got in his truck and drove off, and I came straight home."

"Well, we've turned the matter of the break-in over to the Crawford County Sheriff's Department in Olympia. Someone from there will be contacting you today."

"Are they through at the cabin? We'd like to go up there this weekend."

"I'm sure they are, but you'll have to ask the Sheriff if it's okay. I gave the cabin key to one of the deputies. He said that he'd see that it was returned to you or Miss Blake. If you hear from Dan, report it to the Sheriff immediately." He hung up without saying goodbye or explaining why he hadn't hidden the key as Sherri had asked.

Tom called Sherri, catching her just as she was leaving for work, and told her the bad news. They agreed to meet after she got off work. Tom was undecided about asking her if she wanted to go to the cabin for the weekend, so he did the next best thing.

He procrastinated.

______________________

Sue was still asleep and the house was quiet. Clyde rolled over and looked at the clock. He'd forgotten to turn on the alarm. "Goddamnit," he muttered. Everyone had overslept.

He stumbled into the living room. His men were all asleep, laying wherever, and with whomever their deserting consciousness had dropped them.

"Hank, get the hell up," he bellowed, causing a momentary jostling of bodies until he said, "Hank, where the fuck you at?" The bodies dropped back into their peaceful funk as a moan came from behind a recliner in the corner. Hank mumbled, raised his head, groaned, then sat up, blinking his eyes and rubbing his temples with the palms of his hands.

"Get one of your men over to that apartment building, and make sure he has one of the good walkie-talkies. I want to know everything that the guy does and where he goes." Clyde stood with his hands on his hips until he was sure that Hank was in gear, then went back into the bedroom to wake Sue, a throbbing starting in his shorts at the thought.

Hank crawled to his feet, looked around and found the bare ass he wanted and kicked it. Skip went through similar gyrations as Hank had, then listened groggily as Hank told him what to do. Duties delegated, and not ready for anything else, Hank went into the toilet and fell asleep on the pot. The last thing he remembered was thinking about the girl in the tee shirt giving him head last night. He wondered who she was with this morning. She was sure ready enuff…. He dreamed.

The heavy, moist air whistling by at eighty miles an hour wasn't enough to clear the cobwebs from Skip's brain. His mind felt dead, his vision blurred. He was in terrible shape. Normally, just the thought of following and hurting and killing someone would have his juices flowing, his pains numbed, but this morning he felt barely able to watch a building, much less, follow someone. And he wasn't even sure that he'd recognize the guy. Hank had described him, and there were only two apartments on the second floor, but how could he really be sure.

He was pissed that Hank wouldn't let him use the van instead of his motorcycle. Leaning back in a bucket seat was the way to do a stakeout, not perched on a motorcycle trying to look inconspicuous. Probably thought that he wouldn't be able to stay awake. He was probably right.

At his stakeout position, sitting in a stupor, fighting to keep his eyes open and on the stairs from the second floor apartment, he paid little attention to the jogger running down the street. Even when the jogger got in a yellow Lincoln and drove off, it meant nothing to him. He was too busy doing his job and remembering the party last night and wishing that his head would quit throbbing.

______________________

It was an overcast, misty morning, lazily trying to rain some more, but only able to generate an occasional drop. They didn't need any more rain. It had rained all night. Tom's heart wasn't into jogging, especially in this weather. His mind was trying to sort out what was going on. Dan's disappearance with the meteorite, then his boat being found; what had happened to him? Who was the biker that had followed them? Why the rash of murders and drownings? Were they connected to Dan? The burglary at the cabin. Why hadn't Dan called if he needed something? Tom would've helped him. He didn't have to steal things from the cabin. His mind drifted from question to question, unable to answer any.

Tom rounded the corner, only a block and a half to go, jogging slowly, not really caring if his heart rate was fast enough, his respiration deep enough, or whether he was perspiring enough. He needed some answers.

The biker caught his eye immediately. He was sitting on his machine, backed diagonally against the curb across the street and three houses this side of Tom's apartment building. The black leather jacket blared warning; a snake in the fishbowl, as much out of place on the tranquil residential street of single story houses as Tom's apartment building. Neither belonged. Both were aberrations infringing on the orderly scheme of the middle class urbanite residents.

As he ran by he got a good look at the man. He wasn't the one that had followed them. Why would they be so stupid as to have a man sit in plain sight to watch his apartment? Do they think that we didn't know that a biker had followed us yesterday? Maybe they did know. Maybe they wanted to scare him into doing something. But how did they know where he lived? He tried to remember the drive home yesterday. Had he watched the rear closely enough? A stupid question. Hell no he hadn't. His mind had been on Sherri and the phone and everything else, and John had been asleep.

Two houses to go. He glanced at his apartment building and felt a sense of foreboding. Had they been waiting outside when he went for his jog? He looked around for other motorcycles or suspicious vehicles. Seeing none didn't relieve the anxiety. There were always unfamiliar cars on the street. Who knew which belonged where? Hell, there were usually strange cars at his building, and it was just a fourplex.

Quickly deciding, he passed the walkway to his apartment, now thankful that there hadn't been a parking place in front of his building when he'd returned last night after taking Sherri home. He'd had to park directly in front of his neighbor's house. Hoping that they didn't know what car he drove, he nonchalantly unlocked it and slid inside. The biker hadn't moved. Tom started the car and pulled out. The biker glanced at him as he drove by, but there was no sign of recognition, no shocked expression on his face as expected. Just a brief, resigned, dull look of a man bored to tears.

Breathing a sigh of relief that the man apparently didn't know what he looked like or what he drove, Tom turned left at the corner. The biker hadn't moved. Tom turned left into the alley, parked and sat a moment trying to figure out what to do.

Was he being paranoid? He didn't think so. Not after being followed and the burglary at the cabin. Something was wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He kept going back to the fact that the man was sitting in plain view. Why? Unless! He shuddered. Unless they were already in his apartment and the man was a lookout. Maybe if he saw someone go up the steps he was supposed to start his bike and race the engine or honk his horn or something to warn them.

An awful thought occurred to him. Had they followed him to Sherri's? He tried to recall the drive to her house last night and realized that a herd of elephants could've followed him and gone unnoticed. They could've been singing and dancing and blowing hot air bubbles from their trunks and still been unobserved.

He was sure that Sherri had sounded normal on the phone this morning. But what if they were watching her house, too! They could have been walking up to her door while he was gabbing, then knocking on her door as he hung up, or even kicking it in while his phone hung mutely on its hookswitch. The thought staggered him. He needed a mobile phone. It reminded him to cuss the phone company again for not having good cellular service in the area, otherwise he'd have one. But would it really do any good? She should be on her way to work, and if they had her at home, they surely wouldn't let her answer the phone. The creep on the bike would know!

Tom's mind was churning. He shivered slightly and reached down between the seats, not really believing what he had to do, or that he was really going to do it. The small snub-nosed .38, in the time it took to slip it into his jogging jacket pocket, steadied his resolve, quickened his heartbeat, and caused a few drops of adrenaline to dribble into his pulsing bloodstream, to be quickly swept to wherever it goes, to do whatever it's supposed to do.

He slipped out of the car, quietly latched the door and walked up the alley to an ivy-covered, chain-link fence running across the back of the yard directly behind the biker. He parted the ivy. The man and his machine might have been a statute. They hadn't moved.

Tom acted without really thinking about what he was going to do—using the old adage; do something, even if it's wrong—but he had to know what was going on. The house on his left didn't have a fence around it, so using the house as a shield, he casually strolled through the yard as if he belonged there. Peeking around the front corner of the house, he carefully checked up and down the street. There was no one else in sight.

Slipping his hand into his pocket, he took a deep breath and gripped the gun, then debated whether to leave it in his pocket like they do in the movies. A thought nagged at him. What if the biker thought it was only his finger pointing at him and called his bluff? He wanted to scare the punk, not be forced to shoot him. A bump in his jacket pocket couldn't possibly compare to the effect of the creep seeing the hollow-point bullets peeking from their shadowed chambers, begging to be unleashed to rip into his body and explode into hot, jagged bits of screaming death, blindly ferreting out soft, warm parts to tear and sear.

The gun was small, a five-shot backup weapon commonly used by police and undercover operatives, thin and concealable. He slipped it out and palmed it, his middle finger on the trigger, his thumb beside the hammer, and his index finger running alongside the barrel to better conceal it, then held it casually against his stomach.

