The voice laughed softly, and he opened his eyes and saw above his head the familiar mottled ceiling of his bedroom. He blinked rapidly and hard because the light was bright and it was difficult to see anything but shapes and shadows moving around the room. Something fluttered by the window that overlooked the front yard; he concentrated on it until it focused into the old white curtains ruffled by a breeze. Beside the window he saw an IV stand, an empty plastic bag hanging from a hook, clear plastic tubing draped over the top.

A good start, he thought, and turned his attention to his water bearer.

A moment later he recognized her face. "Hi," he said, abruptly ashamed at how weak he sounded.

"Hi, yourself," Ronnie answered. Red hair pulled back, away from her brow and ears, a size-large checkered shirt that puffed and molded when she moved. "How do you feel?"

His eyes closed momentarily as he took careful, fearful stock-his face felt stiff, as if it were mildly sunburned, cotton batting had been crammed into his head, his chest didn't feel quite right, and his left leg had clearly been carved out of old wood.

Deeper, far deeper, there was a suggestion of great pain.

"Strange," he decided, somewhat surprised. "Okay, but strange."

"Good enough." She gave him another sip of water, cautioning him with a look not to drink too much at once.

"I'm home." He knew he sounded stupid, clearing his throat several times because it felt lined with iron shavings.

She nodded as she held the gla.s.s to his lips. "Yep, you are."

"So I'm not dead."

"Nope. Beat all to h.e.l.l, though."

His eyes closed again.

He remembered, and held his breath for a long time, dampening the turmoil combination of anxiety and rage that made his neck muscles bulge, his head tremble slightly. He could sense Ronnie's unease and forced calm upon himself; a truce, momentary and fragile.

Then he slowly folded the sheet down and away from his chest, noting as he did the welts and bruises on the backs of his hands, the tiny cuts. When his torso was exposed, he couldn't see much, but he saw enough. More scratches, and a vast multicolored bruise that spread side to side and down to his stomach; he couldn't help thinking how much like mold it looked. He didn't bother to prod it, test it. It should hurt like h.e.l.l, it didn't, and he let well enough alone.

"d.a.m.n," he muttered, voice rasping.

What he thought was: Why the h.e.l.l aren't I dead?

He used his right hand then to examine his face, felt padding and rough edges down to his neck, up into his hair. "Do I want a mirror?"

She laughed silently. "Probably not today, no. You've got twenty or thirty st.i.tches, and a ton of mummy bandages." She gestured toward his chest and legs. "The good news is, there's nothing broken."

"Small favors, I guess." He tried to sit up, groaned, and gave up when something long and hot flared in his spine. When his eyes closed, the pain eased.

"Dr. Alloway says you're supposed to take it easy," she told him. "Not that you haven't figured that out already." She called, "He's awake," over her shoulder and put the gla.s.s on the nightstand, next to a trio of drugstore pill bottles. "Sorry," she said, keeping her voice low. "They insisted."

A few seconds later a man's voice in the doorway: "Mr. Chisholm, I'm so pleased you're back with us."

Another man, much younger: "Thank G.o.d."

Quiet footsteps across the floor, a faint rocking motion as Ronnie settled gingerly on the edge of the mattress.

"We were awfully concerned, Mr. Chisholm." Reverend Baylor, at his left side. "I hope you don't mind, but we had some prayers for you at service."

"Whatever works," Casey answered, and sighed at how flip his response sounded. "Thanks."

"Are you hurting, Mr. Chisholm?" Whittaker Hull, from the foot of the bed, speaking gravely.

For an instant Casey saw the bra.s.s knuckles, the fist, the face behind them, and he flinched before he realized that he didn't hurt much at all.

"No," he said, amazed.

"That," Ronnie said, "is because you're all doped up. When it wears off..."

3.

He stands in the modest belfry of a modest church, and h.e.l.l boils below him-houses burning, gla.s.s melting, buildings exploding, trees afire all the way to the horizon; people running and crawling and screaming and dying, or dead already, faces turned to the night sky, blind to the rain and the lightning.

A shotgun blast.

The sound of an ax meeting the back of someone's skull.

An automobile strikes a tree and adds fuel to the fire.

A cry for help.

A cry for mercy.

