It all seemed so long ago.

She tried the front door. It was locked. She picked up one of the decorative stones that bordered Myra's flowerbed and stood in front of the picture window, hefting it in her hand. After some thought, she went around back instead of throwing it. Climbing through a window would be difficult in her current condition. And even if she was able (and careful), she might cut herself badly enough to interfere with the rest of her plans for the evening.

Also, it was a nice house. She didn't want to vandalize it if she didn't have to.

And she didn't. Jack's body had been taken away, the town was still functioning well enough for that, but no one had thought to lock the back door. Sammy walked right in. There "was no generator and it was darker than a raccoon's asshole, but there was a box of wooden matches on the kitchen stove, and the first one she lit showed her a flashlight on the kitchen table. It worked just fine. The beam illuminated what looked like a bloodstain on the floor. She switched it away from that in a hurry and started for Jack Evans's office-den. It was right off the living room, a cubby so small that there was really room for no more than a desk and a glass-fronted cabinet.

She ran the beam of the flashlight across the desk, then raised it so that it reflected in the glassy eyes of Jack's most treasured trophy: the head of a moose he'd shot up in TR-90 three years before. The moosehead was what Phil had called her in to see.

'I got the last ticket in the lottery that year,'Jack had told them. 'And bagged him with that.' He pointed at the rifle in the cabinet. It was a fearsome-looking thing with a scope.

Myra had come into the doorway, the ice rattling in her own glass of iced coffee, looking cool and pretty and amused—the kind of woman, Sammy knew, she herself would never be. 'It cost far too much, but I let him have iit after he promised he'd take me to Bermuda for a week next December.'

'Bermuda,' Sammy said now, looking at the moosehead. 'But she never got to go. That's too sad.'

Phil, putting the envelope with the cash in it into his back pocket, had said: 'Awesome rifle, but not exactly the thing for home protection.'

'I've got that covered, too,' Jack had replied, and although he hadn't shown Phil just how he had it: covered, he'd patted the top of his desk meaningfully. 'Got a couple of damn good handguns.'

Phil had nodded back, just as meaningfully. Sammy and Myra had exchanged a boys will be boys look of perfect harmony She still remembered how good that look had made her feel, how included, and she supposed that was part of the reason she had come here instead of trying someplace else, someplace closer to town.

She paused to chew down another Percocet, then started opening the desk drawers. They were unlocked, and so was the wooden box in the third one she tried. Inside was the late Jack Evans's extra gun: a.45 Springfield XD automatic pistol. She took it, and after a little fumbling, ejected the magazine. It was full, and there was a spare clip in the drawer. She took that one, too. Then she went back to the kitchen to find a bag to carry it in. And keys, of course. To whatever might be parked in the late Jack and Myra's garage. She had no intention of walking back to town.

19

Julia and Rose were discussing what the future might hold for their town when their present nearly ended. Would have ended, if they had met the old farm truck on Esty Bend, about a mile and a half from their destination. But Julia got through the curve in time to see that the truck was in her lane, and coming at her head-on.

She swung the wheel of her Prius hard left without thinking, getting into the other lane, and the two vehicles missed each other by inches. Horace, who'd been sitting on the backseat wearing his usual expression of oh-boy-going-for-a-ride delight, tumbled to the floor with a surprised yip. It was the only sound. Neither woman screamed, or even cried out. It was too quick for that. Death or serious injury passed them by in an instant and was gone.

Julia swung back into her own lane, then pulled onto the soft shoulder and put her Prius in park. She looked at Rose. Rose looked back, all big eyes and open mouth. In back, Horace jumped onto the seat again and gave a single bark, as if to ask what the delay was. At the sound, both women laughed and Rose began patting her chest above the substantial shelf of her bosom.

'My heart, my heart,' she said.

'Yeah,'Julia said. 'Mine, too. Did you see how close that was?'

Rose laughed again, shakily. 'You kidding? Hon, if I'd had my arm cocked out the window, that sonofabitch would have amputated my elbow.'

Julia shook her head. 'Drunk, probably'

'Drunk assuredly! Rose said, and snorted.

'Are you okay to go on?'

'Are you?' Rose asked.

'Yes,' Julia said. 'How about you, Horace?'

Horace barked that he had been born ready.

'A near-miss rubs the bad luck off,' Rose said. 'That's what Granddad Twitchell used to claim.'