It seemed to take an eternity to nonchalantly, yet quietly, walk the thirty or so feet through the lawn to the rear of the bike. With wavering courage and resolve, Tom found himself wanting to slip back to his car and getting the hell out of there. What was he thinking? He saw Sherri's happy, smiling face, alive and well and loving every minute of life, then he pictured her crumpled body lying in an alley, violated, bloody, and lifeless. That image steeled his nerve.

Standing behind the bike, he moved the gun to his side and cocked the hammer. Startled by the familiar sound, the biker snapped his head around while reaching inside his jacket.

"Freeze!" Tom growled. "One twitch and I blow your guts out."

"What the—" A flinch of Tom's hand caught the biker's eye. He stared at the partially concealed gun a second, then looked at Tom's face. "Now wait a—"

"Shut your fucking mouth and put your hands on the handlebars and keep them there."

Keeping a weary eye on the gun, the man slowly sat his hands lightly on the handgrips.

Tom motioned with his head. "What's going on over there?"

"Whadda you mean? Where?"

"Take a wild guess, asshole." Tom tried to look and sound crazy, as if he might pull the trigger just for the fun of it if the man's answers didn't humor him properly. "Are any of your men in there?"

"Men?" The biker looked convincingly puzzled. "I'm just waiting for a friend of mine."

"Where's your friend live?" Tom snapped. "Quick!"

His eyes, the sudden quiver of indecision, answered for him. "He, ah—"

"Bullshit," Tom snarled. The man raised his hand to point. "Get your hands back on the grips and squeeze, hard." Now that the man had seen the gun, Tom slipped it into his pocket, keeping it pointed at him. Tom edged around to the side of him, keeping his distance, wanting to frisk him, but not wanting to get within range of the man's arms. He didn't know what to do next. The man was obviously lying. There was no point beating around the bush. The man knew exactly where Tom lived. Telling him to leave wouldn't solve anything. If his friends weren't with him now, he'd simply go get them and come back later. But why? Tom had to know.

"Grab your jacket with two fingers on each hand and open it slowly." The biker did as told, and as expected, the butt of a small revolver peeked from a clip-on holster inside his pants.

Tom slowly backed up a step. "Pull out the gun with two fingers and drop it on the ground."

The biker slowly pulled the gun out and held it dangling from his fingers, eyeing Tom with proud contempt, reluctant to let go. He really didn't think the punk would shoot him. He wasn't the type. He was a sissy, a jogger, one of those coffee mocha guys that listened to opera and filed their fingernails, and—

"Drop it, you sonovabitch!" Tom growled, intentionally wild-eyed and quivering with insane rage.

The sissy-man was freaking out. Skip began doubting his judgment. The man was serious. Or a wacko. He slowly lowered the gun close to the street and dropped it gently, grimacing as it clattered on the pavement.

Tom let it lie. "Now, once again, who are you waiting for?"

Skip would rather take a bullet than talk. It was the code. He'd welcome a bullet long before Clyde got through with him. He glared cockily, his lips compressed as if to insure his own silence. Several long seconds passed.

Trying to read the man's face, Tom asked, "Why're you looking for Jenkins?" A barely perceptible flicker twitched the man's eyebrows, then was gone. Tom couldn't think straight. How could he make the man talk, while standing in the street trying to act normal, keeping the gun hidden and trying to keep his voice down?

Frustration got the best of him. "You listen to me, you punk sonovabitch. I don't know what you want with me. I haven't seen Jenkins in over a week. I don't know where he's at and I don't know what he's doing and I don't care." Tom paused, hoping it had soaked in. "Get one thing straight. If I ever see your fucking face again, ever, I'll fuck you up so bad you'll beg me to kill you."

The remaining cockiness drained from the man's face, a touch of concern etched his brow.

"Now get off the bike and start walking that way." Tom pointed down the street past his apartment and away from his car. "Don't look back and don't try to turn the corner. Believe me, I'll hit you four times before you can get around it."

Skip hated this helpless feeling. The crazed look in the lunatic's eyes and the way the point in the jacket never wavered convinced him that he had no other choice. He slowly swung off the bike without comment and started down the sidewalk.

Exhilaration and relief combined with Tom's amazement at what he'd just done. He'd felt like he was in a movie. Someone would surely yell "cut," he'd humbly receive oohs and aahs for playing the part with such convincing truculence, with such savagely threatening ferocity, and then he'd kick back and have a cold one while the others looked on in awe.

He glanced around. There was nobody watching him. The street was empty. The curtains were still drawn over his living room window. He was alone.

The biker was almost to the corner. Tom knew that if the man turned and ran around the corner, he wouldn't even consider shooting at him. He hoped the thought hadn't occurred to him. As the biker reached the corner, he slowed as if thinking about it, then walked straight ahead.

Keeping an eye on him, Tom pocketed the man's gun, then reached down to the motorcycle, jerked off the gas line, then turned on the gas valve. Gasoline ran down the bike and formed a growing puddle beneath it. As most people that smoke an occasional joint, he always carried a book of matches, hating the bulge and weight of lighters. He lit one and threw it in the puddle. A yellow ball of flame instantly engulfed the machine.

Tom didn't think the biker could have heard the whoosh of the fire starting, but somehow he must have sensed it, or been peeking. He screamed at Tom and started running back toward his bike. Tom put his right hand in his pocket and pointed his finger at him. The biker stopped and cursed, waving his fists. Tom backed to the edge of the house, keeping the frantically vocal biker covered and at bay with his finger, then turned and ran back to his car.

The biker ran toward his bike. The gas tank exploded.

Tom drove to the end of the alley, turned left and crept through the intersection as a typical gawky driver. People were coming out of their houses to see what had happened, but no strangers came out of his apartment building.

The biker was clumsily staggering to his feet, apparently not seriously hurt, leaving Tom with mixed emotions.

Tom turned into the alley behind his building. There were no cars or motorcycles in the alley, but between the houses he could see several people out in the street watching the fire. He wanted to stop to check out his place but was afraid of being recognized by his bright red Cardinal jogging suit. He watched the back entrance of the building until hearing sirens, then drove down the alley and turned right at the street.

He found a pay phone and thought about calling the police, then reconsidered. As far as he could tell, no one had seen him, and the biker surely wouldn't say anything. Considering the way the police had acted to Tom at the police station, he'd surely land in jail. It was definitely illegal to burn someone's motorcycle on the street. He punched out Sherri's work number. She answered on the first ring.

"What are you doing answering the phone?" he asked, trying to act normal and finding it hard to subdue the relief he felt. "I thought you were a VIP."

"Even voluptuous, wanton, willing VIP's do more than couch work around here," she said in her soft, teasingly sexy purr.

"I hope so. I hate it when you come home with those rug burns on your butt," he said lightly. "Listen, I've got to see you. Can you get away for lunch?"

"That's one of the perks of my VIP job. I only have to work straight through lunch three, maybe four times a week," she said with a laugh. "But for you, just maybe I could get out of here about twelve-thirty?"

"Great. I'll see you then."

It was only a bit after nine. Over three hours to kill. Going home was out of the question, especially for a couple hours, until the commotion died down. He doubted if the biker had hung around to complain to the police, unless the explosion had seriously hurt him. Even then, he'd likely try to toughen it out. Probably had warrants out for his arrest. Most of his type did for something, like parking tickets or littering or kidnapping or killing babies.

Tom flipped on the car radio and sat through two dreary, depressing, country whiners before the local news came on. The lead story was still the fishermen's bodies found floating on the river. The boat still hadn't been found. A recap of the other murders and missing people was followed by what would normally be big news. A parked motorcycle had mysteriously caught fire and exploded. There were no injuries. The owner was yet unknown and there were no witnesses as to the cause. End of story. Obviously the biker slipped away from what was probably a pile of stolen, burnt cycle parts with a doctored registration.

Relieved, Tom clicked off the radio. He doubted if the hoods knew where Sherri worked, but just to be safe, he drove past the bank. There weren't any motorcycles and nobody that looked like they belonged to a gang of slobs hanging around, so he drove on.

He decided to do some shopping. They might spend the next few days at the cabin. He definitely wasn't going to stay at his place for a while.

