WINTER-STALK

By Ardath Mayhar

 

     It was cold; a norther whipped through the pine trees, whistling viciously.  It drummed the branches of the big oaks together, making groans and clatters as they thrashed in the wind.  Not even a possum was out in the winter night.

     Larry was glad that no car passed along the narrow, rutted road.  Though he stayed well clear of its lightly graveled red mud and the water-filled ditch, he kept his ears tuned for any distant mutter of an engine.  If one should go past, he would dive into the bare-twigged bushes through which he was trudging.  The fence between him and the road, grown up with vines, now bare of leaves, would hide him.  You couldn't see much off to the side with headlights, anyway.

     In one hand he carried a bundle wrapped in rags, and in the other he held a can that gurgled liquidly with every step he took.  His gut gurgled, too, but that was with the first installment of the whiskey his new-found employer had given him.

     "To keep you warm," Jud Tolliver had told him,  "while you do this little job for me.  When it's done you'll get the rest."

     Larry shivered, thinking of his snug cranny behind the hardware store, where he could burrow up in empty cardboard boxes and drink himself blind.  This messing around in the dark woods in the middle of the night was for the birds, but if it got him enough alcohol for a real toot, it would, maybe, be worth it.

     His skinny legs labored through the bushes, moving nearer to his goal.  Why somebody like Terence Starke would want to live way out here where there wasn't any action at all was something that puzzled him.  But there you were.

     There were men who stood still for eight-hour days at work, wives who demanded a roof and food and clothes, children who drained them dry.  He'd never been able to understand them, either.

     That life was not for Larry Dodd.  A corner out of the wind, enough liquor to stave off the screaming meemies, and a bite now and then when his vision began to blur and his knees to waver from hunger was all he required for a full and happy life.  In summer he lived beneath one of the bridges that spanned the pair of major creeks running through Chandler, Texas, and he had a good breeze and running water right at his feet.  Who could want anything more?

     Ahead there was motion in the brush;  he froze in place, staring into the darkness.  There came another rustle and Larry's heart trip-hammered.  Could whatever lurked there hear it?

     Then he relaxed, grinning painfully.  A mangy mutt crept out of the bushes, wagging its tail against the brittle scrub.

     "Go 'way!" Larry whispered.  "Go 'way!  I don't need a damn dog to tell everybody I'm coming along here."

     He put down the can and broke off a switch from the bush beside him.  Brandishing it ferociously, he approached the dog.  It had evidently met rejection before, for it gave a faint yelp and darted away into the dark wall of woods west of the road.

     Muttering softly to himself, Larry turned to search through the untidy growth for his can.  He found it by knocking it over, and for a moment he was terrified that he might have left the cap loose, for he smelled paint thinner strongly.  But only a drop had escaped, and once more he took up his burden and moved ahead.

     There was a thick arm of forest across his path, now, where the road looped off to the east before returning to its main direction.  The Starke house should be beyond there, and for a moment he considered whether he should keep to the clearer country along the road or risk getting turned around amid the trees.

     He kept his thoughts turned away from the potential results of his night's work.  That was none of his concern. He was doing a job, and Jud Tolliver would pay off in good whiskey and a bit of cash; anything further that came of this was somebody else's lookout.

     Tolliver had made that plain.  "You just do what I tell you, Larry, and then go back to doing your usual thing.  The sheriff isn't going to look close at anything that happens out here, where he's got political enemies enough to stuff an elephant.  Ernest knows what we're doing, man!  We've got his okay on it!"

     That was good enough for Larry Dodd.  He and Tolliver both knew that after a week of whiskey dreams he wouldn't remember what he'd done, anyway.

     Now he was among the first of the big hickory trees that formed the bulk of the wood.  There was the sharp tang of fallen leaves, the rustle of them beneath his flapping sneakers.   From time to time he stepped on a hickory nut, and it hurt like hell.

     He tried to walk more quietly, though he knew that nobody would be roaming the woods at one o'clock on a cold December night.  Nobody but a wino like him, he thought, desperate for a drink.

     He bumped into a tangle of huckleberry bushes -- he recognized the scratchy twigs -- and backed out again.  He had to keep his bearings, or he'd wander around in this quarter-mile of woods till daylight.

     He looked straight up and found a patch of stars staring through a rift in the cloud cover and the bare branches overhead.  Long ago, in the innocent past when he was a boy, he had known the sky like the palm of his hand.  Now he recognized a familiar pattern and knew that he could keep his bearings, if he glanced up from time to time.

     When he emerged from the last straggle of sweetgums at the edge of the wood, he could see the yard light in Starke's front yard glimmering through the bare orchard trees in the patch of ground he had to negotiate next.  That helped, and by the time he gained the paling fence of the back yard he was full of confidence.

     There he paused for quite a long while.  Starke had dogs, he knew.  Everybody out in the country did, to keep the coyotes out of their chicken pens and skunks away from their yards.  The little pests sometimes denned up under houses, beside nice warm chimneys, and stunk the family out in the middle of the night when they had a family squabble.

     There'd be dogs, all right.  He listened, hearing only the thin scream of wind through bare twigs.  Then he saw the doghouse, snug up against the back porch of the big house.  A German shepherd lolled inside, sound asleep, just visible by the faint glow of the yard light.  The damn dog had a better place than Larry did, and that made him angry.

     Wasn't justice, giving a dog a tight, dry house with plenty of hay to keep him warm and letting a man sleep in a cardboard box!  He felt warmth rising through him, and it was welcome.  His hands had almost gone numb, and this was no job for a fumble-finger.

     He slipped around to the other side of the house, with its dark bulk between him and the dog, before he lay flat and slithered beneath the barbed wire fence.  Tolliver had said the family slept at the back of the house, and he was to set his fire under the front porch.

     "Don't particularly want to burn up his family.  We just want to scare hell out of him so he'll keep his mouth shut about this road project he's fightin'," the big man had said.

     But now Larry didn't care.  Anybody that would give his dog more attention than he did somebody human needed to burn.

     He crept across the frozen grass, carrying the can carefully so its gurgle wouldn't carry around to the ears of the watchdog.  To his relief, the house was set high, as old houses tended to be out here in the river bottom country where floods sometimes came up six feet or more.  He could almost walk under the house without bending his neck.

     There was some useful debris under there, too.  Heavy wooden boxes had been stored against some future need, set up on sheets of tin against termites.  He even found some sheets of newspaper, weathered and obviously blown there by the wind.  Lengths of lumber too short to use for building but long enough to use as patching had been laid on metal racks.

     He had a smart fire going almost too soon.  He wanted to gloat a bit, but it got hot so fast that he backed out, slid under the other fence to the south, and took off up the fenceline.  His feet crushed into the ice-crusted weeds, and his breath came hot and sharp in his throat.

     Unburdened by the can and the bundle, he went thrashing along so quickly that by the time the screams started he was out of hearing range.

                             ***

     It was one of those nights, Terry had decided when he got up at last and went into the livingroom to lie on the couch.  Sometimes there was just no way for him to relax, and he rolled and thought and tried not to disturb Dorothy until he was tense as a bowstring.

     Tonight the wind was whipping the crepe myrtle bushes against the house, the furnace was kicking on and off, and Dorothy was mumbling in her sleep.  It was quieter in the livingroom, which was on the south side of the house, and he dozed off pretty quickly, once he drank some hot milk and covered himself with the afghan.

     He woke much later and sat up, trying to clear the fog of sleep out of his senses.  Something was wrong.  Shep, out back, was barking hysterically.  And there was smoke -- the house was full of smoke!  His wife was calling him, her voice shrill and agonized.

     He automatically slid his feet into his leather slippers and dashed for the hall leading to the bedrooms where he and his wife and his son and daughter slept.  The smoke was so thick that he staggered backward into the study.  He had to protect himself, somehow.

     The bath was next door;  he groped his way there, wet a towel under the faucet, and covered his lower face with the wet terrycloth.  His eyes stung as he stooped and sprinted down the hallway toward the open door of his bedroom.  Before he reached it, flames surged up through the floor and blocked his way.

     He could hear Dorothy screaming;  he felt that his heart would burst with pain and helplessness, but he could not go through that inferno to get her out.  He'd go around outside, once he had the children clear of the fire.

     He felt for the handle of Teddy's door, pushed it open and plunged into the smoke, to find the small body limp under the eiderdown.  With the boy over his shoulder, he pulled part of the towel over the tousled head and turned to kick Susie's door wide.  She was on the floor, still, and he hoped that she was breathing.

     With a child over each shoulder, he dashed through the livingroom and kicked out the glass panel on the right side of the door.  He sidled through the opening and looked for a place to put the children so they wouldn't get pneumonia in the bitter wind.

     The Ford van was sitting well out on the drive, far enough, he felt, to protect it from the flames.  He put both children inside and turned to run heavily around the house.

     The screams were still sounding from inside the bedroom, but even as he came to the window and saw the fire billowing up beyond the glass the sound of Dorothy's agony stopped. He bashed in the glass with a garden chair, but the superheated gases rushed out and drove him back.

     Dorothy was gone.  Gone.  He had to accept that, he knew, for there were the children to take care of.

     Tears streaming down his face, Terry turned toward the front drive.  The spare key of the van was in the metal box beneath the back bumper, and he took it out with fingers that seemed compounded of fire and ice and started the vehicle, only now beginning to shiver with chill and shock.  He had to get the kids to town, to a doctor.  To the hospital.

