She kept her back to him, continuing to clean up. "Yup."

"Where's Mom?"

"She said she'd be right back."

"When was that?"

"I dunno. After she picked me up from school."

Robert stepped back. Had she dropped Jenn off at three and left her here alone? He wiped his palms on his pants, went to his daughter and knelt in front of her. He took her hand. "You hungry?" She nodded and he scooped her up. Against his chest, her face was inches from his. Her breath was sweet: she'd already done her after-dinner brushing. He carried her downstairs, set her on the kitchen counter. "What's your pleasure?"

"Hot dogs."

"Hot dogs?"he asked, sifting through the contents of the fridge. "You don't want tacos, or hamburgers?"

"Hot dogs."

"How many?"

"Ten!" she screamed, leaping from the counter.

Veronica came home just before The Tonight Show aired.

"Where've you been?" asked Robert, staring at the muted television.

She tossed her purse on the chair next to the couch. "Thinking."

"You left our daughter home alone."

"Is she alright?" asked Veronica, a little too nonchalantly for Robert's taste.

He rose. Veronica's eyes were wide. She had no makeup on. Her hair was up in a clip. "That's not the point and you know it. What's going on?"

There was a purple smudge, or bruise, beneath her left eye. "Rough day," she told him.

"Where were you?"

"I told you, thinking."

"About what?" he asked, but she didn't say. After a moment, he pointed the remote at the television, Jay Leno made a joke, and from the corner of his eye he watched her walk away and go upstairs.

Shortly after Conan O'Brian he fell asleep on the couch, drifted away, falling deeper into the world that had yet to find him in daylight.

In the belly of the island, he sees a clearing. Bark and leaves separate him from it. Then he's there. Rock monoliths and stones-some skyward and some jagged and some streaked with mud like b.l.o.o.d.y teeth-sprout from the earth like the vertebrae of a great, buried beast. On a gra.s.sy peak, a man is silhouetted by the red dawn.

Robert weighed himself first thing Friday morning. He was one hundred fifty-two pounds. This reminded him of Billy Halleck from Stephen King's Thinner and the chapter headings that gave Billy's quickly diminishing weight.

He tried to shake it off, but on the drive to campus he noticed he was squinting to read the road signs. His eyes ached. He wondered if his problems might not be stress-related.

By the time he entered the teacher's parking lot the world was blurry. His situation was not improved by blinking, nor by his attempt to clean sleep from his eyes. Fearful that he might hit another car, he parked in the back.

During his stroll to the English Department he made out a figure sitting Indian-style in the courtyard, a man that might have been staring right at him. He neared the railing that overlooked the courtyard, pretended to look out over the campus. The man was clad in a tattered pair of jeans, a T-shirt sporting Rob Zombie and a Confederate flag bandana. He wore a long, gray beard. He'd never seen a person on campus who appeared so obviously out of place, but to his left students circled the courtyard on sidewalks. None of them appeared to notice him. He shook his head, hoping his eyes would clear so he could get a better look. It didn't improve, so he moved on, figuring there was nothing to do. What if the guy was just a student dressed out for drama club?

Still, the man remained in his thoughts all day.

Sat.u.r.day morning Matt phoned. They agreed to meet at Mel's Diner around noon. When Robert arrived the breakfast crowd had thinned and he was shown to the back. Approaching Matt, his knees shook and he rubbed his palms across his trousers. He felt weak, thin and altogether unmanly. Matt looked up, tried a commiserating smile while Robert slid into the booth. The waitress came and both men ordered coffee, then Robert took a deep breath and fisted his hands, pumping them like a heart. Gradually, he stopped shaking. Matt kept glancing around the restaurant, his eyes shifting to and from him. Robert took a full-chested breath as he nervously picked apart a napkin. "Matt," he said. "Lay it out."

"How are you feeling?"

"Cut the s.h.i.t. How sick am I?" His eyes were clouded. He blinked madly. He clenched his fists. He wasn't going any f.u.c.king place. Not yet.

"Very," said Matt, staring at the table top. He drew in a deep breath. His cheeks puffed, then he blew it out and continued. "In fact, I can't believe you're sitting across from me, still breathing. I can't believe you haven't lost thirty pounds, haven't suffered ma.s.sive night sweats and incredible pain. Your appearance isn't doesn't remotely correspond with what's going on inside you."

Robert slumped back, looked out the window, found an obese woman wobbling back to her Benz. "I have cancer," he said.

"It must have started in your prostate, then metastasized like crazy. I've never seen anything like your test results and we're not even done with all of them. I haven't seen this much tissue and organ damage in corpses. I don't understand how you're functioning. Frankly, it's the closest thing to a miracle I've ever seen."

Robert leaned forward. "Do me a favor."

Matt nodded. "Anything."

He raised a finger and his voice trembled with anger. "Don't talk to me about the miraculous. f.u.c.k G.o.d."

"Robert, don't."