______________________

Clyde was in his office/bedroom compensating for the depressing, drizzly weather outside by getting an oral massage from Sue. He only wished that he hadn't been too tired last night to bring GOOD ENUFF in with them. He was about to tell Sue to go get her, when the phone rang.

He answered it. Sue didn't miss a lick.

A whiny, disgruntled voice came over, "This is Skip. That cocksucker got the drop on me and torched my fucking bike."

Clyde drew a blank. "Who got the drop on you?"

"The prick that was with the girl—the one I was watching."

"He burned your bike? I thought somebody said he was a sissy. How in the hell… Oh, forget it. Where you at?… Stay right there." He slammed down the phone and grabbed Sue by the hair, pulling her off. "Go find Hank. And get somebody fixing some breakfast. I'm starving."

She gave him one more tantalizing lick and reluctantly got out of bed, picked up her robe, draped it over a chair, and walked into the living room and saw a bunch of naked bodies laying around, but none of them belonged to Hank.

She checked the bedrooms upstairs. They were occupied, but still no Hank. She went back downstairs to tell Clyde, instead decided to pee first. She found Hank, sprawled back against the flush tank, sound asleep. She shook his shoulder. Glassy eyes opened, squinted to focus on a full, thick, luscious, black bush of joy. Instinctively his hands went around her butt, pulling her onto his lap.

"Goddamnit, Hank, cut it out." Then intimately, "Not now. Clyde wants you." He mumbled something, let her go, and stumbled out of the toilet. Sue sat down and peed, and thought about breakfast.

Hank found his pants at the bottom of a pile that had accumulated in the corner of the living room. His clothes were always at the bottom because he was always the first to get naked and liven up the party. He slipped them on and went into Clyde's room.

Clyde looked at him disgustedly. "Get down to Big Bend, Elm and Sixth, and pick up Skip. Then get back here as quick as you can. Oh, and on your way out, wake these assholes up. We got some serious work to do."

______________________

Ed Bailes, the assayer, was glad that he'd forgotten to send a sample of Dan's rock to the lab. It wasn't ore. It was obviously a piece chipped from a meteorite. A very special one. He'd been working on it since Dan had called on Wednesday, and had done dozens of tests on the various colored orbs and connecting veins embedded in the coal black substance. His excitement grew as each test failed to identify any of the materials. He was convinced the rock was the biggest discovery in his lifetime.

He'd already forgotten about his dream of being the permanent county assayer and started thinking about how rich and famous he'd become when he found the source of the rock.

Since yesterday, when he realized the possible importance of it, he'd called Dan every thirty minutes. Ed knew that he could turn this discovery into more money than that hayseed ever dreamed of. He dreaded the thought that the clown might give the thing to some university or sell it for peanuts and rob him of his chance at riches.

He pulled Dan's address from the files. Tonight he'd go to Big Bend and camp on his doorstep if necessary, until he convinced the fool to cut him in on the discovery.

Ed had always been a loser, but lately he felt differently about things. It was time for him to make a move. Grab some of the gusto, rang in his mind.

______________________

By the time Hank got back to the house with Skip, Clyde had everybody up, the men slapped into shape and ready to go, the women dismissed, and he was pissed; they'd eaten all the food in the house last night.

As Skip told the story about what had happened to him, Clyde got madder by the minute.

"You let the prick walk up behind you? What were you doing? Sleeping?" he yelled at Skip.

"No, I, ah… I was watching the house like Hank said to. He just snuck up behind me and pulled a gun. What could I do?" he pleaded.

"That's bullshit!" Clyde shook his head in disgust. "I'll tell you what you do. Get another gun out of the cabinet and the next time you see him you kill him on the spot." Skip turned to go. Clyde hollered at his back, "And don't lose the goddamned gun, jackoff."

Clyde stomped toward his room, motioning, "Hank, come in here." He pulled a roll of bills out of his pocket, counted out five hundred dollars and waved it in Hank's face. "Get your men out on the street and find that sonovabitch. And this time don't lose him. I wanna know everything he does, where he goes, who he talks to, when he takes a shit, and especially, who's that goddamned slut he hangs out with." Clyde paced back and forth then added, "And tell Skip I've changed my mind. Don't kill him, yet. He can have the turd when I'm through with him."

"Okay, Boss." Hank said, delicately snatching the money from Clyde's hand as it waved in his face again.

"I'm gonna leave Sue here, so if you wanna get a message to me, leave it with her."

Clyde found Sue in the kitchen with an opened mayonnaise jar in her hand licking a glob off her fingers. She started bitching about there being no food in the house. He slapped the jar from her hand, sending it smashing against the wall. "Clean that shit up and stay by the phone. We might need to leave some messages back and forth." Clyde motioned to Ox and Guido and headed for the door.

Sue wanted to lash back, but the look in his eyes forced her jaw to stay tightly clenched. She watched them leave, then went to check the cabinets again with the same result. There wasn't any people food, just one lousy can of cat food.

______________________

Tom pulled to the curb two blocks east of his apartment. It was eleven-thirty and the excitement seemed to be over. The motorcycles, or probably more accurately, its remains were gone. Everything looked normal. He drove a block past his apartment, made a U-turn, drove back and parked in front of the building, feeling fairly confident after buying another jogging outfit, bright yellow this time, and dropping the red one in a dumpster across town. He couldn't bring himself to part with the biker's gun. It was obviously hot; that type rarely does anything legitimate, but a gun is a gun, and it might save his life someday. The way things are going, maybe he'd hide it at the cabin for just such an emergency.

The curtains were still drawn on his front window. The neighbor lady was out in front of her porch bending over a patch of flowers and weeds, showing off her bright pink short shorts; two sizes too small for her, and many, many sizes too small for the rest of the world. All was well.

As he got out of the car a police cruiser pulled in behind him. Fighting panic, he glanced around, expecting another car to pin him in from the other direction, men in camouflage gear charging from the bushes, running low, pointing assault weapons. He spotted pink shorts glaring, hands on her hips, waiting for the cuffs to be slapped on the lowlife criminal. He glared back briefly, then noticed that the car wasn't one of the older, beat up blue and white's of Big Bend. It was brand new, shiny, with white and gold trim, sporting a space age light-bar, with spotlights on each side and two red lights mounted in the grill. The driver's door opened and he saw the large, gold decal of a badge. A Crawford County Sheriff's car emblem.

He was surprised when the sheriff, not a deputy, got out to meet him.

"I'm looking for Tom Miller," he said, glancing at his clipboard with a fax of Miller's driver's license and quickly matching the description: W M 6-2 200 brn blu.

Tom was totally confused. The burglary came to mind, but the county sheriff and a fax of his license didn't make sense.

"I'm Tom Miller. What can I do for you?"

"Ollie Matson, Sheriff of Crawford County," he said, sticking out his hand.

Tom nodded and shook his hand, noticing that the campaign posters plastered all over town must have been shot in more flattering lighting. The man on the poster was no more than forty; the man in front of him was fifty plus, but the poster also did him an injustice. It didn't show his athletic six foot frame, the spry, purposeful vigor of his movements, and the life in his light, sparkling brown eyes.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you've got a minute."

"Sure." Tom waited tentatively, relaxing a bit.

"I understand that it's you're girlfriend, Sherri Blake, who owns the cabin that was recently burglarized."

"Yes, that's right."

"How long have you know Miss Blake?" he asked, his pencil casually poised to make a note.

"About a year."

The sheriff wrote it down, perturbing Tom, then continued, "I understand that the man that broke into the cabin was a friend of yours."

Momentarily startled by the phrasing of the question, and the sheriff's assumption that Tom knew who did it and also knew that Dan was a friend, Tom hesitated. Was the sheriff trying to get him to lie? Obviously Bob Quint had told him about Dan. But did he tell him about the meteorite? Or does it still matter?

"Is that correct?" the sheriff asked, noting the unusual hesitation for such a simple question.

"Wait a minute. I still find it hard to believe that Dan did it, but even if he did, there's no real harm done. I'd rather drop it."

"That would be up to Miss Blake," he said crisply, yet politely.

"Well, I'm sure that she won't press charges," Tom said, wishing that the subject had been brought up earlier.

The sheriff smiled, disarming Tom's growing annoyance at the thought of having Dan arrested.

"I take it you haven't seen him in a while." He made a note, then looked up expectantly.

"No. I haven't seen him in over a week."

"Any idea where he might be?"