     Sobbing, wiping his eyes with the sooty sleeve of his pajamas, Terence Starke tore through the cold night toward Chandler.  Part of him checked anxiously for the stertorious breathing of his children.  But part of him still heard his wife's voice and felt the frustration he had known when he understood that he could not help her.  Ever again.

     He turned on the flasher lights and leaned on the horn as he neared the highway intersection and turned onto the major artery leading through town.  As he passed along Front Street, a black and white turned out after him and the siren blasted the night.

     He didn't slow down and he didn't pay any attention.  If they wanted to chase him clear to the hospital, that was their right.  It was his right to get his children to help as quickly as he could.

     When he turned into the emergency entrance, the police car was just behind him.  He stepped out of the van and found himself facing two men he knew.  Tom Kelly and Lester Barnes were staring at him as if he might be a ghost.

     "Kids.  In back.  Smoke from the fire.  Help me," he managed to croak, finding for the first time that his throat was scorched raw.

     Without a word, Tom tore open the back door of the van and caught up Susie.  Lester grabbed Teddy, and Terence lurched after them through the wide glass doors and into the hall outside the emergency room.

     It wasn't until the warmth of the place hit him that he realized that he was almost frozen, his teeth chattering, his hands just beginning to show him what real pain could be.  A nurse came running to wrap him in a blanket and bundle him into one of the examining rooms, where he refused to lie down.  She pushed him into a chair, where he sat trembling, breathing, now, with difficulty.

     "The kids," he managed to say.  "Tell me if the kids are ... alive ... " His voice gave out and he simply sat there, staring at her pleadingly.

     "Doctor Jarvis is with them.  We've called Dr. Lewis, too.  They're being cared for.  You just try to relax, and somebody will be in to take a look at you almost immediately. We're short staffed tonight or we'd have a doctor with you right now."

     Again he swallowed painfully.  "Policemen still there?"

     She turned at the door, startled.  "Yes.  Just leaving."

     "Stop 'em!"  He tried to yell, but it was impossible. "Have to talk to 'em!"

     She ran out, her crisp skirt flaring behind her, and in a moment he heard heavy steps approaching his door.  Tom Kelly came into the room, his expression guarded.

     "Mr. Starke.  You need me?"

     "Tom,"  Starke croaked, "I'm going to ask you to call the chief of police."  He felt his throat closing and tried to clear the obstruction.  "Tell him that threat I got through the mail -- act on it.  My wife's still out there. Dead.  My house is gone.  Somebody burnt me out."

     The room was swimming before his eyes.  He was choking. His hands, which had been numb, now burned as if they were being held in the flames that had killed Dorothy.

                             ***

     The deputy on duty yawned.  On such a cold night, even the pushers and burglars stayed inside and kept warm.  When the phone rang it came as a shock.  Probably a wreck.  That was usually the only thing that rousted out the men on duty on a night like this.

     "Chandler County Sheriff's Office," he said.  He sat up straight, and his eyes widened.  He reached for his pencil to log the call.

     "Just a minute," he said.  "House fire, out in the county four miles from the intersection of Highway 47 and Front Street.  County Road number 187.  Right.  Fatality. Right.  Name?"  He froze for a moment before entering that in the log.

     "Starke.  With an e, yes, Ma'am.  Terence W. Starke."

     When he cradled the phone he sat there for a moment, his mind working very fast.  What would Sheriff Daley want done about this?  There was the right thing, and already his hand was moving toward the phone again, but it slowed when he thought of the alternative.  Daley wouldn't want this to be treated like any big deal.

     Houses burned all the time when the weather was so cold. Space heaters got too hot and caught curtains ablaze. Kerosene heaters ignited spilled fuel.  All sorts of accidents happened in this kind of weather.  This was just another accident -- or arson!

     That might be the ticket, Deputy Carlson thought.  There was nothing the sheriff liked better than getting his teeth into a good arson case.  The insurance companies much preferred that to paying out big money on fire claims.

     He called Number One Fire Station and got a sleepy answer.  "House fire on Farm Road 187," he said.  "Sounds like it was completely involved a while ago, but it's within your area, so you boys better go out and look.  The caller said there's been a death, so you'd better roust out the fire marshal."

     That was the way.  Play it cool.  Don't make any big deal of it.  The sheriff would be pleased at the way he handled this one.

                             ***

     Terence swam upward through a thick sludge of pain and confusion.  There was something on his face -- he couldn't breathe well, and he pushed at the tubing.  His hand was clumsily padded, and when he touched the mask over his face it turned to fire, and he gasped.

     Firm fingers caught his wrist and set his hand back on his chest.  "You're all right, Mr. Starke.  That's just an oxygen tube.  Your hands are burned pretty badly, too, and that's what all the bandaging is about.  Dr. Abbernathy is just down the hall, and he wanted to talk to you as soon as you woke up.  You lie still, now, while I get him."

     He held himself still, though it was an effort.  When he heard Dan's voice, he opened his eyes and found that they were bleared with swelling.  He raised one bandaged hand and felt outward.

     "Dan?"  His hand was caught and again placed on his chest.

     "You don't want to shake hands, Terry.  Not for a long time," Dr. Abbernathy said.  "You must have taken hold of a red-hot doorknob and burnt your right hand badly.  What happened to your left I couldn't say.  It's more as if you ran it through a streak of hot gas.  Your eyes are just swollen from heat and smoke.  They'll clear up pretty quickly, if you keep washing them with the stuff I'll give you."

     Terence shook his head.  "Not me," he rasped.  "Teddy. Susie.  Are they ...?"

     "Both alive.  Teddy has pneumonia, but we've got it under control.  Susie had a hard time at first, because she breathed a lot of smoke, but she's off the respirator now. We'll bring her in to see you in a bit.  I think it'll do you both good."

     Tears scalded Terence's raw eyelids.  At least the children were alive.  But Dorothy ... his mind flinched away from the memory of her cries for help.  He would hear those screams as long as he lived, he knew with sick certainty.

     "Listen to me, Terry.  Listen, and don't let yourself drift off again."  That was Dan Abbernathy, his voice gruff with concern.

     "Yes."  Even that short syllable was painful.

     "I need to know how the fire happened.  The sheriff's people have been here wanting to talk to you all day, but I refused to let them get at you.  I won't let them in until you feel up to talking with them, which may be a while.  But if I know all about it, I can give them some idea, and maybe they won't pester you too much."

     Terence sipped cold water through the straw that someone held to his lips.  It helped.  "I couldn't sleep," he said. "Went in front.  Lay on couch.  Dozed off.  Woke when Dorothy yelled for me."  He coughed, which tortured his raw throat almost unbearably.

     He sipped again.  Then, "Room full of smoke.  So was hall.  Bathroom.  Wet towel over face.  But couldn't make ... it!"  The last word was almost a sob.  "Kids' rooms right on hall, so I got 'em out.  Wanted to get in the ... window."

     Tears leaked down his cheeks and ran into his ears.  He could still see the curtain of flame behind the panes, hear the voice of his wife.  "No use," he concluded.  "No use."

     "That's what I needed to know," the doctor said.  "Maybe I can stave 'em off for a bit with this much.  Were you using your fireplace that night?  I know your furnace is safe, because you used the same man I did when you got it put in. But was there anything that might have started a fire on that side of the house?"

     "No."

     When Abbernathy moved away down the hall, his soft-soled shoes squeaking faintly on the newly scrubbed floor, Terence lay still.  There was nothing he could do ... now.  He had to heal himself, get his strength back, put the children someplace safe.

     Then he had to find whoever had done this;  he had no faintest doubt that the fire had been set deliberately, and he was going to kill the bastard who did the torching.  That was the way his people had handled things for generations, here in the pineywoods country, and if that was what it took he'd take the same route.

     He knew the law wasn't going to do a damn thing.  The city police were good people, but they had no jurisdiction. The sheriff was going to laugh himself to sleep, thinking about what his old adversary was suffering.  Only the call that he hoped Tom Kelly made to the police chief held any hope of stimulating a serious investigation, and even that was a forlorn hope.

     Thank God he'd turned the threatening letter over to Lem.  Maybe he could get a handle on this.  But even as the nurse came in and gave him a shot that carried him off into the darkness of sleep, Terry felt a lingering doubt.

                             ***

     Ernest Daley was not a happy riser.  He much preferred to sleep until ten o'clock or so, then to work until midnight.  But this was not a job that could be done that way, as he had found once he got elected.  His old job as a detective in Dallas had allowed him to snooze as long as he wanted, and he still didn't appreciate being waked at six by his wife.

     This morning, however, it was the telephone that burbled near his right ear.  He opened one eye.  It was still pitch dark, except for the illuminated face of his alarm clock. Four o'clock?  What the hell!

     He lifted the phone from its cradle and mumbled into the mouthpiece,  "Sher'f Daley."

     "Johnny Carlson, Sheriff.  I thought you might want to know ... Terry Starke's house burnt in the middle of the night.  Looks as if his wife died in the fire."

     A bubble of sheer happiness rose through the fog of sleep that gripped Daley, but he managed to keep the smile out of his voice.  "That's too bad, Johnny.  Anybody out there now?"

     "It's too dark to do any good, this early, so the duty officer decided to wait until daylight.  The Fire Marshal out of Gervis was notified, of course, soon as we got the word. Looks as if, from what we can find out, the fire started in the middle of the night and Starke wasn't in his bedroom but was sleeping on the couch in the livingroom."  He snickered suggestively.

