"Rainy Night of Fear"

Start: One Rainy Night (Page 146, Copyright 1991), by Richard Laymon
End: Carnival of Fear (Page 164, Copyright 1993), by J. Robert King
The story between them: by Michael Rigg

She heard him sigh into the phone. "Well, look, I don't know what's going on but people are going nuts outside. It apparently has something to do with the rain. The rain's black out there. We just had three people go crazy and come into the restaurant and kill some people."

"My god," Denise muttered.

"What is it?" Dominick asked. He leaned close to her so he could hear Ed's voice through the phone pressed to Denise's ear.

"I don't know what's going on, but you have to get to higher ground," was the next thing Dominick heard, then Denise turned away, told Ed they would, and hung up.

Though he knew, Dominick asked, "What'd he say?"

Denise winced as if the thought of repeating it would hurt. "Weird. Odd. Something about black rain and people freaking out."

"Did he say what we should do?"

Denise went to the armchair and pulled on her windbreaker. "He said we should get to higher ground."

Dominick glanced out the window. The sky toward the city was black with angry storm clouds and the deepening gray around them was threatening a cloudburst at any moment. "We can't."

"Why not? Let's go." Denise grabbed her purse and turned toward the door, but she was stopped by Dominick's hand on her shoulder.

"Don't."

There was something in his eyes that always captivated Denise. But her one-sided love for Dominick was always something underlying and murky. He never knew how much she longed for him, how much she would do for him. They had been friends for so long that she thought he would never know the truth. Now he was looking at her with those green eyes in a way she had always dreamed he would. There was a glint, something--

"Dominick," she said. It was a whisper. It was a soft, pained whisper that said please let that look be more. After everything that's happened today, please let that look mean you-- you--

"I love you," Dominick said. "We can't leave here."

If not for that look, those three words, she would have told him he was crazy, that they had plenty of time to sprint down to the car and get away before the clouds opened up. But she could only drop her purse on the floor and step into him. Her tears were hot as thunder struck outside.

"It's starting," Dominick said, his lips brushing her scalp as she hugged him, her ear pressed to his chest to absorb his heartbeat. She didn't care about the rain, the crazy people, or Ed. She only cared that he said it.

"You," she sniffed. Without moving, without loosening her grasp, afraid she would lose this moment forever, she dared, "You said you love me."

Dominick held her shoulders with strong hands and pulled her gently away from him. Their eyes met. He said, "Denise, I have loved you since we were kids. I just never could say the words."

That was all she wanted to hear. That's all she ever wanted to hear. Even after she left town to attend college and he took over his father's butcher shop, Denise had always longed to return to his green eyes, his smile, his sense of humor. She dreamed of hearing those words. And now....

The clouds burst and a strange artificial night enclosed the cabin as the sky thickened like the underside of a barnacle-choked battleship cruising overhead to drop its depth charges. The black rain came in sheets covering the ground with oily rivers and pools midnight.

As the darkness enfolded them, Denise and Dominick fell into each other's arms and kissed with a passion that had been building for decades. The thunder crashing outside matched the exploding beats of Denise's heart as she peeled away Dominick's shirt and felt him reach for the snap of her bra. His need and hers were in perfect sync. Their blood roared in their ears as lips and hands found places they'd dreamed to touch but never had.

Their lovemaking matched the fury of the storm outside. Each thrust, each pulse seemed to be generating more and more thunder outside. Lightning snapped with every groan and tingling river of energy through their spines.

Eventually, and without words, they fell into a heavy sleep in each other's arms, coiled on the floor of the cabin amongst loose clothes and jackets. The storm also surrendered into the arms of the night, but the black rain continued in torrents.

* * *

She opened her eyes and rolled onto her back. She couldn't tell what time it was because the windows had been painted black by the evil rain.

Pulling her windbreaker over her breasts like a blanket, she rolled to her other side and reached for her cell phone to check the time. What she saw lit her brain on fire and froze her skin like stone.

Her phone was smashed into a tiny electronic pile of gadget guts. Glistening droplets of black water like tiny domes of obsidian covered its screen and the hardwood floor around it.

"Dom--" but her voice choked off as she turned to see him standing over her.