'I hope he was right,' Julia said, and got rolling again. She watched closely for oncoming headlights, but the next glow they saw was from the spots set up at the Harlow edge of the Dome. They didn't see Sammy Bushey. Sammy saw them; she was standing in front of the Evans garage, with the keys to the Evans Malibu in her hand. When they had gone by, she raised the garage door (she had to do it by hand, and it hurt considerably) and got behind the wheel.

20

There was an alley between Burpee's Department Store and the Mill Gas & Grocery, connecting Main Street and West Street. It was used mostly by delivery trucks. At quarter past nine that night, Junior Rennie and Carter Thibodeau walked up this alley in almost perfect darkness. Carter was carrying a five-gallon can, red with a yellow diagonal stripe on the side, in one hand. GASOLINE, read the word on the stripe. In the other hand he held a battery-powered bullhorn. This had been white, but Carter had wrapped the horn in black masking tape so it wouldn't stand out if anyone looked their way before they could fade back down the alley.

Junior was wearing a backpack. His head no longer ached and his limp had all but disappeared. He was confident that his body was finally beating whatever had fucked it up. Possibly a lingering virus of some kind. You could pick up every kind of shit at college, and getting the boot for beating up that kid had probably been a blessing in disguise.

At the head of the alley they had a clear view of the Democrat. Light spilled out onto the empty sidewalk, and they could see Freeman and Guay moving around inside, carrying stacks of paper to the door and then setting them down. The old wooden structure housing the newspaper and Julia's living quarters stood between Sanders Hometown Drug and the bookstore, but was separated from both—by a paved walkway on the bookstore side and an alley like the one in which he and Carter were currently lurking on the drugstore side. It was a windless night, and he thought that if his father mobilized the troops quickly enough, there would be no collateral damage. Not that he cared. If the entire east side of Main Street burned, that would be fine with Junior. Just more trouble for Dale Barbara. He could still feel those cool, assessing eyes on him. It wasn't right to be looked at that way, especially when the man doing the looking was behind bars. Fucking Baaarbie.

'I should have shot him,'Junior muttered.

'What?' Carter asked.

'Nothing.' He wiped his forehead. 'Hot.'

'Yeah. Frankie says if this keeps on, we're all apt to end up stewed like prunes. When are we supposed to do this?'

Junior shrugged sullenly. His father had told him, but he couldn't exactly remember. Ten o'clock, maybe. But what did it matter? Let those two over there burn. And if the newspaper bitch was upstairs—perhaps relaxing with her favorite dildo after a hard day—let her burn, too. More trouble for Baaarbie.

'Let's do it now,' he said.

'You sure, bro?'

'You see anyone on the street?'

Carter looked. Main Street was deserted and mostly dark. The gennies behind the newspaper office and the drugstore were the only ones he could hear. He shrugged. 'All right. Why not?'

Junior undid the pack's buckles and flipped back the flap. On top were two pair of light gloves. He gave one pair to Carter and put on the other. Beneath was a bundle wrapped in a bath towel. He opened it and set four empty wine bottles on the patched asphalt. At the very bottom of the pack was a tin funnel. Junior put it in one of the wine bottles and reached for the gasoline.

'Better let me, bro,' Carter said. 'Your hands are shakin.'

Junior looked at them with surprise. He didn't feel shaky, but yes, they were trembling. 'I'm not afraid, if that's what you're thinking.'

'Never said you were. It ain't a head problem. Anybody can see that. You need to go to Everett, because you got somethin wrong with you and he's the closest thing we got to a doctor right now.'

'I feel fi—'

'Shut up before someone hears you. Do the fuckin towel while I do this.'

Junior took his gun from its holster and shot Carter in the eye. His head exploded, blood and brains everywhere. Then Junior stood over him, shooting him again and again and ag—

'Junes?'

Junior shook his head to clear away this vision—so vivid it was hallucinatory—and realized his hand was actually gripping the butt of his pistol. Maybe that virus wasn't quite out of his system yet.

And maybe it wasn't a virus after all.

What, then? What?

The fragrant odor of gas smacked his nostrils hard enough to make his eyes burn. Carter had begun filling the first bottle. Glug glug glug went the gas can. Junior unzipped the side pocket of the backpack and brought out a pair of his mother's sewing scissors. He used them to cut four strips from the towel. He stuffed one info the first bottle, then pulled it out and stuck the other end inside, letting a length of gasoline-soaked terry cloth hang. He repeated the process with the others.

His hands weren't shaking too badly for that.

