THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO ED BRYANT, DOUG LEWIS…

AND THE MEMORY OF TOMI.

CONTENTS

Foreword: The Passion of the Norm

Introduction: Learning The Trade

Little Bookshop of Horrors

MR. FOX

Hard-Boiled Horror

THE BADDEST SON OF A BITCH IN THE HOUSE

Rejection, Resolve and Respect

BLACK LEATHER KITES

The First Dance

SAVE THE LAST DANCE

Building Your Sandcastle

SANDPRINT

Seeing the Wizard

VESSELS

On Zombies … And Hunger

IN BEAUTY, LIKE THE NIGHT

A Keyboard Built For One

BODY BAGS

You Can’t Write With a Bowling Ball

COSMOS

An Oxblood Stetson Hat

STACKALEE

A Couple of Wolves At the Door

TOOTH AND NAIL

Coming Soon: The Small Press Apocalypse

THE ENTOURAGE

The Care and Feeding of First Novels

KISS OF DEATH

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

A Few Recommendations

DR. FRANKENSTEIN’S SECRETS OF STYLE

A Word From the Editor[s]

TREATS

Writing For Them & Writing For You

VELVET FANGS

The 3” x 5” Secret to Good Outlines

¡CUIDADO!

The Macbeth School of Horror

WHEN THE FRUIT COMES RIPE

It’s the Steak, Not the Sizzle

WALKERS

When Opportunity Knocks…

THE SEASON OF GIVING

Afterword: Head, Heart & Guts

Foreword: The Passion of the Norm

By Edward Bryant

Even in this enlightened 21st century, out here in the expansive American West, that once endless track stretching from the Mississippi across the Rockies and the Sierras through California to the Pacific, people sometimes stare a little askance at us guys who wax enthusiastic when describing some other guy's passion. Tough cookies. As Norman Mailer would have once said, a long, long time ago,"Fug'em if they can't take a joke."

Norm Partridge's passion ain't no joke. For quite a few years I've been telling writing students and anybody else who'll listen that aspiring writers need, at the very least, talent (duh!), a capacity for back-breaking work, a thick skin when it comes to discouragement, ambition, a grounding in common sense as well as a peek into the visionary, some real experience in terms of how the world and the people within it work, and the rare ability to attract lightning from a clear sky. And one more thing. Passion. Passion is heightened energy, conviction, vigor. Passion can make a bad writer's work passable. It turns a good writer's work unforgettable.

I first encountered the passion of the Norm in the early '90s, during the heyday of Doug and Tomi Lewis' Roadklll Press and their retail store, Little Bookshop of Horrors. I spent a lot of time hanging out there, talking books and writing, and avoiding work (I never said I always practiced what I preached). One Saturday afternoon in 1991, Doug Lewis told me to check out some guy's story in the George Hatch anthology, Guignoir. The story title was the same as the venue. The author was one Norman Partridge. I had never heard of him. Doug's recommendation wasn't really a suggestion; it was more like an order.

Norman Partridge was not a terrific byline, I thought. Norm's surname had that pop-culture family ring about it. Brady, Manson, Partridge. For a solid ten years after encountering "Guignoir," every time I heard Norm's surname, "Come On, Get Happy" arranged for Chinese opera would play in my head.

But the story was worth it. I once described "Guignoir" as " ... a quirky novel's worth of bizarre characters, kinky behavior, and a mythic distinctively American landscape, all in the space of a novelette. Damned Impressive." And I'll repeat that because I still feel the same way more than a decade later. Damned impressive.

I agreed wholeheartedly when Doug and Tomi determined to publish Norm's first story collection. Roadkill, up until that time, had only done exquisite but modestly sized chapbooks. The collection would be the press's first perfect-bound trade paperback. As the five new stories and pair of reprints rolled in, I arm-wrestled with the Lewises for the chance to read them. We collectively talked, sometimes argued, about the sequence of contents, the art (Alan Clark's spectacularly gruesome wraparound showing a sequence of heads skewered on knife-blade barbie), and all the rest of the publishing process. I lost the argument about putting the title and author's name on the spine. I won the suggestion to expand the title to Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales.

Most important for me, I got to write the book's introduction. I'll repeat here a couple of the most pertinent observations: "My feeling about introducing you to Norm's first book is the identical sum of wonder and enthusiasm I would enjoy were I introducing the initial story collections by such as Dan Simmons or Connie Willis or Clive Barker." And "The thing about these seven stories is they're not all the same. Norman Partridge is not just a high-energy and prolific storyteller, he's willing to take chances, to attempt a wide spectrum of different effects. He may be a writin' fool, but he's no fool at all when it comes to crafting solid fiction."

