"Well, at least load it."

He supposed that wasn't a bad idea. If they somehow did manage to run into Uriah, he didn't want to be standing there with an empty gun.

He sat on the rear bumper, dumped some .22 magnums into his hand and started feeding them into the cylinder. By the time he finished, Pete was only a couple of yards away.

"Gimme an Eastwood sneer."

"If Uriah's watching all this, he'll think we're clowns.

"Good. Give him a false sense of security."

"False, huh?" He dropped a handful of cartridges into the pocket of his shirt and set the box down inside the trunk. "Should we have a beer before we start?" he asked.

"Not yet. Here, take this. I don't want to be left out."

He gave the camera to Larry and showed him how to work it. Larry stepped away from the car, picked up Pete in the viewfinder and recorded him strapping on his gun-belt.

"A couple of real hombres, huh?"

"Yup," Larry said.

It felt good, he realized, to be dressed up in his boots, faded jeans, old blue workshirt, and cowboy hat. It especially felt good to have the holster against his leg and know it held a real six-shooter with live rounds in the cylinder. Like playing cowboys for real.

Pete, though smaller than Larry, looked twice as tough. He wore scuffed and dusty combat boots. The cuffs of his jeans were frayed.

The sleeves of his plaid shirt were turned up, revealing his thick hairy forearms. The shirt, too tight across his chest, bulged with the push of his muscles. His dirty straw hat, sides curled up and front swooping low, looked like something he might've swiped off a drunken old-timer in an alley behind a saloon. But the best part was the black handlebar mustache, sprinkled with flecks of gray. The mustache was more than dress-up. It was real.

Leaning back against the car, Pete fed ammo into his revolver. His bullets looked about three times the size of Larry's.

"I'm gonna have to get me a forty-five or something," Larry said.

"Yeah. Get yourself a piece with some real stopping power." Pete holstered his magnum. Squinting into the camera, he poked a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. He lit it with a Bic. "Ready to go after our man?" he asked.

"How about a beer before we start?"

"Reckon that'd hit the spot."

They leaned against the side of the car while they drank. Larry kept looking up and down the road, hoping someone might show up and ruin their plan.

Pete finished his cigarette. He tossed it down and mashed it under his boot. "This'll be great in our book," he said, "the two of us coming out here to kick ass."

"Yeah. We probably won't find him, though."

"Hey, man, think positive."

"I am."

"Get outa here. You mean to tell me you came all the way out here hoping we won't find the guy?"

"I'm not exactly looking forward to it."

"You're not gonna chicken out on me, are you?"

"Came this far."

"That's the spirit."

"The thing about Uriah, though-" He stopped, shook his head, and drank some more beer.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, man. Spit it out."

"Well, he's real"

"No fooling."

"You've been to Vietnam and everything. It's different for you. The closest I ever came to real trouble was when some neighbors got shot up back in L.A. I just hit the floor and prayed none of the bullets would come our way. I've never actually gone after anyone."

"Me neither. I wasn't a grunt, you know."

"You've never shot anyone?"

"Nope. Or been shot at. Closest I ever came to getting plugged, ol'

hoss, was when you drew down on me last Friday."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." He laughed. "Hey, buck up. It showed you had balls. If you can stick a gun in my face, you'll do it when it counts."

"Hope so," Larry muttered.

"Don't worry, you will." Pete stepped away from the car, tossed his beer can high and went for his gun.

"No!" Before he could clear his holster, Larry grabbed his wrist.

The can clinked on the street and rolled.

"Hey, man-"

"Are you out of your gourd? That cannon-"

"We didn't exactly sneak into town, Lar. If Uriah's around, I reckon he knows we're here."

"Well, Jeez."

"Okay okay. You done there? Let's get this show on the road."

While Pete retrieved his can, Larry finished his beer and stepped to the trunk. They dropped both cans inside. "What about the camera?"

Larry asked.

"It'll be too dark in the hotel." "Better take this, then." Larry searched a corner of the trunk. Along with the jack, tire iron, and flares was a flash-light he kept there for emergencies. He took it out and started to shut the trunk.

"Whoa there. We might need this, too." Pete reached in. He lifted out the tire tool.

Looking over his shoulder, Larry saw that the hasp on the hotel doors still dangled loose. "Think we'll need the bar?"

"We're gonna check the rooms, aren't we?"