"If you even breathe a word about how this is G.o.d's plan, you'll be joining me in the dirt sooner than you'd like." Robert's gaze dropped to the Formica tabletop. He clasped his hands. Sweat beaded on his brow. "Go away," he said. Matt didn't dawdle. But as the doctor scooted out, Robert grabbed his hand, asking, "Chemo?"

Matt shook his head. "It would kill you quicker. That's all."

"Any bright ideas?"

"Just one," said Matt.

"What's that?"

"Pray."

Robert went blank. Hadn't he just warned the a.s.shole? But he only let go of Matt's hand and watched him leave, wondering if he'd ever see him again.

He drank three pots of coffee that afternoon. Unable to move, barely capable of a thought, he was reduced to one function: pouring java. At first the waitress made a stab at small talk, but soon gave up. By late afternoon his head-if not his sight-cleared enough for him to consider returning home. He realized that Veronica and Jennifer had long ago returned from their Sat.u.r.day antiquing. He inched from his booth, laid a crisp ten dollar bill on the table and tried not to stumble on his way out.

He took the back roads. Outside his home, he heard laughter. He inserted the key and it stopped.

They were on the living room couch, his girls, and they looked up from a game of Checkers. The instant they saw him their smiles vanished. Veronica dropped a captured piece on the floor and stood.

Chapter Eleven: On the Steps of the Inn.

1.

Nathaniel Durham burst through the batwing doors of Cheney's Saloon at just after nine that morning. William followed as the preacher screamed for John. Durham was looking up at the second floor, where, the innkeeper had overheard more than once, a few of the friendlier tenement girls might be found after dark.

Downstairs bore none of the scars of a long night. The tables were clean, the chairs overturned atop them, their legs shooting into the air. The floor looked to have been swept. Stools rested seat-down on the bar top.

William followed Durham's eyes. The preacher had been in opposition to a bar operating in Tempest. He'd wailed Sunday after Sunday, and on that Holy Day the town's people shouted their solidarity. But on Monday, things always changed. After a long day's labor, the citizens cried out for a saloon; the same folks who sang 'Amen!' on Sundays wailed for whiskey on Mondays.

The Reverend screamed for John again and this time the floorboards began to creak. Soon, John Cheney appeared over the railing that enclosed the second floor. He was shirtless; he wore only a pair of riveted Levi's. He yawned, leaned over the whitewashed railing and asked, "And what can I do for you so early in the morning?"

"Taylor's cattle are dead," said Nathaniel.

The consternation on Chaney's face changed to concern. He waited for more.

"William checked in a family of strangers last night. They asked about Daniel."

"And what does Daniel have to do with dead cattle over at Taylor's?"

"Gather some men and bring them to the church," said Durham. He glanced back at William, who followed him out.

Although the front doors stood open, the church was stifling. Forty or more men pressed together in the pews. All stared up at the pulpit, behind which stood Reverend Nathaniel Durham.

His every mannerism, vocal or otherwise, served to create a rhythm. He used his voice and body language as either a sledgehammer or a scalpel, shifting his attack in response to att.i.tudes: When faces grew pallid, he drove harder, pounding his fist into his open palm, raising his voice an octave; when brows gathered he stepped from behind the pulpit and searched the faces for doubt. He didn't wish to stir intellects, but a collection of fears as old as the dawn of time. He spoke of witches and demons and ancient curses of the blood, and when he finished the men leapt up, shouting, pumping their fists into the fetid air above them.

Durham watched. And smiled.

They marched on Main Street, stopping before the inn. As one, they looked toward the second floor, screamed for the strangers to show themselves, to come down to give an account of last night.

Durham laid a hand on William's shoulder. "Let's part this sea," he said. To the innkeeper's amazement the men stepped aside without a word from either of them. None turned, none even seemed to notice, they simply moved.

Soon he and the preacher stood at their front. Durham lifted his arms, and everyone fell silent. "We know who you are!" he shouted. "Come down!"

2.

Sarah parted the drapes. "Ma! Pa!"

Papa moved her out of the way and looked down. He turned. Sarah's parents said nothing. Then Papa nodded and started for the door, slowly, his arms flattened by his side.

As Sarah watched him leave, her eye began to twitch.

3.

When the man appeared in the inn's doorway, William leaned toward Durham, whispering, "That's him." His action reminded him for a moment of Judas kissing Jesus's cheek.

Durham stepped forward, lifted his foot, set it on the steps, claiming ground. "You look tired, man," he shouted, seemingly more for the benefit of the crowd behind him. The farmers and shopkeepers held axes and shotguns. A nervous laughter spread among them.

The man nodded.

"Tired and nervous," said Durham.

Again, the man nodded.

"You must have had a very busy evening," the preacher said, and the men t.i.ttered.

In a weak voice, the man answered, "My family and I traveled heavily yesterday. But we slept last night."

"Are you sure you didn't visit Daniel?"

"Have I done something wrong, sir?" asked the man, then he turned his attention to the crowd and stepped forward, looking over the preacher. "Have I? Have you come here to accuse me?"

The mob waited.

Nathaniel stepped forward. "Get your family down here and do it now."

The man back up, clenched his teeth. "I will not," he said.