Finally, I want to elaborate on that, just briefly. What I've come to realize over the years is that Norm's passion for writing is more specifically a passion for writing the mythic. He's steeped in the complex culture of old -and new- millennial America, just as much as, say, Tom Wolfe. Norm's suffused with music, film, and the rest of the complex tapestry of our often undervalued popular culture, along with a strong sense of what makes all us humans human. He's got an instinct for recognizing, sorting out, and incorporating myriad societal signposts. In other words, he's got an unconscious gift for semiotics. Honest. Fortunately he—and we—are saved from academic likes of another Harold Bloom by—and note the pleasing symmetry—by Norm Partridge's passion. Passion for life, passion for writing.

'Nuff said.

If you think you can jump in right now, without any apprenticeship, and lay bricks as well as a four, five, or six years' apprenticed bricklayer; if you think you can jump in on the floor and nail on shoes on ten horses as well as a man who has served a three, four, or five years' apprenticeship at shoeing horses on the floor, if you think you can jump in and nail laths, or spread plaster, or do concrete work, without previous experience, better or as well as the men who have served their three, four, and five years of apprenticeship;—in short, if you think that a vastly better-paid trade than that, namely, the writing- game, can be achieved in your first short story not yet written, or long story not yet written, why go ahead my boy and jump to it, and I'll pat you on the back—pat you on the back! The world will crush you in for the great genius that you are if you can do such a thing. In the meantime have a little patience and learn the trade.

If you know my career, you know that I am a brass-tack man. And I have given you the brass tacks right here....

—Jack London,

from a letter to aspiring writer Jess Dorman,

Sept. 28, 1913

Introduction: Learning The Trade

In 1987, I set out to be a writer.

That was something I had always wanted to be. I started writing stories as a kid, and I kept on writing stories through my teens. In college I could be found pecking away on my Olivetti electric typewriter whenever I didn't have a paper to write, and I submitted stories to several publications while I was earning my BA—everything from The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction to Stuart David Schiff's Whispers to Far West. All of those stories came back with rejection slips. No surprises there. Most of them were just this side of awful.

Back to 1987. I was a couple years short of turning thirty at the time. College was seven or eight years in my rearview mirror. I'd spent most of my twenties working in public libraries and not writing a word. Not that I'd given up hope of becoming a writer—I read voraciously, especially in the horror genre, and the idea of writing and publishing stories of my own was always in the back of my mind.

Every once in a while I'd dust off the old Olivetti, set it up on the kitchen table, and try to do something about that. I'd work on a short story, and I'd make plans to submit the finished product to a magazine like The Twilight Zone or one of Charles Grant's Shadows anthologies, but I'd never quite end up popping the cork on the whole endeavor. I'd get three or four pages of not very good stuff... and then I'd retype and revise those three or four pages in an attempt to make them better (usually I'd just end up stretching them out to five or six pages of not very good stuff)... and then I'd retype them again and try to make them sound more like pages that had come out of King or McCammon or Koontz's typewriter... and pretty soon I'd go stale on the whole idea and find something else to do (which isn't too difficult a task when you're in your twenties).

Even when I was "working" on a story, I felt more like a typist than a writer. I'd rough out a few pages, and then I'd start the process described above. I kept telling myself that I needed to streamline the revision process. If I could find a way to spend less time retyping a whole page just to insert a line or take one out, maybe I could get something done. But I couldn't figure out a way to do that.

Fortunately, someone else figured it out for me. PC's were becoming affordable about this time. A couple friends had actually bought computers, but I didn't think that was a possibility for me. Not with what I made at the library, anyway.

But you know what? I couldn't quite shake the idea of getting my own computer. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I really wanted one of those things. Accompanying that realization came another (by now unavoidable)—I really wanted to be a writer. The truth is that I was tired of talking about that particular endeavor. Hell, I was even tired of thinking about it. I wanted to do it... or get it out of my system once and for all.

About that time, getting a computer made the jump from want to need.

Damn the torpedoes, I figured, and I reached for my wallet.

Just like my first car, my first computer was used, it was an early version of the Apple Maclntosh, with the computer and its tiny screen built into one unit. There wasn't a hard drive, or a modem, or any of that stuff. My little Mac was just your basic glorified typewriter, except for the wonderfully primitive MacPaint program, which, if you never experienced it, might best be described as an Etch-a-Sketch with all the bells and whistles.

If I remember correctly, the previous owner had upgraded my machine from 54k to 256k, but I didn't care about that. As long as the MacWrite program worked and the dot-matrix printer kicked out text at the speedy rate of about a minute a page, I figured I was good to go.

And go I did. This might surprise you, but the first thing I set out to write was a children's novel. I'd been exposed to lots of those working in libraries, and I'll admit that part of the appeal of the idea was that writing children's fiction seemed somewhat less intimidating than trying to write a "real" book. So I typed words into my little Mac, and, slowly but surely, the printer kicked them out. I accumulated a stack of pages on a fantasy novel about a bunch of kids who slipped into an alternate universe while playing Dungeons & Dragons. I gave up on that one about halfway through and started another with a weirder, funnier sensibility—kind of my take on a Daniel Pinkwater book. The Chocolate Chip Cookie Calamity was about a kid and his milkman pal who manage to outwit a band of chocolate chip cookie-men and the evil scientist who invented them.

