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  out why, but never did get around to it."

  Pointedly, Rourke said, "Well, there's always tomor­row," and smiled.

  "Hey, there you go." Al laughed. "All set." He

  withdrew the nozzle and started to replace the gas cap.

  Checking the pump, Rourke reached into his pocket for

  his money clip. He handed the man a twenty.

  il get some—

  "Keep the change." Rourke smiled, remounting the Harley, starting it, and

  upping the kickstand.

  "Say . . . thanks, Abe." Al waved.

  "O.K." Rourke nodded. They were all insane, he decided, as he started back

  into the street. . . .

  "You're a good cook," Rourke told her, looking up from the steak and eggs

  nearly finished on the blue-willow plate in front of him.

  "I don't usually get the chance." She smiled. "Living alone and all."

  He smiled back at her. "You haven't lost your touch."

  She turned back to the sink and shut off the water, then turned back to

  him, wiping her hands on her apron. "You haven't asked me any questions

  yet."

  "You promised it'd all be made clear. I'm waiting for you, I guess." He

  smiled. He had questions, but wanted to hear her answers first somehow. "I

  gather that because I'm supposed to be your brother, it's assumed I'll go

  along with whatever's going on here?"

  "That's right," she said, smoothing the apron with her hands, then sitting

  down opposite him. She poured more coffee into the blue-willow cup, then

  set the electric percolator down on the table top on a large trivet. "I

  called work—told them I'd be in late. They understood, with my brother

  coming to town and all."

  Rourke forked the last piece of steak, then looked at the woman across

  from him. "Telephones?"

  "Um-hmm." She nodded, smiling.

  He looked on the table at the folded newspaper. "May I?"

  "We're probably the only town this size in America with a daily

  newspaper," she said with a definite air of pride, handing it to him.

  He opened the paper. The headline read: HALLOWEEN FESTIVITIES SET FOR

  TONIGHT. A heading on a column read: SCHOOL BOARD ELECTION RESULTS TALLIED

  "School board election?"

  "Day before yesterday." She smiled.

  "And yesterday was the Fourth of July."

  "Um-hmm." She nodded, fingering back a wisp of dark hair with a touch of

  gray in it.

  "And tonight's Halloween?"

  "For the children—they love it so." She smiled.

  "Tomorrow night Thanksgiving?"

  "Yes."

  Rourke sipped at his coffee; she had drunk from the same pot so he trusted

  it. He trusted nothing else in the town.

  Sarah Rourke put a fresh piece of wood into the free­standing stove; it

  had been converted from propane, she guessed. There were plenty of chairs

  and table legs remaining and the weather seemed to be moderating slightly.

  She stood up, letting the children continue to sleep in the bed. She had

  thrown the bodies overboard, and all of the bedding. Because of the fresh

  air, the mattress hadn't taken on the smell of the bodies, of the dead man

  and woman. They had worn wedding rings, and Sarah assumed they had been

  husband and wife.

  The ice had melted sufficiently on the deck of the houseboat, and she

  could walk there—with care. She leaned against the rope railing; the ice

  there had com­pletely melted and the rope was wet beneath her finger­tips.

  She stared out onto the lake, wondering what horrors lay ahead on the

  shore.

  After disposing of the bodies, she had gotten the houseboat belayed to a

  large tree trunk growing near enough to the water, then she'd brought

  Michael and Annie down the rise with the horses. She had usedTildie and

  Sam as draft animals to tow the houseboat along the water's edge, toward a

  better and more even piece of shoreline and to a jetty nearby. There

  children and animals had boarded. The animals were now tethered in

  the center of the main room of the houseboat—the carpet destroyed and the

  animals cramped, but warmer. Then with Michael and Annie, she had rigged

  an anchor from a heavy deadfall tree the horses had towed down. She had

  planned to pole the boat away from the shoreline if possible and had been

  in the process of searching for something with which to do the poling when

  Annie had pressed a switch on the engine controls—the engines had rumbled

  to life for an instant. Sarah had dried off the battery terminals, then

  started the engines again; this time the engines caught. Twin inboards,

  she had deter­mined, and the fuel gauges read over half full. She had used

  the engine power to bring them to the center of the lake, and had dropped

  the anchor there for a safe night— the first she had spent in—

  She lurched forward, against the railing, hearing a tearing sound, the

  breaking of wood, the straining of metal. Behind her, the anchor rope had

  broken. She stared dumbly at where it had been, then down at the water.

  There was a current. There hadn't been a current.

  She ran into the main cabin. Finding her saddlebags and snatching the

  binoculars from them, she ran back on deck and focused the binoculars

  toward the dam at the far end of the lake.

  "Jesus!! No!" She screamed the words. The dam had burst. The deck under

  her rocked; the horses inside the cabin whinnied, screaming, too, if

  animals could scream.

  Annie's voice rang out to her. "Mommie!"

  The houseboat, the warmth, the safety, the possibility of transportation

  it had offered, was being swept toward the dam in a rapidly increasing

  current.

