Introduction

Stiles lay flat on his back in bed with his eyes shut. And he listened.

The old television in the corner popped and hummed like a live wire, decidedly livelier than the rehashed Tonight Show mono­logue it played. Now and then the walls creaked, either from settling or the wind. And things scampered incessantly across the low roof. Too big for mice. Squirrels maybe, more likely rats. He’d shot one last week. The fields were full of them.

Outside the shack’s single window the night was alive with sound. The breeze sawing through the tall, dry grass. The chirping of crickets. The light patter of kamikaze insects pummeling themselves against the screen door. In the distance a dog barked, and even farther away, an engine revved, then faded.

As he listened, he knew there was someone in the room with him.

He wasn’t sure just how he knew. There had been no specific sound to alert him. The screen door hadn’t creaked, and no one had jiggled the knob. The window had not rattled. There had been no heavy footfall, no spoken word, not even a cleared throat. No breathing.

Still, there was someone there. He could feel it. And he knew who it would be.

He raised himself up on an elbow, scratched his whiskered chin, and looked around the dingy little one-room building he’d called home for the past three weeks. It was mostly dark, which was just as well since he’d grown to despise it in that short length of time. The solitary light in the room was the flickering glare of the old black-and-white Motorola in the corner, which due to age and a failing picture tube was fading in and out with annoying regularity, but receiving the audio undisturbed. He grunted with indifference. Best of Carson anyway.

The strobic flash of the TV was a distraction, but soon his eyes adjusted and he was able to look past it, to search the darkened fringes of the room where shadows gathered like strands of cobweb. There was the wobbly dining table where his gear was laid out, the matching stool, the Peg-Board on the wall where hoes and rakes had hung, back when this was a toolshed and not the caretaker’s quarters. Next to the basin was a wooden counter, its top stained black by peat moss and potting soil, these days a home for his hot plate and toaster. His eyes shifted across the rest of the room. Past the Motorola and Karnac the Magnificent was a tall but leaning bookshelf that held nary a book, just some Beanee Weenees and a can of tomato soup and what little else he could afford from the Village Pantry near town. Beyond the bookshelf and hidden from the TV’s luminescence was a La-Z-Boy from the early Mesozoic. Its time-frozen gears were locked somewhere between upright and recline, and its scaly, torn vinyl had been disguised with a throw cover.

And that was it. The entire room, the entire building in fact, and he’d found nothing out of order. Damn.

A movement caught his eye. It was very smooth, very subtle, and would have gone unnoticed had he not been looking for it. A shadow seemed to step away from the side of the bookcase. It took form and substance, glided laterally, and sat down in the La-Z-Boy and crossed its legs. A low whispery voice sounded, barely audible over the clamor of the studio audience. “You’re getting dull, Hoss,” it said. “If I’d been a robber I could’ve killed you.”

Stiles’s expression remained unchanged. “If you’d been a robber,” he said, raising his arm and letting the sheet slip away to reveal the Smith & Wesson 9mm in his hand, “you could’ve tried.” Across the room the shadowy figure gave a weak laugh in reply.

At least it sounded like a laugh. Chris Stiles could never be sure where his brother was concerned.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Alex?” He lowered the stubby pistol and laid it on the orange-crate nightstand next to his Maalox and his reading glasses and a dog-eared Harlequin Romance.

Alex “laughed” again. “I don’t know. Has it?”

Stiles remained humorless. “Only three years. S’funny, I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”

“You mean hoping, don’t you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The man in the shadows kept his same dull tone. “You didn’t have to, Hoss.”

Stiles frowned and shrugged off the other’s words. “Do me a favor, Alex. Don’t be screwin’ with my mind tonight. I’m not in the mood.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and groaned, stretching his stocky frame and wincing at the chorus of creaks and pops that greeted his ears. His muscular physique was still solid and impressive, but the years had been hard and the wear was beginning to show. He was constantly reminded of this by the roadmap of scars across his bare torso and thighs. Some he’d carried out of the jungles of Southeast Asia. Most he had acquired since.

“So . . .” Alex sighed. “How are you doing these days?”

In the relative silence of the caretaker’s shack, Stiles never expected to hear his own laughter. But the absurdity of the question, especially in light of the shithole they were sitting in . . . Apparently his sense of humor had warped a bit in the last few years. “Look around you, Slick,” he spread his arms. “Can’t you see I’m in the proverbial lap of luxury?” He turned away just long enough to scoop up the Harlequin paperback and splatter a roach on the wall above the bed. “Paradise it ain’t. You ever tried to get a job in Indiana? They’re few and far between to say the least. I finally met this one old guy who was willing to give me a chance. He runs a manufacturing company in the basement of that house across the way. I’ve been working there for a few weeks now. Repackaging silicone—I take it out of here and put it in there, from barrels to caulking tubes. Sounds fun, huh? After a couple of hours with that stuff, your head is just roaring from the fumes and you can’t get it out of your clothes, but what the hell, it’s money, right? I get a whole two-fifty an hour in cash, that and this place to bunk in, and I’ve got to be damn grateful for that. So much for the American dream, eh?” He nodded toward the table. “The money would only stretch so far this time. I barely had enough for the ammo, let alone any groceries. So here I am, Alex. Somewhere in the boonies with less than ten bucks to my name. You tell me, how am I doing?”