Dominick had changed. Gleaming metal blades jutted from his body everywhere. From the crown of his shoulders down to his bruised and inward-turning feet, the butcher's naked body prickled with blades-long razors, jag-toothed saws, blocky cleavers, curved knives, glistening shears, stilettos.... Hundreds of them emerged from his skin, as though an army inside him were cutting its way out.

"You Don't Know Cut"

Start: You Don't Know Me (Page 13, Copyright 2001), by David Klass
End: Cut (Page 13, Copyright 2000), by Patricia McCormick
The story between them: by Michael Rigg

"Go ahead and cry," the man who is not my father said. "You make me sick."

So I cried, because making him sick seemed to be the only way I could harm him, and, frankly, because I couldn't stop myself. it hurts to cry like that when you don't want to do it, in front of someone you hate.

Every tear burns. I closed my eyes tight to stave off his image, to burn him away, but I couldn't.

I couldn't move, not move from that spot. My arms pinned to my sides because I couldn't raise them for fear of his touch, my shoulders shook with each sob making my chest bounce.

I could feel his eyes on them. He was relishing hurting a teenage girl and he was relishing the fantasy playing out in his sick little mind. That made me hate him more and more.

"Now go to your room," he shouted when he'd soaked it all in. I didn't wait for my next breath. I turned and bolted up the stairs, slamming the door behind me.

Once safe inside my sanctuary, I pulled my desk chair to the door and tucked its back under the knob. It fit perfectly. A worn crescent of bare wood echoed all the times I had done that before. It was all to bar myself away from Tyrannosaurus Ron, my mother's newest mistake. All to shut him out. I only wished once -- just once -- she would come home early from work and catch him touching himself and panting outside my room, beyond the barred door. Or, better yet, moments before when he made me cry and stared up and down at me licking his wolfish lips.

I had just a few options now. I could turn on my stereo and crank up Evenescence so I couldn't hear him. I could throw myself into bed and continue crying with the pillow pulled tight around my ears. I could get my softball bat out of the closet and time my assault, springing the door open and catching him with my eyes narrow with rage -- his wide with horror -- as I whacked a dent into his skull with aluminum justice long overdue. Or I could do what I always did.

I went to my dresser and flipped open my cell phone. I hit speed dial one and pressed the phone to my ear, my other hand to my free ear, and waited for Ruth to answer.

Ruth was the only friend I had in school. She knew the kinds of horrors I've been through because she's the victim of a split fam too. Only in her case it was her dad who was nice and her step-mom who was a drunk who referred to her regularly as a "Religious Little Bitch."

She understands my hate, but she has something I don't. She has tolerance and forgiveness in her heart, and a way to escape that didn't involve drugs, boys, alcohol, or anything but friendship. Anytime I feel lonely in school Ruth is always there to walk me between classes.

The truth is, I don't mind being escorted by Ruth. I sort of like listening to our sneakers squeak along the hallway and not worrying that Ruth is going to try to make me talk.

NOTE:
Thanks to my stepdaughter Amanda for offering me these two random novels. It's ironic that the story I bridged lent itself to the horrors of a teenage girl and an evil step dad. I am thankful to God that she has nothing like the terrors of this story to fear from me. I love my family more than life and I pray regularly for our continued familial fellowship, peace, and happiness.

"The Last Job"

Start: The Last Boat (Page 13, Copyright 2007), by Michael Hite
End: The Job (Page 13, Copyright 1998), by Douglas Kennedy
The story between them: by Michael Rigg

Their first child, Bernard, my older brother, was born in Brooklyn while my parents were visiting Nanna in 1897. Mama went into hysterics, and a wet nurse had to be brought in. It took a year for her to accept the defeat -- not to mention Bernard. My parents had a second child, Nora, in the winter of 1899. Nora was born on Nantucket (thank the Lord), but she died three weeks later (God rest her soul). My parents would wait until 1900 to conceive me.

Yeah, that's right. I'm 108 years old.

There are a lot of guys my age. Of course most of them are in nursing homes or igloos or frosty castles in Northern Yakutsk, but not me. I'm the oldest guy in New York City.

I work for Loughton and Prime. It's a paper company that specializes in everything from parchment to greeting cards, from packing cardboard to the fine milled recycled stuff the U.S.A. uses to print tax bills on. It's a good job. The hours are steady. I've been employed at L&P for over 83 years.