21

Barbie's Colonel Cox had changed from the last time Julia had seen him. He had a good shave for going on half past nine, and his hair was combed, but his khakis had lost their neat press and tonight his poplin jacket seemed to be bagging on him, as if he had lost weight. He was standing in front of a few smudges of spray paint left over from the unsuccessful acid experiment, and he was frowning at the bracket shape like he thought he could walk through it if he only concentrated hard enough.

Close your eyes and click your heels three times, Julia thought. Because there's no place like Dome.

She introduced Rose to Cox and Cox to Rose. During their brief getting-to-know-you exchange, Julia looked around, not liking what she saw. The lights were still in place, shining at the sky as if signaling a glitzy Hollwood premiere, and there was a purring generator to run them, but the trucks were gone and so was the big green HQ tent that had been erected forty or fifty yards down the road. A patch of flattened grass marked the place where it had been. There were two soldiers with Cox, but they had the not-ready-for-prime-time look she associated with aides or attaches. The sentries probably weren't gone, but they had been moved back, establishing a perimeter beyond hailing distance of any poor slobs who might wander up on The Mill side to ask what was going on.

Ask now, plead later, Julia thought.

'Fill me in, Ms Shumway,' Cox said.

'First answer a question.'

He rolled his eyes (she thought she would have slapped him for that, if she'd been able to get at him; her nerves were still jangled from the near miss on the ride out here). But he told her to ask away.

'Have we been abandoned?'

'Absolutely not.' He replied promptly, but didn't quite meet her eye. She thought that was a worse sign than the queerly empty look she now saw on his side of the Dome—as if there had been a circus, but it had moved on.

'Read this,' she said, and plastered the front page of tomorrow's paper against the Dome's unseen surface, like a woman mounting a sale notice in a department store window. There was a faint, fugitive thrum in her fingers, like the kind of static shock you could get from touching metal on a cold winter morning, when the air was dry. After that, nothing.

He read the entire paper, telling her when to turn the pages. It took him ten minutes. When he finished, she said: 'As you probably noticed, ad space is way down, but I flatter myself the quality of the writing has gone up. Fuckery seems to bring out the best in me.'

'Ms Shumway—'

'Oh, why not call me Julia. We're practically old pals.'

'Fine. You're Julia and I'm JC

'I'll try not to confuse you with the one who walked on water.'

'You believe this fellow Rennie's setting himself up as a dictator? A kind of Downeast Manuel Noriega?'

'It's the progression to Pol Pot I'm worried about.'

'Do you think that's possible?'

'Two days ago I would have laughed at the idea—he's a used-car salesman when he isn't running selectmen's meetings. But two days ago we hadn't had a food riot. Nor did we know about these murders.'

'Not Barbie,' Rose said, shaking her head with stubborn weariness. 'Never.'

Cox took no notice of this—not because he was ignoring Rose, Julia felt, but because he thought the idea was too ridiculous to warrant any attention. It warmed her toward him, at least a little. 'Do you think Rennie committed the murders, Julia?'

'I've been thinking about that. Everything he's done since the Dome appeared—from shutting down alcohol sales to appointing a complete dope as Police Chief- has been political, aimed at increasing his own clout.'

'Are you saying murder isn't in his repertoire?'

'Not necessarily. When his wife passed, there were rumors that he might have helped her along. I don't say they were true, but for rumors like that to start in the first place says something about how people see the man in question.'

Cox grunted agreement.

'But for the life of me I can't see how murdering and sexually abusing two teenage girls could be political.'

'Barbie would never,' Rose said again.

'The same with Coggins, although that ministry of his—especially the radio station part—is suspiciously well endowed. Brenda Perkins, now? That could have been political.'

'And you can't send in the Marines to stop him, can you?' Rose asked. 'All you guys can do is watch. Like kids looking into an aquarium where the biggest fish takes all the food, then starts earing the little ones.'

'I can kill the cellular service,' Cox mused. 'Also Internet. I can do that much.'

'The police have walkie-talkies,' Julia said.'He'll switch to those. And at the meeting on Thursday night, when people complain about losing their links to the outside world, he'll blame you.'

'We were planning a press conference on Friday. I could pull the plug on that.'

Julia grew cold at the thought.'Don't you dare.Then he wouldn't have to explain himself to the outside world.'

'Plus,' Rose said, 'if you kill the phones and the Internet, no one can tell you or anyone else what he's doing.'

Cox stood quiet for a moment, looking at the ground. Then he raised his head. 'What about this hypothetical generator that's maintaining the Dome? Any luck?'

Julia wasn't sure she wanted to tell Cox that they had put a middle-school kid in charge of hunting for it. As it turned out, she didn't have to, because that was when the town fire whistle went off.