"He hasn't been home. I've called several times and last Sunday I put out a week's worth of food for his cat. From what I could find out, he left Friday morning a week ago and nobody's seen him since."

The sheriff nodded, made a note, then asked, "Do you have a key to his place?"

"No… well… he has a key hidden, you know, for emergencies." The sheriff looked at Tom, expecting more. "He's asked me to feed his cat before… When he's gone away unexpectedly for a couple days."

"I see." He paused a moment, Columbo style, looking perplexed about something. "You probably heard about the two murders in the Olympia Hardware Store…"

Tom nodded, not knowing what that had to do with anything.

"Recent fingerprints of Jenkins were found in the store. Did you know that he went there?"

Tom shook his head, wondering what the sheriff was getting at, then remembered, "The last time I saw Dan was a week ago Monday when I took him back to the cabin to retrieve his truck. He said he was going to Cedar City for something. Maybe he changed his mind and went to Olympia instead."

"No. These prints were more recent."

"How do you know that?" Tom asked skeptically.

"It's not so commonly known, but fingerprints are like fly-paper to dust. By microscopic analysis of the particles in the oily prints we're able to determine which are the most recent. His prints were among the latest, meaning that he was there the day of the murders, or the preceding Saturday, since the store was closed on Sunday." The sheriff's eyes never left Tom's. He paused, waiting for a response. One that could be analyzed. One that could be compared to Tom's expression. Ollie intentionally omitted telling Tom that Jenkins' prints were also found in the storage rooms and on the loading dock door and that the owner of the store had been too cheap to install surveillance cameras.

Tom's quizzical, bewildered expression never changed.

The sheriff continued as if he wasn't changing the subject. "Did Jenkins know the elderly couple that were killed on the farm near the cabin?"

This was getting ridiculous. "Not that I know of."

"Did you know them?"

"No."

The sheriff nodded and moved around in back of Tom. He could feel the sheriff's blazing eyes scrutinizing him.

The guns! He'd forgotten them! He slipped his hands into his jacket pockets to hide the bulges, and turned around facing the sheriff, instantly feeling helplessly conspicuous. And hot. The sky was clearing. It was too hot to be wearing a jacket. It looked ridiculously suspicious. The sheriff's eyes moved to Tom's face, searching for a flaw, something in which to fault. Tom cringed. The spotlight was on him. He wanted to say something, but the guns in his pocket made his tongue feel thick and dead.

Their eyes locked again, the sheriff's dissecting and Tom's trying to hide a mounting panic.

Ollie wasn't sure about Tom. He knew that something was wrong. He decided to change the subject and get Tom to drop his guard before continuing.

"For some reason the police in this town haven't been very helpful. Jenkins wouldn't happen to be dating the Mayor's daughter or something, would he?" A smile cracked his stern face. He didn't mention that when he'd asked the police to question Miller, they acted like they didn't have the time today.

"I don't think so." Tom returned the smile and relaxed slightly. "As a matter of fact, he was arrested a few days ago for fighting in a bar. They don't have any love for him." Glad that the attention had shifted from himself, Tom felt talkative and continued. "I went to the police station myself on Wednesday to ask about him and they weren't any help at all. In fact, the policewoman there acted a little weird."

The sheriff's eyebrows raised. "What did you ask them about?"

"On Tuesday someone found Dan's boat floating down the river. I went there to find out if they knew anything about him. They said he must have drowned and when I pushed the issue, the cop on the desk got hostile."

Now was the time the sheriff had been waiting for.

"We know that he was alive on Tuesday. That's when he killed the old couple on the farm."

"What?" Tom asked, incredulous disbelief in his voice, twisting into his face. "Are you saying that Dan did it?"

"We're positive. His fingerprints were everywhere."

Totally shocked, Tom muttered, "That's impossible."

"He took most of the food out of the freezer and then did something that would suggest that he was hiding somewhere around here." He paused, observing Tom's reactions, then continued, "They had a sow and two young pigs. He shot the sow, took the hind quarters and the young pigs."

Tom just shook his head in disbelief.

"And he also took their pickup truck. We haven't found any other abandoned vehicle in the area, meaning that he probably arrived on foot, hitch-hiked, or an accomplice drove him there. My guess is that he was on foot because the dogs were killed in the field by the barn. If he'd been driven to the house, the dogs would have challenged him in the driveway."

Dogs? Tom started to ask what he meant, but his tongue didn't seem to want to work.

The sheriff watched Tom carefully, seeing only an honest, shocked look. He continued, "The main reason I'm here, Mister Miller, is to find out if you might have any idea where he might have gone. The farmer and his wife were killed on Tuesday, but it wasn't reported until Thursday night when a neighbor stopped by. That gave Jenkins a two day head start in their truck, so he might be anywhere in the country by now."

"I have no idea, Sheriff. I can't imagine Dan doing something like that."

"Get used to it, Mister Miller. We're positive that he did it. But what troubles me the most is that the hardware store was robbed of several guns and a lot of camping gear. It would indicate that he planned to hide out in some remote area. What I need to know is where he'd go."

"Dan was always an outdoors person. He'd probably head for the most desolate place in the country. He's always talked about going out west where there was still some room to roam, as he liked to put it. Hell, he could be anywhere."

"That's what we're afraid of. Surely he wouldn't stay around here. He had to know that he was going to get a pretty good head start on us." He made another note on the clipboard, said, "Well, I guess that's all. Thanks for your time." He turned to leave, stopped and reached into his pocket. "Here's the key to the cabin. We're all through there. If you think of anyplace that he might have gone, or hear from him, give me a call." He fished a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Tom.

"I will, Sheriff." Tom lied. He knew that if his best friend contacted him, he'd want to talk to him before calling the police.

Ollie drove off satisfied that Miller wasn't smart enough to have completely fooled him, although the obvious bulges in the man's pockets worried him. If he'd been out of the city, he would've rousted the man. Technically, the whole county was his jurisdiction, but protocol would have required him to call in the Big Bend Police, file reports with the city and county, and then there surely would be a court appearance or two or three. He didn't have the time nor want the bother. Another time maybe.

As the sheriff drove away, Tom started toward the stairs smugly satisfied that he'd been brilliant in avoiding detection of the guns.

Suddenly he stopped and slapped himself in the face. Why hadn't he asked the cop to come inside to question him? Pink shorts started for her front door, afraid that the loon would stand in the drive and beat himself to death, and she didn't want to get involved.

Smug brilliance drained away, to be replaced by a dull, stupid, empty, helpless feeling. Then fear began creeping in as he walked up the steps. His mind was at odds. He was sure that nobody would still be in the apartment after what had happened in the street. If they'd been in there, surely they would've split after the commotion had died down. A nagging doubt said he might be wrong.

He wasn't leaving town without some real guns and he knew that right now would be the best time to get them. The bikers had to be confused, debating plans, cussing and arguing. Probably coming back after dark would be what they'd eventually decide upon.

He pictured a workable scenario. Quietly slip the key in the deadbolt and unlock it. Then with both pistols cocked and ready, slowly turn the doorknob till it stopped, then dive in to the floor with one gun pointed toward the kitchen and the other one down the hall toward the living room. And shoot anything that moved. He reached in his pocket to get the keys, then stopped and shook his head. It was stupid to think that he could do that. It was movie fantasies. That's not the way it happened in real life. Not with him, anyway.

His hand had a mind of its own. It pulled the keys from his pocket, thumbed through them and found the deadbolt key. The deadbolt! The door wasn't splintered. His mind raced. How could that be? He was sure that he'd locked it. And he'd spent forty dollars for a lock that was supposedly pick proof. It required a key on both sides. It was a great idea. When he was home he left his keys in the inside lock; that way he always knew where they were and it also reminded him to lock the door on the way out. Even if they could've picked it open, surely they wouldn't go to the trouble to try to lock it from the inside.

And surely they wouldn't have brought a ladder and climbed in the only other way to get in, the second story windows.

He held the revolver in his right hand and slowly, quietly inserted the key and gently turned. The key met resistance. He turned harder and the tumbler clicked over. It had been locked. Feeling relieved and slightly foolish, he pushed the door open and glanced around at an empty apartment.

