“Yes,” Sam said. “I want to look at some back issues of the Gazette, if that’s possible.”

“Of course it is,” she said. “But—pardon me if I’m out of line—do you feel all right, sir? Your color is very bad.”

“I think I may be coming down with something, at that,” Sam said.

“Spring colds are the worst, aren’t they?” she said, getting up. “Come right through the gate at the end of the counter, Mr.—?”

“Peebles. Sam Peebles.”

She stopped, a chubby woman of perhaps sixty, and cocked her head. She put one red-tipped nail to the corner of her mouth. “You sell insurance, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“I thought I recognized you. Your picture was in the paper last week. Was it some sort of award?”

“No, ma’am,” Sam said, “I gave a speech. At the Rotary Club.” And would give anything to be able to turn back the clock, he thought. I’d tell Craig Jones to go fuck himself.

“Well, that’s wonderful,” she said . . . but she spoke as if there might be some doubt about it. “You looked different in the picture.”

Sam came in through the gate.

“I’m Doreen McGill,” the woman said, and put out a plump hand.

Sam shook it and said he was pleased to meet her. It took an effort. He thought that speaking to people—and touching people, especially that—was going to be an effort for quite awhile to come. All of his old ease seemed to be gone.

She led him toward a carpeted flight of stairs and flicked a light-switch. The stairway was narrow, the overhead bulb dim, and Sam felt the horrors begin to crowd in on him at once. They came eagerly, as fans might congregate around a person offering free tickets to some fabulous sold-out show. The Library Policeman could be down there, waiting in the dark. The Library Policeman with his dead white skin and red-rimmed silver eyes and small but hauntingly familiar lisp.

Stop it, he told himself. And if you can’t stop it, then for God’s sake control it. You have to. Because this is your only chance. What will you do if you can’t go down a flight of stairs to a simple office basement? Just cower in your house and wait for midnight?

“That’s the morgue,” Doreen McGill said, pointing. This was clearly a lady who pointed every chance she got. “You only have to—”

“Morgue?” Sam asked, turning toward her. His heart had begun to knock nastily against his ribs. “Morgue?”

Doreen McGill laughed. “Everyone says it just like that. It’s awful, isn’t it? But that’s what they call it. Some silly newspaper tradition, I guess. Don’t worry, Mr. Peebles—there are no bodies down there; just reels and reels of microfilm.”

I wouldn’t be so sure, Sam thought, following her down the carpeted stairs. He was very glad she was leading the way.

She flicked on a line of switches at the foot of the stairs. A number of fluorescent lights, embedded in what looked like oversized inverted ice-cube trays, went on. They lit up a large low room carpeted in the same dark blue as the stairs. The room was lined with shelves of small boxes. Along the left wall were four microfilm readers that looked like futuristic hair-driers. They were the same blue as the carpet.

“What I started to say was that you have to sign the book,” Doreen said. She pointed again, this time at a large book chained to a stand by the door. “You also have to write the date, the time you came in, which is”—she checked her wristwatch—“ twenty past ten, and the time you leave.”

Sam bent over and signed the book. The name above his was Arthur Meecham. Mr. Meecham had been down here on December 27th, 1989. Over three months ago. This was a well-lighted, well-stocked, efficient room that apparently did very little business.

“It’s nice down here, isn’t it?” Doreen asked complacently. “That’s because the federal government helps subsidize newspaper morgues—or libraries, if you like that word better. I know I do.”

A shadow danced in one of the aisles and Sam’s heart began to knock again. But it was only Doreen McGill’s shadow; she had bent over to make sure he had entered the correct time of day, and—

—and HE didn’t cast a shadow. The Library Policeman. Also . . .

He tried to duck the rest and couldn’t.

Also, I can’t live like this. I can’t live with this kind of fear. I’d stick my head in a gas oven if it went on too long. And if it does, I will. It’s not just fear of him—that man, or whatever he is. It’s the way a person’s mind feels, the way it screams when it feels everything it ever believed in slipping effortlessly away.

Doreen pointed to the right wall, where three large folio volumes stood on a single shelf. “That’s January, February, and March of 1990,” she said. “Every July the paper sends the first six months of the year to Grand Island, Nebraska, to be microfilmed. The same thing when December is over.” She extended the plump hand and pointed a red-tipped nail at the shelves, counting over from the shelf at the right toward the microfilm readers at the left. She appeared to be admiring her fingernail as she did it. “The microfilms go that way, chronologically,” she said. She pronounced the word carefully, producing something mildly exotic: chron-o-lodge-ick-a-lee. “Modem times on your right; ancient days on your left.”