22

Pete Freeman dropped the last stack of papers by the door. Then he straightened up, put his hands in the small of his back, and stretched his spine. Tony Guay heard the crackle all the way across the room. 'That sounded like it hurt.'

'Nope; feels good.'

'My wife'll be in the sack by now,' Tony said, 'and I've got a bottle ratholed in my garage. Want to come by for a nip on your way home?'

'No, I think I'll just—' Pete began, and that was when the first bottle crashed through the window. He saw the flaming wick from the corner of his eye and took a step backward. Only one, but it saved Ihim from being seriously burned, perhaps even cooked alive.

The window and the bottle both shattered. The gasoline ignited and flared in a bright manta shape. Pete simultaneously ducked and pivoted from the hips. The fire-manta flew past him, igniting one sleeve of Ms shirt before landing on the carpet in front of Julia's desk.

"What the FU—' Tony began, and then another bottle came arcing through the hole. This one smashed on top of Julia's desk and rolled across it, spreading fire among the papers littered there and dripping more fire down the front. The smell of burning gas was hot and rich.

Pete ran for the water cooler in the corner, beating the sleeve of his shirt against his side. He lifted the water bottle awkwardly against his middle, then held his flaming shirt (the arm beneath now felt as if it were developing a bad sunburn) under the bottle's spouting mouth.

Another Molotov cocktail flew out of the night. It fell short, shattering on the sidewalk and lighting a small bonfire on the concrete. Tendrils of flaming gasoline ran into the gutter and went out.

'Dump the water on the carpet!' Tony shouted. 'Dump it before the whole place catches fire7'

Pete only looked at him, dazed and panting. The water in the cooler bottle continued to gush onto a part of the carpet that did not, unfortunately, need wetting.

Although his sports reporting was always going to be strictly junior varsity, Tony Guay had been a three-letter man in high school. Ten years later, his reflexes were still mostly intact. He snatched the spouting cooler bottle from Pete and held it first over the top of Julia's desk and then over the carpet-blaze. The fire was already spreading, but maybe… if he was quick… and if there was another bottle or two in the hallway leading to the supply closet…

'More!' he shouted at Pete, who was gaping at the smoking remains of his shirtsleeve. 'Back hall!'

For a moment Pete didn't seem to understand. Then he got it, and booked for the hall. Tony stepped around Julia's desk, letting the last pint or two of water fall on the flames trying to get a foothold there.

Then the final Molotov cocktail came flying out of the dark, and that was the one that really did the damage. It made a direct hit on the stacks of newspapers the men had placed near the front door. Burning gasoline ran beneath the baseboard at the front of the office and leaped up. Seen through the flames, Main Street was a wavering mirage. On the far side of the mirage, across the street, Tony could see two dim figures. The rising heat made them look like they were dancing.

'FREE DALE BARBARA OR THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING!' an amplified voice bellowed. 'THERE ARE PLENTY OF US, AND WE'LL FIREBOMB THE WHOLE DAMN TOWN! FREE DALE BARBARA OR PAY THE PRICE!'

Tony looked down and saw a hot creek of fire run between his feet. He had no more water with which to put it out. Soon it would finish eating through the carpet and taste the old dry wood beneath. Meanwhile, the whole front of the office was now involved.

Tony dropped the empty cooler bottle and stepped back. The heat was already intense; he could feel it stretching his skin. If not for the goddam newspapers, I might've—

But it was too late for might'ves. He turned and saw Pete standing in the doorway from the back hall with another bottle of Poland Spring in his arms. Most of his charred shirtsleeve had dropped away. The skin beneath was bright red.

'Too late!'Tony shouted. He gave Julia's desk, which was now a pillar of fire shooting all the way to the ceiling, a wide berth, raising one arm to shield his face from the heat. 'Too late, out the back!'

Pete Freeman needed no further urging. He heaved the bottle at the growing fire and ran.

23

Carrie Carver rarely had anything to do with Mill Gas although the little convenience store had made her and her husband a pretty good living over the years, she saw herself as Above All That. But when Johnny suggested they might go down in the van and take the remaining canned goods up to the house—'for safekeeping' was the delicate way he put it—she had agreed at once. And although she was ordinarily not much of a worker (watching Judge Judy was more her speed), she had volunteered to help. She hadn't been at Food City, but when she'd gone down later to inspect the damage with her friend Leah Anderson, the shattered windows and the blood still on the pavement had frightened her badly. Those things had frightened her for the future.