______________________

Sue couldn't remember being so miserably hungry, and was infuriated with Clyde for leaving her home with nothing to eat. Since seeing Sue with the can of cat food, the cat had continually annoyed her with its disgusting, specious, phony show of affection. For the dozenth time it nuzzled her legs and purred. Clyde loved that stupid cat, and fell for its con job. She angrily kicked it across the room and grudgingly went to the cupboard, took out the lone can of cat food and opened it. She sniffed it. Her nose indicated strong, nasty tuna. She hated fish with a passion, but her stomach growled eagerly. Curiously desperate, she took a pinch and gingerly touched it to her tongue. Very fishy, more like stinky fishy, she thought, but not as disgusting as expected. She put it into her mouth, moved it around with her tongue, realized she'd eaten worse, and swallowed. It was fishy, all right, and a bit gritty, but not bad. She opened a drawer, grabbed a fork and started to get a plate, when she decided to just eat it out of the can.

She sat down at the table, the can raised in front of her face, and dug the fork into it. The emblem on the can caught her eye. It displayed a thick-bodied, blue and white fish leaping out of the water. She wondered if it was supposed to be a tuna. In large block letters across the bottom of the label were the words, "Fisherman's Surprise." She started to take a bite and the word surprise rattled her curiosity. What surprise? She turned the can around and read the list of ingredients. The first one listed was fish by-products. Why say by-products? she wondered. Suddenly she remembered what she'd heard about hot dogs being made from pig snouts and ears and tails and guts. She thought of fish heads and eyeballs and fish guts and slammed the can down. Shit! What am I doing?

She jumped up with the can and walked to the backdoor. The cat bolted after her meowing excitedly. Sue went outside and dumped the can on a clear patch of dirt.

"Enjoy, rodent," she said as the cat dove in.

Watching the cat happily gorging was more than she could take. She walked back into the kitchen, grabbed a meat cleaver, and walked back outside.

The cat ignored her and continued greedily gobbling down the food right up to the moment the meat cleaver hit it in the neck. Its head smashed into the pile of food and stayed there. The rest of its body sprang into the air jerking spastically, then fell to the ground. Its legs twitched a few times and then stopped.

Sue tossed the head into a bush, picked the rest up, carried it inside, and began preparing her lunch.

______________________

While Sue was enjoying her lunch, Clyde and his brothers pulled into the Blue Bull's parking lot. Clyde was sure that someone in the bar knew who and where to find Dan's friends.

Leading the way, Clyde walked in and went to the booth he wanted. A wave of silence washed through the patrons, some knowing who the bikers were, the others knowing the type. Low murmurs quickly informed the latter.

There were two nearly full bottles of beer on the table. Clyde set the bottles on the floor beside the booth and sat down.

A fairly attractive, thirtyish brunette wearing knee-length tight pants and a tee-shirt with BARB embroidered on it, came over to take their order. Not knowing that the three low-lifes were the notorious Driegeoes, and knowing how to handle most punk types, she started to tell them that the booth was taken. One look at Clyde's scarred, savage face helped change her mind.

Clyde's eyes quickly undressed and openly, slowly scanned her naked body, then dispassionately settled on her matronly, semi-cute, round face. His voice oozing contempt and impatience, he ordered drinks, "…and I'm looking for a friend of Dan Jenkins. Sorta tall, blondish-brown hair, maybe thirty, lives over on Oakwood. You know him?"

"Dan? The guy with the Bronco?"

"Yeah, skinny little weasel that used to go with Sue." Clyde pulled a long, hunting knife from his boot and made a show of cleaning his grimy fingernails.

"You a friend of Sue's?" Barb asked suspiciously, suddenly wondering if these were the bikers Dan had fought. The sneer on scarface ended all doubts.

Clyde raised the knife and stuck it into the tabletop as he growled, "I'm not here to answer questions, bitch, I'm askin' em."

Not one to be intimidated by tough guys, Barb grabbed the knife, pulled it out of the table, threw it on the floor and said, "Fuck off, punk," and started to walk away. Clyde grabbed her hand, jerked her back around, and squeezed until she whimpered and dropped to her knees.

A tall, broad, hairy-chested brute wearing overalls and a baseball cap slid out of the next booth and grabbed Clyde by the shoulder. Clyde spun and swung up at the huge man's massive face. Something crunched as the blow struck home. The man toppled backward and crumpled to the floor. Clyde rubbed his knuckles and grinned. The crunching had come from the other man.

Customers scattered, not wanting any part of a confrontation with the bikers. Clyde glanced at Ox and Guido, who already had their guns drawn, then back at the crowd. He wanted to tear the place apart, but this wasn't the time. He calmly walked toward the front door while his brothers backed out behind him, covering the terrified customers.

After they left, two men tended to their fallen friend, while the other customers drifted back to what they'd been doing, distancing themselves from one of Clyde Driegeo's beaten enemies. The legend of Dan Jenkins was rekindled. Amazing exaggerations were traded. No one even called the cops.

Outside, Clyde stopped and glared back at the bar.

"Guido, when that bitch gets off work, I want you to bring her to the house. Don't even bother blindfolding her cause she's not gonna leave alive."

Guido smiled.

______________________

Tom arrived at the Merchantile Bank, fifteen minutes early for his lunch date with Sherri. Instead of parking in front as usual, he drove slowly past the bank, checking the cars and street for anyone suspicious lurking about. He turned around, drove slowly back past the bank and parked a half block down the street, then walked back to a cafe directly across from the bank. There he stopped and carefully scanned the street again.

Satisfied that everything appeared normal, he entered and saw that the front booth along the right wall was empty. He sat facing the street. The wall on his left blocked the view in that direction, but he could see the bank and half a block to his right.

At precisely twelve-thirty Sherri came out of the bank. Tom got up and walked outside to meet her. His heart skipped a beat. Coming slowly down the street from his right rode two men on motorcycles. They wore the same kind of jackets as the scrounge he'd chased off earlier, and they were definitely looking at Sherri. Not considering how men on motorcycles could abduct someone, he panicked and reached for his revolver, then realized that he couldn't just pull out a gun on a busy street and start waving it around.

The bikers slowed and pulled toward the curb in front of Sherri.

Tom yelled and ran into the street. The nearest biker looked at him and accelerated. The one nearest to Sherri looked around, momentarily confused by his partner's action. He saw Tom coming toward him, glanced back at Sherri, then slowly continued on down the street, appearing to still be undecided.

Was that the girl the guy went with? Hank wondered. They'd stake out the bank in a car and find out.

A horn blared and tires screeched to Tom's left. He jumped back and sheepishly grinned at Sherri. She looked bewildered and ran to him.

"What are you trying to do, handsome, get yourself killed?"

"Just wanted to impress you with my bravery."

"I'm duly impressed, now let's get some lunch and then…" She switched to an exaggerated expression of concern, "we'd better go find a keeper for you."

He enjoyed her soft laughter and ribbing while he led her to a more private booth at the rear of the cafe. Her happy mood, the smell of the food, and the noise of the lunch crowd all combined to convince him to wait until after she got home from work to tell her what had happened and what he thought they ought to do about it. He knew they wouldn't try anything in the bank, and to play it safe, he'd just happen to be in the neighborhood when she got off work and follow her home.

He couldn't help but wonder if he was making the right decision.

______________________

Guido pulled the van into the parking lot of the Blue Bull at five-thirty and drove around to the back where the employees parked. He knew that the day shift at the bar didn't end until six o'clock, but he wanted to be early in case the shift changed at six bar time. He doubted that Barb hung around very long after work. She hadn't seemed like the type.

A green pickup set facing the back door, and beyond it were four cars. Guido parked beside the truck and turned off the motor.

All Clyde had told Guido was to get the girl and bring her to the house. He hadn't said how he wanted it done, or who Guido should bring with him, so he'd chosen to use the van and only bring Ox along.

He didn't know which car was Barb's, but it really didn't matter. They were simply going to wait until she walked to her car, grab her and throw her into the van, gag and cuff her to the seat mount, then Ox would drive her car to the bus station and park it. Guido would pick up Ox and they'd take her home with them. It seemed like a good idea to him. If she was missed, and her car was found at the bus station, people would think that she'd left town for a while.

A few minutes before six a bright red Firebird pulled in on their right. There was only the driver in the car, but he looked like the Hulk, without the green skin. Instead of getting out of the car and going in through the back door, as Guido had expected, he stayed in the car, popped a can of soda and reclined his seat as if he was going to sit for a while.

"Shit, man. What's that asshole gonna do?" Guido said looking disgustedly at the man, then at his watch. "She'll be coming out any minute."

