"Tell me!" She had seen Stu in many moods, but this curious, embarrassed uneasiness was new to her.

"I never told anybody," he said, "but I have been thinking on it the last couple of weeks. Something happened to me back in 1982. I was pumping gas at Bill Hapscomb's gas station then. He used to hire me on, if he could, when I was laid off at the calculator plant in town. He had me on part-time, eleven P.M. to closing, which was three in the morning back in those days. There wasn't much business after the people getting off the three-to-eleven shift at the Dixie Paper factory stopped to get their gas ... lots of nights there wasn't a single car stopped between twelve and three. I'd sit there and read a book or a magazine, and lots of nights I'd doze off. You know?"

"Yes." She did know. In her mind's eye she could see him, the man who would become her man in the fullness of time and the peculiarity of events, a broad-shouldered man sleeping in a plastic Woolco chair with a book open and facedown on his lap. She saw him sleeping in an island of white light, an island surrounded by a great inland sea of Texas night. She loved him in this picture, as she loved him in all the pictures her mind drew.

"Well, this one night it was about quarter past two, and I was sitting behind Hap's desk with my feet up, reading some Western-Louis L'Amour, Elmore Leonard, someone like that, and in pulls this big old Pontiac with all the windows rolled down and the tape-player going like mad, playing Hank Williams. I even remember the song-it was 'Movin' On.' This guy, not young and not old, is all by himself. He was a good-lookin man, but in a way that was a little scary-I mean, he looked like he might do scary things without thinkin very hard about em. He had bushy, curly dark hair. There was a bottle of wine snugged down between his legs and a pair of Styrofoam dice hanging from the rearview mirror. He says, 'High test,' and I said okay, but for a minute I just stood there and looked at him. Because he looked familiar. I was playin place the face."

They were on the corner now; their apartment building was across the street. They paused there. Frannie was looking at him closely.

"So I said, 'Don't I know you? Ain't you from up around Corbett or Maxin?' But it didn't really seem like I knew him from those two towns. And he says, 'No, but I passed through Corbett once with my family, when I was just a kid. It seems like I passed through just about everyplace in America when I was a kid. My dad was in the Air Force.'

"So I went back and filled up his car, and all the time I'm thinkin about him, playing place the face, and all at once it came to me. All at once I knew. And I damned near pissed myself, because the man behind the wheel of that Pontiac was supposed to be dead."

"Who was he, Stuart? Who was he?"

"No, you let me tell it my way, Frannie. Not that it isn't a crazy story no matter what way you tell it. I went back to the window and I says, 'That'll be six dollars and thirty cents.' He gave me two five-dollar bills and told me I could keep the change. And I says, 'I think I might have you placed now.' And he says, 'Well, maybe you do,' and he gives me this weird, chilly smile, and all the time Hank Williams is singin about goin to town. I says, 'If you are who I think you are, you're supposed to be dead.' He says, 'You don't want to believe everything you read, man.' I says, 'You like Hank Williams all right?' It was all I could think of to say. Because I saw, Frannie, if I didn't say something, he was just going to roll up that power window and go tooling on down the road ... and I wanted him to go, but I also didn't want him to go. Not yet. Not until I was sure. I didn't know then that a person is never sure about a lot of things, no matter how much he wants to be.

"He says, 'Hank Williams is one of the best. I like roadhouse music.' Then he says, 'I'm going to New Orleans, going to drive all night, sleep all day tomorrow, then barrelhouse all night long. Is it the same? New Orleans?' And I say, 'As what?' And he says, 'Well, you know.' And I say, 'Well, it's all the South, you know, although there are considerable more trees down that way.' And that makes him laugh. He says, 'Maybe I'll see you again.' But I didn't want to see him again, Frannie. Because he had the eyes of a man who has been trying to look into the dark for a long time and has maybe begun to see what is there. I think, if I ever see that man Flagg, his eyes might look a little like that."

Stu shook his head as they pushed their bikes across the road and parked them. "I've been thinking of that. I thought about getting some of his records after that, but I didn't want them. His voice ... it's a good voice, but it gives me the creeps."

"Stuart, who are you talking about?"

"You remember a rock and roll group called The Doors? The man that stopped that night for gas in Arnette was Jim Morrison. I'm sure of it."

Her mouth dropped open. "But he died! He died in France! He-" And then she stopped. Because there had been something funny about Morrison's death, hadn't there? Something secret.