Yup. Started as a stock boy in the basement of the old place on Richmond and 43rd. That was before the fire and before they moved us to the Keller building a block from Ground Zero. Of course, that got changed in 2001. For the past seven years we've been occupying the basement, third, and 46th floors of the Krane and Gamble building.

Why didn't I retire? Two reasons, really: love and life.

You see I don't look like I'm 83. In fact, most of my co-workers and my old boss think I'm -- well, you're going to think this is down right crazy. They think I'm 42. It's true. And, if anyone were to find the truth of the matter, you'd see for yourself. I'd be posted all over the interwebs and the TV. My aging slowed not long after my family and I left Nantucket and moved inland. I settled in the big city. Most of my family, including Nora and Bernard, have left me long ago. Rest their souls.

But I was talking about love and life.

The life part, as I was getting to, comes from my job. "If you love your jog, you never work a day in your life," or something like that, some wise-ass once said. Well, he was right. I love my job. I love paper.

And paper, it turns out, loves me. Well, my body anyway. You see, I don't eat meat. I don't drink wine. I don't eat fruits or vegetables nor even chocolate, soda, or candy. I eat paper.

Oh, the L&P Big Heads have never discovered the minuscule bits and reams lost here and there. And why would they think the youngster in Accounting was eating it? It's easy enough to do. You just grab a ream for your desk drawer, say to replenish the printer in your office, and nibble off it throughout the day. Tear a triangle off here, a strip there. I wash it down with bottled water -- my only grocery expense.

I can't explain it more than that. It has kept me young, and apparently had me frozen in time for the past 66 years. Well... until I met Lois.

Lois was brought in just a week ago. She works in the cubicle down the hall from my office. She's the administrative assistant (I remember when they were called 'secretaries' and before that, 'sexrataries'). Lois hasn't noticed me, but I've noticed her.

You see, aside from a great love of paper, I also have a fondness for gals who just don't shut up.

Lois is just such a gal.

Today, I decided, would be the day I ask her on a date. We won't be having dinner, mind you, lest I give away my secret, but maybe we'll take in a picture show -- I believe I'll be able to stomach popcorn -- maybe tear a piece of the cardboard popcorn box here and there without her noticing.

Yup. Today was the day. Lois was staying late to help Mr. Sanderwaste locate a new outlet for our western cardboard distribution run.

As I left my office and approached her cubicle, I could hear her going at full throttle.

"I know I know I know I know, but lookit, where do you think you gonna find a better outlet? Nah nah nah nah. They tell you that but then you end up with nothin'. And I'm talkin' nothin' nothin'.

"Monster Underworld"

Start: Monster (Page 13, Copyright 2005), by Frank Peretti
End: Underworld (Page 13, Copyright 1997), by Don DeLillo
The story between them: by Michael Rigg

"Rustic," Sing observed politely, kind to choose even that word.

They drove by a forlorn clapboard tavern with one corner sinking into the ground, an auto garage with dismembered cars and trucks scattered about and a snow cat up on blocks, a combination hardware store and mining museum--noteworthy because this building actually had a new front porch--and a post office not much bigger than a phone booth. they had yet to see a human being.

"Can't wait to see the resort," Sing quipped.

Ike smirked and pulled the rental car, now glazed with beige dust, into a space in front of a bitter looking cardboard motel. The sign said NOvacancy, which made Sing laugh.

"Huh?"

Sing read the sign and offered to go in to call for a bellhop while Ike find a place to park.

Ike killed the engine and pried himself out of the driver's seat. Squinting against the harsh sun despite the dark Georgio Danalli sunglasses he wore, Ike circled to the trunk as Sing got out and strolled up the the sandblown walkway that stretched the motel's length. He said ching-ching in a whisper to represent the jingle of the spurs he wasn't wearing.

"Room number seven?" Sing asked without looking at his cohort. He stood on the wooden walkway staring at the gently curving stem of a brass "7" on a door.

Ike pulled the duffel out of the trunk and slammed it shut. "Nah."

"Right," Sing said, "Too obvious." He scratched at his chin before pretending to play hopscotch on the planks, hopping over rotted ones and slamming both feet down on others.

Ike shoved past him, his weight leaning away from the heavy counter-balance of the duffel. He kicks open door 13 and almost falls over backward at what he sees inside. "Holy crap," is all he can manage, lowering his sunglasses and dropping the duffel at his feet.

