Squinting through pale smoke, Sharon said, "That'll be me."

"Good." Tuck smiled at Dana. "Shaion's our oldest hand."

"Been here six years," Sharon said to Dana. She looked as if she might be in her mid-twenties. Her voice was low and husky. With that voice, the sharp angles of her face and her excess of makeup, she seemed to Dana more like a barmaid than a tour guide. Not that Dana'd seen many barmaids, except in the movies. "You have any questions," Sharon said, "just ask. I know damn near everything. What I don't know, I improvise."

Dana smiled and nodded.

"Okay," Tuck said. "Who's out front?"

"I'm tickets," Clyde said.

"I'm tape players," said Rhonda. She had rosy cheeks and big, friendly eyes.

"Sharon, you were tape players yesterday?"

"Right," Sharon said, raising two fingers and the cigarette between them.

"The count turned out okay?"

"Oh, yeah. You damn betcha. What's up? We have a hider last night?"

"Looks that way. Somebody ripped Ethel's nightgown. I fixed her up so she's decent enough for the public, and Dana and I did a quick search of the house. We didn't spot any other problems. No obvious signs of forced entry. It probably was a hider."

"The count came out right on the button," Sharon told her.

"Okay. Well, keep an eye out when you're inside today. Just because we couldn't find him doesn't mean he's gone."

"You bet," Sharon said.

"Everybody look sharp today," Tuck said, her eyes roaming the others. "The guy is probably some sort of pervert."

"He fuck Ethel?" Sharon asked.

Clyde snorted out a laugh. Rhonda blushed.

"I don't think so," Tuck said.

"Nobody'd do that," the Rhonda said, looking disturbed.

Sharon, grinning, shook her head. "Well, don't let me burst your bubble."

"I want everyone to be alert and careful," Tuck said. "Watch for anyone who seems to be lurking about or acting strange."

"That'd be about half our customers," Sharon said, then tipped a wink at Dana and took a puff on her cigarette. "Poor Clyde, too. That boy's a lurker if I ever seen one."

Clyde smirked at her, lit up another cigarette and said, "You're just upset because I stopped lurking in your pants."

"All right, folks, it's time we take our positions and open up. Any questions? No questions? Okay, let's do it."

Chapter Seven.

SANDY'S STORY-August 1980 Sandy started Marlon Slade's MG, pushed the dutch pedal down with her foot, and shoved the shift around for a while until she found what was probably first gear. Then she let the dutch up. The car jolted forward and died.

"No problem," she muttered.

In her whole life, she'd never tried to drive any vehicle except for Agnes Kutch's old pickup truck. And she'd only driven it a few times, off on back roads, because she was too young for a driver's license.

She'd done just fine with the steering side of things. It was the shifting that had always given her trouble. She'd killed the engine again and again, mostly when trying to start out.

"Yer poppin the clutch, " Agnes bad explained from the passenger seat. "Ease off her gentle and easy, and step on the gas as ya let her up."

Following Agnes's advice now, Sandy twisted the ignition key, gave the engine some gas with her right foot, and raised her left foot very slowly to let the clutch pedal rise beneath it. The car started rolling forward.

"All right!"

She steered onto the road. Staying in first gear, she picked up speed. The engine revved, loud in her ears.

Gotta shift to second. Hope I don't kill the thing.

As she fingered the knob of the shift, she saw a pale, hazy glow of headbeams in the rearview mirror.

With a quick jerk of the wheel, she swerved off the pavement. The MG crunched over weeds and rocks, bouncing, jolting her. She floored the brake pedal. The car lurched to a stop. Its engine quit.

She glanced back and saw the car come around the bend. As its headlights swung toward her, she dropped sideways.

She lay across the passenger seat, gasping for breath, her heart slamming.

Had she been quick enough or had they already spotted her? What if the MG was so low that they would be able to see her lying across the seats as they drove by?

If they see me down like this, they'll stop for sure.

The car rushed closer with a sound like a strong wind bearing down.

Sandy fumbled with the dish towel and pressed it snugly against her breasts.

Light skimmed over the car. She saw it on the dashboard, saw it fill the rearview mirror. It reflected off the mirror and shined down as if trying to point her out.

Don't stop. Please, don't stop. Just keep going, whoever you are. This is none of your business.

She wondered if she would need the knife.

Before starting the car, she had bent over and tossed it underneath her seat.

Now, her legs were still in front of the knife. Her hip was on the seat above it. But her shoulder was planted in the passenger seat. She couldn't possibly reach the knife. Not without sitting up first.

The approaching car slowed down.

No, don't...

As its headlights moved on, the car itself crept up alongside the MG.

Sandy suddenly wondered if it had a trailer hitch.

Don't even think about it.

Just go away, whoever you are.

With a quiet whine of brakes, the car stopped.

"She's sure a peach," a guy said.

He's seen me!

No, maybe he means the MG.

He had sounded as if he might be standing over the driver's door, peering in.

"What's it doing out here?" asked a different voice. The voice of someone farther away. Probably the driver.

A woman.

Sandy felt a sudden, vast relief.

"I reckon it broke down," said the guy.

"Yeah. Or the dumb shit run outa gas."

"Same thing."

"No, it ain't," the woman said.

"Sure is a peach."

"Get on out and see what's in it, Bill. He might have some good stuff, a fancy-ass car like that."

Don't do it, Bill! Stay in your car!

"What if the guy's just off in the trees takin' a whizz or something?" he asked.

"Ya gonna do it, or ya gonna sit here all night?"

"Wanta get me caught red-handed?"

"Yer as yella as peed-on snow."

"Am not," Bill said.

"Yella, yella, yella!"

"Shut up."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you!"

"Don't you talk to me that way, ya yella bastard!"

Sandy heard skin hit skin. The woman blurted, "Ow!" Bill must've slapped her. "Yella cocksucker!" she squealed.

Then came a flurry of blows and the woman yelping and cursing Bill and pleading for him to stop while he pounded her and grunted with the effort and gasped, "Ya like that? How's this? Ya like this? Fucking bitch. Ya like this?"

"Stop it!" She was crying like a kid being spanked. "Yer hurtin' me!"

"Yella, huh?"

"No! Please! I'm sorry. I didn't mean it!"

The blows kept falling.

The woman, sobbing wildly, grunted and cried out each time she was hit. "I'm sorry!" she gasped. "Ya ain't yella!"

"I'm fuckin' tired of yer mouth, bitch!

"No! OW!"

"Ya like that? How 'bout this?"

Smack!

Shoving her elbow into the passenger seat, Sandy pushed herself. up until she could see over the top of her driver's door. The other car was stopped on the road beside the MG, only four or five feet away, Still too low for a view inside, Sandy grabbed the steering wheel with her left hand and pulled herself higher.

Bill seemed to be kneeling on the front seat, hunched over as he thrashed the woman behind the steering wheel. Sandy couldn't see her at all. But she could hear her crying and begging, could hear her clothes being tom, her skin being punched and slapped by Bill.

What's gonna happen when they stop?

One of them'll get out and find me, that's what.

She wished another car would show up. If it came from behind, Bill's car would be blocking the lane. Maybe he would quit beating the woman and make her drive away.

This was a back road, though. It didn't get used much, especially at night. Another car might come along seconds from now-or maybe not for hours.