"Did he?" Stu asked. "I wonder. Maybe he did, and the fellow I saw was just a guy who looked like him, but-"

"Do you really think it was?" she asked.

They were sitting on the steps of their building now, shoulders touching, like small children waiting for their mother to call them in to supper.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I do. And until this summer, I thought that would always be the strangest thing that ever happened to me. Boy, was I wrong."

"And you never told anyone," she marveled. "You saw Jim Morrison years after he supposedly died and you never told anyone. Stuart Redman, God should have given you a combination lock instead of a mouth when He sent you out into the world."

Stu smiled. "Well, the years rolled by, as they say in the books, and whenever I thought of that night-as I did, from time to time-I got surer and surer it wasn't him after all. Just someone who looked a little bit like him, you know. I had my mind pretty well at rest on the subject. But in the last few weeks, I've found myself puzzling over it again. And I think more and more that it was. Hell, he might even still be alive now. That'd be a real laugh, wouldn't it?"

"If he is," she said, "he's not here."

"No," Stu agreed, "I wouldn't expect him to be here. I saw his eyes, you see."

She put her hand on his arm. "That's some story."

"Yeah, and there's probably twenty million people in this country with one just like it ... only about Elvis Presley or Howard Hughes."

"Not anymore."

"No-not anymore. Harold was something tonight, wasn't he?"

"I believe that's called changing the subject."

"I believe you're right."

"Yes," she said, "he was."

He smiled at her worried tone and the slight frown which had puckered her brow. "Bothered you a little, didn't it?"

"Yes, but I won't say so. You're in Harold's corner now."

"Now, that's not fair, Fran. It bothered me, too. There we had those two advance meetings ... hashed everything over to a fare-thee-well ... at least we thought so ... and along comes Harold. He takes a whack-whack whack-whack here and a here and a whack-whack whack-whack there and says, 'Ain't that what you really meant?' And we say, 'Yeah, thanks, Harold. It was.' " Stu shook his head. "Putting everybody up for blanket election, how come we never thought of that, Fran? That was there and says, 'Ain't that what you really meant?' And we say, 'Yeah, thanks, Harold. It was.' " Stu shook his head. "Putting everybody up for blanket election, how come we never thought of that, Fran? That was sharp sharp. And we never even discussed discussed it." it."

"Well, none of us knew for sure what kind of mood they'd be in. I thought-especially after Mother Abagail walked off-that they'd be glum, maybe even mean. With that Impening talking to them like some kind of deathcrow-"

"I wonder if he should be shut up somehow," Stu said thoughtfully.

"But it wasn't like that. They were so ... exuberant exuberant just to be together. Did you feel that?" just to be together. Did you feel that?"

"Yeah, I did."

"It was like a tent revival, almost. I don't think it was anything Harold had planned. He just seized the moment."

"I just don't know how to feel about him," Stu said. "That night after we hunted for Mother Abagail, I felt real bad for him. When Ralph and Glen turned up, he looked downright horrible, like he was going to faint, or something. But when we were talking out on the lawn just now and everybody was congratulating him, he seemed puffed up like a toad. Like he was smiling on the outside and on the inside he was saying, 'There, you see what your committee's worth, you stupid bunch of fools.' He's like one of those puzzles you could never figure out when you were a kid. The Chinese finger-pullers or those three steel rings that would come apart if you pulled them just the right way."

Fran stuck out her feet and looked at them. "Speaking of Harold, do you see anything funny about my feet, Stuart?"

Stu looked at them judiciously. "Nope. Just that you're wearing those funny-looking Earth Shoes from up the street. And they're almighty big, o course."

She slapped at him. "Earth Shoes are very good for your feet. All the best magazines say so. And I happen to be a size seven, for your information. That's practically petite."

"So what have your feet got to do with anything? It's late, honey." He began to push his bike again and she fell in beside him.

"Nothing, I guess. It's just that Harold kept looking at my feet. After the meeting when we were sitting out on the grass and talking things over." She shook her head, frowning a little. "Now why would Harold Lauder be interested in my feet?" she asked.

When Larry and Lucy got home, they were by themselves, walking hand in hand. Sometime before, Leo had gone into the house where he stayed with "Nadine-mom."

Now, as they walked toward the door, Lucy said: "It was quite a meeting. I never thought-" Her words caught in her throat as a dark form unfolded itself from the shadows of their porch. Larry felt hot fear leap up in his throat. It's him It's him, he thought wildly. He's come to get me ... I'm going to see his face. He's come to get me ... I'm going to see his face.