  Sarah Rourke stared skyward a moment at the gray clouds moving on a

  stiffening wind. She shouted, "Enough, God—enough!"

  Rourke reached down and picked up a can of peaches. It was one of six cans

  left on the grocery-store shelf, the cans pushed forward, the empty

  portion of the shelf to the rear and out of casual sight. He was beginning

  to understand. The peaches, the cereal boxes—even the gasoline he had

  purchased for the Harley—all "pushed to the front."

  As they walked outside—Martha had purchased a can of coffee inside—Rourke

  said to her, "I think I see it. Leave everything perfectly normal as long

  as possible, and then—"

  "That'll take care of itself." She smiled. "Walk me to the library."

  "All right," he nodded. He glanced at his wrist watch as they walked.

  Seeing children strolling down the street with books in packs on their

  backs or stuffed under rheir arms, he thought of Michael and Annie. She

  would have been— It was three-fifteen in the afternoon. "School's out for

  today?"

  "Yes." She smiled, saying nothing more.

  Rourke kept walking with her, in silence, his leather jacket warm to him,

  but necessary to hide the shoulder

  rig with the twin Detonics .s. His Harley was,relpcked in ihe garage,

  his other weapons w.ith it except for the Black Chrome Sting IA which was

  in its sheath inside the waistband of his Levi's on his left side.

  "You don't need your guns," she said, as if she'd been reading his mind.

  "No one would hurt you. You're my brother.'

  "But I'm not yo
ur brother," he murmured, leaning down to her, smiling, as

  a group of children passed and waved, calling her "Mrs. Bogen."

  "But that doesn't matter." Martha Bogen smiled, then looked at the

  children. "Hey Tommy, Bobby, Ellen— hey." And she kept walking.

  Rourke slopped before they reached the library—the post office down the

  street from it. An American flag flew from the staff in front of it; a

  small garden was planted at the base of the staff.

  "That's a pretty sight, isn't it—John?" She smiled.

  "Yes," Rourke said. It was all he could say.

  He felt something bump against him and looked down. A liltle child, a

  black mask covering the upper portion of his face, a white straw cowboy

  hat partially covering carrot red hair. "Sorry, mister," the little boy

  called out, running past him.

  A woman, perhaps twenty-five, was walking after the little boy. She nodded

  to Martha Bogen and called after the child, "Harry—you take that mask off

  until tonight. You can't see where you're going!"

  Rourke looked after the little boy, saying absently, "I grew up on that

  guy, him and his friend. Listened to him on the radio, then television."

  Martha Bogen said, "Remember—it's Halloween."

  "Halloween," Rourke repeated. "Right."

  He followed her inside the library. As he had by now expected, there were

  teen-agers in the library, working on reports, it appeared; volumes of

  encyclopedias and other reference books were spread messily on several of

  the library tables. An older woman, white-haired, worked at the card

  catalog.

  It was a library—perfectly normal.

  "I have a few things to do. If you want you might like to look through the

  newspaper files," she offered, stop­ping beside a glass-fronted office.

  "What—and read about Memorial Day and Valen­tine's Day?"

  "I'll only be a little bit—I'll get some coffee going, then answer all of

  your questions."

  "I have to leave—very soon," Rourke told her. "And you promised those

  trails."

  "The library closes at five—there'll be plenty of light," she told him,

  then turned away and started into her office.

  Shaking his head, he scanned the library shelves; his eyes stopped on a

  book that was appropriate—-at least part of the title. War and Peace. He

  smiled, murmuring half to himself, "We've had the war part." The

  white-haired woman at the card catalog looked at him strangely, and Rourke

  only smiled at her.

  At five o'clock, trails or not, he was leaving the town. And if it meant

  shooting his way past policemen to do it, then he would. If it was

  Halloween here, he didn't want to find out what the locals meant by trick

  or treat.

  "Hurry, Michael . . . Annie," Sarah shouted, taking the saddlebags off the

  back of Tildie's saddle and slinging them over her own shoulder—it could

  have been a death weight on her, she realized. She ripped a thong from the

  saddle and lashed the bags that were across her left shoulder under her

  right arm.

  "Michael—you take that knife of yours—and when I tell you to, cut the rope

  on the railings—hurry."

  "All right, Momma," the boy answered, reaching under his coat and

  producing what looked like a Bowie knife.

  "My God—what a thing," she exclaimed. Then she turned to Annie. "You stay

  with me—take whatever I tell you to carry and do what I say."

  The twin inboard engines weren't able to resist the current—she had tried

  longer than she should have and now it was impossible even to make way for

  one of the shorelines. But by swimming they might still escape the

  houseboat before it crashed against the remainder of the high concrete

  hydroelectric dam—or crashed through the massive gap in the center, to be

  crushed there where the water spilled now. Either way meant certain death

  for/

  herself and the children.

  But the horses would be strong swimmers, and if they held to the horses

  there would be a chance to escape the current.

