2

Two A.M. Pouring. Pitch-black.

Grofield drove at five miles an hour with parking lights on across the dirt road toward the trees. The windshield wipers, whipping back and forth at top speed, couldn't keep up with the rain.

If it was still raining like this tomorrow, Myers would have to hold off on his caper. There wouldn't be any fires in Monequois, no matter how many bombs Myers set. Grofield, wishing Myers good luck up to a point, had listened to the local news at eleven, where they had said the rain would stop during the night and tomorrow would be cloudy and cooler. Grofield hoped they were right.

He reached the edge of the woods, and stopped. Turning the car around, in the dark, on this narrow dirt road, was a tricky operation. He didn't want to wind up stuck in the mud halfway; it would make for an embarrassing moment in the morning, when the boys came out to pull their job.

Grofield got it turned around at last, pocketed the keys, and very reluctantly got out of the car. That afternoon he'd done some shopping in Monequois' cramped downtown, buying himself knee-length rubber boots, water-repellent hunting trousers, a water-repellent hunter's waistlength jacket with hood, and some other things that he would maybe need a little later. Now, standing beside the car in the pouring rain, he felt that he must look like the Abominable Snowman. Or, considering the tan color of everything he had on, maybe more like the abominable mudman.

The jacket had a pouch in the front. He put his hands in there now, feeling the little Smith & Wesson Terrier and the pencil flashlight. Keeping his right hand in the pouch, fingers closed around the revolver butt, he took his left hand out with the small flashlight, switched it on, and started slogging down the faintly seen dirt road.

There was less rain in under the trees, but there was still plenty. Grofield's face and left hand were soaking wet, and despite how much he had himself closed up there were still a couple of rain trickles working their way in around his neck and down inside all the protective clothing. Feeling more and more irritable, he slogged on.

He'd traveled half a mile on foot before he came to the house. It was surprisingly large, two stories, white clapboard, and gave no sign of being abandoned. Had Myers rented a hideout?

Or was his place farther along? If this house were occupied now, and had nothing to do with Myers, the odds were very good the household would include a dog. Most isolated households do. Feeling very itchy about that potential dog, Grofield prowled slowly around the exterior of the house, trying to find some sign as to who, if anybody, lived there.

There was a barn behind the house, and in the barn a shiny red fire engine. Grofield shone the light on it, and smiled.