Johnny lugged out the cartons of soups, stews, beans, and sauces; Carrie stowed them in the bed of their Dodge Ram. They were about halfway through the job when fire bloomed downstreet. They both heard the amplified voice. Carrie thought she saw two or three figures running down the alley beside Burpee's, but wasn't sure. Later on she would be sure, and would up the number of shadowy figures to at least four. Probably five.

'What does it mean?' she asked. 'Honey, what does it mean?'

"That the goddam murdering bastard isn't on his own,' Johnny said. 'It means he's got a gang.'

Carrie's hand was on his arm, and now she dug in with her nails. Johnny freed his arm and ran for the police station, yelling fire at the top of his lungs. Instead of following, Carrie Carver continued loading the truck. She was more frightened of the future than ever.

24

In addition to Roger Killian and the Bowie brothers, there were ten new officers from what was now the Chester's Mill Hometown Security Force sitting on the bleachers of the middle-school gymnasium, and Big Jim had only gotten started on his speech about what a responsibility they had when the fire whistle went off. The boy's early, he thought. I can't trust him to save my soul. Never could, but now he's that much worse.

'Well, boys,' he said, directing his attention particularly to young Mickey Wardlaw—God, what a bruiser! 'I had a lot more to say, but it seems we've got ourselves a little more excitement. Fern Bowie, do you happen to know if we have any Indian pumps in the FD barn?'

Fern said he'd had a peek into the firebarn earlier that evening, just to see what sort of equipment there might be, and there were almost a dozen Indian pumps. All full of water, too, which was convenient.

Big Jim, thinking that sarcasm should be reserved for those bright enough to understand what it was, said it was the good Lord looking out for them. He also said that if it was more than a false alarm, he would take charge with Stewart Bowie as his second-in-command.

There, you noseyparker witch, he thought as the new officers, looking bright-eyed and eager, rose from the bleachers. Let's see how you like getting in my business now.

25

'Where you going?' Carter asked. He had driven his car—with the lights off- down to where West Street T'd into Route 117. The building that stood here was a Texaco station that had closed up in 2007. It was close to town but offered good cover, which made it convenient. Back the way they had come, the fire whistle was honking six licks to a dozen and the first light of the fire, more pink than orange, was rising in the sky.

'Huh?' Junior was looking at the strengthening glow. It made

him feel horny. It made him wish he still had a girlfriend.

'I asked where you're going. Your dad said to alibi up.'

'I left unit Two behind the post office,' Junior said, taking his

eyes reluctantly away from the fire. 'Men Freddy Denton's together.

And he'll say we were together. All night. I can cut across from here.

Might go back by West Street. Get a look at how it's catchin on.' He uttered a high-pitched giggle, almost a girl's giggle, that caused Carter to look at him strangely.

'Don't look too long. Arsonists are always gettin caught by goin back to look at their fires. I saw that on America's Most Wanted!

'Nobody's wearing the Golden Sombrero for this motherfucker except Baaarbie,' Junior said. 'What about you? Where you going?'

'Home. Ma'll say I was there all night. I'll get her to change the bandage on my shoulder—fuckin dogbite hurts like a bastard. Take some aspirin. Then come on down, help fight the fire.'

'They've got heavier dope than aspirin at the Health Center and the hospital. Also the drugstore. We ought to look into that shit.'

'No doubt,' Carter said.

'Or… do you tweek? I think I can get some of that.'

'Meth? Never mess with it. But I wouldn't mind some Oxy.' Oxy!' Junior exclaimed. Why had he never thought of that? It would probably fix his headaches a lot better than Zomig or Imitrix. 'Yeah, bro! You talk about it!'

He raised his fist. Carter bumped it, but he had no intention of getting high with Junior. Junior was weird now. 'Better get goin, Junes.'

'I'm taillights.' Junior opened the door and walked away, still limping a little.

Carter was surprised at how relieved he was when Junior was gone.

26

Barbie woke to the sound of the fire whistle and saw Melvin Searles standing outside his cell. The boy's fly was unzipped and he was holding his considerable cock in his hand. When he saw he had Barbie's attention, he began to piss. His goal was clearly to reach the bunk. He couldn't quite make it and settled for a splattery letter S on the concrete instead.

'Go on, Barbie, drink up,' he said. 'You gotta be thirsty. It's a little; salty, but what the fuck.'

'What's burning?'

'As if you didn't know,' Mel said, smiling. He was still pale—he must have lost a fair amount of blood—but the bandage around his head was crisp and unstained.