     "Woke up when he heard his wife scream, but by then it was too hot to make it to the end of the hall where she was. He got the kids out and went around to the window, but the room was full of fire and she'd quit making a sound by then. He went back and drove the van to town with the kids."

     "He set it, you think?" Daley asked, his tone as innocent as he could make it.  "Sounds funny, him being way the other side of the house."

     "Maybe we can tell something in the morning," the deputy replied.  "Best not to speculate too soon, don't you think?"  There was infinite understanding in his tone, and Daley understood suddenly that perhaps his animosity toward Starke was not as well hidden as he'd thought.

     "Well, post Donaldson and Lee out there in a car -- one with a heater that works! -- to secure the area.  Been a death, and that makes this a lot more than any house fire. If it's suspicious, we'd better be on the ball."

     He cradled the phone and lay back, thinking hard.  It was arson, of course.  Nobody knew that better than he did. So he'd better find some way to cover his tracks, even if he had worked through Tolliver to hire Larry Dodd.

     That was the problem with hiring a damn wino!  The bastard had been told plainly to set the fire around front, away from the bedrooms.  That way the dog would have waked them up in time for everybody to get out.  Except, possibly, for Starke, who might have died in his front room because he'd had some kind of fight with his wife.

     Daley could have lived with that.  Starke was the worst kind of political enemy, the sort who brought out documented evidence when he attacked the way the county was run, particularly the sheriff's department and the jail.  The kind who got the Attorney General interested, just waiting for something to give him a chance to stick his nose into the county's business.

     Daley shivered.  A house could burn without making very big waves in the political ocean.  But when somebody died, there was always a lot of static.  His usual technique, used in cooperation with the insurance companies, was to charge the homeowner with arson, if he had a dime of insurance on his house.  This time that might not work so well.

     A man might burn his house for the insurance money, but he'd make damn sure he got his family out first.  And here was Starke in the hospital, his wife dead, his two kids in bad shape, and everything he owned gone up in smoke.  No, this time the old trick might not work so well.  He had to think of something better.

     Who lived out that way who might get up in the night to burn out a neighbor?  Just about everybody in that direction was fighting the big road project whose contractor was paying him so much to harass its opponents, and if he could frame one of those he wouldn't lose any sleep over it.

     He frowned into the darkness, thinking about the nearest houses to the Starke farm.  Gerald Ramos came to mind.  Old family, sure, but when it came down to it he was a Hispanic, just the same.  Folks tended to think that meant people would do just about anything, which a lot of the wetback variety would.  Gerald was lame, though.  That might shoot that in the foot.

     He turned and stared at the face of the clock.  Four fifteen.  It seemed like hours since the phone had waked him.

     There was no use lying there thinking.  He'd never get back to sleep now, so he might as well get up and fix him some coffee.

     It was not until he had the hot cup in his hand and was sitting at the counter and staring at his reflection in the shiny black glass of the kitchen window that he realized what he could do.  Junior Carver lived where 187 turned off the highway.  Nobody liked him except his own coon hounds.  He'd been in trouble when he was a boy.  A better fall guy was never born.

     Daley drained his cup, set it in the sink, and headed back to bed.  His problem solved, he closed his eyes and slept dreamlessly until Annie shook him awake at six o'clock.

                             ***

     Larry Dodd was used to the cheapest alcohol to be found. Even then, he seldom had all he could drink at one time, so the fifth of Old Crow that Tolliver had handed him, along with enough cash to buy several gallons of muscatel, almost overwhelmed the skinny little man.

     To his surprise, he didn't drift off into a drunken haze as he had expected.  Instead, he lay beside the heating and cooling unit inside the neat fence that concealed it from those passing on the back street, waiting for the City to pick up the trash from the hardware store.  He had stashed a comfortable array of boxes there with him, and as soon as the compactor truck left he'd rearrange them comfortably and burrow into their shelter.

     He had taken care, over the months since he had chosen that location for his permanent home, not to attract the attention of any employees of the store.  That would mean being hauled off to jail, which always included being roughed up by the jailer.

     So as soon as the truck had groaned and screeched its way down the street, he peered out through a crack between the palings and checked to make certain there was nobody in sight.  The sun was well down behind the building to the west, shading the area behind the store.  Almost closing time.

     A newspaper had drifted out of the trash box, and he reached out and pulled it inside the fence.  Might as well read it while he waited for nightfall.

     The headline shocked him.  "STARKE WOMAN DIES IN FIRE" it said, in large letters across the top of the front page.

     He tried to remember what he'd done the night before. Tolliver told him to set the fire around at the front of the house.  That was clear in his memory.  But had he -- hadn't he? -- done something different?

     He shook his head hard, trying to get his thoughts in order.  He went in the dark and the cold.  That was there, all right.  He took the paint thinner and the bundle of rags. Okay.

     He'd set the fire around at the side.  Now why did he do that?  Again he shook his head.  Then he recalled the dog. That damn pampered dog in its house, with thick hay to sleep on.  That was why.

     But he'd killed a woman, and that hadn't been in his mind at all.  Tolliver had got him into this, and Larry knew enough about what went on in this town to understand why he, along with several of the county politicians, had wanted Starke's house torched.

     A spark of an idea ignited in Larry's whiskey-soaked brain, lighting up a long array of bottles that might extend indefinitely into the future.

     A warning bell also sounded, but it was dim.  Too dim to divert him from the purpose that was growing inside him.

     From his pocket, Dodd took a stump of pencil.  The white part of an ad on page three provided enough paper for his needs, and he scribbled two notes, tearing them out separately with great care.  Though somewhat ragged about the edges, each note was quite legible.  Nobody in Channing (hardly even Larry Dodd himself) recalled that he had been a schoolteacher, far back in his murky past.

     The first read:
     Mr. Starke -- would you like to know who pd. to set yr.
     fire?  Ask around.  Keep looking.  Will be in touch
     later, if you will pay.  -- A Friend

     The second was a bit longer.  It said,  Been thinking
     abt. fire.  Worth a lot more money.  Check with yr.
     'friend' & see how much you can come up with.  You know
     whr. to find me.     L.

     He tucked the notes, after folding them neatly, into the pocket of his worn jacket.   It was dark, now, the street lamp at the corner casting the cul-de-sac at the back of the hardware store into deep shadow.  Larry peered around the corner of the building, found the street empty, and darted into the tree-lined street beyond the intersection.

     When he returned to his nest of boxes, the notes had been delivered.  Walmart envelopes, neatly addressed, had been delivered to the unattended information desk at the hospital and dropped into the mail slot of Tolliver's office. With the possibility of real money within sniffing distance, Larry almost decided to lay off drinking until his efforts bore fruit.

     Passing a convenience store, he wavered, for the bills left from his payoff were burning in his pocket.  A gallon of muscatel later, he was asleep in his hideyhole, his clever plan forgotten in a mist of alcohol.

                             ***

     Starke woke, dreaming that he was dragging Dorothy through fire, his hands flaming with pain and his hair torching about his skull.  Even after he got his eyes open (a bit more this morning than they opened last night), and the light reassured him that he was in a hospital room, the agony in his hands remained.

     But he was tough.  Generations of East Texas farmers and loggers and builders had set iron in him that the softer generations since had not been able to dissolve.  He gritted his teeth, shut those burning fingers away from him with an act of will, and concentrated on the fire.  What had caused it?  Who had caused it?

     Even as he thought, Sally Ames came swishing into the room, her cap a marvel of whiteness, her steps a whisper on the tile floor.  "Good Morning, Mr. Starke.  Let me take your blood pressure, okay?"

     She slipped the cuff about his arm and looked up at the gauge on the wall.  By the time she had the reading and had taken his temperature and arranged for the student nurse to help him bathe, he was breathing hard, feeling again the scalded throat, the irritated lungs caused by inhaling those hot gases.

     Breakfast came next, accompanied by a lady aide in a pink-striped jumper.  "You have a letter this morning," she caroled, starting to hand him the envelope.  Then she saw the state of his hands and said, "Shall I open it and read it to you?"

     He almost said yes.  He never afterward understood why he didn't, for he had no idea what the cheap white envelope might contain.  But Starke said, "No, thank you, Ma'am.  I'll look at it in a bit, after I eat."

     That was harder than he'd expected, for handling a fork was hard to do with bandaged fingers that felt like sausages dropped into the coals.  He finished, with a bit of help from an orderly, and when he lay back he was exhausted.

     The letter crinkled sharply, and he pushed it with one awkward mitt until he could get a grip on it with the two free fingers of his left hand.  With a soft rip, the envelope gave, and he stared at the ragged-edged bit of newsprint.

     He read it twice before its meaning sank into him. Someone knew who had arranged for Dorothy to perish in a hell of flame and smoke.  That someone had written this pencilled note and promised information.

     Later?  He wanted the arsonist now, if not in his almost gripless hands, at least between his teeth.

     He lay back, tucking the note under his pillow.  In a bit, when he had rested, he would put it carefully into the tray of necessities provided by the hospital.  For now, he must think.

     Terence Starke might be a farmer, born and bred.  He might have been a tough-guy logger in his youth, ready for a fight or a big drunk at any excuse.  But he had worked his way through Texas A&M and obtained his degree in political science, making a 3.8 average throughout his college career.

     He was a strong man with a good mind, and now he set about using it.  My body he thought, is pretty well out of it, right now, but my head works.  If I can get the smoke out, the memory of Dorothy screaming, I can whip those brain cells into a gallop.