She smiled to show that this was a joke, and perhaps to convey a sense of how wonderful she thought all this was. Chron-o-lodge-ick-a-lee speaking, the smile said, it was all sort of a gas.

“Thank you,” Sam said.

“Don’t mention it. It’s what we’re here for. One of the things, anyway.” She put her nail to the corner of her mouth and gave him her peek-a-boo smile again. “Do you know how to run a microfilm reader, Mr. Peebles?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“All right. If I can help you further, I’ll be right upstairs. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Are you—” he began, and then snapped his mouth shut on the rest: —going to leave me here alone?

She raised her eyebrows.

“Nothing,” he said, and watched her go back upstairs. He had to resist a strong urge to pelt up the stairs behind her. Because, cushy blue carpet or not, this was another Junction City library.

And this one was called the morgue.

He hadn’t dared ask Doreen McGill if the name Ardelia Lortz rang a bell, or even if she knew roughly when the city Library had last undergone renovations. You have been athking questions, the Library Policeman had said. Don’t pry into things that don’t concern you. Do you underthand?

Yes, he understood. And he supposed he was risking the Library Policeman’s wrath by prying anyway . . . but he wasn’t asking questions, at least not exactly, and these were things that concerned him. They concerned him desperately.

Sam looked nervously over his shoulder. Saw nothing. And still found it impossible to move with any decision. He had gotten this far, but he didn’t know if he could get any further. He felt more than intimidated, more than frightened. He felt shattered.

“You’ve got to,” he muttered harshly, and wiped at his lips with a shaking hand. “You’ve just got to.”

He made his left foot move forward. He stood that way a moment, legs apart, like a man caught in the act of fording a small stream. Then he made his right foot catch up with his left one. He made his way across to the shelf nearest the bound folios in this hesitant, reluctant fashion. A card on the end of the shelf read:

That was almost certainly too recent—in fact, the Library renovations must have taken place before the spring of 1984, when he had moved to Junction City. If it had happened since, he would have noticed the workmen, heard people talking about it, and read about it in the Gazette. But, other than guessing that it must have happened in the last fifteen or twenty years (the suspended ceilings had not looked any older than that), he could narrow it down no further. If only he could think more clearly! But he couldn’t. What had happened that morning screwed up any normal, rational effort to think the way heavy sunspot activity screwed up radio and TV transmissions. Reality and unreality had come together like vast stones, and Sam Peebles, one tiny, screaming, struggling speck of humanity, had had the bad luck to get caught between them.

He moved two aisles to the left, mostly because he was afraid that if he stopped moving for too long he might freeze up entirely, and walked down the aisle marked

He picked a box almost at random and took it over to one of the microfilm readers. He snapped it on and tried to concentrate on the spool of microfilm (the spool was also blue, and Sam wondered if there was any reason why everything in this clean, well-lighted place was color coordinated) and nothing else. First you had to mount it on one of the spindles, right; then you had to thread it, check; then you had to secure the leader in the core of the take-up reel, okay. The machine was so simple an eight-year-old could have executed these little tasks, but it took Sam almost five minutes; he had his shaking hands and shocked, wandering mind to deal with. When he finally got the microfilm mounted and scrolled to the first frame, he discovered he had mounted the reel backward. The printed matter was upside down.

He patiently rewound the microfilm, turned it around, and rethreaded it. He discovered he didn’t mind this little setback in the least; repeating the operation, one simple step at a time, seemed to calm him. This time the front page of the April 1, 1981, issue of the Junction city Gazette appeared before him, right side up. The headline bannered the surprise resignation of a town official Sam had never heard of, but his eyes were quickly drawn to a box at the bottom of the page. Inside the box was this message:

Come with me, a tenebrous, whispering voice answered. Come with me, son . . . I’m a poleethman.

Gooseflesh gripped him; a shudder shook him. Sam pushed both the question and that phantom voice away. After all, it didn’t really matter why he had picked the April, 1981, issues of the Gazette; the important thing was that he had, and it was a lucky break.