  Sarah released Tildie and Sam, then swung up onto Tildie's saddle,

  reaching down for Annie. "You hold these blankets—don't Jet go unless you

  have to or I telJ you to." If they made it out alive at all, the water

  would so soak them that the still-cool air temperatures would bring about

  chills, perhaps pneumonia. The blankets could be dried over a fire. Annie

  was in front of her, the little girl's crotch crushed against the front of

  the saddle.

  In her right hand, the arm around Annie, Sarah held Tildie's repaired

  reins, then in her left she snatched Sam's. She ducked, keeping her head

  low to avoid crashing it against the ceiling. The houseboat shifted wildly

  under her now. "Michael—when I shout for you to do it, cut all the ropes

  you can, then swing aboard Sam and hold on tight and stay with me." She

  had thought, fleetingly, about tying the children aboard one of the

  horses, but if the horse were to get in trouble, the children would be

  powerless to help themselves. She swam, not well, but well enough, Sarah

  hoped. Annie could paddle around, but it wasn't really swimming. Michael

  was a strong swimmer for his age and size and couJd stay afloat—she

  prayed.

  She kneed her horse ahead, holding back tight on the reins for control.

  Ducking her head but not soon enough, she hit her forehead on the

  doorframe as Tildie passed through and onto the deck. The boards there

  were awash with cold spray from the current as the houseboat plowed

  through the water toward—the dam. She could see it clearly, the gaping

  holes, as if dynamite had opened it—

  or perhaps some crack during the Night of the War, from the bombing. She

  didn't know what had caused it.

  "Michael—the ropes! Cut the ropes. Hurry!"

  "Right, Momma." And the boy—not a boy at all she again realized—turned to

  the ropes, hacking at them.

  "Saw with it, Michael—saw with it!"

  The boy had the highest of the ropes cut, then began working on the next.

  Sarah reined in Tildie; Sam, inside the cabin still, bucked and reared.

  Sarah was hardly able to keep the reins in her hands. "Hurry, Michael!

  Hurry! I can't hold the horses much longer!" The second rope was cut. The

  boy glanced toward her once, then ignored her advice, and took the

  heavy-bladed Bowie pattern knife and chopped with it against the lower and

  final rope— again and again, the knife blade bounced up toward his face.

  "Michael!" she screamed, but the last rope was cut.

  She knew now that she could never get him aboard Sam. She edged Tildie

  forward, as Michael sheathed the knife. "Climb up behind me—and don't you

  let go of me," she heard herself shriek. Michael tugged at her left arm as

  she loosed Sam's reins, her arm aching as she helped him swing up behind

  her.

  "Hold on!" she shouted, digging her heels into the frightened mare under

  her. The horse jumped ahead, through the opening in the guardrail and into

  the water. The mare's head went down, then surfaced. Sarah was washed in a

  wave of ice-cold spray that made her sjiiver. Annie screamed; Michael

  said, 'Tve got
you, Momma!"

  Sarah Rourke glanced behind her once. Sam had jumped for it, but she lost

  sight of him in the next instant. Now the houseboat was swirling toward

  the opening in the dam, spinning wildly like a leaf in a whirlpool.

  "Tildie—save us, Tildie," Sarah shouted, afraid to dig

  in her heels, the horse floundering under her. "Tildie!" she cried, as the

  horse's head went down.

  "We've gotta jump, Momma," Michael shouted to her.

  Sarah bit her lower lip, thought she had screamed; then, holding Annie

  tight in her arms, she shouted above the roar of the waters around her,

  "Michael—don't let go of me. And if I go under, you save Annie—do it." She

  jumped, her left foot momentarily caught up in the stirrup, then free as

  Tildie washed away in the current.

  "Tildie," she shouted, the animal gone from sight. Michael clung to

  Sarah's neck. Sarah wanted to tell him to loosen his grip; it choked her,

  but she was afraid she'd lose him.

  The saddlebags were filled with water now; the AR- was lost, their food

  and clothing gone except for what little she had in the bags.

  She was swimming, fighting the current. Annie's mouth dipped under the

  water; Sarah fought to keep her up. Her breath, her own strength, was

  failing her; then Michael was gone.

  "Michael!"

  "Here," he shouted, suddenly beside her, no longer behind her, holding her

  left arm, helping her support his sister. "Momma—there's the shore!" -

  Sarah looked up, the water pelting her face like waves of solid substance,

  slapping at her, hurting her.

  She could see it—the shoreline, a muddy bank. She reached out her right

  arm, almost losing Annie, catching at the girl, the little girl saying,

  "I'm frightened, Mommie!"

  "I am, too," Sarah cried as she saw the shoreline move rapidly away from

  her. Glancing to her right, she saw the opening in the dam growing wider

  by the instant. The

  houseboat was now batting against the sides of the dam, then suddenly was

  sucked through, lost.

  She reached out her right arm again; Michael was trying to tow her. She