     First of all, he thought about the night of the fire. It was cold as the toenails of Hell, wind blowing hard, the ground frozen.  He had left his bedroom after staring out of the window for several minutes, wishing those damn crepe myrtles would blow up by the roots and take off.  There had been no sign of fire, no smell of smoke.

     When he went into the livingroom he was next to the road.  He'd have heard a car if it passed, for on such a lonely road every vehicle going by roused interest in anyone still awake.  It might be a sick neighbor needing help.  It might be hooligans from town, out to stir up trouble for peaceable country folk.

     No car had passed.  He'd have waked if one had crunched down the frozen road even after he fell asleep on the couch.

     The fire had started almost at his bedroom; that was clear from the way it was spreading when he went to help Dorothy.  The foundation beams of this restored farmhouse were some four feet off the ground on that side of the building.  It was obvious, when you thought about it, that the arsonist had crept under the house and kindled his blaze almost directly beneath the north bedroom.

     The fire-setter had walked up to the house.  That was almost certain, unless he had parked his car on one of the logging tracks down the road, walked to his goal, and then run back to take off toward town.  But there were neighbors, few and far between but pretty alert, as country people have to be, in both directions.

     No, it wouldn't be smart to risk having your car recognized or your license noted, as people did as part of the neighborhood watch program.  The arsonist had walked, probably from the highway.  That was about two miles, through a raging norther, and he probably didn't risk walking on the road, either.  That would be the act of a fool.

     So what do I have?  he asked himself.  A man willing to walk two miles on a night no self respecting dog would be out.  A man angry enough at me to risk everything to burn me out?  I don't think so.  Those are pretty cautious when it comes to risking their skins or their reputations.

     He shook his head and sighed.  He was thinking so hard that the pain had retreated into the background of his consciousness, and now his intelligence had taken hold of the problem, letting his anger rest for a while.

     No, his enemies would not go walking through the country on such a night, even without the personal risk.  Therefore, one of them -- or more than one -- had hired someone to do the job.

     "Who would I hire to do such a thing?" he asked himself.

     His answer came quickly.  "Someone who would do anything for a buck -- or a bottle.  Someone who might well drink himself to death, if I was lucky, and if I wasn't that lucky, someone who probably wouldn't remember what he did to earn that unusual amount of booze."

     He examined that conclusion carefully, trying to find a problem, an error, or a vulnerable spot.  He maneuvered the note out from beneath the pillow and looked at it carefully. Torn out of a newspaper.  He turned the pencilled part over. On the back was part of an account of Monday's City Council meeting.

     Yesterday's paper.  They'd brought him a copy, once he woke from the pain shots, and the headline screaming Dorothy's death to the world had almost sent him off the rails again.

     This was someone who didn't have access to writing paper.  The envelope had obviously been an afterthought, to keep any intermediary from reading the scribbled words.  How many winos were there in downtown Chandler, sleeping under the bridges or behind businesses?

     He had seen them, many times, and he'd always thought what a waste it was for a man to scrounge like a stray dog for scraps.  Hell, even a dog didn't waste its time drinking poison that would turn its brain to mush.  The mangiest stray had too much self-respect for that.

     Again he went through his reasoning.  It seemed sound. If he looked for a wino, one who'd taken up residence within walking distance of the hospital, he might find the man.  If he had to question every smelly bum in Chandler or even in the county, he'd find the one who killed Dorothy, but that wasn't the culprit he really wanted.

     No, that wino would tell him who'd paid him to set the fire.  Starke had stalked native troops in the jungles of Nicaragua.  He'd strangled men with his hands to keep them from betraying his presence.

     He would get his answers, one way or another.  If money would make the man talk, that was the easy way, and his hands were in no condition to do much, right now.  But he knew from old experience that he could do what was necessary, no matter how impossible it might seem.  He would find the bum.  He would have his answer.

     Terry Starke closed his eyes as a nurse appeared and administered another pain shot.  Even as he drifted into sleep, he felt triumph growing like a newly kindled blaze in his gut.

                             ***

     Jud Tolliver played golf on Wednesday mornings.  One reason he loved his native East Texas was because most of the winter was good golfing weather, even in December.  This was not one of those mornings, however.  The blast of cold had settled down into a rain, on the edge of freezing; it made everything slick and gray and miserable.

     He drove to the office and opened the door, grumbling. It was not a good day, but it became worse almost immediately.

     The envelope lay on the carpet, beneath the mail slot. It was too early for the mailman, so it had to be some personal message dropped in by one of his cronies or contacts.  Inside the plain envelope he found a scrap of paper that he almost flung into the scrap basket.  Some kid's doings, he thought.

     Then he realized what those first words really said. That fire?  My God!  Was that drunken idiot trying to hold him up?  Blackmail him?

     He almost laughed at the thought of consulting with the sheriff about this dilemma.  Daley had warned him that if anything went wrong, it was Tolliver who'd be hung out to dry, and anyone who knew the sheriff understood that he had ways of making innocent people guilty.  What he could do with a guilty person he seriously tried to crucify didn't bear thinking about.

     "I should've taped that deal we made," Tolliver muttered.  "He led me up the garden path, that bastard, and left himself with clean hands.  Now I'm going to have to clean up the mess.  Damn!  Starke's nothing to me.  I'm not the one who's been harassing everybody who went against the new highway project, and I'm sure as hell not in the contractors' pockets.  Daley will make his rakeoff, and if anything goes wrong, I'll take the fall!"

     He glanced about his office, feeling almost dazed. Larry Dodd had seemed the perfect torch.  He stayed so looped that he hardly knew he was alive, much less what was really happening around him.  He'd been amazed, grateful to be chosen for such an easy job with so much booze at the end of it.

     How had the bum come up with such a plan?  Had he talked to anybody?  Tolliver sighed, thinking of everyone likely to come into contact with Dodd, but like most of his kind the man kept in the shadows, coming out only to buy a lot of wine and as much food as was absolutely necessary.

     It wasn't likely he'd talked to a soul, after he stocked up on whiskey and wine.  No, he'd probably be back in his box haven tonight, once the bustle of business was over.  That was the time to deal with him.  He'd be expecting money. What he'd get would be no more than he deserved.

     After all, he'd been ordered to set the fire on the south side of the house.  He'd done the opposite, and the tragedy of that woman's death was his fault, if it was anyone's.  Larry Dodd had earned his comeuppance.

     Tolliver dialed a number and waited for the ring.

     "Sherr'f's office."

     "Mr. Daley in?  I need to speak to him, if he has the time."

     "Sure thing."  There was another ring, and Daley's familiar voice drawled, "Daley here."

     "Jud Tolliver, Sheriff.  I wanted to congratulate you on catching that arsonist last week.  Good work!  I expect you'll do as good a job on the Starke fire."

     He could feel, even over the phone wire, the electrical silence that followed his words.  "I sure hope so," came the cautious reply.  "Can't have folks being burned up in their own houses, now can we?"

     "No, we can't.  I just wanted to congratulate you and tell you I've decided to go on a little trip.  I'd take it kindly if you would have one of your deputies keep an eye on my country house.  I'll be leavin' tonight. About six.  Can do?"

     "Can do."

     By the tone, Tolliver knew that Daley understood that a hitch had developed and that he was going to take care of it. If anyone came looking for Jud Tolliver, Sheriff Daley would give him a testimonial and assurance that he had gone on a trip, after due notification, and couldn't be held responsible for anything that happened in his absence.

     He was too wound up to work, though there were several real estate deals that needed some research and his insurance business was always behind in its paperwork.  Jud couldn't concentrate, so he lay on his velvet couch and closed his eyes.  Even as he dozed, it came to him that Starke had done the same, the night before last, and when he woke his world had gone up in smoke.

     He smiled.  He was too smart, too slick, and too careful for that sort of thing to happen to him.  He'd be gone by six tonight, in his modest Toyota that was like a thousand others on the road.  And anything that happened later -- say about ten o'clock -- would be none of his business, as far as anybody could prove.

                             ***

     When Terry woke, it was almost noon.  Dr. Abbernathy was standing beside his bed, and this time Starke's eyes opened more easily and he could focus on the stocky shape against the window.

     He moved his hands.  Agony, but bearable.  "I want out, Doc," he said.  "I'm not hurt, except for the hands, and those are going to be the same wherever I am.  I want out, or I'll go crazy.  I don't want any more pain medicine."

     The doctor shook his head.  "I've known you a long time, Terry, and I know you're tough as nails, but are you sure you want to be released?  You're going to long for a nurse with a needle tonight, if you're not here handy to one."

     Starke pushed himself to a sitting position, using his elbows.  He moved his head, his legs, his arms, keeping the hands on a level, for if they hung down it was pure hell. Everything worked, if he didn't allow himself to think what it felt like.

     He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat facing his doctor.  "I'm all right.  They brought Susie in for a minute last night, and she's getting better every day. Teddy's going to be okay, and I talked to him on the phone. It's time I left here.  I've got to find a house for my kids, and I need to start looking for ... "

     He glanced up to see Abbernathy's shrewd brown gaze fixed on him with sharp attention.  ... "for a housekeeper," he finished, though that was not what he had begun saying, and he knew the doctor understood that.

     Abbernathy knew just what he had intended to say, but they had known each other for many years.  "All right," the doctor said.  "I'll release you.  But Terry ...  be careful. Be very careful, will you?  I wouldn't like to have to tell your children that they've lost their father, too."