Sing stops playing around and turns. From where he stands he can only see his friend and fellow bank robber in profile. But he can see the usually tight-wound Ike standing with slack jaw and loose limbs staring fixedly at something in Room 13. "What is it?"

Ike hefts the duffel and steps across the portal. A loud snap echoes in the desert as the door slams shut behind him.

"No you don't!" Sing hollers as he sprints to door 13. He slams into it and hammers at the panels. It never occurred to him that Ike was stepping into a simple motel room, that he couldn't go anywhere with the money in there.

After one moment more pounding on the door, Sing tries the knob. The door opens revealing what had Ike so spellbound moments before.

There he was, Ike Laters, standing halfway down a gleaming chrome escalator. The gunmetal steps rotated down to something that looked like Grand Central Station. People milled about, some dragging children and others walking arm in arm aslovers. There was a preacher talking to a small group in the corner, a troop of Boyscouts following their master to an information booth. It was a vast expanse far deeper and more realistic than the desert motel they were just visiting.

Sing crossed the threshold in a flash of green light. Glancing over his shoulder he sees the way he had come transforms into a news stand complete with faded grumpy attendant with a pencil tucked above his ear. His flesh crawls with different, new clothes. Sing's jeans and cowboy boots are replaced by black lacquered dress shoes and pressed gray slacks. He, like Ike, is wearing a starched white shirt and gray sportcoat. Their hair is combed and gleams from the overhead lights in the ceiling much higher than the roof of Room 13 would have been.

And when Sing joins his friend at the bottom of the escalator, he notices the duffel bag gone and Ike holding a metal briefcase.

"The money? Where's the money!?" Sing hisses, suddenly mindless of the bizarre and impossible transformation they were plunged into.

Ike raises the case. "Here, I guess. I never let go of the bag."

Ike turns and notices two policemen coming toward them. Impossibly, they resemble the two guards Sing gunned down at First National the night before. How could this be!?

Everything blurs into slow motion.

The two policemen raise their weapons and begin firing. Loud snapping explosions erupt and echo in the underground station sending people scattering, screaming in all directions. Sing cries out as a bullet tears through his lower back and bursts through his front. Eyes gritted shut as tight as his teeth, he hurls himself forward, inadvertently pushing Ike and the case out of the way.

Ike watches as his friend crumples to the concrete ground, blood blooming out from his starched white shirt and angered coat tails. He moves. He leans into the air, heading toward the turnstile leading to TRAIN 17, TRACK 6, NEW YORK CITY.

Then he leaves his feet and is in the air, feeling sleek and unmussed and sort of businesslike, flying in from Kansas City with a briefcase full of bank drafts. His head is tucked, his left leg is clearing the bars. And in one prolonged and aloof and discontinuous instant he sees precisely where he'll land and which way he'll run and even though he knows they will be after him the second he touches ground, even though he'll be in danger for the next several hours--watching left and right-- there is less fear in him now.

"The Descent Revelation"

Start: The Descent (Page 13, Copyright 1999), by Jeff Long
End: Mass Effect: Revelation (Page 13, Copyright 2007), by Drew Karpyshyn
The story between them: by Michael Rigg

"I've been studying this mandala," she said, indicating the painted circle filled with squirming lines. In the darkness, its colors had been brilliant and alive. In their light, the drawing was bland. "I've seen hundreds of mandalas, but I can't make heads or tails out of this one. It looks like chaos, all those lines and squiggles. It does seem to have a center, though." She glanced up at the mummy, then at Ike's notes. "How about you? Getting anywhere?"

He'd drawn the oddest sketch, pinning words and text in cartoon balloons to different positions on the body and linking them with a mess of arrows and lines.

Carrie Grissom leaned in close to the lieutenant and made a face at his sketches.

Ike said, "What?"

"That doesn't look like progress to me. It looks like gibberish."

Ike huffed. "One captain's gibberish is another lieutenant's madness."

She rose and paced, peaking periodically at the red-blue shift glowing in the starship's portal. "Okay, I give. What's it mean?"

Ike stood up from console and stretched. He eyed the mummy the excavator's found on Regalla Prime. It lay gray and mottled, a stark contrast to the gleaming white interior of the UVS Invictus' laboratory.

"I don't know. I can't make sense of it. These words carved into the body," he said point with a clipboard at the elongated torso, "appear to be self-inscribed."