The flames are too bright in the middle of the night, and he can't see anymore what's real down there in the midst of flickering sliding shadow; he can't find his friends to see who's still alive, and he can't find the woman who brought all this to the town that was his home.

A boy far below looks up at him in horror.

He stiffens and rage takes him-the woman is right behind him.

A voice in his ear: "Believe it or not, we're on the same side."

4.

He had questions, but he couldn't stay awake long enough to ask them all, sometimes asked them twice because he couldn't remember the original answers.

So the answers came in spurts and soft whispers, as the light dimmed and brightened and dimmed again, as the pain made its way to the surface on the tips of jabbing spears and lances, fighting the medication, fighting his sense of time and place.

"Who found me?"

"Senior Raybourn," said Reverend Baylor. There was amus.e.m.e.nt in his tone. "He said he was coming back to take care of you, whatever that meant. He had his shotgun, so I can imagine you must have ... well, never mind. It doesn't matter. He found you on the walk, said there was more blood than skin, and thought you were surely dead. I think, Mr. Chisholm, that disappointed him somehow. At any rate, he called the sheriff, Gloria Nazario, and me. By the time I got here, Sheriff Oakman had already arrived."

"The Teagues. It was the Teagues."

"So you've said. A number of times."

Chilly.

The furnace loud.

Fresh sheets, a clean blanket, someone gave him a sponge bath because he couldn't stand, couldn't walk, and would be d.a.m.ned if he'd crawl.

"What day is it?"

Ronnie grinned. "Maybe you should ask what week it is."

Gloria Nazario brought him soup, fed him over his feeble protests, dried his chin with a napkin, all the while looking as if she'd murder the first person who looked at her sideways. She had taken over his care, and no one argued. Not even Hector, who sometimes stood in the doorway, staring at him as though trying to figure out what he was.

Gloria had no gossip, no news. All she said was, "Eat."

When she had to leave for Betsy's, Kitra Baylor took over, sitting in a corner armchair, reading, checking to be sure his pills were administered on time. When he tried to talk to her, all she said was, "Sleep."

Whittaker Hull had more questions than answers, and Casey had a bad feeling he was going to show up on the Weekly's front page. Thank G.o.d, the man hadn't taken any pictures.

As far as he knew.

"Are the Teagues in jail?"

"No."

"Why the h.e.l.l not?"

"Why did they attack you, Mr. Chisholm? Do you think it's because you helped me, is that what it was? Did you say something to Stump at church Thanksgiving morning? I saw you talking to him, with Mrs. Baylor, and later, when you took him away. Well, I saw what you did; I don't know if you talked to him or not. He has a rather nasty temper. It doesn't pay to have it aimed at you. As you've already found out. What did you say to him, Mr. Chisholm? May I call you Casey? What did you say to him, Casey? What did you do? Do you know something? Do you know what's going on?"

A strong night wind that prowled around the house, voicing its displeasure at not being able to get in.

Once, the sound of rain snapping at the window, and the night seemed much darker.

A chubby man, with thin strands' of short brown hair that refused to lie down properly across a tan-mottled scalp. Heavy lips, pale eyes, ears that stood out from the side of his head. Gla.s.ses in thick black frames.

Clark Gable ears, Casey thought, and must have said it aloud because the man scowled and shook his head with impatience.

He had a needle; he used it.

Casey drifted forever each time the man left.

"What day is it?"

"Eat."

"What day is it?"

"Sleep, Mr. Chisholm, sleep. It's the best thing for you right now."

"Why aren't they in jail?"

"Sadly, Casey, it's the way of it here. You haven't been around. You saw it in my office. Now you know."

Sometime, he didn't know when, but he still couldn't sit up without nausea spinning out of the dizziness that spiraled along with it...sometime during the next few days, Sheriff Oakman came to see him, full uniform, without the sungla.s.ses. Perched on the foot of the bed, hat pushed back, gunbelt leather creaking each time he shifted. He said nothing about the last time they had spoken.

Casey couldn't think very straight, drug and pain at constant war, yet it didn't take long for him to catch on: "So you say it was the Teagues, Mr. Chisholm?"

"I don't say so. It was them. Billy Ray hit me first. I don't remember much after that."

"So you don't really know if Stump and Cord took their licks, too."

"Don't think they just stood around, Sheriff. Stump was pretty ticked at me."

"It was near dark, that right?"

"Yes."