Might be a lucky break.

He advanced the reel quickly to April 6th, and saw exactly what he had hoped for. Over the Gazette masthead, in red ink, it said:

Sam advanced to the supplement. There were two photos on the first page of the supplement. One was of the Library’s exterior. The other showed Richard Price, the head librarian, standing at the circulation desk and smiling nervously into the camera. He looked exactly as Naomi Higgins had described him—a tall, bespectacled man of about forty with a narrow little mustache. Sam was more interested in the background. He could see the suspended ceiling which had so shocked him on his second trip to the Library. So the renovations had been done prior to April of 1981.

The stories were exactly the sort of self-congratulatory puff-pieces he expected—he had been reading the Gazette for six years now and was very familiar with its ain’t-we-a-jolly-bunch-of-JayCees editorial slant. There were informative (and rather breathless) items about National Library Week, the Summer Reading Program, the Junction County Bookmobile, and the new fund drive which had just commenced. Sam glanced over these quickly. On the last page of the supplement he found a much more interesting story, one written by Price himself. It was titled

Sam’s eagerness did not last long. Ardelia’s name wasn’t there. He reached for the power switch to rewind the microfilm and then stopped. He saw a mention of the renovation project—it had happened in 1970—and there was something else. Something just a little off-key. Sam began to read the last part of Mr. Price’s chatty historical note again, this time more carefully.

Sam looked up thoughtfully. He believed there was something missing from Richard Price’s careful, droning history of the town Library. No; on second thought, missing was the wrong word. The essay made Sam decide Price was a fuss-budget of the first water—probably a nice man, but a fuss-budget just the same—and such men did not miss things, especially when they were dealing with subjects which were clearly close to their hearts.

So—not missing. Concealed.

It didn’t quite add up, chron-o-lodge-ick-a-lee speaking. In 1951, a man named Christopher Lavin had succeeded that saint Felicia Culpepper as head librarian. In 1964, Richard Price had become city librarian. Had Price succeeded Lavin? Sam didn’t think so. He thought that at some point during those thirteen blank years, a woman named Ardelia Lortz had succeeded Lavin. Price, Sam thought, had succeeded her. She wasn’t in Mr. Price’s fussbudgety account of the Library because she had done ... something. Sam was no closer to knowing what that something might have been, but he had a better idea of the magnitude. Whatever it was, it had been bad enough for Price to make her an unperson in spite of his very obvious love of detail and continuity.

Murder, Sam thought. It must have been murder. It’s really the only thing bad enough to f—

At that second a hand dropped on Sam’s shoulder.

“Sam?” he heard a voice ask. It seemed to come from quite a distance—somewhere in Kansas, say. “Is that you?”

He swung around, almost falling out of his chair in front of the microfilm reader, and saw Naomi. He tried to get his breath back so he could say something. Nothing but a tired wheeze came out. The room seemed to waver in front of his eyes. The grayness came and went.

Then he saw Naomi take a stumble-step backward, her eyes widening in alarm, her hand going to her mouth. She struck one of the microfilm shelves almost hard enough to knock it over. It rocked, two or three of the boxes tumbled to the carpet with soft thumps, and then it settled back again.

“Omes,” he managed at last. His voice came out in a whispery squeak. He remembered once, as a boy in St. Louis, trapping a mouse under his baseball cap. It had made a sound like that as it scurried about, looking for an escape hatch.

“Sam, what’s happened to you?” She also sounded like someone who would have been screaming if shock hadn’t whipped the breath out of her. We make quite a pair, Sam thought, Abbott and Costello Meet the Monsters.

“What are you doing here?” he said. “You scared the living shit out of me!”

There, he thought. I went and used the s-word again. Called you Omes again, too. Sorry about that. He felt a little better, and thought of getting up, but decided against it. No sense pressing his luck. He was still not entirely sure his heart wasn’t going to vapor-lock.

“I went to the office to see you,” she said. “Cammy Harrington said she thought she saw you come in here. I wanted to apologize. Maybe. I thought at first you must have played some cruel trick on Dave. He said you’d never do a thing like that, and I started to think that it didn’t seem like you. You’ve always been so nice . . .”

“Thanks,” Sam said. “I guess.”