     That shook Starke for a moment.  He realized that the direct, go-for-broke methods he had always used were going to have to change, now that he was the sole parent of his young ones.  Okay, that meant he had to get full mileage out of money, as the anonymous note-writer had suggested.

     He rose, swaying a bit at first, but when Abbernathy steadied him the world stopped wheeling.  He knew that, basically, he was undamaged.  When the doctor left to complete the release papers, he moved to the closet.

     Friends had rummaged around the day before to assemble something to wear for him and the children.  There was a ski jacket, bright blue, a pair of black corduroy pants, comfortably worn and soft and warm.  The underwear was new, and he blessed whoever had provided boxer instead of jockey shorts.  A heavy flannel shirt, together with the jacket, would keep him from freezing in the cold drizzle that was now falling outside the window.

     In the jacket pockets he found a wool scarf and a pair of heavy suede gloves.  Tears came suddenly to Terry's eyes, and he wiped them off on a tissue from the box on the night stand.  Dammit, people were so good!  Why did there have to be scroungy bastards like Ernest Daley and Jud Tolliver and Harvey Bascomb in the world, stealing tax money, taking kickbacks, and generally screwing up the works?

     He shook his head and sat in the low chair to put on the wool socks he found in a bag.  His leather slippers were solid enough to wear outside in good weather, but he was more than glad to see a pair of hiking boots sitting on the floor of the closet.  A bit too big, but with heavy socks they were not a bad fit.  In this weather, you needed all the warmth you could get.

     By the time the nurse came after him with a wheelchair, which he refused, he had the donated clothing bundled into the sack and was ready to go.  On his way down to the checkout desk, he stopped by the double room, where both his children were now recovering from their shock and injuries.

     Teddy was dopey, still, but his color had returned, and he was breathing easily.  Susie was sitting on her brother's bed, reading to him from a worn book of fairy tales.  They both turned, smiling, when their father entered the room.

     "I've got to go find us a place to live," he said, after he'd kissed them and reassured them as to the state of his hands.  "The house is gone, the deputy told me.  Old Shep is sleeping in the hay shed, now, for his house went up in smoke, too.  But he's all right.  And we'll put us a mobile home out there until we can build again."

     "But Mommy ... " Susie's dark eyes filled with tears. "Mommy won't be there."

     He sighed and perched beside her on Teddy's bed.  "No, Mommy won't be there, honey.  But I will, and Teddy will. Grandma Blakeney has already said she'd come stay with us, as soon as you get out of here and I get a roof over our heads. We'll all have to learn to handle this, and it isn't going to be easy.  But we're Starkes.  We can do anything we have to, right?"

     She reached to take her little brother's hand protectively.  Then she looked up, pale but determined. "Right," she said.

     As he left the hospital, Terry pushed their faces out of his consciousness.  He couldn't let his emotions interfere with his purpose.  Not now, when he almost had a name in his grasp.

     There was no use hunting out the bums' hideaways until after dark, he knew, so he went first to the bank and made arrangements to transfer money from his savings to his checking account.

     He got that done just before closing time.  The grim day meant early darkness, and by the time the street lamps switched themselves on he was parked two blocks from downtown in a driveway belonging to a vacant house.  When it was fully dark, he set out on his lonely quest.

     His first goal was the bridge over Rampart Creek.  Even wet as it was, several men had arranged big boxes under the well drained ends and anchored them with stakes driven into the ground.  He bent to rap softly on one such flimsy shelter.

     A blowsy head poked out through the flaps.  "What? Whozzat?"

     "Did somebody here write a letter to a man in the hospital today or yesterday?" he asked, his tone quiet and unthreatening.

     "Write?  A letter?"  The toothless mouth widened in a grin.  "That'll be the day!"  The head disappeared with a rustle of cardboard.

     The other four men sheltering there denied being able to write at all.  Terry trudged up the creekbank and made his way up the street, avoiding the puddles of light under the lamp standards.  The service street behind the south side of town seemed a good place to check next, and he angled toward the first waiting pile of trash near the curb.

     There he unearthed a skinny little fellow not much more than twenty years old.  His faint fluff of blond beard hardly showed, and it was only the grime on his face that made him look gaunt and neglected.

     "What?  Letter?" He giggled.  "No way, man!"  He dived back into his boxes, and Terry knew that he was high on something more potent than cheap wine.

     The street was lit at intervals, but that back alley was relatively dark.  Terry managed to avoid the puddles of light, keeping in the shadows of the old brick buildings, until he was well along the way.

     His hands were burning, under the wrappings and the big suede gloves, but he ignored the pain and kept his eyes and ears alert.  The cold wind swept along the alley, driving ahead of it a drift of discarded newspaper and a snowstorm of plastic peanut packing, but he tried to screen out those irrelevant sounds.

     A hint of motion ahead caught his eye, and even as he watched he saw someone move into the cul-de-sac behind the hardware store.  A bum, he thought at first.  Then he saw a flare of light as a match was struck.  A bum lighting a cigarette?  Not likely, for that was almost at ground level.

     He hurried along, still keeping out of the light, trying to make time without also making noise.  As he edged around the last of the streetlights, a man ran out of the area behind the hardware store and turned his face to glance behind him.

     Jud Tolliver.  Now why in hell would he be wandering around this part of town in the middle of the night, striking matches?

     The answer came on the heels of the question.  Someone had written one note.  Why not two, one to the victim, one to the man responsible for the fire?

     That man would know the arsonist's haunts.  He would know that if the wino remembered enough to write him an extortion note he was a strong and permanent danger.

     Even as he thought, Terry ran.  The other man had disappeared into a cross street, but Starke's main thought was for the informant, who might, even now, be perishing in the fire.  There were questions he wanted answered, still, even if he already knew one element of his puzzle.

     By the time he reached the cul-de-sac, it was lit with dancing flickers from behind the fence concealing the area where empty cardboard boxes waited for the trash collectors. Without stopping to consider his hands, he unlatched the plank gate and stared into the smoke and flames that curled among the boxes.

     A hoarse cough and a stifled shriek told him that someone was there, beneath the burning heap.  Terry grabbed the topmost boxes and flung them behind him onto the cement apron.  When the third layer was removed, he saw a foot in a tattered sneaker, already black with soot.

     He grabbed the ankle and tugged from the mess a body whose clothing was a mass of flames.  The hair was afire by the time he got the man clear of the blaze, and he blessed those thick gloves as he rubbed the fire off the body.  His hands couldn't hurt any worse, he had thought, but he was wrong.  Now they were torture.

     Once he knew the bum was quenched, though moaning and thrashing in pain, Terry ran for the fire alarm box on the back of the store.  In ten minutes he was surrounded by yawning firemen and suspicious police.

     Luckily, Lester Barnes was on duty that night or he might have been locked up on suspicion of arson.  But Lester had known him for years, and he knew what had gone before.

     "This man lost his wife and his house a few nights ago," he told his partner.  "I don't know how he knew something was going on here, but he'll tell us tomorrow.  Right now he looks like he needs to go back to the hospital and get those hands looked at.  Again."  He stared down at the blackened gloves, which had burned through in places, to allow smutty bandages to peep out.

     Suddenly he felt the ground begin to whirl; his head became light.  Lester set a hard hand under his elbow.  "I'll get you to the hospital.  They're takin' care of that bum Dodd.  I think he's full of smoke and burned pretty bad too, but with him, who cares?  He's nothing but a misery to himself and everybody else."

     Terry shook his head.  "Thanks, Lester, but I'm not as bad off as you think.  Some kind soul gave me this jacket and thick gloves.  The pain is from the other burns, before.  I don't need to go to the hospital.  I just need to rest a bit."

     "Where you stayin'?" the cop asked.  "I'll take you home."

     It was obvious that he wasn't going to get rid of official company easily, so Terry gave him the address of his business partner, Al Toffler.  Al wasn't at home, but each of them kept a key to the other's house, in case of emergency; if this wasn't an emergency then Terry Starke had never been involved in one.

     By the time Lester had dropped him off, promising to see that his van was safely locked for retrieval tomorrow, Terry knew that he had had it for tonight.  The adrenalin that drove him into that fire had drained away, and now he felt limp and exhausted.

     Al's house had never looked so good, though he knew it could be only a temporary refuge.  He turned up the furnace, hearing its whisper and feeling the warm draft begin.  It was about time he slept, really slept, without the stress of the nightmares that had plagued him in the hospital.

     Aside from finding Jud Tolliver again, which something told him might not be easy, he had to locate housing for his children.  Suddenly, the mountain of responsibilities seemed to crush him, and he fell into bed without undressing.

     It was like dying, he thought when he woke in the chilly light of a winter morning.  He couldn't even remember pulling the covers over himself or turning on Al's electric blanket.

     He had slept, he figured, some seven hours, which to one who seldom slept more than four at any time was more than enough.  Though his hands pulsed with pain, he managed to shower and shave, using Al's electric razor.  When Toffler got back from his winter vacation in Florida, he was going to get a big thank-you, that was certain.

     But there were other things to think about.  As he chose thick woollen pants and shirt from Al's closet, using his belt to fold in the extra at the waist, Terry was already planning his day.

     First he had to buy a heavy coat.  He had already ruined that Good Samaritan's gift jacket in the fire of the night before. He had to go to the hardware store, for if he found Tolliver he would need certain items.