He hadn't thought of that. He realized, in fact, that he'd avoided thinking about what they would actually do once they were here. "I don't know about breaking into rooms."

Pete shook his head and chuckled. Tire iron in his hand, he closed the trunk. "You really don't want to find this guy, do you?"

"I sure don't want to shoot him," Larry said as they approached the front doors.

"I don't aim to shoot anyone, either. But it's nice to know we've got some protection." He patted the handle of his revolver. Then he slipped the tire iron under his belt, swung open one of the doors, and stepped into the hotel.

The light from the doorway swept across the lobby floor and faded, leaving the far areas of the room in darkness. Larry could barely make out the vague shape of the registration counter, could only see halfway up the stairs to his left. As he tried to see more, the light was squeezed out. The door bumped shut.

"Let's get our eyes used to it," Pete whispered.

Larry felt as if a black hood had been dropped over his face. But when he turned around, he found strips of sunlight coming through cracks in the boarded windows, and a glowing band across the bottom of the doorway.

Pete stood beside him, silent.

Larry faced forward again. Soon he was able to make out the faint shapes of things: the long counter, the cubbyholes behind it, the banister and stairs. They were almost invisible, but there. Soft around the edges. Flowing. Melting into the blackness. He saw some shapes he wasn't sure about. Something above the distant counter that might be a face. Something partway up the stairs that might be a man standing motionless, staring down at them.

It was better, he thought, when I couldn't see at all.

"The lair of the madman," Pete whispered.

"Cut it out."

"That'd be a good title for you, huh?"

"Shhh."

"You're gonna get a lot of good material from all this."

He wished Pete would hush. He wanted silence so he could hear if anyone...

"Go ahead and turn on the flashlight," Pete said. He thumbed the switch. Swept the light up the stairs. His breath snagged as shadows from the banister squirmed on the wall. But nobody was there. The beam reached all the way to the top. It cast a dim glow into the second-floor hallway. Larry quickly swung it away and darted it across the top of the registration counter. Nobody there, either. Breathing more easily, he probed each corner of the lobby.

"Let me have it," Pete said.

Larry was reluctant, for a moment, to give up control of the light.

Then he realized that it should belong to the one leading the way. He preferred Pete to be the leader. He passed the light to him and rested his hand on the grips of his revolver.

They started forward, their boots making gritty sounds on the sandy hardwood floor. Larry watched where the flashlight went. It stopped briefly on the crucifix. It moved around the edges of the panel, which was flush with the other sections enclosing the area under the stairway. It swept along the length of the counter and lingered on a closed door near the far end.

"Let's check that out," Pete said.

They climbed over the counter and dropped into the space behind it.

Pete led the way to the door, eased it open and leaned in. Larry peered past his head. The pale shaft of light revealed an empty room with a boarded window on its far wall.

"The hotel office," Pete whispered. "Let's try upstairs." He pulled the door shut.

They swung themselves over the counter again and crossed the lobby to the stairway. Pete aimed the light at the top as if to make sure nobody was waiting up there. Then he lowered it to the steps just above them. He started to climb.

The landing was still covered by loose planks.

Seeing them, Larry wished to God that Barbara had never broken through.

How can you wish such a thing?

The voice was Bonnie's, sad and accusing.

I thought you loved me.

"Think I'll take a peek," Pete said. He sank to his knees and carefully lifted two boards out of the way. Ducking low, he lowered his head into the gap. The flashlight followed. "I don't see anything," he said.

"What did you expect?"

"Who knows?" He straightened up, replaced the boards, and got to his feet. Again he shined the light at the top of the stairs. Then he began to climb.

Larry took a long stride to avoid stepping on the planks.

Just above him Pete switched the flashlight to his left hand. With his right hand he drew the revolver from its holster.

"Be careful," Larry whispered. "I mean, don't go blasting anything that moves. There might be a bum living here, or something."

"Don't worry, huh?"

"We're the ones trespassing, you know."

"Yeah, yeah."

One stair from the top Pete leaned forward and glanced both ways.

He stepped into the corridor. Larry followed. The corridor ended just to the left of the stairway. To the right it stretched long and dark with doors on both sides.

They stopped in front of the first door. Pete pressed his ear to it, shoving his cowboy hat crooked. After listening for a moment, he moved back. "You wanta do the honors?" he whispered, pointing the flashlight at its knob. "I'll cover you."