But then he wondered how he could have thought that, because it was Nadine Cross, that was all. She was wearing a dress of some soft bluish-gray material, and her hair was loose, flowing over her shoulders and down her back, dark hair shot with skeins of purest white.

She sort of makes Lucy look like a used car on a scalper's lot, he thought before he could help himself, and then hated himself for thinking it. That was the old Larry talking ... old Larry? You might as well say old Adam. he thought before he could help himself, and then hated himself for thinking it. That was the old Larry talking ... old Larry? You might as well say old Adam.

"Nadine," Lucy was saying shakily, with one hand pressed to her chest. "You gave me the fright of my life. I thought ... well, I don't know what I thought."

She took no notice of Lucy. "Can I talk to you?" she asked Larry.

"What? Now?" He looked sideways at Lucy, or thought he did ... later he was never able to remember what Lucy had looked like in that moment. It was as if she had been eclipsed, but by a dark star rather than by a bright one.

"Now. It has to be now."

"In the morning would-"

"It has to be now, Larry. Or never."

He looked at Lucy again and this time he did see her, saw the resignation on her face as she looked from Larry to Nadine and back again. He saw the hurt.

"I'll be right in, Lucy."

"No you won't," she said dully. Tears had begun to sparkle in her eyes. "Oh no, I doubt it."

"Ten minutes."

"Ten minutes, ten years," Lucy said. "She's come to get you. Did you bring your dog collar and your muzzle, Nadine?"

For Nadine, Lucy Swann did not exist. Her eyes were fixed only on Larry, those dark, wide eyes. For Larry, they would always be the strangest, most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, the eyes that come back to you, calm and deep, when you're hurt or in bad trouble or maybe just about out of your mind with grief.

"I'll be in, Lucy," he said automatically.

"She-"

"Go on."

"Yes, I guess I will. She's come. I'm dismissed."

She ran up the steps, stumbling on the top one, regaining her balance, pulling the door open, closing it behind her with a slam, cutting off the sound of her sobs even as they started.

Nadine and Larry looked at each other for a long time as if entranced. This is how it happens, he thought. When you catch someone's eyes across a room and never forget them, or see someone at the far end of a crowded subway platform that could have been your double, or hear a laugh on the street that could have been the laugh of the first girl you ever made love to- But something in his mouth tasted so bitter.

"Let's walk down to the corner and back," Nadine said in a low voice. "Would you do that much?"

"I better go in to her. You picked one hell of a bad time to come here."

"Please? Just down to the corner and back? If you want, I'll get down on my knees and beg. If that's what you want. Here. See?"

And to his horror she did get down on her knees, pulling her skirt up a little so she could do it, showing him her bare legs, making him curiously certain that everything else was bare as well. Why should he think that? He didn't know. Her eyes were on him, making his head spin, and there was a sickening feeling of power involved here someplace, involved with having her on her knees before him, her mouth on a level with- "Get up!" he said roughly. He took her hands and yanked her to her feet, trying not to see the way the skirt rode up even more before falling back into place; her thighs were the color of cream, that shade of white that is not pale and dead but vigorous and healthy and enticing.

"Come on," he said, almost totally unnerved.

They walked west, in the direction of the mountains, which were a negative presence far ahead, triangular patches of darkness blotting out the stars that had come out after the rain. Walking toward those mountains at night always made him feel queerly uneasy but somehow adventurous, and now, with Nadine by his side, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his elbow, those feelings seemed heightened. He had always had vivid dreams, and three or four nights ago about those mountains; he had dreamed there were trolls in them, hideous creatures with bright green eyes, the oversized heads of hydrocephalic cretins, and short-fingered, powerful hands. Strangler's hands. Idiot trolls, guarding the passes through the mountains. Waiting until his his time came around-the time of the dark man. time came around-the time of the dark man.

A soft breeze meandered down the street, blowing papers before it. They passed King Sooper's, a few shopping carts standing in the big parking lot like dead sentinels, making him think of the Lincoln Tunnel. There had been trolls in the Lincoln Tunnel. They had been dead, but that didn't mean all the trolls in their new world were dead.

"It's hard," Nadine said, her voice still low. "She made it hard because she's right. I want you now. And I'm afraid I'm too late. I want to stay here."

