"Fuck you." Congden grinned. "You're next, shithead. Don't think that I don't ..." He'd glanced over toward Harlen and now he froze, knife still in the air.

Jim Harlen stood by the open rear door, his sling and cast making him look as vulnerable as ever. But the blue-steeled pistol in his right hand didn't look too vulnerable. "Let him go, C.J.," Harlen said again.

Congden stared for only a second. Then he slammed a forearm chokehold on Dale, swung him around between him and the gun, and used him for a shield, the knife blade raised.

More movies, a maddeningly detached part of Dale's mind commented. This poor asshole must think that his life is part of some dumb movie. Then Dale just concentrated on breathing through the heavy pressure on his windpipe.

Congden was shouting, spittle landing on Dale's right cheek. "Harlen, you miserable fuck, you couldn't hit the side of a fucking barn with the thing from this distance, much less me, you fuck. Go ahead, shoot. Go ahead." He jiggled Dale like a shield.

Dale would have liked to kick Congden in the balls, or at least the shins, but the angles were wrong. The bully was tall enough that he was lifting Dale almost off his own feet in the chokehold. Dale had to dance on his toes just to keep from being strangled. And to make matters worse, he was sure at that second that Harlen was going to shoot. . . and hit him.

But Harlen just glanced at the gun as if he hadn't been aware that he was holding it. "You want me to shoot?" he asked, voice innocent and curious.

Congden was beside himself with rage and adrenaline. "Go ahead, you fuckin' pussy, you cocksucking little whoreson pussy, shoot the fucking gun, pussy ..."

Harlen shrugged, lifted the short-barreled little pistol, aimed into the Chevy, and pulled the trigger. The shot was loud even out in the wide valley openness of the place.

Congden lost his mind. He shoved Dale aside-Dale teetering against the guardrail and staring at the water thirty feet below before catching a steel beam and his balance-and then Congden was running across the bridge surface, saliva and obscenities flying.

Harlen took a step forward, aimed the gun at the windshield of the Chevy, and said, "Stop."

C. J. Congden skidded to a halt, the steel kicktaps on his engineer's boots throwing sparks three feet in the air. He was still ten paces from Jim Harlen. "I'll kill you," Congden gritted through clenched teeth. "I'll fucking kill you."

"Maybe," agreed Harlen, "but your daddy's car'll have about five holes in it before you do." He moved the aiming point to the hood.

Congden flinched as if the pistol were pointed at him. "Hey, please, Jimmy, I didn't . . ." he said in a pleading tone that was far more sickening than his usual insane-bully voice.

"Shut up," said Harlen. "Dale, get your ass over here, would you?"

Dale shook himself out of his reverie and got his ass over there, making a wide detour around the frozen Congden. Then he was behind Harlen, by the open rear door.

"Throw the knife over the railing," said Harlen, adding a "Now!" when the punk started to speak.

Congden tossed his switchblade over the railing, down into the trees along the riverbank.

Harlen nodded Dale into the backseat. "Why don't we get going," Harlen suggested to Congden. "We'll ride back here. Any shit from you . . . even breaking the speed limit again . . . and I'm going to put a few holes in your dad's custom upholstery, maybe even add a new detail to that tacky dashboard." He settled in with Dale, closed the door.

Congden got in the driver's seat. He tried to light a cigarette with the same punky bravado as before, but his hand and lips were shaking. "You know this means I'm gonna kill your ass sooner or later," he said, squinting in the mirror at them, his bully voice back now and quavering only slightly. "I'm fucking gonna wait for you both and fucking get you and . . ."

Harlen sighed and lifted the pistol, aiming it precisely at the fur-lined rearview mirror with the fuzzy dice hanging from it. "Shut up and drive," he said.

The door to the rectory was open and Mrs. McCafferty wasn't around guarding the drawbridge or the moat; Mike went softly up the stairs to Father C. 's room. The sound of men's voices made him press against the wall and move silently to the open door.

"If the fever and vomiting continue," came Dr. Staffney's voice, "we'll have to transfer him to St. Francis and put him on IV just to avoid severe dehydration."

Another man's voice, unknown to Mike but one he assumed to be that of Dr. Powell, said, "I hate to move him forty miles in this state. Let's start the IV here and have the housekeeper and the nurse watch him ... see if the fever breaks or we get any secondary symptoms before the transfer."

There was silence for a moment, then Dr. Staffney said, "Watch it, Charles."

Mike peered through the crack in the door just as the retching noises began. The doctor Mike didn't recognize was holding a bedpan-obviously a chore he was not used to-while Father C., eyes closed, face white as the pillowcase he lay against, vomited violently into the metal receptacle.

"Good God," said Dr. Powell, "has all the vomitus been of this consistency?" There was revulsion in the man's voice, but also professional curiosity.

Mike bent lower and set his eye against the crack. He could see Father C. 's head lolling against the pillow, bedpan almost against his cheek. The vomit seemed to fill his cheeks and move like molasses into the bedpan. It was less liquid than a solid brown discharge, a mass of partially digested mucousy particles. The bedpan was almost full and the priest showed no signs of stopping.

Dr. Staffney answered the other doctor's question, but Mike did not hear the comment. He had moved away from the crack and was crouching against the wall, fighting the surge of dizziness and nausea that had assailed him.

"... where's the damn housekeeper, anyway?" Dr. Powell was saying.

"She went to drive Nurse Billings over from Oak Hill," replied Dr. Staffney's familiar voice. "Here-use this."

Mike tiptoed down the stairs and was pleased to be out in the fresh air, despite the terrible heat of the day. The sky had gone from morning blue to late-morning bleached blue to a midafternoon gunmetal glare. The fierce sunlight and high humidity lay on everything like heavy but invisible blankets.

The streets were empty as Mike pedaled downtown, avoiding line of sight to Jensen's A&P so that his mother wouldn't spy him and think of some chore he had to do. He had his own chore right now.

Mink Harper was the town drunk. Mike knew him the way every kid in town knew him: Mink was invariably polite and talkative with kids, eager to share whatever small finds he had made in his endless search for "buried treasure." Mink was a pain to the grown-ups, always asking for a handout, but he never bothered kids with his pleas. The fact that Mink had no set address-he often slept under the park bandstand during the heat of the summer days, moving to his "outdoor bed" of one of the park benches in the cool of the evening. Mink always had a reserved seat during a Free Show, and he was always willing to let kids crawl into the cool dark under the bandstand to watch the show through the broken latticework with him.

In the winter, Mink was less visible; some said he slept in the abandoned tallow factory or in the shed behind the tractor dealership across from the park, others said that families with a soft heart-like the Staffneys or Whittakers-allowed him to sleep in their barns and even come in for a few hot meals.

But it wasn't meals that Mink worried about; his goal was knowing where the next bottle was coming from. The guys at Carl's Tavern often bought him a drink-although the owner wouldn't allow Mink on the premises to drink it-but usually their kindness quickly turned mean, with Mink at the butt of whatever joke they were pulling.