Ox sized up the man and shrugged, rarely impressed and never intimidated by ones size.

Just then a man wearing a red and black plaid shirt and a black cowboy hat came out the back door of the bar and walked to the pickup parked on their left. He got in and instead of starting the motor, began rummaging through the glove compartment. Guido fidgeted in his seat and glanced at his watch again.

The rear door opened, Barb stepped out and smiled at the giant in the Firebird.

"Oh, shit. We got problems," Guido said uneasily. Barb walked to the car and got in. The car backed out of the parking space while Guido was trying to figure out what to do. All he could think of was to follow them and wait for a better opportunity.

As the Firebird pulled away, the pickup started, backed out and cut behind the van to go the other way around the building. The truck lurched and stalled.

Guido started the van, put it in reverse and waited, beginning to fume. "Move it, goddamnit, get the fuck outta the way… shit!

The pickup's starter groaned and growled .

Guido started muttering as he heard the truck fire and sputter, then fire and sputter again. It would fire a few licks and then stop. Eventually it spluttered faster and faster until it finally revved up. The guy raced the motor and slowly let out the clutch. The truck jerked a couple times and took off.

"Stupid fuckin' hillbilly," Guido mumbled, "If that was my truck, I'd run it in a ditch and steal one that ran better."

When the truck was clear of the van, Guido peeled out backwards, dropped the van into low and sped around the building.

The Firebird was gone.

Stopping at the highway, he frantically looked both ways. There were cars on the road in both directions, but he didn't see the red car.

"You see them, Ox?"

Ox was looking back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. He looked at Guido, shrugged his shoulders and gave him a dumb look.

"Goddamnit, I hope they're going to town." He turned to the right and took off as fast as the van would go, which wasn't all that fast.

The next van we steal will have a bigger V-8 in it, Guido promised himself.

He'd have caught them if it hadn't been for the traffic going in both directions on the two lane road. As it was, all he could do was cuss a lot and wish he could pass the slow bastards in front of him. He never got the chance until they were almost to town. By that time the Firebird was gone.

"Shit, Clyde will kill us when we get back."

Ox shrugged, mindlessly.

______________________

Ed Bailes pulled up in front of Dan's apartment building, rechecked the address, patted the rock in his jacket pocket reassuringly, then got out of the car. A man sitting in a chair tipped back against the building with a beer in one hand, a cigarette dangling from tired, bored lips, and the other hand shooing a fly, watched slyly, thinking his eyes were hidden under the bill of a Cardinal baseball cap. To Ed, the man looked like the typical country bumpkin sitting in front of a barber shop waiting for the sun to come up or go down or something equally as amazing.

Walking briskly up to him, Ed asked, politely, professionally, "Where's apartment 2B?"

"Probably on the second floor," the bumpkin said, "cause the ones down here are all one something."

At first Ed thought it was a wisecrack, but the man appeared serious, actually trying to be helpful. Realizing that he'd asked a stupid man a stupid question, Ed nodded and walked up the stairs. 2B was the first door on the left. He knocked, and waited. Nothing. He knocked louder, impatiently. Still nothing. He twisted the knob back and forth and muttered a curse. It was locked. Fighting the urge to kick in the door, he angrily took a business card from his jacket pocket, wrote a message on the back, stuck it in between the door and the trim, then walked back downstairs.

The man, keeping an eye on the sun, or whatever, looked at him and said, "Not home, huh?"

"No. Do you know where I can find him?"

"Last I heard, he got in a bar fight and got hisself arrested."

"You mean he's in jail?"

"I don't know if he's still there, but I ain't seen him since I heard he was arrested, musta been a week ago."

Ed turned and started walking toward his car.

"Hey, who should I say was askin?"

Without looking back, Ed got in the car and drove away. He headed straight for the police station, hoping that Jenkins would still be there and needed bail money or a fine paid. It would be much better to have Jenkins indebted to him than to have to take him out in the country and torture him.

Torture? He was amused and slightly exhilarated by the thought. He'd never been in a fight in his life. Always the consummate nerd. Always studying or reading. Always smaller, skinnier, and more chickenshit than the other rowdy, mindless, snot-nosed, filthy kids in grade school. Too intelligent for the jocks in high school, and rejected by those arrogant, rich brats in college. The spoiled snobs considered a scholarship—his proudest achievement in a young, uneventful life, his pinnacle of success, his badge of being, his very honor—as being nothing but charity for the poor skid-row derelict from the south side of Chicago. Now he was thinking torture? Oh, how many he'd love to…

He spotted the Big Bend City Hall and parked in front of a sign, RESERVED Police Use Only. He idly counted the four concrete steps and walked into a small lobby area, stopping at the counter on the right side. A policewoman sat at a desk facing it, a microphone in front of her face. She was turning a dial on radio equipment setting at the front of the desk, partially hidden under the counter. Behind her, a cop sat at a desk facing the front window. He was seriously devouring a sub sandwich while staring out the window at Ed's car.

At the left of the lobby was an open glass-paneled door with CHIEF OF POLICE painted on the glass. There was no one sitting at the desk. At the rear of the lobby, a wide concrete stairway led down several steps to a landing and then continued down to the right, into what Ed knew was the business end of the jail, commonly known as The Dungeon.

When he walked up to the counter, neither of the cops looked at him. He stood there a minute or so and then said, "I'd like some information."

The policewoman at the counter flicked her eyes up for a second then down to a piece of paper on her desk, as if too busy to be bothered. The cop behind the desk looked at Ed for a long second and then said something or grunted. Ed couldn't tell which.

"Is there a Dan Jenkins here?" Ed asked him.

The cop behind the desk was Joe Bains, the one that had disciplined the three men in the pickup. He was in an even worse mood today. He knew the name Dan Jenkins meant something to him, but he didn't remember what. He glared at Ed.

"I mean, is Dan Jenkins in jail here?" Ed explained.

The cop looked at a piece of paper on his desk and said, "No Dan Jenkins here."

"I was told that he was arrested."

"Probably. We arrest a lot of people."

"How do I find out if he was arrested?" Ed asked.

"Why do you wanna know?" the cop replied suspiciously.

"I want to get him out."

"How you gonna get him out?"

"I'll pay his bail or fine or whatever."

"Whatever what?" Joe asked, raising his voice, enjoying the game.

Displaying his aggravation, Ed also raised his voice and said distinctly, authoritatively, "Look, I'd like to talk to whoever is in charge around here."

Joe looked at Marie. She was already smiling. Neither one of them said anything, their lingering, taunting smile said it clearly.

Ed had finally had enough. In exasperation he shouted, "You goddamned moron, can't you hear? I want to get Dan Jenkins out of jail."

In one smooth motion, Joe came out of his chair, his gun appearing in his hand. Ed could tell that the barrel was pointing accurately at his face.

"There ain't gonna be no jail breaks while I'm on duty. Back up against the wall, creep."

"Hey, wait a minute! I'm the Crawford County Assayer." Ed didn't know what else to say. He was a county official, although he had absolutely no authority over anybody. He hoped that the cop would at least respect the fact that they were both government employees.

Joe walked around the corner, his eyes revealing deaf ears, the gun still pointing at Ed, his voice quivering, "Get down on the floor with your hands behind your back. Now!"

Ed was horrified. "Hey, I'm the County Assayer of Crawford County. I'm on official business. You can't do this to me!"

"On the floor, asshole, or I'll put you there," Joe said vehemently, pushing the gun toward Ed, one blink from pulling the trigger.

Ed dropped flat on the floor, his shocked mind unable to comprehend.

"Get your hands behind your back," Joe ordered, completely unaware that he was being swept into a situation that had no foundation of reality.

Ed did as he was told and felt handcuffs being snapped harshly onto his wrists.

What in the hell is going on? Ed frantically tried to think of something to defuse the situation, stop the cop's hostility.

He heard the cop say, "Marie, go downstairs and tell the Chief that we've got Jenkins' accomplice up here."

"Are you crazy?" Ed blurted out before thinking, instinctively reacting to the absurdity of his position. "Accomplice to what?"

"Hear that, Marie. The murdering bastard's acting innocent. All the guilty creeps do that, but this one won't get away with it. He'll tell the truth. No lawyers and writs and bullshit's gonna let him get away with lying to us."