“... and you seemed so ... so bewildered on the telephone. I asked Dave what it was about, but he wouldn’t tell me anything else. All I know is what I heard . . . and how he looked when he was talking to you. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

No, Sam thought of telling her. I was the one who saw the ghost. And this morning I saw something even worse.

“Sam, you have to understand something about Dave . . . and about me. Well, I guess you already know about Dave, but I’m—”

“I guess I know,” Sam told her. “I said in my note to Dave that I didn’t see anyone at Angle Street, but that wasn’t the truth. I didn’t see anyone at first, but I walked through the downstairs, looking for Dave. I saw you guys out back. So . . . I know. But I don’t know on purpose, if you see what I mean.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s all right. But . . . Sam . . . dear God, what’s happened? Your hair . . .”

“What about my hair?” he asked her sharply.

She fumbled her purse open with hands that shook slightly and brought out a compact. “Look,” she said.

He did, but he already knew what he was going to see.

Since eight-thirty this morning, his hair had gone almost completely white.

“Yes.”

“Did you remember to sign out?”

“Yes,” Naomi said again. Sam hadn’t, but she had done it for both of them.

“And did you return any microfilms you might have used?”

This time Sam said yes. He couldn’t remember if either he or Naomi had returned the one spool of microfilm he had mounted, and he didn’t care. All he wanted was to get out of here.

Doreen was still being coy. Finger tapping the edge of her lower lip, she cocked her head and said to Sam, “You did look different in the newspaper picture. I just can’t put my finger on what it is.”

As they went out the door, Naomi said: “He finally got smart and quit dyeing his hair.”

On the steps outside, Sam exploded with laughter. The force of his bellows doubled him over. It was hysterical laughter, its sound only half a step removed from the sound of screams, but he didn’t care. It felt good. It felt enormously cleansing.

Naomi stood beside him, seeming to be bothered neither by Sam’s laughing fit nor the curious glances they were drawing from passersby on the street. She even lifted one hand and waved to someone she knew. Sam propped his hands on his upper thighs, still caught in his helpless gale of laughter, and yet there was a part of him sober enough to think: She has seen this sort of reaction before. I wonder where? But he knew the answer even before his mind had finished articulating the question. Naomi was an alcoholic, and she had made working with other alcoholics, helping them, part of her own therapy. She had probably seen a good deal more than a hysterical laughing fit during her time at Angle Street.

She’ll slap me, he thought, still howling helplessly at the image of himself at his bathroom mirror, patiently combing Grecian Formula into his locks. She’ll slap me, because that’s what you do with hysterical people.

Naomi apparently knew better. She only stood patiently beside him in the sunshine, waiting for him to regain control. At last his laughter began to taper off to wild snorts and runaway snickers. His stomach muscles ached and his vision was water-wavery and his cheeks were wet with tears.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“Oh, Naomi—” he began, and then another hee-haw bray of laughter escaped him and galloped off into the sunshiny morning. “You don’t know how much better.”

“Sure I do,” she said. “Come on—we’ll take my car.”

“Where ...” He hiccupped. “Where are we going?”

“Angel Street,” she said, pronouncing it the way the sign-painter had intended it to be pronounced. “I’m very worried about Dave. I went there first this morning, but he wasn’t there. I’m afraid he may be out drinking.”

“That’s nothing new, is it?” he asked, walking beside her down the steps. Her Datsun was parked at the curb, behind Sam’s own car.

She glanced at him. It was a brief glance, but a complex one: irritation, resignation, compassion. Sam thought that if you boiled that glance down it would say You don’t know what you’re talking about, but it’s not your fault.

“Dave’s been sober almost a year this time, but his general health isn’t good. As you say, falling off the wagon isn’t anything new for him, but another fall may kill him.”

“And that would be my fault.” The last of his laughter dried up.

She looked at him, a little surprised. “No,” she said. “That would be nobody’s fault . . . but that doesn’t mean I want it to happen. Or that it has to. Come on. We’ll take my car. We can talk on the way.”

“Bullshit,” Sam said. He had seen more than his hair in Naomi’s compact mirror; he had gotten a better look at himself than he wanted. “More like twenty. And it feels like a hundred.”

“What happened? What was it?”

Sam opened his mouth to tell her, thought of how it would sound, then shook his head. “No,” he said, “not yet. You’re going to tell me something first. You’re going to tell me about Ardelia Lortz. You thought I was joking the other day. I didn’t realize that then, but I do now. So tell me all about her. Tell me who she was and what she did.”

