"You didn't lose your soul when you got hit? I mean, it didn't leak out or anything?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Good." She nodded to herself. Then, "Do you think we maybe should have stopped and gotten a paper?"

"What for?"

"To see if there's anything about, whatever you did?"

"There wasn't enough time to put it in this morning's paper. I'll bet it's been on the radio and TV by now, though. It'll come out in the paper tomorrow, I'm sure, but it doesn't matter. We'll be in Indiana or Ohio or somewhere by then."

"On our way to Maine?"

"Or Maryland, or wherever. Slow down."

She eased off the pedal and touched the brakes. Dempster saw the street he was looking for. "Make a left here."

The road was windy, curved this way and that like riding on the back of a riled snake. The houses were small and huddled together. One house on the left had Christmas lights ona"presumably they were on year-rounda"and several of the traffic signs flanking the street were handmade.

"Look for a street to the right called Sunny Day," he told her. "We take that for about five or so miles and we're there."

The small village was so quiet, so empty and lifeless at this hour. If not for the occasional porch light and the sporadic dog in the yard, it might as well have been a nicely kept ghost town. The road curved right, and as it did, Sunny Day appeared on the right. Sandra hit the brakes and cut the wheel as tight as she could. They turned onto a narrow road that quickly transformed from blacktop to dirt. The road climbed up, then down, with sharp curves and low-hanging branches. It was minimal road at best for a while, dark and downtrodden, contrasting its name with superb finesse. It was a bumpy road, too. Sandra drove it at about fifteen miles an hour, creating giant clouds of dust behind them.

Then, abruptly, the road opened up and gave way to blacktop again. It widened, straightened. A road dead-ended into this one on the right, and Sandra brought the car up to thirty-five.

"Interesting road," Dempster said.

"Very. Did you notice that there were a couple of small houses when we first turned onto the road and there hasn't been anything since until now?"

True enough, houses were sprouting up here and there again, each one on what looked like several acres of land. They were nice houses too, if not a little basic in their New Mexican style architecture.

"We're supposed to just drive on this road until it ends," Dempster said.

"Then what?"

"We probably spend about an hour or so chatting it up and working everything out, then we take off."

"Sounds like a blast."

"Doesn't sound like anything to me."

After another five minutes the houses disappeared again. The road narrowed and went back to dirt, though it wasn't as ominous and gloomy as it had been in the beginning. Tiny private roads without names ran off both sides from time to time, stretching so far away that neither Dempster nor Sandra could see the homes they connected to. Then the road made a sharp right around a high hill, then a left around another, and when they straightened out they saw a handmade sign stating that they were entering private property and to turn back. Then everything opened up to a clearing, a very large clearing and in the center was a nice house, surrounded by an adobe wall. It was not dissimilar to the houses just a mile or so back behind them. They entered the clearing and Sandra brought the car to a crawl and steered towards the house. Out front there were two cars, an obviously rented Mercedes-Benz, and a newer model Ford truck.

"Sure likes living out in the middle of nowhere, huh?"

"Park the car."

Sandra brought the Nissan to the left of the Mercedes, pulled up on the handbrake, then switched off the engine.

Dempster reached for the door handle then stopped and turned to her. "I dunno if it's better that you come in, or if you wait here."

She didn't reply, just looked at him, her eyes gleaming. Her face was so beautiful, like the dawn around them. Nature had pieced this woman into such a gentle beauty. The sight of her made his heart ache.

Then tears stood in her eyes and she leaned forward and kissed him.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, and feigned a smile.

It was very difficult to get out of the car.

"Go on," she said. Her smile became more genuine. "Go on and get it over with."

He kissed her. "I love you," he said, and as he said it he was getting out of the car, and then he was closing the door, and then he was standing there, looking at the house. He opened the back door and took out the suitcase, then closed the door and looked back at the house again. Everything was motionless. Everything was quiet. The house seemed very far away, even as he moved up the stone steps, opened the hand-carved gate and entered the courtyard. His feet were a mile down as he crossed the flagstone path. The sound the doorbell made when he rang it was a faint, distant blur to his ears. He turned around and looked out at the light forest of rolling hills and saw that the sun was still not quite ready to come up. It's very beautiful, he said to himself. Then he turned back to the door and knocked. He rang the doorbell again.

And waited.

No one answered the door. They knew he was coming; yet no one answered the door.