"Nadine-"

"No!" she said fiercely. "Let me finish. she said fiercely. "Let me finish. I want to stay here, I want to stay here, can't you understand that? And if we're with each other, I'll be able to. You're my last chance," she said, her voice breaking. "Joe's gone now." can't you understand that? And if we're with each other, I'll be able to. You're my last chance," she said, her voice breaking. "Joe's gone now."

"No, he hasn't," Larry said, feeling slow and stupid and bewildered. "We dropped him off at your place on the way home. Isn't he there?"

"No. There's a boy named Leo Rockway asleep in his bed."

"What are you-"

"Listen," she said. "Listen to me, can't you listen? listen? As long as I had Joe, I was all right. I could ... be as strong as I had to be. But he doesn't need me anymore. And I need to be needed." As long as I had Joe, I was all right. I could ... be as strong as I had to be. But he doesn't need me anymore. And I need to be needed."

"He does need you!"

"Of course he does," Nadine said, and Larry felt afraid again. She wasn't talking about Leo anymore; he didn't know who who she was talking about. "He needs me. That's what I'm afraid of. That's why I came to you." She stepped in front of him and looked up, her chin tilted. He could smell her secret clean scent, and he wanted her. But part of him turned back toward Lucy. That was the part of him he needed if he was going to make it here in Boulder. If he let it go and went with Nadine, they might as well slink out of Boulder tonight. It would be finished with him. The old Larry triumphant. she was talking about. "He needs me. That's what I'm afraid of. That's why I came to you." She stepped in front of him and looked up, her chin tilted. He could smell her secret clean scent, and he wanted her. But part of him turned back toward Lucy. That was the part of him he needed if he was going to make it here in Boulder. If he let it go and went with Nadine, they might as well slink out of Boulder tonight. It would be finished with him. The old Larry triumphant.

"I have to go home," he said. "I'm sorry. You'll have to work it out on your own, Nadine." Work it out on your own Work it out on your own-weren't they the words he had been using to people in one form or another all his life? Why did they have to rise up this way when he knew he was right and still catch him, and twist in him, and make him doubt himself?

"Make love to me," she said, and put her arms around his neck. She pressed her body against his and he knew by its looseness, its warmth and springiness, that he had been right, she was wearing the dress and that was all. Buck naked underneath, he thought, and thinking it excited him blackly.

"That's all right, I can feel you," she said, and began to wriggle against him-sideways, up and down, creating a delicious friction. "Make love to me and that will be the end of it. I'll be safe. Safe. I'll be safe."

He reached up, and later he never knew how he was able to do that when he could have been inside her warmth in only three quick movements and one thrust, the way she wanted it, but somehow he reached up and unlocked her hands and pushed her away with such force that she stumbled and almost fell. A low moan came from her.

"Larry, if you knew-"

"Well, I don't. Why don't you try telling me instead of ... of raping me?"

"Rape!" she repeated, laughing shrilly. "Oh, that's funny! Oh, what you said! Me! Rape you! you! Oh, Larry!" Oh, Larry!"

"Whatever you want from me, you could have had. You could have had it last week, or the week before. The week before that I asked you to take it. I wanted you to have it."

"That was too soon," she whispered.

"And now it's too late," he said, hating the brutal sound of his voice but unable to control it. He was still shaking all over from wanting her, how was he supposed to sound? "What are you gonna do, huh?"

"All right. Goodbye, Larry."

She was turning away. In that instant she was more than Nadine, turning her back on him forever. She was the oral hygienist. She was Yvonne, with whom he had shared an apartment in L.A.-she had pissed him off and so he had just slipped into his boogie shoes, leaving her holding the lease. She was Rita Blakemoor.

Worst of all, she was his mother.

"Nadine?"

She didn't turn around. She was a black shape distinguishable from other black shapes only when she crossed the street. Then she disappeared altogether against the black background of the mountains. He called her name once again and she didn't answer. There was something terrifying in the way she had left him, the way she had just melted into that black backdrop.

He stood in front of King Sooper's, hands clenched, brow covered with pearls of sweat in spite of the evening cool. His ghosts were with him now, and at last he knew how you pay off for not being no nice guy: never clear about your own motivations, never able to weigh hurt against help except by rule of thumb, never able to get rid of the sour taste of doubt in your mouth and- His head jerked up. His eyes widened until they seemed to bulge from his face. The wind had picked up again, it made a strange hooting sound in some empty doorway, and farther away he thought he could hear bootheels pacing off the night, rundown bootheels somewhere in the foothills coming to him on the chilly draft of this early morning breeze.

Dirty bootheels clocking their way into the grave of the West.