Naomi pulled over to the curb beyond Junction City’s old granite firehouse and looked at Sam. Her skin was very pale beneath her light make-up, and her eyes were wide. “You weren’t? Sam, are you trying to tell me you weren’t joking?”

“That’s right.”

“But Sam ...” She stopped, and for a moment she seemed not to know how she should go on. At last she spoke very softly, as though to a child who has done something he doesn’t know is wrong. “But Sam, Ardelia Lortz is dead. She has been dead for thirty years.”

“I know she’s dead. I mean, I know it now. What I want to know is the rest.”

“Sam, whoever you think you saw—”

“I know who I saw.”

“Tell me what makes you think—”

“First, you tell me.”

She put her car back in gear, checked her rear-view mirror, and began to drive toward Angle Street again. “I don’t know very much,” she said. “I was only five when she died, you see. Most of what I do know comes from overheard gossip. She belonged to The First Baptist Church of Proverbia—she went there, at least—but my mother doesn’t talk about her. Neither do any of the older parishioners. To them it’s like she never existed.”

Sam nodded. “That’s just how Mr. Price treated her in the article he wrote about the Library. The one I was reading when you put your hand on my shoulder and took about twelve more years off my life. It also explains why your mother was so mad at me when I mentioned her name Saturday night.”

Naomi glanced at him, startled. “That’s what you called about?”

Sam nodded.

“Oh, Sam—if you weren’t on Mom’s s-list before, you are now.”

“Oh, I was on before, but I’ve got an idea she’s moved me up.” Sam laughed, then winced. His stomach still hurt from his fit on the steps of the newspaper office, but he was very glad he had had that fit—an hour ago he never would have believed he could have gotten so much of his equilibrium back. In fact, an hour ago he had been quite sure that Sam Peebles and equilibrium were going to remain mutually exclusive concepts for the rest of his life. “Go ahead, Naomi.”

“Most of what I’ve heard I picked up at what AA people call ‘the real meeting,’ ” she said. “That’s when people stand around drinking coffee before and then after, talking about everything under the sun.”

He looked at her curiously. “How long have you been in AA, Naomi?”

“Nine years,” Naomi said evenly. “And it’s been six since I had to take a drink. But I’ve been an alcoholic forever. Drunks aren’t made, Sam. They’re born.”

“Oh,” he said lamely. And then: “Was she in the program? Ardelia Lortz?”

“God, no—but that doesn’t mean there aren’t people in AA who remember her. She showed up in Junction City in 1956 o‘57, I think. She went to work for Mr. Lavin in the Public Library. A year or two later, he died very suddenly—it was a heart attack or a stroke, I think—and the town gave the job to the Lortz woman. I’ve heard she was very good at it, but judging by what happened, I’d say the thing she was best at was fooling people.”

“What did she do, Naomi?”

“She killed two children and then herself,” Naomi said simply. “In the summer of 1960. There was a search for the kids. No one thought of looking for them in the Library, because it was supposed to be closed that day. They were found the next day, when the Library was supposed to be open but wasn’t. There are skylights in the Library roof—”

“I know.”

“—but these days you can only see them from the outside, because they changed the Library inside. Lowered the ceiling to conserve heat, or something. Anyway, those skylights had big brass catches on them. You grabbed the catches with a long pole to open the skylights and let in fresh air, I guess. She tied a rope to one of the catches—she must have used one of the track-ladders that ran along the bookcases to do it—and hanged herself from it. She did that after she killed the children.”

“I see.” Sam’s voice was calm, but his heart was beating slowly and very hard. “And how did she . . . how did she kill the children?”

“I don’t know. No one’s ever said, and I’ve never asked. I suppose it was horrible.”

“Yes. I suppose it was.”

“Now tell me what happened to you.”

“First I want to see if Dave’s at the shelter.”

Naomi tightened up at once. “I’ll see if Dave’s at the shelter,” she said. “You’re going to sit tight in the car. I’m sorry for you, Sam, and I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusion last night. But you won’t upset Dave anymore. I’ll see to that.”

“Naomi, he’s a part of this!”

“That’s impossible,” she said in a brisk this-closes-the-discussion tone of voice.

“Dammit, the whole thing is impossible!”