He reached down and turned the handle. There was a click, the door gave, and he pushed it open. He stepped inside. It was dark. All the lights were off. It was even quieter inside than it had been outside. The ceilings were high, with vigas stretched across them. The room was quite large, with pseudo-rustic oddball furniture strategically placed about here and there, as though compensating with aesthetics for the fact that comfort couldn't be found. Everything in the place wore a shroud of shadow.

He called out and no one answered. He looked across the living room, where the house opened up to a custom kitchen with a stove and a nook on its right, and to the left what looked like another large room. Directly in front of him as he crossed the living room was a large window over the sink, looking out to the forest. It really is very beautiful, he said to himself; and as he drew closer he saw a black car out there. A dark, menacing car and it was empty and all of a sudden he tensed.

Get out of here, he said to himself. Get out of here right now. Get out of this house.

To his left he heard a single footstep. When he looked he saw a man standing in the hallway on the other side of the room. In the room, by a window looking out over the rolling hills, was a gruesome pile of bleeding bodies. As the man raised his gun the front door opened and Sandra stepped in saying there was another car parked out back and she got a really bad feeling about it and what was it all about.

When the door closed Dempster dropped down behind the kitchen counter and the man fired his gun and a ceramic pot exploded.

Sandra screamed and then there were more gunshots.

Dempster reached under his jacket and withdrew his .45, rounded the counter and fired into the hallway. He watched the man retreat into a room on the right. At the same time Sandra was racing towards him. "Get out of here," he told her. "What the fuck are you doing?" But she was now too close to him, and just as she got behind the counter the man entered the hallway again, this time with a pistol in each hand.

Dempster shoved Sandra down to the floor and told her to stay there just as double gunfire shot up the kitchen wall behind them and the counter in front of them. When it ceased, Dempster drew a breath, then swung around the counter and squeezed off three rounds.

He heard an "Ack!" and then a clomp, like something hitting the floor. He chanced a look and saw the man was still there, leaning against the wall, his left arm crippled, one gun at his feet. Dempster fired again, and so did the man, and in the hallway behind the man, Dempster saw another man race out of a room on the left and run deeper into the hall, ducking to the right where the hall made an L.

Kolata and Campion. They'd figured it out. He didn't know how but they'd figured it out. They'd fucking figured it out.

Dempster pulled the trigger twice more and the second time he got a click. He quickly spun back behind the counter. The kettle on the stove across the way jumped into the air and clattered to the floor with a hole in it. He leaned against the cabinets, exchanged gun clips, and looked at Sandra. She was frowning, blinking at him. Then her frown deepened and her eyes asked questions.

Not right now, he thought. I'll tell you all about it later. He spun back and fired three rapid shots. The man's gun flew flippantly from his hand like he didn't care anymore, and his body squirmed and writhed, and then dropped to the floor, where it twitched a couple of times before it was still.

Everything was dead quiet again. Dempster slowly took a step into the room, gun up and ready. A fast glance at the bodies by the window showed him Freddy Skeele and Charlie Powers under dawn's early light. He knew the other man was Frazier. He didn't know which of the two he had just killed.

Suddenly he was very cold. And tired. All of a sudden he was so tired he didn't know how he was able to keep his eyes open. He shivered. The chill hacked away at him, bit into him with vicious teeth.

Shrug it off, he told himself, and took another step into the room.

When he did there were abrupt footsteps and the second man emerged in the hallway, double-gunned like the first. Dempster jumped to the right and landed right next to the bodies as gunfire crack-crack-cracked from the darkness of the hallway like loud popping corn. Then he heard a snicker and the footsteps retreated.

"Stay down," Dempster shouted to Sandra, and leapt over the first man's corpse, into the hall. He looked in the door on the right. It was a den. The door on the left was a guestroom. There was also a bathroom on the left, right at the corner, in line with the turn of the hallway, which he peeked around.

No sign of the man, just more doorways. He crept around the corner, and step by cautious step made his way down the hall. Past the first door, past the second door, and at the third door the second door swung open, and Dempster whirled around just in time to knock both guns out of the way.

Two holes punched into the lower part of the wall.

With his gun, Dempster backhanded the man, catching him on his jaw, while at the same time the man's right gun aimed up at Dempster's belly. He brought his gun hand down quick again, and the pistol snapped out of the man's hand and bounced practically to the bathroom, leaving him with one.

