"You just be careful," Roy said.

She opened the door, grabbed a small purse. "I always am, lover. I always am."

She slammed the door and then started walking gracefully up the long driveway, hips swaying, and he watched her until she got up to the porch. Then he started up the Jeep and drove down the road, pulled over, and waited. It was going to be a busy night. He had decided earlier not to tell her about Henry's amazing offer- he wanted to make sure she was focused on her job- but he knew he would tell her later tonight, when things were wrapped up.

From underneath his seat he pulled out a small flask of Jim Beam, and took a couple of swallows. The strong taste burned at him. He then rolled down the window of the Jeep and lit a cigarette, took a couple of puffs, and then tossed the cigarette out onto the asphalt. From the woods came the sound of an owl, hoo-hoo-hoo, out on a night hunt.

How appropriate. He reached under the driver's seat again, pulled out a 9mm Smith & Wesson, placed it in his lap. Then he started up the Jeep and made a careful U-turn, and returned to the house.

Roy sped up the driveway, headlights on high. He slammed the brakes to skid to a stop, making enough noise to be heard in the next county. He got out of the Jeep, strode up to the porch, bottle of Jim Beam in one hand, the pistol in the other. He plowed through the door in a matter of seconds and yelled out, "Wife! You d.a.m.n wh.o.r.e, where the h.e.l.l are you?"

Before him was a wide stairway, and off to the left was a room that looked like it would be called a formal dining room. Big polished table, lots of stiff-looking chairs. From upstairs came some noises, and he took the stairs, two steps at a time, and went to the left down a hallway that had paintings hanging on the walls. The murmuring voices got louder. The door at the end of the hallway was nearly closed. He smashed it open with a kick.

He took in the scene with a practiced eye. The bedroom was about the size of his first apartment after getting out of the army all those years ago. Heavy-looking bureaus on both sides, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a bed the size of a Buick in the center, with four posts rising toward a chandeliered ceiling. His wife was kneeling on the bed, her eyes wide with shock. She had taken off her pants and top, and had on a skimpy black lace bra and even skimpier panties. A tube of oil was in her hands. Candles had been lit and placed on the nightstands, and in the bed with his wife was an overweight man, maybe late twenties, holding a sheet up to his pink and chubby chest.

"Oh, babe, please don't overreact, it's not what it looks like," she said, starting to get off the bed.

In the s.p.a.ce of a few quick steps he reached her and slapped at her face, tumbling her to the floor, her long legs tangled in the sheets. She cried out and he yelled, "I know exactly what it looks like, you wh.o.r.e!"

Then the rage started deep inside of him, at seeing his woman, his wife, the center of his affection and love, almost naked in bed with another man, a complete stranger. He threw the bottle of bourbon at one of the mirrors, cracking it and sending a brown spray of liquid against the wallpapered wall. He jumped on the bed as the fat man tried to scurry away, grabbed at his hair, and pointed the pistol at the smooth forehead.

On the floor, his wife was weeping, but he stared at the trembling face of the younger man. "How much?" Roy demanded.

The man stammered. "Wha- wha- what do you mean?"

Roy popped the end of the pistol barrel against the man's forehead a few times. "How much were you going to pay her, you fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d?"

"One... one thousand dollars..." he said. "Look, I didn't know she was married, honest to G.o.d, I just met her over the Internet, it was a straight deal, nothing more, mister, honest, you gotta believe me..."

Roy turned, his voice still raised in anger. "Is that true, a thousand dollars? Do you have it?"

She raised her head, the tears making long mascara trails down her cheeks. "Yeah, babe, I got the money, and I-"

"Shut up," he said. "If I want to know more, I'll ask you." He turned his attention back to the man in the bed, sniffed the air. Jesus, did he ever bathe? He rapped the pistol against the forehead again. "I should shoot you, right here and now. No court in the county would convict me, a man sleeping with another man's wife. You don't think I'd get away with it?"

The man seemed to rally a bit. "Murder? You think you can kill me for something like this?"

Roy laughed hard. "Who said anything about murder? How about this?" Roy slapped the man's face and then grabbed his hand and pulled his arm out. The man yelped, and as Nicky started shrieking, Roy placed the muzzle end of the pistol against the man's right elbow.

"One squeeze of the trigger, man, one quick squeeze of the trigger and I'll shatter this elbow," Roy snarled. "I don't care how good the hospitals are around here, it'll never be the same. The rest of your life, every time you see the scar and feel the stiffness, every time you try to pick up something and your elbow aches, you'll remember me. You'll remember trying to sleep with another man's wife. You'll always remember."

Roy snapped back the hammer, the sound loud in the bedroom. "And maybe I'll do one of your knees, just to balance everything out."

The man started blubbering and Nicky stood up, sheet held against her body. "Wait, babe, wait!"

"Did I say you could talk? Did I?"

"No, please," she said, holding a hand out. "Maybe we can work out a deal. Something to make it right. I mean, I was being paid, all right? Maybe if you get compensated, too, promise not to hurt Clarence here, then we can just end it here tonight."