They were nearing Angle Street now. Ahead of them was a pick-up truck rattling toward the Recycling Center, its bed full of cardboard cartons filled with bottles and cans.

“I don’t think you understand what I told you,” she said. “It doesn’t surprise me; Earth People rarely do. So open your ears, Sam. I’m going to say it in words of one syllable. If Dave drinks, Dave dies. Do you follow that? Does it get through?”

She tossed another glance Sam’s way. This one was so furious it was still smoking around the edges, and even in the depths of his own distress, Sam realized something. Before, even on the two occasions when he had taken Naomi out, he had thought she was pretty. Now he saw she was beautiful.

“What does that mean, Earth People?” he asked her.

“People who don’t have a problem with booze or pills or pot or cough medicine or any of the other things that mess up the human head,” she nearly spat. “People who can afford to moralize and make judgments.”

Ahead of them, the pick-up truck turned off onto the long, rutted driveway leading to the redemption center. Angle Street lay ahead. Sam could see something parked in front of the porch, but it wasn’t a car. It was Dirty Dave’s shopping-cart.

“Stop a minute,” he said.

Naomi did, but she wouldn’t look at him. She stared straight ahead through the windshield. Her jaw was working. There was high color in her cheeks.

“You care about him,” he said, “and I’m glad. Do you also care about me, Sarah? Even though I’m an Earth Person?”

“You have no right to call me Sarah. I can, because it’s part of my name—I was christened Naomi Sarah Higgins. And they can, because they are, in a way, closer to me than blood relatives could ever be. We are blood relatives, in fact—because there’s something in us that makes us the way we are. Something in our blood. You, Sam—you have no right.”

“Maybe I do,” Sam said. “Maybe I’m one of you now. You’ve got booze. This Earth Person has got the Library Police.”

Now she looked at him, and her eyes were wide and wary. “Sam, I don’t underst—”

“Neither do I. All I know is that I need help. I need it desperately. I borrowed two books from a library that doesn’t exist anymore, and now the books don’t exist, either. I lost them. Do you know where they ended up?”

She shook her head.

Sam pointed over to the left, where two men had gotten out of the pick-up’s cab and were starting to unload the cartons of returnables. “There. That’s where they ended up. They’ve been pulped. I’ve got until midnight, Sarah, and then the Library Police are going to pulp me. And I don’t think they’ll even leave my jacket behind.”

At last the door of Angle Street opened. Naomi and Dave Duncan came out. She had an arm around his waist, his feet were shuffling, and Sam’s heart sank. Then, as they stepped out into the sun, he saw that Dave wasn’t drunk . . . or at least not necessarily. Looking at him was, in a weird way, like looking into Naomi’s compact mirror all over again. Dave Duncan looked like a man trying to weather the worst shock of his life . . . and not doing a very good job of it.

Sam got out of the car and stood by the door, indecisive.

“Come up on the porch,” Naomi said. Her voice was both resigned and fearful. “I don’t trust him to make it down the steps.”

Sam came up to where they stood. Dave Duncan was probably sixty years old. On Saturday he had looked seventy or seventy-five. That was the booze, Sam supposed. And now, as Iowa turned slowly on the axis of noon, he looked older than all the ages. And that, Sam knew, was his fault. It was the shock of things Dave had assumed were long buried.

I didn’t know, Sam thought, but this, however true it might be, had lost its power to comfort. Except for the burst veins in his nose and cheeks, Dave’s face was the color of very old paper. His eyes were watery and stunned. His lips had a bluish tinge, and little beads of spittle pulsed in the deep pockets at the corners of his mouth.

“I didn’t want him to talk to you,” Naomi said. “I wanted to take him to Dr. Melden, but he refuses to go until he talks to you.”

“Mr. Peebles,” Dave said feebly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Peebles, it’s all my fault, isn’t it? I—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Sam said. “Come on over here and sit down.”

He and Naomi led Dave to a rocking chair at the corner of the porch and Dave eased himself into it. Sam and Naomi drew up chairs with sagging wicker bottoms and sat on either side of him. They sat without speaking for some little time, looking out across the railroad tracks and into the flat farm country beyond.

“She’s after you, isn’t she?” Dave asked. “That bitch from the far side of hell.”

