"Reward."

"Mr. Gebben is a very wealthy man. He's offering twenty-five thousand dollars for apprehension of the killer."

Ribbon chewed on his cheek to keep the rampaging grin at bay. "Well, my, that's generous… Of course you can imagine that rewards like that generate a mess of bounty hunting. We got a lot of people in this county own guns and can carry them legally."

Mahoney frowned as he corrected himself. "Should've said: the reward is for professionals only. For law enforcers. That way there's no risk of people who don't know what they're doing getting hurt."

"Mr. Mahoney."

"I'm a cop, you're a cop…"

"Charlie. Charlie, it might not look good for… Well, politically is what I'm saying, to have an outsider here. It might look like we don't know what we're doing."

"It might also look like you thought so highly of the community that you had the foresight to call in some special help." Mahoney took a leisurely moment to study his watch. "Well. There you have it. Now, you can kick my ass out of here tomorrow if you want. But I'm stuck in town for the night at least and don't know a soul. How 'bout you and me get a drink and trade war stories. There's not much else to do in this town, is there?"

Ribbon almost made a comment about one pastime being raping co-eds by moonlight but caught himself. "Well, there are," he said, "but 'cept for fishing none of 'em's as fun as drinking."

She lifted the card off her desk with a trembling hand and stared at it, the little white rectangle. It was stiff and the corners were very sharp. One pressed painfully into her nail-chewed thumb, which left a bloody smear on the card. Emily Rossiter started to sit on the bed but then thought that they might have sat here. They'd probably looked between the mattress and the springs. They'd felt the pillow. They'd run their hands along the same sheets where she and her lover had lain. She dropped the card and saw, as it flipped over and over, the words Please call me… Det. William Corde flash on and off then disappear as the card landed in the wastebasket. She wondered if even the trash had been violated. Emily walked into the hall then into the telephone alcove.

She made a call and stiffened slightly when someone answered. "It's Emily… I have to see you. No, now." She listened for a moment to vehement protests then answered defiantly. "It's about Jennie." The voice on the other end of the line went silent.

"So I go like you are too much why don't you just sit on it and then Donna's like he is too totally much it's like you know like his eyes have this total hard-on and I go…"

Philip Halpern thought: Shut. Up.

In the room he and his sister shared there was one telephone. His sister, fourteen, used it most of the time.

The cool breeze of an April evening flowed through the window, rippling the green sheet that separated Philip's side from his sister's. Taped on the poorly painted walls were dozens of creased posters, the sort that come stapled in the centerfold of teen magazines. The wind momentarily lifted aside the Kmart sheet, studded with tiny red flowers, and for a brief moment Luke Perry and Madonna faced off against the Road Warrior and Schwarzenegger's Terminator.

In Philip's half of the stale-scented space: stacks of comic books, science fiction novels, drawing tablets, plastic figures of comic book heroes and villains. Hundreds of magazines, Fangoria, CineGore, Heavy Metal, many missing their covers; unable to afford them, Philip regularly swiped the unsold, stripped copies from trash bins behind New Lebanon News. On his dresser and desk rested elaborate plastic models of space ships perfectly assembled but coated with grime. In the corner, a hatrack project for shop class, partially completed, hid a massive dustball.

Dominating the room was a huge hand-printed sign. In oddly elaborate script it read: Entry Forbidden, the message surrounded by dozens of letters from the runic alphabet and tiny sketches of gargoyles and dragons.

Philip lay in his sagging bed on a mattress now dry but marred with a hundred old urine stains. He had told his parents that he had to study for a test and went into the bedroom. His father had seemed pleasantly surprised at this news then turned on Wheel of Fortune. Philip did not however study. He read Heinlein, he read Asimov, he read Philip K. Dick (he believed at times he was possessed by Dick's spirit), he lay on the bed, staring at flowers and mentally designing a laser, until his sister came into the room and made the phone call to her girlfriend.

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Their father opened the bedroom door abruptly and said, "Off the phone. Lights out. Now." His hand swept the light switch down. The door closed.

"… naw, my old man… gotta go. Yeah, tomorrow."

Philip turned the laser onto the afterimage of his father to see if it would work. It did, spectacularly. Philip invented very efficient weapons.

His voice hissed as he fired it again.

Rosy said, "Asshole."

"Say that to him."

"I'm talking to you," she said. He heard the zipper of her jeans. He wondered what she was going to wear to bed.

Philip said, "You're a 'ho."

She said, "You wish."

"Bitch."

"Fag."

The springs of her mattress squeaked as she flopped into bed. Philip lay unmoving for ten minutes – until he heard her steady breathing. Fully dressed, he sat up, feeling the cool air from the open window wash over him. He climbed through the window and as he fell to the spongy ground he slipped into the Lost Dimension; it was Phathar the warrior who staggered briefly then righted himself and strode confidently out of the moonlight-flooded backyard.

Professor Randolph Sayles wondered why there were no crickets or cicadas here. He listened. It was late April. Was it too early for them? He didn't know entomology. He'd struggled through life sciences, biology being the one course that had deprived him of a four-point grade average in undergraduate school. Twenty-six years later he still resented this.

He stood in the Veterans Memorial Park for ten minutes before she appeared. He thought Emily Rossiter was one of the most beautiful young women he'd ever seen. She had curly brown hair, surrounding a round face of Italian or Greek features, very pale. On her beauty alone he could have lived forever with her, sufficiently happy, sufficiently in love.

Yet as she approached him now – under a trestle of budding maples, the defiantly glaring moonlight silver against the riffling underside of the young leaves – what he saw shocked him. She was like a homeless woman, disheveled, her face puffy, her hair in tangles and unclean, her mouth slack, clothes dirty. Her eyes unfocused, her weak smile mad.

Yet despite her crazed demeanor, despite his anger toward her, despite his fear of her, Randy Sayles wanted nothing so much as to make love to her. Here, immediately, on the grass, on the dirt, hot flesh on flesh in a sea of cool spring air… He wanted to force her down and press on her, harder harder… He wanted to sample her vulnerability. He wanted her salty, unwashed flesh between his teeth…

He had once tried to seduce her, an incident that ended unconsummated and dangerously close to rape. She had finally repelled him with a slap, drawing blood. He had apologized and never approached her again. Curiously this scalding memory exponentially increased his hunger for her now.

He stood slouching, hands pocketed, as she stopped two feet away from him. They stood under a streetlight that seemed duller and more eerie than the light from the full moon. "Emily."

"You know what happened to her, don't you?" The words seemed to stumble from her mouth.