"Self inscribed? What the hell does that mean? Don't you mean self-inflicted?"

Ike shrugged. The captain was more and more difficult to work with when she was anxious. "Tattoos," was all he said.

Grissom approached the mummy and traced one of the words above the mandala with her finger, careful to keep her digit at least a centimeter from the delicate dehydrated flesh. It appeared to be a word, but maybe it really was gibberish. "Look. I know you're a linguist and all, and that's why you were brought on this expedition...."

"Yes?"

A rumble vibrated through the ship and the red-blue glow sank into the gold blackness of space. They were decelerating. Grissom, used to space travel, ignored the change and said, "You said this was a name. How do you know?"

Ike sighed and dropped the clipboard on the stool. He had hoped to end this meeting with as few syllables as possible. Now the captain was dragging him into ancient history. His past. Explanations that were frankly none of her business.

He took a deep breath, glanced away when her ice gray eyes tried to meet his, "It's a long story."

She checked the chronometer glowing on her inner arm. "We have about an hour, lieutenant, spill it. If I'm going to deliver a report about this to the council, and include your gibberish, I'm going to need to know how you know what the hell that is."

"Well, I know it's a name because it's close to my middle name."

Grissom guessed sarcastically, "John?"

"Koluku."

"Ko-what-u?"

"Koluku. It was my great, great, great grandmother's name. She was a Conarian from the outer rim of the Starlian Crest."

Grissom held up a hand as if to dismiss eveything the lieutenant was about to say, and everything he'd done thusfar. In one gesture, she was saying, "You're fired."

She said, "Wait a minute. How is that possible? Conarian and human physiognomy -- biology -- they don't mix."

"They do," Ike insisted plainly. The mummy could rest. This no longer involved the scientific discovery of the age. It involved him.

"How?"

"Actually, my grandfather was tracing our family's genealogy and he--"

"I didn't really want to know," Grissom growled, cutting him off.

They were almost at their destination. The Arcturus space station dominated the entire window now, blocking out everything else. The docking bay loomed before them, a gaping hole in the gleaming hull of the station's exterior.

"Border Collector"

Start: Border Land (Page 13, Copyright 1993), by S.K. Epperson
End: The Bone Collector (Page 13, Copyright 1997), by Jeffery Deaver
The story between them: by Michael Rigg

Vic's mouth curved. "Just like that?"

"Just like that for about the last two months. that girl's so tight you couldn't get a greased sewing needle up her ass with a sledgehammer. She was a blast until I moved in, then it was 'no, let's stay home and save our money for some new furniture.' She sent me running to the store for toilet paper and Tampax, and she expected me to fix things that have been broken since the hope chest opened."

Vic was smiling openly now. "Sounds like marriage."

John cringed at his friend. "Ha. Very funny."

"I'm serious. Why don't you two get married? You sound like me and Jackie ten years ago."

"You can't be serious."

Vic's smile faded quickly but still held a telltale trace of humor. "Do I look like I'm kidding."

"Ehh."

John shrugged off Vic's attempt at breaking his Susie rant. What good are friends if you can't vent to them without them trying to fix every damn thing. He hefted the smaller of his two suitcases, leaving the larger one and the garment bag for his friend to carry, and headed toward the gate.

Vic was a whole person larger than John so it was no chore for him to heft the bag and case. He quickly came into step beside his friend. "I'm serious but I'm not serious."

"Typical Vic."

"No, I'm serious."

"What?"

"I could be your best man."

"You couldn't be my worst woman."

Vic laughed. "I'll forget for the moment that that makes absolutely no sense and just say, 'yes I can'."

"Can we just drop it," John sighed as he hefted the suitcase onto the scanner belt and stepped toward the security arch.

Vic put the garment bag and other case on the belt behind John's and stepped up to the short line across from his friend. The distance and somber grind of the security check-in did nothing to silence him. "I couldn't be more serious, Johnny boy. You and Suze are meant for each other. Shit, a moment ago you wouldn't shut up about her."

"I was complaining then, Vic."

As the two men passed through their respective security medal-detecting archways they maintained silence. It was John who broke it as they collected their bags. "What if I did marry her, huh? What if I did?"

Shrug. "So? What if you did?"

John poked Vic's rock face of a chest, "You and me would be over. No more frienship. No more poker. No more, 'hey, buddy, wanna come over for some beer and piss off the balcony,' you get that?"