The man called Clarence said, "Yes, yes, that sounds good. Honest, look, let's see if we can work something out."

Roy took a relaxed breath, slowly pulled the trigger with one hand and lowered the hammer with the other. His fury and anger seemed to seep away from him, just like every time before- except for that one time each in California and Washington when things didn't go well and they had to move away- "All right," he said. "Start talking."

In the Jeep Cherokee he was exhausted. The drive back to Morrill Lake seemed to take forever, and since they had both gotten inside and driven away from Lovell, not one word had been said for a long while.

Finally, Nicky cleared her throat and said, "Well."

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yep."

He coughed, hating the taste of the tobacco and bourbon in his mouth. "Did I get you back there, when I took a swipe at you? I thought for sure my hand caught the edge of your chin."

She laughed and he saw her hand move against her face. "Yeah, I think you did. Don't worry. I'll put an icepack on it tonight."

He reached over, squeezed her leg. "Sorry about that."

"Not to worry, not to worry."

"And who was Clarence?" Roy asked.

He could sense her smile next to him. "Some rich boy whose daddy left him a lot of money, and not a lot of social skills. A nice little boy with some very odd desires."

Another mile went by. "So," Roy said. "What's the haul tonight?"

Nicky reached up, turned on the overhead light, and then began rummaging through a brown paper grocery bag, like a housewife checking her day's shopping. "Let's see. Five thousand in cash. Five gold Krugerrands. A couple of gold bracelets. One diamond pinky ring- and if I ever see you in a pinky ring, I'll slap you silly, hon- and one of those PalmPilot computers. A good night's work, don't you think?"

He remembered seeing her almost naked in bed with that man, that rich, lonely fat man who probably thought he had gotten the date of his life through the Internet. He remembered the other times as well, where the script had been followed, and the two times when it hadn't. Once, in California, where a rich Silicon Valley guy started laughing at him, egging him on. And once, as well, in Washington, where the guy had started right in and had pinned Nicky down on a couch in the living room, tearing at her as if he thought since he was paying for her he could do anything he wanted.

Both times, things went wrong. Both times that fury inside of him had just blown out, like a rocket engine, and he had emptied his pistol in both of those guys, wiping away their grins, wiping away their hungers. After each time, they had moved away and had started up again: Such was their way of life.

He glanced over at her, smiling. "Yes, it was a good night's work."

After they got back to the cottage and had put away their tools and their rewards, they went to bed and performed the traditional after-work celebration, which was always fun, and which was always a good way of reaffirming their love and commitment to each other. Then they took a shower together, so that Roy could get the grease out of his hair, and Nicky could get the scent of another man's bedroom off her body.

The night was quite warm and they went out to the porch, still unclothed, gla.s.ses of Remy Martin in their hands. Roy slowly caressed the naked back of his wife as they stretched out on the couch, a single sheet over the both of them. Nicky went on for a while about Muriel next door, how the old woman appreciated the drive into town to meet her sisters, and Nicky said she was planning to take her grocery shopping later the next day. Then, Roy smiled and told her of Henry's offer.

Nicky sat up so quick that she almost spilled his gla.s.s of cognac. "You're not teasing me, are you? This is the G.o.d's honest truth?"

He sipped at the cognac, glad to finally wash out the taste of tobacco and bourbon from his mouth. "The honest truth, hon. Once Henry and Muriel die, we get the house and this cottage. We can live up here year round, if you'd like, and get a little income from renting out the cottage. Maybe cut back on your work schedule."

She hugged him tight. "Oh, Roy, that sounds wonderful... My G.o.d, it's a dream come true, it really is. Imagine being up here for the whole summer, not having to move out when the next renters come by. Imagine what it'll be like in the fall, when the leaves change. Or when the lake freezes over. We can snowshoe and ski and you can take up ice fishing and-"

He started laughing, kissing at her neck. "Slow down, hon, slow down. It's going to happen, but probably not right away. We're going to be in their wills. We're not getting everything tomorrow."

"Oh, I know, but still... oh, Roy, it's going to be great."

They lay there for a few more minutes, each sipping at their cognac, and then a loon call started, and then another, and then a third. The yodeling and calling echoed among the trees and bills of the lake, and Nicky snuggled in close to Roy and said, "Darling?"

"Yes?"

"Henry and Muriel... how old are they?"

"Don't know," he said. "Probably their late seventies."

"What do you think their life expectancy is?"

"Don't rightly know," Roy said. "They could both pa.s.s on this winter. But they're both hardy New Englanders. They could last another decade."

"Oh." The loon noise continued and Roy thought that he was the luckiest man in the world to be in such a place and to have such a woman at his side.

She spoke up again. "Do you think... well, do you think you could figure out a way to... well, you know... speed things up. I mean, well, I hate to think of us waiting for another ten or fifteen years, you know?"

He knew exactly what was going on in her mind, and he reached down and kissed the top of her head. "That's some thought, dear, but no. We're not going to do anything to them."