Then the man backhanded Dempster and caught him on the cheek, sending him back against the wall. On impact Dempster kicked out, hit the man's other gun but only jostled his arm around. He brought both hands down and seized the man's wrist, his own gun dropping out of his hand. He twisted the wrist this way and that, then the man's right fist hammered him between the eyes. Everything brightened like a camera flash, then darkened with shades of death. But still he held the wrist, and he twisted it harder and harder until the man let out a wail and something inside the wrist popped. The second his fingers let go of the gun Dempster slid it away.

Then he took a right to the face and his head snapped back and blood pooled up in his mouth. Another right smashed against his cheekbone. Still holding the wrist, Dempster twisted it as hard as he could. The man let out a scream and Dempster let go and reached for his gun. Before he got it another blow cracked against his left temple, sending him against the wall. They were both crouched and the man threw another right, then another, hitting him on the cheek, then on the jaw.

You deserve this, you know, a voice inside his head told him as another shot caught him in the eye. You deserve every bit of this. Every fucking bit.

His head was filled with pain. All he could see for a time was black streaked with crimson. Then he saw a sixteen-year-old girl on her knees by a pond and there was blood running down her neck and she was crying. Then everything went fiery red and he swung his arm out blind.

It connected. His fist hit something soft and protruding, and when he opened his eyes his hand was covered in blood and the man's nose was broken.

He reached for his gun, picked it up but before he had a good hold it was smacked away and it flew all the way down the hall and into the bathroom, where it cracked against the toilet then clacked to the tile floor. The man leaped at him and crashed his head into Dempster's jaw. Dempster felt a tooth loosen. He fell back against the wall but forced himself to shrug it off and reached for the man's throat. As he did the man leaped at him again, and this time Dempster didn't hit the wall. He fell through the doorway and landed on his back, the man on top of him.

He felt another right bash him, then another. Dempster spread his fingers out and jabbed up, first hitting the man's broken nose, the second time hitting him square in the eye. The man screamed and Dempster rolled him over. For the first time, through a painful haze, he saw where he was. He was in another guestroom. A guestroom with a desk. Sitting on the desk were a computer, a packaged ream of paper, a couple of pens, and a letter holder with a few envelopes stuffed into it and a letter opener. He stepped to the desk and went for the letter opener but was caught around the ankle and his ankle was yanked. His hand hit the letter holder and everything in it went flying off the desk.

His left side hit hard against the desk's corner and he let out a yelp as the man held onto his pants leg and scrambled towards him.

Dempster reached for a pen. When he got one his chaotic movements sent the others rolling of the desk. He brought it up above his head and swung it down, planting it deep into the man's back, right inside of his left shoulder blade. The man didn't yell. He let go of his pants leg but kept coming, and got up to one knee. Dempster reached behind him, at a loss, and grabbed the computer keyboard. He smashed it over the man's head. Then hit him again and the keyboard snapped and fell to the side, cord ripping out. The man swayed but stayed up. He looked at Dempster, eyes rolling, and smiled.

"You must be Dempster," he said, his voice clogged and watery.

Dempster grabbed the ream of paper and swung it like a baseball bat. It caught the man on the left and he went down onto his right side. When he tried to get up Dempster hit him again, then again and again and again as the packaging tore open and blood began spattering. He kept hitting him, over and over, each time in the head as hard as he could, until sheets of loose-leaf paper started sailing into the air and drifting down like giant confetti.

When the man was no longer moving Dempster let the remaining paper drop from his hands. He looked at the man's bloody skull, then dropped to the floor, where he sat for a moment before collapsing onto his back.

He stared upward. There was a ceiling fan above him. It wasn't spinning but he watched it turn, clockwise then counterclockwise. Clockwise then counterclockwise, like being drunk and never knowing which way to let things twirl. Pain consumed him like a blanket of fire and, for a while, he just stayed where he was.

I'm done, he said to himself. Finished. Finito. Terminado. Fini. It's just not worth it. I was sincere, Sandra. I was sincere when I said I was through. Wow, man, what a rumble. What a fucking headache. What a fucking nightmare. Jesus Christ, there's gotta be a better way to make a living. There's gotta be a thousand better ways. There's gotta be a million better ways to make a living and you're gonna find one now, right? That's right. Anything's better than this, my friend. Working in a grocery store sounds pretty damned sweet, doesn't it? Or even working as a biological test subject. Heh, yeah, I'd rather grow mutant ears on my back than keep doing this. Being a freak of nature would be better than being a thief any day of the week.