Marie, thrilled at the prospect of some serious police action to spice up her boring day, turned to go just as the Chief came up the stairs. He stopped at the top and looked down at Ed.

"Whatcha got, Joe?"

Ed spat out, "I'm Ed Bailes, the Crawford County Assayer. I'm just looking for Dan Jenkins to talk to him about an assay report."

Joe hollered, "Shut up, punk." Then to Cliff, "He came in to get Jenkins outta jail."

"No shit? He's a friend of Jenkins?" Cliff stepped over to Ed and kicked him sharply in the side. "Good work, Joe. Now let's find out why he'd care about that punk?"

Joe patted Ed down and rolled him around enough to empty his pockets. There were the usual items; key ring, wallet, change, a package of Certs, then from a jacket pocket Joe found Dan's rock sample.

"Why the fuck you got a rock?" Joe demanded as if he'd found a bag of drugs. Startled, and before Ed could answer, Joe kicked him in the ribs and screamed, "Hey! Scumbag! I asked you a question. What's the fucking rock for?" Again, not waiting for an answer, he kicked Ed again, much harder.

Cliff stood patiently at Ed's feet waiting for the right moment to unleash a kick to the whimpering man's groin.

Marie leaned over the counter, practically salivating.

Ed moaned and sobbed, "I told you. I'm the assayer." He rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, twisting his arms around as far as he could in a feeble attempt to shield himself.

"Look at this, Chief," Joe said smugly. "It's the same kind of rock that Jenkins had the other night." Cliff reached out and snatched it from his hand.

"Hey, its got those same kind of colored lines in it." Cliff looked at it in awe. "Do you still have the one I gave you?"

Joe had already gone behind the counter to retrieve his jacket. He pulled out the rock and held it between his forefinger and thumb. "It sure looks the same to me."

"Lemme see it."

Cliff compared the two then said to Marie, "Look in the middle drawer of the duty desk and see if that rock is still there."

"What rock?" she asked.

"Damnit, there was only one rock in the drawer. Just get the fucking thing."

Marie puckered her lips and sent him a kiss, "I love foreplay, honey." She went to the duty desk and pulled open the middle drawer. The colors in the rock immediately attracted her attention. She picked it up and started to walk around the counter and then stopped to look at it. For a moment she didn't want to part with it.

"Bring the goddamned thing here," Cliff shouted. She snapped out of her fixation, walked over to the counter and handed the rock to him. Cliff examined all three while Joe and Marie watched intently as he rolled them around in his hand.

Joe's eyes bounced back and forth. "They're the same! What's it mean?"

I don't know…" Cliff said, putting one of them into Marie's outstretched hand and handing Joe's back, and slipping the other one into his pocket. "But that prick on the floor'll tell us."

Joe kicked Ed in the ribs again and screamed at him, "How come you got that rock?" Unable to speak with the searing pain in his ribs, Ed only moaned. Totally frustrated and disgusted, Joe viciously kicked Ed in the ear. Ed yelped and went limp. Joe reached down and shook him and got no response. He looked up at the chief. "What're we gonna do with him?"

Cliff looked at the repulsive heap on the floor. "Maybe we better take him downstairs before somebody comes in here and thinks we're not treating him right."

"Yeah," Joe mumbled. "Goddamned people are always sticking their noses into police business."

Marie looked at Ed's limp body and smiled. She liked police interrogation. When the chief told her to put the rock back in the drawer, she quit smiling, but eventually did as she was told.

Ed was just coming around when he felt his wrists being grabbed, jerked upwards high above his head and pulled forward, dragging him, face mashed to the floor. Ed tried to raise his head but as they tugged, his back bowed to relieve the pressure on his shoulders and forced his face harder against the floor. Ed saw the first step as his nose went over the edge and smashed into the second step. He jerked his head to the side and screamed at them. His cheek cracked against the next step. They roared hysterically as he wildly thrashed and struggled. His efforts only encouraged them to push down harder and pull faster.

At the bottom of the stairs, they dragged him down a tiled hall and into a room with a slick concrete floor. They banged his head into the wall and dropped his arms. His mind clouded, then he heard a squeak. The deluge hit him. Ice cold pinpoints of water with the force only found in inch and a half institutional water supplies stung into his ears and neck. He snapped to and rolled from under the torrent only to find himself under another shower head. It took him a second to realize that the water was scalding hot. He scurried back under the cold water and then started to crawl toward the opposite wall and out of the range of the showers when an excruciating pain exploded across his back.

"Hey! What the—"

Joe raised the two foot piece of heavy rubber hose and smashed it down on Ed's right kidney. Ed sank to the floor and rolled over on his side, stinging water forcing him to keep his eyes closed. "All right! I'll tell—" A nose full of water brought on a coughing fit. A searing pain laced across his thigh.

"Just shut the fuck up. I'll let you know when it's time for you to talk," Joe grunted, raining repeated blows on Ed's body. Ed screamed and squirmed, frantically trying to ward off the blows with his arms. It only made Joe more excited and swing more vigorously.

Smiling, Cliff stood back and watched Joe prepare the criminal for interrogation. They both loved police work.

Suddenly the blows stopped, then the water quit. Ed opened his eyes just in time to see the hose slash down. His balls exploded, bright lights flashed in his head, pain shot through his body, his stomach knotted, puke welling up his throat. He gulped for air.

Through the blinding, numbing cloud of pain consuming his senses, Ed heard, "You better take a turn, Chief. I'm tired, and I don't think he's ready to talk yet."

Ed broke. "Okay, okay… just stop… please," he blubbered. "What do you want to know?"

Joe grabbed a handful of Ed's shirt, jerked him across the floor and into the wall. Ed struggled to a sitting position, leaning against the cold, wet wall for support.

"I wanna know about that rock!" Joe slapped the palm of his hand with the hard rubber hose.

Marie joined them as Ed began telling a downgraded version of the story.

When he was finished, Joe looked at the Chief, impassively. Cliff shrugged his shoulders, totally unimpressed.

Joe said, "Maybe we should just kill him and say he was trying to escape. Whadda you think?"

Marie, catching on, gleefully got into the act, "Yeah, let me do it."

Joe turned to her and said very seriously, "Goddamnit, Marie, you got the last one. It's my turn now."

"Who the fuck wants to take turns. It's supposed to be ladies first, you know."

"Yeah, Joe leered. Ladies are supposed to get naked first—"

"Now hold on, you two," Cliff said, taking charge. "You know the rules around here. It's pleasure before business, and we gotta question this prick some more to make sure he's telling us the truth."

Marie pouted dejectedly and Joe popped the club against the palm of his hand again.

Ed immediately began embellishing on his story.

______________________

Tom watched Sherri leave the bank and, playing super sleuth, followed her home. He was impressed at how easy it was to keep her in sight without being observed. She pulled into her garage while the door was still going up. Tom pulled in her drive as the door closed. He checked up and down the street. Satisfied that he wasn't being watched, he started for the door.

Sherri met him on the porch. "All right, Dick Tracy, what were you doing being so sneaky?"

"Sneaky?" he said wondering if she'd really seen him following her. "What do you mean? I've just got good timing."

She looked at him suspiciously. "I saw you following me all the way from the bank. I was going to lose you and double back on you're tail, but I was afraid you'd try to keep up with me and smash that lovely car of yours." She gestured in mock deference, while squinting preposterously at Tom's bright yellow Lincoln. She never missed an opportunity to poke fun at anything yellow, especially cars. Tom could understand how she felt, having hated yellow all of his life, but now that it had finally grown on him, he found himself really liking the color, much to Sherri's chagrin.

Still not understanding how she'd known, and with his ego taking a plunge, Tom had to ask, "How'd you spot me?"

"Simple. When I flipped my rearview mirror to reduce the glare from that yellow canary of yours, it dawned on me. Nobody but you would be caught out on the street in the daytime in a car that color. So I easily deduced, if it walks like a duck and looks like a duck, it must be my baby." She quickly kissed his shocked mouth. "By the way. Why were you following me?"

"I like to follow good looking blondes driving new sports cars. Imagine my surprise when the gorgeous damsel pulled into your garage." He kissed her open mouth until her lips finally responded and her eyebrows dropped back to where they belonged.

"Mind if I pull my lovely car into your garage and spend the night."