     Then he had to check on Dodd at the county hospital.  If the man lived, he was going to talk.  Now that he knew something about the pain of burns, Terry thought he could manage, if left in privacy, to squeeze some information out of him.

     He also had to rent a house.  A furnished house, he reminded himself.  And see if Miss Ella would consent to be temporary housekeeper and visit the kids and talk with Tolliver's secretary and locate the sheriff -- no, scratch that.  If Daley wasn't the hand behind Tolliver he was badly mistaken, and going to the sheriff would be like putting his hand in a rattler's nest.

     He shook all the thoughts out of his head and went into the kitchen.  Though he had left his refrigerator neat, bare, and on low, Al always kept a store of food in the house.  At times he hibernated like a big, gruff bear and worked for a week at a time, without coming out.  There would be food.

     He found a can of peanuts in the pantry, a box of raisins, a seal-pack of beef jerky.   That, with a can of lemonade, made a breakfast that was long on protein.  Dorothy would approve ... then the pain hit again, not in his hands but in his heart.  No Dorothy.  Never again.

     He slid his plate of ill-assorted breakfast material onto the counter and reached up for the wall phone.  The book hung beneath it, and he looked up Tolliver's office number. Might as well get that out of the way first.

     As he'd expected, Miss Frisby was snappish with him. She had always taken her cue from her employer, and the two of them had been on opposite sides of so many projects and political frays that he counted her among the enemy camp.

     "No, Mr. Starke, Mr. Tolliver is not in the office.  He left me a note -- I got in late because of the bad weather -- saying he has gone out of town for several days.  I am to expect him when I see him."

     She didn't offer to let him know when that happened, and Starke didn't ask.  He said, "Thank you, Miss Frisby.  And a good day to you, too," in his most sarcastic tone and hung up.

     He called an old friend in the real estate business and located a furnished house in short order.  "Furnished," Sam said, "and in a good neighborhood.  This will suit, I think. Terry, I'm sorry to have to be doing this.  It isn't -- well, you know what I want to say."

     "Thanks, Sam.  Could you get the utilities taken care of for me?  I don't know just when the kids will get out of the hospital, but I want it ready for them when they do.  It'll be a while before any of us can think about going back ... back out to the farm."

     He got hold of Miss Ella, who had taken care of him when he was a boy, and threw himself on her mercy.  "If you could come take care of us, just for a while, it would be a godsend," he told her, knowing that her vast heart was already hurting for them.

     "Mr. Terry, you know I will.  I may be old, and I may be crippled with the rheumatisms, but there's no way I'd let your babies want for somebody to love 'em.  Since Amos died, I been havin' too much time on my hands anyway.  You just tell me when and where, and I'll be there."  Her deep voice brought to memory her mahogany face, now wrinkled, and the stiff little braids that confined her snowy hair.

     His children couldn't possibly be in better hands.  In fact, he couldn't have been, either, for when his mother was dying of Parkinson's Disease, all those long years of his youth, Ella had cared for his entire family with devotion and skill.  His father had left her a house, five acres, and a pension that, even now and counting inflation, was more than adequate for her needs.

     Ella was as near to a parent as he had left, and as he dialled the hospital he thanked God that she was still living.  Things would be much worse without her.

     The children were waiting for his call.  Teddy was able to talk a blue streak, and Susie was getting very tired of being confined.  "I have Miss Ella ready to come take care of us.  How do you like that?" he asked Susie, when Teddy was tired of talking.

     Her squeal of delight was ear-shattering.  The children looked forward, every summer, to spending a lot of time at her house, helping her gather eggs from her lackadaisical chickens, picking figs, grubbing in her vegetable garden. They considered her tiny plot a garden of delight, and Ella was their playmate and friend.

     "I'll see you tonight," he said.  "I have a lot to do, getting things ready to take you out of there.  So be patient and don't get into mischief.  I'll see you by seven o'clock, whatever happens."

     Then he sank his chin onto his forearm, for his favorite chin on fist position wasn't possible, and thought very hard. Where would Jud Tolliver hole up, after trying to burn Larry Dodd last night?  One person would know, and she owed him a favor.

     He couldn't phone her;  she had an unlisted number that was never given out, since she went respectable.  No, he'd have to bundle up and go out into this steel-gray day, though he knew that he'd been avoiding that thought while he made his plans.

     Shelley Ridderman lived on a quiet street at the edge of town.  The neighborhood was one of retirees, who watched vigilantly what happened with their neighbors, since the rash of robberies last spring.  That meant that everyone in town would know, in short order, that he had been to see the woman, but he had nothing to lose and much to gain.

     Nobody knew of their brief affair, as far as he knew, and Shelley certainly wasn't going to compromise her new-found lifestyle by mentioning it.  He had provided well for her, once they had lost interest in each other, and Dorothy had never known he had strayed.  He wondered, now, why he had done it, for he'd never loved anyone but his wife.

     Shelley opened the door at once, when he tapped on the storm screen.  "Terry!  I read in the paper about the fire. Come in here and let me give you something hot.  You look like the wrath of God!"  Her ash-blond hair was tousled, as usual, and her sleepy cat-eyes were filled with concern.

     She bustled him onto the sofa, took his new coat, acquired at Walmart on his way through town, and put a cup of hot cocoa (his favorite) into his cold hands.  "Now tell me what you need.  Anything I can do, I will."

     "Tell me where Jud Tolliver goes when he needs to hide from something he's done."  The statement was too flat, too bald, too cold, but Terry had no energy left for tact.

     "Jud?"  Her voice thinned with shock.  "You think Jud burned you out?  He'd never have the guts!"

     "Just say I think he knows who did.  He did something else, last night, and I all but caught him in the act.  He's hiding, and I need to know where."  Terry swallowed hard, his throat still raw from the smoke he had breathed.

     Shelley's green eyes narrowed as she thought.  Jud, too, had been one of her clients, back in the old days.  She hadn't liked him, as she made very clear, but she had a certain loyalty to those who had kept her in business.  Then she made up her mind.  He saw it in her eyes.

     "I liked Dorothy," she said.  "If things had been different, I'd have tried to get to know her.  I don't like what happened to her or you or your children.  Jud goes out to the river and checks into one of the lodges there.  Takes a case of Scotch with him and drinks himself blind for a week, usually.  If he's anywhere I know about, it's there."

     "Which lodge?" Terry leaned forward intently, his hands trying to clench and hurting like blazes.

     "The Caralinda.  Closest one to the river, with the boat ramp right behind it."

     "And woods all around," Terry murmured.

     Her quick ears caught the words, and her eyes narrowed again.  "Terry, be careful.  I know you.  You're a nice guy, but you're not more than half civilized. You learned how to be mean while you were in the service.  Get what you want, but don't get into trouble while you're doing it.  Your kids need you."

     He nodded, but he didn't promise.  In five minutes he was on Highway Thirty-Six, heading for the river as fast as the van could manage on the slick pavement.  In forty-five minutes he pulled up in the empty parking area of Caralinda Lodge.

     The office looked closed, which pleased him.  He backed the van out of the lot and drove back to the logging track he'd noticed a half mile before he got to the lodge.  The ruts were frozen iron-hard, and he had no trouble in pulling well out of sight into the young pine thickets.

     Once he had stashed the van, Terry went on foot toward the river, keeping in the edge of the wood until he was even with the rear of the lodge.  A single Ford car was parked at Number Twenty, and he knew Tolliver had chosen his hideout with care, knowing his car was invisible from the road.

     Starke moved quickly across the narrow strip of asphalt, going to the room on the end of the block.  Then he sidled along the wall toward Number Twenty, keeping himself hidden from anyone who might look out between the draperies, which were pulled tightly across the window.  If Tolliver was there, and the Ford was the right year and the right color, then he didn't want to give the bastard any warning.

     He tapped at the door.  "Checking the maid service," he said, remembering such an interruption in one of his own stays at the lodge.

     For a moment he thought Jud wasn't going to answer the door.  Then there came a clink, and the lock turned.  He kept out of range of the spy-hole until the door opened.  Then he shoved hard, pushing the man inside backward onto the narrow bed.

     "Unexpected visit, Tolliver," he said.  "You didn't quite kill Larry Dodd last night, did you know that?  I saw you when you ran away after setting that fire.  As I just had a fire myself, I thought we might have a quiet talk."

     Tolliver said nothing, but his gaze darted back and forth, trying to find some escape.  Starke didn't let him finish thinking.  Instead, he pulled out of his pocket the sock he had filled with lead shot and whipped it against the other man's head.  It left no mark, but Tolliver went down and out.

     Terry ignored the stink of liquor, the fumes of old cigarettes.  He caught Tolliver under the arms, using his writsts instead of his painful hands, and dragged him out of the room and across the parking strip into the woods.

     If the ground had been soft, he never would have made it, but in this hard freeze it wasn't too tough.  Terry dug in his heels and pulled, taking Tolliver with him, and even the man's dragging heels made no impression on the frozen earth.  Before long, even after stopping several times to rest, he reached the van.

     He dumped the unconscious man into the back, wondering if he'd permanently damaged his brain.  But the stink of his breath and his ragged breathing told Terry that he had been more than half drunk before getting hit.  It was the combination that was keeping Tolliver under.

     With that in mind, he uncoiled the length of line he'd bought at Walmart and tied his captive tightly before backing out of the track onto the highway.  In this weather, the state parks would be empty, even of park service personnel. He knew just the one to suit his purpose, and he headed for it as fast as it was safe to drive on the icy road.