“She’s sicced someone on me,” Sam said. “Someone who was in one of those posters you drew. He’s a ... I know this sounds crazy, but he’s a Library Policeman. He came to see me this morning. He did . . .” Sam touched his hair. “He did this. And this.” He pointed to the small red dot in the center of his throat. “And he says he isn’t alone.”

Dave was silent for a long time, looking out into the emptiness, looking at the flat horizon which was broken only by tall silos and, to the north, the apocalyptic shape of the Proverbia Feed Company’s grain elevator. “The man you saw isn’t real,” he said at last. “None of them are real. Only her. Only the devil-bitch.”

“Can you tell us, Dave?” Naomi asked gently. “If you can’t, say so. But if it will make it better for you . . . easier . . . tell us.”

“Dear Sarah,” Dave said. He took her hand and smiled. “I love you—have I ever told you so?”

She shook her head, smiling back. Tears glinted in her eyes like tiny specks of mica. “No. But I’m glad, Dave.”

“I have to tell,” he said. “It isn’t a question of better or easier. It can’t be allowed to go on. Do you know what I remember about my first AA meeting, Sarah?”

She shook her head.

“How they said it was a program of honesty. How they said you had to tell everything, not just to God, but to God and another person. I thought, ‘If that’s what it takes to live a sober life, I’ve had it. They’ll throw me in a plot up on Wayvem Hill in that part of the boneyard they set aside for the drunks and all-time losers who never had a pot to piss in nor a window to throw it out of. Because I could never tell all the things I’ve seen, all the things I’ve done.’ ”

“We all think that at first,” she said gently.

“I know. But there can’t be many that’ve seen the things I have, or done what I have. I did the best I could, though. Little by little I did the best I could. I set my house in order. But those things I saw and did back then . . . those I never told. Not to any person, not to no man’s God. I found a room in the basement of my heart, and I put those things in that room and then I locked the door.”

He looked at Sam, and Sam saw tears rolling slowly and tiredly down the deep wrinkles in Dave’s blasted cheeks.

“Yes. I did. And when the door was locked, I nailed boards across it. And when the boards was nailed, I put sheet steel across the boards and riveted it tight. And when the riveting was done, I drawed a bureau up against the whole works, and before I called it good and walked away, I piled bricks on top of the bureau. And all these years since, I’ve spent telling myself I forgot all about Ardelia and her strange ways, about the things she wanted me to do and the things she told me and the promises she made and what she really was. I took a lot of forgetting medicine, but it never did the job. And when I got into AA, that was the one thing that always drove me back. The thing in that room, you know. That thing has a name, Mr. Peebles—its name is Ardelia Lortz. After I was sobered up awhile, I would start having bad dreams. Mostly I dreamed of the posters I did for her—the ones that scared the children so bad—but they weren’t the worst dreams.”

His voice had fallen to a trembling whisper.

“They weren’t the worst ones by a long chalk.”

“Maybe you better rest a little,” Sam said. He had discovered that no matter how much might depend on what Dave had to say, a part of him didn’t want to hear it. A part of him was afraid to hear it.

“Never mind resting,” he said. “Doctor says I’m diabetic, my pancreas is a mess, and my liver is falling apart. Pretty soon I’m going on a permanent vacation. I don’t know if it’ll be heaven or hell for me, but I’m pretty sure the bars and package stores are closed in both places, and thank God for that. But the time for restin isn’t now. If I’m ever goin to talk, it has to be now.” He looked carefully at Sam. “You know you’re in trouble, don’t you?”

Sam nodded.

“Yes. But you don’t know just how bad your trouble is. That’s why I have to talk. I think she has to ... has to lie still sometimes. But her time of bein still is over, and she has picked you, Mr. Peebles. That’s why I have to talk. Not that I want to. I went out last night after Sarah was gone and bought myself a jug. I took it down to the switchin yard and sat where I’ve sat many times before, in the weeds and cinders and busted glass. I spun the cap off and held that jug up to my nose and smelled it. You know how that jug wine smells? To me it always smells like the wallpaper in cheap hotel rooms, or like a stream that has flowed its way through a town dump somewhere. But I have always liked that smell just the same, because it smells like sleep, too.