"I don't mind you spending the night, but can't you park that thing down the street? I'd hate the neighbors to think that I'd… you know… go with someone with a car like— Ouch!" She rubbed her butt, then grinned slyly. "Well, if you're gonna put it that way…"

It began sprinkling. Tom quickly pulled the car in the other bay. They stood inside the garage and watched a full-blown, Midwestern cloudburst develop. They both loved watching it rain. Tom hoped that it would rain all weekend. He was in the mood to stay in the cabin and enjoy some indoor sports. The rain petered out within a minute. He'd find some other excuse.

Sherri headed for the shower to begin a ritualistic series of events that would eventually leave her clad in a short, frilly wisp of a teasingly translucent bit of nothing, while Tom went to the kitchen and played single-domestic-male-in-heat by displaying his culinary skills. Two potatoes in the oven, ice bucket and champagne, chopped weeds-in-a-bowl (which she called a salad), and steaks into the pan at precisely the right moment (when the closet door shut the third time).

______________________

There was no music playing when Hank and Ace pulled up to the house. They got out of the pickup, Hank looked around suspiciously, then walked to the front door and quietly opened it. His other four men and Sue were sitting around like they were at a funeral. There were no laughing girls, no blaring music, and the most surprising thing of all, there was no smell of pot in the air.

"What's going on?" he asked. "Somebody die?"

The men simultaneously turned their dejected eyes toward Clyde's closed bedroom door.

Sue shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly and said, "Ass chewing time."

"Whose?"

"His brothers… they botched a job," she said, barely hiding sarcasm. "Something about bringing a barmaid home." She shrugged her shoulders again.

Hank walked to Clyde's door, knocked twice and walked in. Clyde was pacing the floor and his brothers were staring at their shoes as docile as sheep. Clyde looked at Hank as if he was thinking about kicking him out of the room.

"I got some good news," Hank said quickly, in self defense.

Clyde relaxed slightly and waited patiently for almost a whole second, then his impatience took over. "Well, come on, what news?"

Hank recounted what he'd learned. Tom and Sherri's names, where she worked, and how he'd followed Miller and the girl to her house.

Clyde listened, at times totally absorbed in what Hank was saying, then occasionally a vacant look appeared on his face and he seemed to drift away.

When Hank was through, Clyde walked away and tried to think. He felt confused and tired and hungry and didn't know what to do next. He paced. His stomach growled. As if coming up with a great idea, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills and peeled off two hundreds.

"Hank, send someone out to get some fucking groceries. No. Wait a minute. Have them go get fifty burgers, then get back in here." Hank snatched the bills, spun and quickly left, wishing that he didn't have to come back for a while. Clyde turned to Guido and Ox, another idea starting to show on his ugly face.

"We know that what we're looking for is up north somewhere. Jenkins is probably up there hiding out with it right now." He was trying to go over the facts in his mind, talking to himself out loud, hoping, but not expecting Guido to help him. He paced, his stomach churned, and he was flustered. "We saw the girl and her boyfriend with two men. Counting Jenkins, that's five of them and we don't know how many are with him right now. And I've got a feeling that something's going down. Soon."

Hank slipped quietly back into the room. Clyde stopped pacing and stared through him, still trying to formulate a plan.

Hank started twisting on his fingers, something that he always did when he was nervous, thinking that he was the subject of Clyde's scrutiny. "Ah¼ the burgers will be here in a few minutes, Boss." He exaggerated, knowing that it would probably be more like forty-five minutes, but he wanted to pacify Clyde, and hopefully, get out of the room. Clyde just didn't look right, and he was acting strange. Deadly strange.

"Good. I'm starving." Clyde felt better already, just knowing that food was on the way. "Hank, have Ace and Deuce put Deuce's thumper in the van. Give them a dozen burgers and a jug of water or something with no booze in it and have them stick with the girl and—what's his name?"

"Miller."

"Yeah, Miller… what a sissy name. Anyway, stick with them all night."

"What if he leaves?"

"That's what Deuce's thumper is for." Clyde's glare started Hank fidgeting again. "Does the CB in the van still work okay?"

"Yeah, the van's okay, it's the one in the pickup that's on the fritz."

"We shoulda got one from Bernie at the pawn shop. How many walkie-talkies have we got? You'll need one. And—and where in the fuck's the food?"

"It'll be here in a minute, Boss," Hank said, "and we've got three of them in the cabinet."

Clyde looked at him, confused, picturing three hamburgers in the cabinet.

"I'll make sure that they got new batteries in them," Hank added, wondering about Clyde's expression.

"What? Oh yeah… good idea."

"And the food's on the way."

"Yeah, you said that already." Clyde paced back and forth a minute and then continued, "I want somebody here on the radio all night, and the men ready to go quick." He snapped his fingers. "Like firemen. And nobody parties or Guido here cuts their fucking ears off. Got that?"

Hank nodded, trying to show the proper degree of concern and understanding.

"And make sure that they've got plenty of heat. Matter of fact, put two Uzi's and about a dozen extra clips in the van. And put three dirt bikes in the pickup. Who knows what in the hell we'll need."

Hank nodded and glanced at Guido and Ox. They both looked dead-pan serious. He looked back at Clyde, met his stare and blinked and played with his fingers.

"And have the boys in the van call in every half hour." Clyde turned to his brothers and started to say something to them when he realized that Hank was still in the room.

"Go on. Get." Hank spun around, glad to get out of the room.

Clyde turned back to his brothers, "Ox, is the trike ready to run?"

"Yeah, I fixed the starter yesterday."

"Good. I want you and Guido to get out six Uzi's, a couple cases of grenades and put them in it. And Ox, the rocket launcher is your baby. Get it ready to go and take lotsa rockets. If these fuckers are up in the hills somewhere, we might need it.

Ox's eyes lit up. He hadn't shot the launcher since they'd gotten it in a deal for a kilo of coke. He remembered how pissed off Clyde had been when the Major couldn't come up with all the money for the coke and had offered to trade, what to Ox was a fortune in weapons. They'd taken ten thousand in cash, twelve Uzi's, six cases of loaded clips, six cases of grenades, a rocket launcher with thirty-six rockets, and five pounds of plastic explosive with six timer detonators. He remembered how the men in 'Nam had all called him Rocket. He never let his launcher out of his sight. When he ate, it was in his lap, when he slept, it was always in his arms. When they were in the field, he'd shoot it at imaginary targets, and tell the Sergeant or the Lieutenant that he'd seen some Nips. They never blamed him for missing when they couldn't find any bodies. They knew how hard it was to hit anything through all that jungle-like foliage. They all figured that he was doing an excellent job keeping the Nips on the run. Of course he was much too young to have been in Nam, but in his dreams, his imagination bolstered by all of the war movies he could watch and an actual stint in the Army using the launcher, it was all so real to him. A psychiatrist would have a field day with Ox.

"Ox," Clyde interrupted his dumb look of reminiscing, "make sure that all the bikes are full of gas. Especially mine."

Ox lumbered out of the room with his mind drifting back to 'Nam and his sweetheart.

Clyde put his hand on Guido's shoulder. "Guido, we've go to figure out which of our men are expendable."

______________________

Sherri magically appeared just as the steaks were done, looking fresh and sexy and eager to give her body and soul to the male slave, desiring only a comforting night of wild passion, promises of worship and devotion and security for all of eternity, and a medium-rare steak, and a maid, and much, much more.

They each played their courtship roles with zest, both wanting more of each other, one on cloud nine, the other satisfied with cloud eight, one knowing that with clipped wings, they'd probably tumble hopelessly from the clouds. Tom knew she was struggling with it. If he only knew how to help.

"Mmmm… smells good," she purred in his ear, slipping her arms around his chest from behind. He flipped the steaks, then graciously turned and nuzzled her neck, repeating the compliment, his hands exploring, his erectile juices prematurely flowing, his lips searching for an elusive spot.

She backed away and handed him a robe, knowing when to seduce and when to toy. "I'll set the table while you get into something with no zipper," she said coyly.

Not wanting to break the mood, Tom decided to wait until after dinner to get serious.

After dinner, snuggled on the sofa, a small fire, champagne, alternately being seducer and seduce, he cleared his mind of the irrelevant caldron brewing on another world, in a different time, with strange imaginary beings. It wasn't so important that it couldn't wait until later, during pillow-talk time. The moment never seemed to be right. Although, making plans to spend the weekend at the cabin did slip into the conversation without spoiling the mood.

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