Germ

Stephen led the way. At the porch steps, he avoided the middle one, pointing at it for Allen's benefit. When they were both inside, he said, "Want anything?"

"A shower."

"Bathroom's over there. Want something to drink, eat?"

"Water's fine." He hitched his head toward the bathroom. "Mind?"

"Mi casa, su casa." Stephen was weary, but his broad smile conveyed the sense of hospitality he genuinely felt.

"Muchas gracias." Allen sauntered into the bathroom, looking like a child in his father's clothes. "Towel?"

"Cupboard on the right."

Allen closed the door slowly, looking beat in every sense of the word.

Stephen went into the kitchen area. He filled two plastic cups with ice and water and placed them on the coffee table in front of the couch. "Water's here when you want it!" he yelled at the bathroom door before plopping onto the couch. He looked at the wall clock. After one. He always rose by five—an internal clock sort of thing—so he wasn't going to be worth much tomorrow.

He stared at the bathroom door. Allen was in deep trouble this time, no doubt about it. He wondered if he could or even should help him out with whatever it was. Sometimes the best thing you could do was let people sort out their own problems. He supposed it depended on how nasty the trouble could get.

A square of light from an approaching car splashed through the front window and panned across the wall of books. It was a pattern he knew well: as the car made the last turn in the drive before entering the parking lot, the light would sweep across the books, usually stopping between Matthew Henry's New Testament Commentary and Clear and Present Danger. Then it would shoot up to the ceiling as the car entered the parking lot, sliding to about center-room before creeping toward the door as the car approached the porch.

This time, however, the light vanished after hitting Dracula. Stephen sat upright on the couch. The car had stopped before entering the parking lot. That, mixed with the hour and the night's odd events, set off all kinds of alarms in his head. He rose and walked carefully to the window. The car was moving slowly in shadows, headlamps off, closing the thirty-foot gap to the clearing. When its bumper settled over the edge of the parking lot's gravel, it stopped.

And there it sat, in the gray haze of the night. The occupants would know someone was home. They'd see the Vega parked between the buildings, lights in the cabin. Was this the bogeyman Allen was running from?

"Allen?" he said softly. No answer. He repeated it, louder. He could hear the shower running through the bathroom door. It stopped. "Allen?"

"What?"

"Come here!"

The headlamps flicked on. The car started rolling again. Into the clearing. Moonlight peeled back the shadows like a CEO whipping off the covering of the company's newest model.

A Corvette—new enough to have headlamps that didn't retract into the front end.

It rolled slowly into the parking lot, then angled toward the cabin. The brake lights came on, making the trees behind it glow red. It stopped. He could see the ovals of faces inside, swiveling as the occupants surveyed the area. Then the car continued its slow progress toward the cabin.

Stephen pulled his face away from the window and leaned his head against the wall. Could be cops, bad guys, or simply people who'd gotten lost on their way back from the Drestin Dinner Theater. More than a few folks had stopped by for directions over the years.

The Vette stopped out front. He heard car doors open and slam. He moved to the door. Should he open it or ignore the knocks that would start in about five seconds? If the strangers needed help, he'd want to help them. If they meant harm, wouldn't they find a way in anyway?

He opened the door, flipping on the bright porch light as he did. Two men looked up at him, startled. Stephen grinned at them. One of the men stood at an angle in front of the car. He had short red hair and a zillion freckles. Something in the man's eyes caused Stephen to pause. He looked at the other man, older than Freckles, maybe forty. He sported a bushy mustache and black, black eyes.

Stephen heard the bathroom door open behind him.

"Did you say—?" Allen started.

Stephen looked over his shoulder at his brother. In the bathroom door, a towel around his waist, Allen was hunching over to gaze past Stephen. His mouth dropped, and his eyes grew wide.

"Stephen! No!" he yelled. "Shut the door! Don't—"

Stephen turned back to the men. Freckles was swinging a shotgun from around his side. He raised it, leveling it at Allen. One eye closed as he took aim.

The gun roared.

thirty

The car barreled down Brainerd Road, swerving

slightly through pools of halogen streetlights and traffic signals— green, yellow, red.