'Pretend I don't.'

'Your pals burned down the newspaper,' Mel said, and now his smile showed his teeth. Barbie realized the kid was furious. Frightened, too. 'Trying to scare us into letting you out. But we… don't… scare!

'Why would I burn down the newspaper? Why not the Town Hall? And who are these pals of mine supposed to be?'

Mel was tucking his cock back into his pants. 'You won't be thirsty tomorrow, Barbie. Don't worry about that. We've got a whole bucket of water with your name on it, and a sponge to go with it.'

Barbie was silent.

'You seen that waterboarding shit in I-rack?' Mel nodded as if he knew Barbie had. 'Now you'll get to experience it first hand.' He pointed a finger through the bars. 'We're gonna find out who your confederates are, fuckwad. And we're gonna find out what you did to lock this town up in the first place. That waterboarding shit? Nobody stands up to that.'

He started away, then turned back.

'Not fresh water, either. Salt. First thing. You think about it.'

Mel left, clumping up the basement hallway with his bandaged head lowered. Barbie sat on the bunk, looked at the drying snake of Mel's urine on the floor, and listened to the fire whistle. He thought of the girl in the pickemup. The blondie who almost gave him a ride and then changed her mind. He closed his eyes.

ASHES

1

Rusty was standing in the turnaround in front of the hospital, watching the flames rise from somewhere on Main Street, when the cell phone clipped to his belt played its little song. Twitch and Gina were with him, Gina holding Twitch's arm as if for protection. Ginny Tomlinson and Harriet Bigelow were both sleeping in the staff lounge. The old fellow who had volunteered, Thurston Marshall, was making medication rounds. He had turned out to be surprisingly good. The lights and the equipment were back on and, for the time being, things were on an even keel. Until the firewhistle went off, Rusty had actually dared to feel good.

He saw LINDA on the screen and said,'Hon? Everything okay?'

'Here, yes. Kids are asleep.'

'Do you know what's bur—'

'The newspaper office. Be quiet and listen, because I'm turning my phone off in about a minute and a half so nobody can call me in to help fight the fire. Jackie's here. She'll watch the kids.You need to meet me at the funeral home. Stacey Moggin will be there, too. She came by earlier. She's with us.'

The name, while familiar, did not immediately call up a face in Rusty s mind. And what resonated was She's with us.There really were starting to be sides, starting to be with us and with them.

'Lin—'

'Meet me there. Ten minutes. It's safe as long as they're fighting the fire, because the Bowie brothers are on the crew. Stacey says so.'

'How did they get a crew together so f—'

T don't know and don't care. Can you come?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Don't use the parking lot on the side. Go around back to the smaller one.' Then the voice was gone.

'What's on fire?' Gina asked. 'Do you know?'

'No,' Rusty said. 'Because nobody called.' He looked at them both, and hard.

Gina didn't follow, but Twitch did. 'Nobody at all.'

'I just took off, probably on a call, but you don't know where. I didn't say. Right?'

Gina still looked puzzled, but nodded. Because now these people were her people; she did not question the fact. Why would she? She was only seventeen. Us and them, Rusty thought. Bad medicine, usually. Especially for seventeen-year-olds. 'Probably on a call,' she said.'We don't know where.'

'Nope,' Twitch agreed. 'You grasshoppah, we lowly ants.'

'Don't make a big deal of it, either of you,' Rusty said. But it was a big deal, he knew that already. It was trouble. Gina wasn't the only kid in the picture; he and Linda had a pair, now fast asleep and with no knowledge that Mom and Dad might be sailing into a storm much too big for their little boat.

And still.

'I'll be back,' Rusty said, and hoped that wasn't just wishful thinking.

2

Sammy Bushey drove the Evanses' Malibu down Catherine Russell Drive not long after Rusty headed for the Bowie Funeral Parlor; they passed each other going in opposite directions on Town Common Hill.

Twitch and Gina had gone back inside and the turnaround in front of the hospital's main doors was deserted, but she didn't stop there; having a gun on the seat beside you made you wary. (Phil would have said paranoid.) She drove around back instead, and parked in the employees' lot. She grabbed the.45, pushed it into the waistband of her jeans, and bloused her tee-shirt over it. She walked across the lot and stopped at the laundry room door, reading the sign that said SMOKING HERE WILL BE BANNED AS OF JANUARY 1st. She looked at the doorknob, and knew that if k didn't turn, she'd give this up. It would be a sign from God. If, on the other hand, the door was unlocked—