"I get it," Vic smiled back without hesitation, "And you need it."

"Don't say get laid."

"I was gonna say get married, but since you mention it--"

"No! Now knock it off. She's right up here somewhere." John consulted the wrinkled ticket from his pocket. "United flight 121."

Both men stood outside the boarding area and scanned the croud. Vic saw her first. "There she is. Hi, Suze!"

Susan Sutton waved back weakly. She looked beat.

"I ain't gonna butt in. You go to her and keep her company."

John's smile matched Susan's but only momentarily. "Good idea. She looks completely drained."

"Must've been one helluva conference," Vic laughed. He helped John shoulder the garment bag and the other suitcase, then waved his friend off. "Remember what I said," then he hummed the wedding march.

"Shut up and go," John laughed. Here they were parting and he finally let himself relax a bit.

Susan greeted John with a limp hug, her laptop bag crunched between them and her too weak to move it. "Hi, babe. How was the meeting with the Realtor? Did you get the storefront?"

"How was the conference?" John countered. But he didn't wait for Susan's tired reply.

She stood in the line of passengers, her lean body listing against the weight of her laptop computer. John rattled on about interest rates and new ways of restructuring the deal but all she could think was: Friday night, 10:30. I wanna pull on my sweats and hit the hay.

"The Curious Earrings"

Start: The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time (Page 13, Copyright 2003), by Mark Haddon
End: Snakes and Earrings (Page 13, Copyright 2005), by Hitomi Kanehara

They asked me if I had any family. I said I did. they asked me who my family was. I said it was Father, but Mother was dead. And I said it was also Uncle Terry, but he was in Sunderland and he was Father's brother, and it was my grandparents, too, but three of them were dead and Grandma Burton was in a home because she had a senile dementia and thought that I was someone on television.

Then they asked me again, and I think again. I said it all over again, but I wasn't sure if they got the message.

One of the policeman, the curry-smelling bloke, flipped through his book again, scratching here and there with a stubby pencil. This was my first run-in with the law of another country and I didn't know how they were going to handle this. For all I knew they would take me to a sandy back alley and cut my hands off.

That's what they did to thieves here, wasn't it?

He stopped flipping the book, rolled his eyes with that I'm so annoyed and I want to annoy you with my annoyance expression, and tried his best broken English, "I'm again saying to you what is it you think."

I asked him if that was a question and he reached for his handcuffs, which in his country were still cast in metal. No AIDS-proof disposable plastic draw strings here.

"You've got to be kidding, choko," I spat not really intending to let the slur dribble out, but I don't think he could've translated it anyway.

I turned and placed my hands behind my back, trying to be as cooperative as possible. How bad could it be, it was only banana-shaped earrings? And was suddenly pushed with the force of a drunken Rugby linesman caught in a scrum with a bunch of chaps he'd caught in bed with the wife.

Tumbling forward, I slammed against the old Ford that passed for a police car here, and tried my best, "Now see here!" when another desert-colored vehicle pulled up.

More police. Just what I needed.

As I leaned awkwardly against the vehicle, I watched as a taller officer dressed in the same dust-colored jungle wear as my personal batsman here emerge from his car and approach. His eyes, like my friend's, were obscured behind a pair of 80's Ray-Bans. They exchanged jibberish and this new bloke turned his attention to me.

"English, huh?" he asked.

I straightened up, but only slightly. I knew this was going to be another round of Excuse me, Mister, do-you-hear-what-I'm-saying?

I was surprised, however, when this particular bobby opened his mouth with something like an American southern drawl.

He jabbed a thumb toward his counterpart. "I'd just love to stab his neck with a needle," he said, looking as if he would burst out laughing any second.

"Sounds like you're more savage than a sadist," I said.

"You're right there."

I didn't expect him to know the English word, so I was a little taken by surprise.

"Lisey's Koko"

Start: Lisey's Story (Page 13, Copyright 2006), by Stephen King
End: Koko (Page 13, Copyright 1988), by Peter Straub

She looked over at the other periodicals, was suddenly overwhelmed by the riches she might find in them, and realized Amanda had hurt her after all, had gored her a wound that might bleed a long time. Was he the only one who had known about the dark place?

Of course there was no accounting for her odd bouts of attraction.

That's what she called them, wasn't it, her odd bouts of attraction?