     George Catheren Park and Picnic Area was empty even of crows.  The thick pine and hardwood forest knocked off much of the wind, and he hid the van behind the last picnic shelter, where not even someone driving in for a look could spot it.  Then he dragged a now groaning Jud Tolliver out of the back doors and dropped him onto the crunchy layer of dried leaves.

     "Hunh?"  The gag he'd made out of one of Tolliver's socks stifled any questions that might be boiling inside the bastard.  He squirmed, but the new cord held, and after a moment the captive stopped moving and watched as Terry prepared to question him.

     Another length of doubled cord was laid out neatly, its free ends near a young hickory tree.  When Terence pulled Tolliver toward the waiting cord, the man tried to kick, but it did no good.  Terry soon had him arranged, flat on the ground.

     Starke knelt on his legs while he untied the ankles.  A twist of rope went around the left ankle;  then he grabbed the right leg and twisted it over the left, tucking the toe under the left ankle, forcing it as far as it would go. Several wraps of cord around the pretzel-like legs secured them in place.

     Another rope went under the arms and was secured to a pine tree near the man's head.  Starke cut the cord holding the gag in place and smiled down at his victim.  "You are going to talk to me," he said.  "About last night.  About the fire that killed my wife.  About Sheriff Daley."

     Tolliver shook his head, his lips working.  "Nev'r," he said.

     Terence caught up the free ends of the cord and moved them gently.  Tolliver shrieked as his strained position threatened to disjoint his knee.

     "This is a sort of rack," Starke told him, "without any hardware.  I'm going to pull you apart using your own bones and joints.  Unless, of course, you tell me what happened to cause the fire that killed my wife.  And why you burned that bum in Chandler."

     Tolliver was pale as frost, his eyes wide and his mouth clenched tightly.  But he shook his head again.

     "All right.  Let's see what this does."  Terry pulled evenly on the lines.  It looked like a harmless motion, and it didn't actually move the man's legs at all.  His shriek echoed through the empty woods, frightening a flock of grackles out of a nearby thicket.

     "Ready?"  Terry had not felt so detached and clinical since he questioned his last Nicaraguan officer, while he 'advised' the Contras.

     He'd learned a lot of things during his hitch in the army, most of them best forgotten.  Now they returned to him effortlessly.  If this didn't work, something else would.

     "Somebody'll hear!"  The words came in a stifled gasp. "You can't do things like this and get away with it!"

     "There's not a house within two miles, in any direction. We're out of sight of the highway, and it's so slick nobody is traveling, anyway.  No, Jud, there's not a soul to save your bacon.  Not this time.  Even the sheriff can't give you a hand."  He pulled again, setting the echoes ringing among the bare-branched trees.  "Besides, you thought you were going to get away with burning me out, now didn't you?"

     Despite the cold, sweat beaded Tolliver's forehead.  His bound hands were bloodless as he twisted them in front of his chest.  Hatred blazed in his eyes, but he was helpless to do anything about it.

     Terry pulled again, more strongly, and the man fainted. Damn!  Unconscious people couldn't talk.  He'd have to be more careful.

     Starke sat in the van, huddled in his new coat, his hands cradled in his lap.  He should have thought to bring a jug of coffee and some sandwiches.  Torture was hungry, thirsty work, and he'd forgotten that.  Waiting for Tolliver to come to, he turned on the radio and caught the end of a news broadcast out of Chandler.

     "The man found burning on Sullivan Street last night has succumbed to smoke inhalation.  The name is being withheld until next of kin can be located."

     So there would be no word from Dodd.  But Tolliver didn't know that, only that he'd just been told that his victim didn't die at once.  Maybe he could use that, if he could figure out a scenario that was close enough to the truth to jar loose the son-of-a-bitch's tongue.

     When Tolliver stirred and groaned, Starke left the van and stood over the supine figure.  "Remember that I told you Dodd didn't die in that fire?  Did I think to tell you that he's talking his guts out to keep from being charged with Murder One?  He's already named you and Sheriff Daley."

     And then Tolliver cracked wide open.

                             ***

     It had been a rough day.  The weather was bad enough to keep most people indoors, but those who had to go to work or just hadn't enough sense to stay off the roads kept sliding into ditches or into each other, and the deputies and highway patrol had spent a frustrating, frozen, awful day getting people out of messes they never should have got into.

     Daley found time at last, once the evening closed in and promised to halt any traffic except heavy transport, to sit in his office and drink cup after cup of boiling coffee.  He didn't really want to get out and go home to June and his two teenaged sons.  The bedlam in his house at any time of day was pretty bad, but at night it was worse.  Damn kids!  Had no respect for their elders.

     But he rose at last and belted on his sheepskin jacket. He was pulling on his gloves when the phone rang.

     "Ernest."  It was Shelley.  After all the intervening years, he recognized her voice instantly.  "I've been thinking all day, and finally I decided I ought to tell somebody."

     He knew her roundabout ways -- who better? -- and he asked patiently, "So what do you want to say, Shelley?  I've had a hard day and am about to go home."

     "Did you know Terence Starke has gone looking for Jud Tolliver?"

     What came after that he didn't hear, because his ears began ringing with the rush of blood to his head.  Tolliver had got rid of that bum who did the torch job.  How did Starke know about him?  And if he knew about Tolliver, did he also know about Sheriff Ernest Daley?

     He managed to mumble, "Thanks, Shelley.  I'll look into it.  Take care."

     Then he headed out to his car, but he didn't remember anything he passed between leaving the office and arriving at home.  Something inside him kept pounding out the same words, over and over.  "Starke knows.  Starke knows.  Starke knows."

                             ***

     His trip to Walmart had been more than profitable. Besides rope, Terence Starke had bought a small cassette recorder and several cassettes, and when Tolliver began to spill the beans, he was ready.  When the flood of obscenity-punctuated words subsided, he had it all.

     It wouldn't do to turn this over to anyone in Chandler. The Old Boy Network there took care of its own, no matter what internal squabbles might come and go.  There was no way in hell that anyone there would act on the information he now possessed.

     But an election was coming up.  Daley was almost a shoo-in, but people wouldn't stand still for electing a man who'd connive at arson and murder.  Sinclair was only some thirty miles past the river, and the powerful radio station there covered Chandler County.  There ought to be somebody in its news department, in light of the continuing feud between Chandler and Sinclair Counties, who would be delighted to blow the whistle, loud and long.

     Joe Mobley was the man he found.  After listening to the cassette, Mobley said, "Come with me.  We'll take this bastard down to Sheriff Dallworth and leave him with a sheriff who's not balled up in this mess.  Then we'll go back to the station and roast that son-of-a-bitch Daley good and proper."

     It took a while to edit out the obscenities, but at last they had a tape that wouldn't offend the listeners or get them knocked off the air by the FCC.  When it was running, Terry took leave of Mobley and headed back home in the cold dusk.

     Next he had to see the children.  Then he had to attend to Daley.

                             ***

     The radio was blaring when the sheriff walked in the door.  The TV in the den was trying to drown it out.  It was enough to make him want to go back and sleep in his own jail.

     Then he heard his name, and he automatically came to attention.   The voice was familiar.  Tolliver's voice!

     "... so I knew I had to do it, or he'd have my tail in a crack.  That's one mean Bleep and he'd know where to find me, night or day.  Anybody who's ever got on the bad side of him knows what I'm talking about.  I've seen him frame people who never so much as jaywalked.  You know I had to work with him, Starke!"

     There was a murmur of reply.  Then the maddening voice went on, "So I hunted up a fairly reliable wino downtown and made a deal.  But I made it clear he was to set the fire in the front of the house, away from the bedrooms.  I told him and told him, and he said he understood!"  The voice was almost frantic, now.

     Daley stared around, but not one of his family was in sight.  They might be in their rooms or down in the playroom beside the garage.  Only the radio, pitched higher than the game show on TV kept him company as he listened to the indictment of his fellow conspirator.

     Starke had found Tolliver. In some way that Daley couldn't quite imagine, he had forced the man to spill his guts.  Now the awful revelation was going out to anyone in the county who had KSLT turned on.

     The election!  But that thought was suddenly drowned by a worse one.  He stood a good chance of going to trial for manslaughter, if not for conspiracy to commit arson and murder.

     He turned with sudden violence and slammed out of the front door, leaving it open behind him to pour that devastating voice into the still evening.  Without thinking of any destination, Daley gunned his car out of the drive and down the farm-to-market road beyond.

     He passed an oncoming van without noticing that it turned in a track leading to a field and came after him. Only when he glanced into his rear view mirror did he realize that the van was following him

     Surely nobody was looking for him already!  He turned onto the farm-to-market road, off onto a county road, circled onto a main highway and again onto a blacktop, but the big dark van stayed right on his tail.

     Who drove such a vehicle?  His mind went blank, and he shook his head hard, trying to get his wits on line.

     He headed for the main highway, which was only some five miles distant.  If he could get onto that long, straight road, he might be able to outrun this stalker behind him.

     His little sports car was fast as greased lightning, but it didn't do well on frozen surfaces.  The highway department kept the big roads sanded, and that would give him traction.

     But he didn't have enough time.  Rounding a bend on the blacktop, he skidded sideways.  When he came to a stop the van was already parked off the road and a big man was running toward him, even as he crawled out of his seat.

     Then he knew.  Though it was dark, the reflected headlights showed him the face, the build, the fury of Terence Starke.  Damn!  If only the man had burned along with his wife!