“And all the time I was holdin that jug up, smellin it, I could hear the bitch queen talkin from inside the room where I locked her up. From behind the bricks, the bureau, the sheet steel, the boards and locks. Talkin like someone who’s been buried alive. She was a little muffled, but I could still hear her just fine. I could hear her sayin, ‘That’s right, Dave, that’s the answer, it’s the only answer there is for folks like you, the only one that works, and it will be the only answer you need until answers don’t matter anymore.’

“I tipped that jug up for a good long drink, and then at the last second it smelled like her . . . and I remembered her face at the end, all covered with little threads . . . and how her mouth changed . . . and I threw that jug away. Smashed it on a railroad tie. Because this shit has got to end. I won’t let her take another nip out of this town!”

His voice rose to a trembling but powerful old man’s shout. “This shit has gone on long enough!”

Naomi laid a hand on Dave’s arm. Her face was frightened and full of trouble. “What, Dave? What is it?”

“I want to be sure,” Dave said. “You tell me first, Mr. Peebles. Tell me everything that’s been happening to you, and don’t leave out nothing.”

“I will,” Sam said, “on one condition.”

Dave smiled faintly. “What condition is that?”

“You have to promise to call me Sam . . . and in return, I’ll never call you Dirty Dave again.”

His smile broadened. “You got a deal there, Sam.”

“Good.” He took a deep breath. “Everything was the fault of the goddam acrobat,” he began.

“That’s the only one I didn’t draw,” he said. “She had that one with her. I bet they never found it, either. I bet she still has that one with her. She liked mine, but that one was her favorite.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

Dave only shook his head and told Sam to go on.

He told them about the library card, the books he had borrowed, and the strange little argument they had had on Sam’s way out.

“That’s it,” Dave said flatly. “That’s all it took. You might not believe it, but I know her. You made her mad. Goddam if you didn’t. You made her mad ... and now she’s set her cap for you.”

Sam finished his story as quickly as he could, but his voice slowed and nearly halted when he came to the visit from the Library Policeman in his fog-gray trenchcoat. When Sam finished, he was nearly weeping and his hands had begun to shake again.

“Could I have a glass of water?” he asked Naomi thickly.

“Of course,” she said, and got up to get it. She took two steps, then returned and kissed Sam on the cheek. Her lips were cool and soft. And before she left to get his water, she spoke three blessed words into his ear: “I believe you.”

“Yeah,” Dave said. He spoke almost absently, as if this were a foregone conclusion. Sam supposed that, to Dave, it was. After all, he had known the mysterious Ardelia Lortz firsthand, and his ravaged, too-old face suggested that theirs had not been a loving relationship.

Dave said nothing else for several moments, but a little of his color had come back. He looked out across the railroad tracks toward the fallow fields. They would be green with sprouting corn in another six or seven weeks, but now they looked barren. His eyes watched a cloud shadow flow across that Midwestern emptiness in the shape of a giant hawk.

At last he seemed to rouse himself and turned to Sam.

“My Library Policeman—the one I drew for her—didn’t have no scar,” he said at last.

Sam thought of the stranger’s long, white face. The scar had been there, all right—across the cheek, under the eye, over the bridge of the nose in a thin flowing line.

“So?” he asked. “What does that mean?”

“It don’t mean nothing to me, but I think it must mean somethin to you, Mr.—Sam. I know about the badge ... what you called the star of many points. I found that in a book of heraldry right there in the Junction City Library. It’s called a Maltese Cross. Christian knights wore them in the middle of their chests when they went into battle durin the Crusades. They were supposed to be magical. I was so taken with the shape that I put it into the picture. But . . . a scar? No. Not on my Library Policeman. Who was your Library Policeman, Sam?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam said slowly, but that voice—faint, mocking, haunting—recurred: Come with me, son . . . I’m a poleethman. And his mouth was suddenly full of that taste again. The sugar-slimy taste of red licorice. His tastebuds cramped; his stomach rolled. But it was stupid. Really quite stupid. He had never eaten red licorice in his life. He hated it.

“I really don’t get you,” he said, speaking more strongly.

“You’re getting something,” Naomi said. “You look like someone just kicked you in the stomach.”

Sam glanced at her, annoyed. She looked back at him calmly, and Sam felt his heart rate speed up.

“Let it alone for now,” Dave said, “although you can’t let it alone for long, Sam—not if you want to hold onto any hope of getting out of this. Let me tell you my story. I’ve never told it before, and I’ll never tell it again ... but it’s time.”