He blinked several times. He told the room to stop spinning, or to at least only spin one way. Shrug it off, he told himself, and drew a deep breath, and when he let it out he coughed.

It hurts when you do that. It hurts when you cough.

He convinced the ceiling fan to only spin clockwise.

There, you've made some headway. Now sit up.

He tried, made it halfway up then fell. He tried again, and this time succeeded.

He brought his hands to his face and when he did all the pain rushed into his head. Burning pain, like a million matchsticks flaring in it at once.

Shrug it off, shrug it off, shrug it off. Now use the desk and get yourself to your feet. Remember when you were a baby and you needed help getting up? It's the exact same thing, just use the desk, take hold of it and pull yourself up.

He reached out, took hold of the desk, then stayed there.

What are you waiting for, Chief?

He flicked the loose tooth with his tongue. He pulled, felt pain everywhere and wanted to scream but didn't. Eventually, he made it to his feet. His legs were like hot melting rubber. They wobbled like taffy. He clenched his teeth and his entire body went crazy with spasms. He almost lost his balance but held onto the desk, and a moment later he felt collected. Collected enough to let go. He stumbled but stayed up. He looked at the man, head bludgeoned by a ream of paper.

There's one manuscript that won't make it, he said, and slowly crossed the room and stepped back into the hall.

He turned right, staggered into the bathroom and picked up his gun. Then he lifted the toilet seat, dropped to his knees and threw up. It was all blood and bilea"he hadn't eaten anything in ages.

It hurts when you do that. It hurts when you throw up.

Flushing the toilet he got up and stepped out of the bathroom. He left the other man's guns where they were and walked down the hall. He stepped over the body he'd shot up earlier and put his gun away.

"It's done," he said, then drew a deep breath. "It's all over."

He looked at Freddy and Charlie and Frazier. Freddy's dead eyes were staring out the window to the sun that was just peeking its head out over the mountains. He turned to the kitchen. The counter was riddled with bullet holes, as was the stove and the wall across the way.

"Sandra?" he said. "You can come out now, it's all right."

But Sandra didn't answer.

Dempster felt a light-headed wave and almost fell down. He caught himself, then hobbled across the room and reached the kitchen counter. When he rounded it he saw Sandra sprawled on her back. There was a hole in her head with a tiny stream of blood, and her eyes stared up but looked at nothing.

He knelt beside her and said her name but she didn't respond. She didn't move, just kept on staring up with lifeless eyes.

His hands clenched into fists. His head shook, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

She'd gotten up. Everything had suddenly been quiet and so she had gotten up and looked. The dumb bitch had gotten up and looked and now the girl with the porcelain-like face was dead. The girl who locked her keys in her car and thanked him in French when he'd opened it was dead. The girl who had no interest in being a genius and only wanted love and romance was dead. The girl interested in life and death, the girl who wanted to watch the sun rise in the morning and set at night, the girl who wanted to make love under the stars with someone she loved and didn't care if she ever did anything brilliant. She was dead. The lady who held him the other night when he was so scared was dead. The woman who said she loved him was dead.

He stayed there, kneeling beside her for a while. Then he moved his fingers over her eyes and closed them, and kissed her once on the forehead.

He turned to leave. Then he stopped and turned back. He kneeled down and took her into his arms, and cried for a long, long time. He kissed her clammy cheek, then set her back down gently, stepped over her, crouched, and opened the suitcase. He didn't care about most of it, just the cash. He took it all, then left the house and went out to the Nissan. The key was still in the ignition. He got behind the wheel, turned the key, and brought the car to life, wondering in some distant area of his mind if it might resurrect her.

He put the car into reverse, made a tight half circle, then put it in drive and slowly drove out of the clearing and got onto the road.

The sun was up now. It was bright and he was driving right into it and it hurt his eyes.

Eventually he got back to the interstate and went south until he hit I-40. He took it east.

After a short while he reached into the back, into his bag, and found the yellow sheet of paper that at one time had been folded twice. He set it on the seat, where Sandra was supposed to be. He switched on the radio, played with the channels for a moment then saw there was a tape sitting halfway in the deck. He pushed it in.

He remembered the song from when he was waiting for Mike at Essentials and checking out the music on the listening stations. It was the Hollis Wake.

Where's the lamp unto my feet?

Where's the hope within my prayer?

All the times that I called out, I wonder: were you really there?