Alex was quiet for a moment. “Don’t whine, Hoss,” he said. “At least you’re still alive.”

At that Chris Stiles went rigid. His weathered face tightened and his eyes flared. He stood slowly, stalked across the room, stared into the shadows at his brother and hissed, “Don’t you lay that guilt shit on me. Don’t you dare! I’ve given up everything for you. I’ve laid my ass on the line time after time. I’ve paid you back for ’Nam and more, so don’t you ever start that shit. Alive, you say. Am I? Really?” He walked to the table, picked up his cigarettes, and lit one with a shaking hand. “I thought so for a while, when you didn’t show up again. I had a job in Louisville. The money wasn’t bad and I had friends. There was even a girl there. But then I get this feeling, this gnawing at the back of my neck. ‘Go to Indiana,’ it says, ‘Alex is waiting,’ and I drop everything just like that, just like before. I dropped my life for you. So don’t ever get in my face like that again! You hear me?” He ground the Vantage into the ashtray after just a few puffs and sat down at the dining table, turning his attention to the reloading press there, his back to his brother.

For a while there was silence, save for Carson on the jittery tube. “Our first guest is someone I’m sure you’re all familiar with. . . .”

Alex coughed, then cleared his throat. “Kind of edgy, aren’t you, Hoss?” he managed weakly, but humorous quips weren’t going to help him now. He saw that and fell silent for a moment, fidgeting uncomfortably in the old recliner. “I’m sorry, Chris. Really. It’s just . . .” He paused, inviting the silence back while he sought the words. “It’s hard for me, sometimes. All these years without rest . . . I’m tired, Chris. And scared. I’m afraid this is never going to end, that we’re never gonna win. I guess it gets to me sometimes.”

“It gets to me, too,” Stiles said over his shoulder. His voice retained its bitterness but was now softer, more controlled than before. “I know it’s not easy for you. And I’m still trying to help. I came, didn’t I?”

Back in the shadows Alex smiled, or at least gave a semblance of a smile. The closest he could manage. “Yeah, you did, Hoss. That you did.”

Charles Nelson Reilly began telling a story to Johnny and Ed. The picture had faded for the moment, but he could still be heard, rambling madly.

Stiles lifted the Uzi pistol off the table and worked the bolt on the compact submachine gun. “So, what is it this time?” he wondered aloud. “The boogeyman?”

Alex shrugged. “Who knows? I can never be sure. I just feel a tingle, like a Geiger counter. I know it’s there, somewhere. It’s real evil this time, and I mean hard-core evil. It’s strong, and it’s getting stronger.”

Stiles reached for another cigarette. “You’re not making me feel any better,” he muttered around the butt. “You think it might be the Enemy?”

Alex’s voice changed slightly. “It could be. It’s damn thick this time, almost smothering. Just like that night.” For a moment he seemed lost in thought, in a sudden surge of memory. After a moment he grimaced and shook it off and returned to the present. “Are you ready?” he asked.

Stiles turned to the table where the tools of his trade were laid out and asked himself that same question. Are you ready?

The Heckler & Koch carbine lay stripped and cleaned before him; originally a civilian Model 94 semi-automatic, it had been converted to full auto and an integral suppressor had been installed on the barrel. The laser sighting system had been mounted as well and was fully functional. He put the Mini-Uzi down beside it and checked his second Smith & Wesson 669, this one still nestled in its Cordura shoulder rig. Loaded and ready.

The center of the table was monopolized by ammunition: thousands of rounds of 9mm hollow points he’d loaded on the press over the last several days. There were also packages of factory ammo, all of a certain make. He preferred the Glaser Safety Slug, a particularly destructive round. On impact its copper jacket would simply peel away, allowing the number-12 shot within to expand and chew up the intended target. A Glaser round did maximum damage, and that was just why he used them, though they were too expensive for the wasteful autofire of the SMGs. So he saved them exclusively for his pistols.

He picked up his Alice pack and combat vest from the floor and inspected the pouches and pockets where his munitions were tucked away. In all, there were enough arms and armaments before him now to wage a highly effective one-man war. Which is just what he did for a living. If you could call it that.

Would it be enough? The doubts were always there, like splinters beneath the skin. “Ready as I’ve ever been,” he finally reported. “Where do we fight this time?”

“Not far from here,” Alex told him. “Just east of Bedford. A little town called Isherwood. And this time you’ve got something to go on. The word Danner. Whether that’s a name of a street or a store, I don’t know. Just Danner.” With that the dark figure stood and stretched mechanically. “Will you start soon?”

“First thing in the morning.”

“Fine.” Alex stepped away from the La-Z-Boy and stood in front of the television. When the picture abruptly came back to life, his shadow was not visible on the walls. “I’ll be with you if I can. If they let me.”

Chris watched his brother and Johnny Carson at the same time, for his view was unhindered. He simply looked through Alex’s torso, which was becoming more and more transparent as he watched. “Alex,” he whispered, “what’s it like to be dead?”

Alex “laughed.” “You always ask me that, Hoss.”

“Yeah. And you never answer.”

Alex stopped laughing and faded from view.