     Then Daley was caught up in two hands that, despite their bandages, seemed incredibly strong.  They slammed him against the side of the car, and when his head hit, he went out completely.

     When he came to again, he was tied up and gagged.  He lay on a carpeted surface that bounced beneath him.  It had to be the van, he was sure.  He had been captured and tied up like a Christmas turkey, and now this madman was taking him away -- who knew where?  And for what?

     He groaned, but the van didn't slow and the driver didn't turn on the overhead light to check on him.  Daley tried to think, to plan, but without knowing what was in the man's mind he could think of no way to stop Starke from doing whatever he intended.

     Suddenly he remembered his family.  Loud and undisciplined as the boys were, demanding as June was, he found himself longing to see them again.  This night had turned his world upside-down, and for the first time in years he saw that he had been a very lucky man.  Good job, dependable wife, nice house, solid kids who didn't get into trouble -- at least not yet.

     A bump scattered his thoughts, and he heard the distinctive crunching whisper of tires on frozen gravel. Where was that damn Starke taking him?

     It seemed a long time before the van pulled to a stop. The light came on as the driver's door opened, went out as it closed again.

     Daley strained to hear the sound of his captor's steps or the opening of a door, but there was nothing but a thin hiss of wind past the vehicle.  Again he waited, this time in total darkness.  Positioned as he was behind the rear seat of the van, he couldn't even see a window.

     Maybe now he could escape -- he wriggled upward, trying to find some sharp edge, some solid bracing to help him manage his bound body.  But he found that he had been cross-braced, the bonds going to both sides and front and back, tied to the rear seat, the stanchions on the sides, and something at the back.  He couldn't roll, and he couldn't turn over.

     His hands felt as if they would burst with effort, as he twisted his wrists, trying to gain some slack in the bindings.  He found to his horror that tears were leaking from the corners of his eyes, puddling in his ears.

     He went still and breathed deeply, trying to regain the confidence that years of bullying others should have given him.  Before he could manage that, he heard steps at last, crunching over frozen grass and sleet.

     The back doors, at his feet, opened, showing a slightly paler sky beyond the dark shoulders blocking the opening.  He heard the sibilance of half-hitches being freed, and then he found himself being dragged by the heels, feet-first, from the van.  Tied like a sack, he couldn't stand, but a shoulder went under his belly and he went up easily, as if he wasn't one of the biggest men in the county.  Pure fear chilled him worse than the bite of the wind as he was carried away into the darkness, seeing only glimpses of pale dead grass, patterned wedges of clouded winter sky between black branches of barren trees.

     Starke paused beside a building, where he dropped the sheriff unceremoniously on his butt on the cold ground. "You're going to be here for a while, so I'd better tell you what's going to happen.  Look around you, you bastard!"

     A flashlight blossomed in the night, and Daley's reluctant gaze followed its beam around what had been a well kept yard.  When it picked out the remnants of the burned house, he shivered.  The blackened beams were now coated lightly with sleet, but what had happened here was all too plain.

     "Dorothy died right over there, where the brick pillar's still standing.  I heard her screaming and screaming for help, and I couldn't get there.  I had to back off and let her die, you ... " the voice died in a gust of breath.

     Daley could feel Starke struggling to regain control. He had done the same thing himself, only minutes ago.

     Again he was hauled upright, but this time the man dragged him across the littered yard around the edge of the fire area.  Yellow POLICE INVESTIGATION strips fluttered in the wind, but no deputy stood guard now, regardless of his orders that the site should be watched for a week.

     Starke kicked aside a leaning timber, pushed away a pile of anonymous debris, and crammed him against the four-foot brick pillar that stood upright amid the devastation.  More cords went around his shaking body, pulling him tightly against the cold surface.  He could feel the edge of the pillar in the middle of his back, and he felt sure he could struggle free, if he got the chance.  Then he heard the clink of chain.

     "There's a nice heavy iron ring set into the pillar here, because we used to keep Shep chained to it in summer to keep the skunks out from under the house.  I don't think he'll mind if we dirty his chain with your hide.  I've let him run free since the fire.  Keeps undesirables off the land." Starke sounded normal, cheerful, almost sane.

     When the sheriff was secured to the pillar, a cold blade nudged his cheek, and the cord holding the gag fell away. "Wah?  Wha?"  Daley spat and choked, trying to get his mouth to work.

     "What?  Oh, I'm going to leave you right here where Dorothy died, just where the fire must have started.  That poor bastard of a bum who set it hadn't brain enough to understand what he was doing, but you did.  You and Tolliver took the chance of killing my entire family, whether he'd admit it or not.  Well, you got one of us."  The voice went grim, colder than the north wind.

     "Now you're going to stand here in the dark, listening. Maybe you'll hear her scream the way I did.  Maybe she'll come back and show you just what it was you're responsible for.  As for me, I'm going back to see my kids."

     The dark shape moved away a pace or two.  Then it halted and the voice drifted back.  "Could be, one of your deputies will check on the place in the morning.  Have a nice night, Daley." Then he was gone.

     Ernest Daley had always prided himself on his good sense.  People who admitted to having imagination or religion or any such nonsense were beneath contempt, he had always thought.  Now, standing in the cutting wind, he settled himself to endure the cold.  He didn't expect anything else, and if anything unexplainable came at him he simply wouldn't believe it.

     His knees ached with strain and cold, and his feet had been numb for a long while when the first of the cries caught his ear.  Thinned by distance and wind, it was high-pitched, inhuman, moving up and down the scale with a strangely eery, almost musical quality.

     Coyotes, he thought, hunting across the fields.  Or some of the few remaining red wolves, perhaps.  He'd heard their shrill cries in the night while he was hunting for men or game, over the years.

     But this wasn't quite right.  This sound was different. It had a quality that grated on his nerves, and it went on and on and on.  It came no nearer, yet it never faded into the distance.

     He tried to rub his face against his shoulder, but he was now so chilled that it was hard to do.  The sweat that trickled down his temples could only be caused by fear, and he was shamed by it.  Ernest Daley was no coward, to be frightened by hunting animals on a winter night.

     Without warning, he thought of the woman who had died in a concentration of utter pain, right here where he stood. For the first time in his life, Daley felt a surge of empathy, though he would not have recognized the term.  What had she felt, what had she thought, trapped in the flames, beyond reach of any help?

     Suddenly he felt pain blaze up his legs, up his back and groin, rising into his chest and his throat.  He gagged on smoke, though the wind blew chilly and clean off the sweep of forest and field to the northwest.  Choking, he sagged against the pillar, which burned into his lower spine.

     Daley closed his eyes, struggling for control.  This was hallucination, delusion, whatever the mystical sons-of-bitches called it.  It wasn't really happening.

     The cadences of the cries did not change, adding another sort of torture to his misery.  He felt as if he were afire from heel to head, his hair rising in a stiff brush under his cap.  Where was Starke?

     "Help!" he screamed, finding the strength at last to force his voice through his painful throat.  "Help me!"

     But there was no answer, only the wind and the inhuman cries in the night.  When he slid downward at last, a lax shape drooping against the chain and the ropes, the darkness that overwhelmed him was welcome.

                             ***

     Terence Starke sat in his van, listening.  When he heard Daley's tortured voice, he smiled.  When it stopped its panicked screaming, he sobered and left the van, making his way carefully toward the pillar where he had left the killer of his wife.  He didn't use his flash, for if the man was conscious it might give him some comfort.

     He stepped carefully around the fallen timbers, moving toward the sharp-angled pillar, which was black against the sky.  No man-shape reared above it, and he knew that Daley had fallen.

     When he stubbed his toe against something soft, he bent and felt it over.  There was the head, the cap fallen aside to leave the cropped hair free.  There was the neck, beneath the woollen collar of his uniform.

     No pulse throbbed there.

     Terry had never dreamed his plan might work so well.  He had thought to torture the man, bring him, perhaps, to the brink of insanity, but he had not thought Daley might be so vulnerable.  Perhaps conscience had lived somewhere in that gross body, after all.

     He cut off the ropes, stripped away the chain, and let the body sag onto the ash-laden ground.  Then he picked his way out of the ruin, hoping the wind would swirl the remaining ashes to hide his footprints.  But even if it didn't, what could anyone prove?  He had not killed Daley, and he had no doubt an autopsy would find that he died of heart failure or sudden stroke.

     When he reached the corner post nearest the van, he shut off the cassette player.  The tape of whale-calls from Al's collection had been better than he'd hoped.  Even he had shivered at the eery cries in the frozen night.

     He backed the van out of the wagon track leading into the field next to the house, glad that he hadn't used his main driveway.  The yellow strip cordoning off the fire site had done him a favor, after all.

     Then he drove away toward town.  Tonight he would sleep deeply.  Tomorrow he might be allowed to take his children home, where Miss Ella would nourish them with food and affection, equally.

     Tomorrow he would begin to heal himself.  In time he might find a new direction for his life.  His resistance to the county's crooks would never stop, but he knew now that there were other, more constructive directions, as well.  He would show Susie and Teddy the world and its marvels, instead of sticking here like frogs in the mud.

     Revenge burned bitterly in his craw, though he had expected to feel exultant.  Life would be good, in time, he promised himself.

     Life would be good again.  But two ghosts would haunt his nights, he understood, accepting that, even welcoming it. They would balance, one good, one wicked, leaving him calm and at peace, suspended between them forever.

                              #