Lisey felt deep down inside that this particular odd bout was probably going to doom her sister. Amanda could only stare across the park at the groups of men in uniform, the children running uncontrolled around veterans in wheelchairs. Poole was nowhere to be found.

Turning from the newsstand, Lisey said, "Mandy?"

"Hmm." Her sister, always lost. Always lost when the odd bouts bit, Amanda could barely tear her eyes away.

Lisey touched her shoulder. "Mandy, I'm talking to you."

Finally meeting her eyes, but just a glance, Amanda said, "Hmm? I-I'm looking for him?"

"You know, you have to stop this," and Lisey bit her lip. It was a little louder than she had intended and a wrinkled man in a smooth pressed beribboned uniform scowled at them.

Amanda, finally breaking the trance, turned and grabbed her older sister by the forearm and pulled her into the shade of an oak as gnarled and wrinkled as the old soldier. "You have to stop this," she whispered harshly.

"I'm not going to this time, Mand," Lisey pulled her arm away and crossed them defiantly, "and you know why."

"'Fraid I don't, Liz."

"You know I hate that."

"You know I hate that."

Changing tack and bringing the conversation up to a high school level, Lisey tried, "How long have you known Poole?"

"What do you mean?"

Lisey's head shook involuntarily as though she were taken aback by the counter-question. Which she was. The expected answer would have been the, What do you mean, what do I mean? variety if she were going to take the bait. She wasn't.

"Do you even know his first name?" Lisey asked.

***

Corporal Poole moved closer to another cluster of Marines around the Vietnam Memorial. Their olive drabs and drab sport coats contrasted starkly with the deep monolithic black memory spanning this side of the park.

He wasn't thinking about the half-his-age girl he met the previous night in the hotel bar. What was her name? Agatha? Andie? Mary? He couldn't remember and didn't care. He was sure he had seen Sergeant Bowman last night in the lobby and again just moments ago near the fountain.

He just couldn't be sure if it was really him or not.

"Airborne!" someone shouted.

"Airborne all the way!" someone else shouted back.

Poole worked his way closer to the Memorial through the mostly stationary crowd. The sergeant who looked like his old sergeant from Fort Sill was now slipping the tiny red poppies into the crack between the last two tall panels.

"Odd Prey"

Start: Prey (Page 13, Copyright 2002), by Michael Crichton
End: Odd Thomas (Page 13, Copyright 2003), by Dean Koontz

He shuffled through his papers, looking down at them, not at me. he sighed. "Jack Forman. Troublemaker. Not cooperative. Belligerent. Hotheaded. Not a team player." He hesitated, then said, "And supposedly you were involved in some kind of dealings. They won't say what, but some kind of shady dealings. You were on the take."

"I was on the take?" I said.

"That's right," was the only answer given without meeting my eyes. I had this guy's number from the start, and he thought he had mine.

"How, exactly, was I on the take?"

Burt finished loading the papers into the back of his station wagon, flicked his faded Cubs cap at me, and said, "Get in, Jack."

I rounded the back of the wagon and pulled open the door as Burt's massive girth tested the shocks. I was so irritated, I just wanted to punch the guy. But he was driving.

And that was my problem.

As we pulled out of the lot and navigated toward our grid, I turned to Burt the driver and said, "It's not fair that you do this crap to me."

Still not meeting my eyes, which I thought was just fine with me since he was driving, he said, "Jack, I'm not going to entrust such an important position to someone with such a shady past."

"How was I shady!?"

"Don't shout at me, Jackie boy, or I'm bound to just drop you off before we reach block one." Burt had to suck in his gut to turn the wheel making the right turn onto Boneventura Avenue.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"Nup," was all I got. Well, that and a belch.

"Why can't I drive?"

"Shady."

"Bull."

Burt huffed, "Maybe after this route I'll show you the paperwork."

I wanted so badly to drive. I had been employed at this paper for over ten years and for every day -- even holidays -- I had to sit next to fat, smelly Burt and listen to his crap.

Burt was a big one for distributing what he called wisdom.

This morning, he distributed only newspapers, tossing them with a snap of the wrist, as though they were boomerangs. Each folded and bagged copy of the Tuesday edition of the Maravilla County Times spun through the air and landed with a soft thwop on a driveway or a front walk, precisely where the subscriber preferred to have it.