"Why?" she asked.

Roy recalled something Henry had said yesterday. "Because we're good people, that's why. Even Henry said that to me. And not killing your neighbors is what good people do."

Nicky laughed and snuggled in under his arm. "Thanks for reminding me."

He kissed her again. "You're welcome."

Nancy Pickard.

Afraid of the Dark.

NANCY PICKARD (along with other writers such as Carolyn Hart and Joan Hess) has turned the cozy form inside out. She's managed to keep its s.p.u.n.k while imbuing it with greater depth and relevance to reflect the lives of contemporary women. This is so true, in fact, that many of her so-called "cozies" offer the reader much truer portraits of our time than many so-called "serious" suspense novels. Here is one of Nancy's best stories, "Afraid of the Dark," which first appeared in the anthology The Night Awakens.

Afraid of the Dark.

Nancy Pickard.

Friday, September 19.

She thought she'd already used up all of her courage.

Simply by stepping into the doorway of the abandoned tunnel underneath the Kansas prairie, Amelia felt as if she'd called upon every ounce of nerve she possessed. She had just enough left, maybe, to help her walk farther into the underground rooms. And after that? Then her entire lifetime's supply of bravery would be depleted, Amelia felt quite sure.

Yes, there was a bare electric light bulb hanging from the deteriorating ceiling. Yes, it glared forth a naked illumination, powered perhaps by some old generator left behind to rot. And, yes, it lighted the underground room for the first few yards that Amelia could see, as she held her breath and tried to work up enough gumption to get her legs to move forward. But she couldn't see beyond the light.

An improbable scene lay before her.

An antique barber shop. Underground. Chairs and all.

It was all revealed for the first time in who knew how many decades, by the bare light, to her astonished eyes.

The walls of the barber shop in the tunnel had been plastered, once upon a time, but she wouldn't want to touch the slime that glistened on them now. Amelia couldn't tell what color they might have been painted when the underground chambers were constructed seventy-five years ago. Fifty years before she was even born. She knew there wasn't merely this tiny barber shop but also a mercantile store, a church, and a town hall. Amelia felt there was no way she could work up the nerve to explore all of it, not now, not ever.

The decaying wood floor revealed earth beneath her feet.

It had all been a clever idea, a cool commercial and civic venue dreamed up by the citizens of Spale, Kansas, population 956 men, women, and children in the year 1922. It's still as cool as a grave, Amelia thought as she stood shivering in the doorway. Just emptier. Unless she counted herself, which in that context she didn't want to. The decrepit roads and buildings above her head were a ghost town now, with all the former residents fled to cemeteries or to other destinies.

In seventy-five years, everything made by the hand of man in Spale had changed. Not much in nature had, Amelia guessed. She imagined that the heavy heat of Indian summer hung as heavily on this day as it had all those many days ago. The humidity was probably just as high as it had ever been, and the falling leaves were no doubt just as golden as they used to be. They had escaped the heat and mosquitoes of their Kansas summers by coming down here to do their business and say their communal prayers, and they'd used it to escape cyclones and bitter winter days, as well. Thirty-two couples were married in the underground chapel. Countless whiskers were shaved in the barber shop.

Amelia knew all those facts and more.

What she didn't know was what lay in the darkness ahead of her.

At least there was light. She believed she could stand almost anything as long as there was even a glimmer of light. It was total darkness she feared more than anything on earth.

Amelia stepped reluctantly forward, until she could rest her left hand on the filigreed silver arm of the closest barber's chair. There was a badly cracked and distorted mirror behind it. She looked and saw herself. As if she were a distant observer, Amelia took in her own widened brown eyes, the disarray of her short brown, curly hair, the sweat stains on her red T-shirt, and the streaks of dirt on her jeans, and she thought, I look scared. Unnerved by the visual evidence of her fear, Amelia glanced away and down into the further darkness at the other end of the shop. As dim shapes revealed themselves, she realized there was a third barber chair and that someone was seated in it.

"Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed.

Several events seemed to happen at once.

Close enough now to the last chair to see who was in it, Amelia suddenly felt a deep, deep coldness. The man in the chair was dead. At the sight of his wide-eyed face, she was pierced by such unexpected sorrow that it temporarily submerged her shock.

Briefly lifting her gaze to a mirror behind the third chair, she then saw another man's face appear in the doorway behind her, and she- gratefully- recognized that man, too.

"Look!" she cried, whirling to face him. "Oh, look at what's happened-"

But instead of walking into the room to join her, he reached in with one hand. He jerked with fierce quickness on the chain attached to the light fixture. The chain broke off as the light went out.

"No! Oh, please, no!"

Pitched into total darkness, underneath the town of Spale, Amelia couldn't see the door close. But she could hear it slam with a dirt-m.u.f.fled thud, and she heard the awful sound of the long wooden bar being thrown across it.

And she could hear her own screaming.

My G.o.d, what a fool she'd been.