Self-delusion is often a beginning writer's best friend, but not in this case. I had no idea what a mess my children's book was when I typed "The End." Fact is I thought it was something special, and I set about looking for a publisher. Shrewdly, I figured that I didn't need an agent... why cut in some stranger for 15% of the deal when I might just sell the book myself?

Besides, I needed the money. Shortly after printing out my novel manuscript, I fried my little Mac's power board. Zap. Dead computer. I was out of business.

I called around and discovered that it was going to cost a chunk of change to get a new power board installed. I didn't have a sliver, let alone a chunk. But hey, I figured I'd just finished my first novel. It was out there in the mail, winging its way to the powers-that-be in New York.

Who knew what could happen?

What happened was that nothing much happened. A couple months went by, and I didn't hear anything from that editor about my children's novel.

So I saved my money, because I wanted to get back to writing. A friend aimed me in the direction of a computer repair shop down in Berkeley that specialized in Macs, and I tossed my computer in my pickup truck, made the trip down, and dropped off my dead soldier (which now had a little scorch mark on its side).[1]

About a week later, I returned to pick up my Mac. A spiffy new power board had been installed and the tech rang up the charges. In the course of our conversation, he explained to me that the early Macs were victims of overly optimistic engineering. The designers hadn't thought it necessary to install fans in them, so the power board couldn't really cool down... and that meant the guts of those Apples were sometimes going to fry, no matter what precautions you took.

"It's just the nature of the beast," said the tech.

He might have said more than that. I don't really remember. I felt like someone had just whacked me upside the head with a two-by-four, because no one had mentioned anything about overly optimistic engineering or frying guts when I dropped off my computer for repair.

So I stood there, listening but not hearing a word. I was thinking that I hadn't made one thin dime from writing. I was thinking about the check I'd just written—the one with three numbers to the left of the decimal point. I was looking at the shiny new computers sitting on the tables around the store. I was noticing the four-figure price tags they wore. I was imagining how I'd feel if I were back here in a couple of months with another burnt-out power board, and a novel that was sitting on a desk somewhere in New York City waiting for an editor to look at it... or worse, a novel that had been rejected.

I was thinking that this writing thing could put me in the hole pretty quickly.

"Isn't there anything else I can do?" I asked.

Of course, my question was more wide-ranging than the tech could imagine.

Of course, he didn't understand that.

I took my computer home and set it up on the kitchen table in my apartment. I started writing another children's novel, but I couldn't kick it into gear. In the meantime. The Chocolate Chip Cookie Calamity found its way back to me with a rejection letter. I sent it out a couple more times with the same result. It seemed I was going nowhere fast.

One afternoon I pulled out a couple of the horror stories I'd written in college. I figured I'd give them a quick revision, maybe send one off to The Twilight Zone magazine. I'd been subscribing to TZ since it started up in the early eighties, and I'd read most issues cover-to-cover. It didn't seem like a bad idea to try them with a short story if I could manage to get something down on paper I thought would measure up.

I worked on a few things—some old, some new. Before long I submitted a story to TZ, which was rejected. That was okay. I figured I'd hit them with another as soon as I had one ready. The truth was that I'd wanted to write horror fiction all along, and I was beginning to look at ways I could break into that market. Short stories seemed like the way to go. I figured getting a story into TZ would be a good start.

At that point, the only problem with my little plan was that TZ was on its last legs. Pretty quickly, it ceased publication. But one of the last issues featured an article on "small press" horror magazines by a young guy named Bob Morrish,[2] and that article caught my eye.

Thanks to Bob, I discovered that a lot of would-be publishers were producing little 'zines with the same invention that was allowing me to craft my stories: the home computer. Admittedly, I was skeptical about the whole proposition of “home publishing" and "little magazines."[3] But I was hungry for potential markets, and I was beginning to type "The End" pretty frequently, so I parked my skepticism at the curb and sent off for some sample issues.

Before long those little 'zines started showing up in my mailbox. Some were just awful, in both content and execution, but I was pleased to discover that others were pretty darn good. The Horror Show impressed me immediately—Dave Silva's magazine featured many fine writers and was often just as entertaining as TZ on a fraction of the budget. Other quality publications included Noctulpa, Grue, and Deathrealm, all of which printed fiction by new writers who had yet to be discovered by New York publishers. In these and other small press magazines I first encountered the work of Poppy Z. Brite, Bentley Little, Brian Hodge, Nina Kiriki Hoffman, Nancy Holder, Lucy Taylor, and a host of other talented newcomers who were looking for a way to break into the horror/dark fantasy market.

Of course, a lot of the stuff I read in those small press 'zines was... well, far from great. To be perfectly honest, some of the stuff was plain unvarnished bad. But I learned a lot reading those bad stories, too. The lessons they taught were easier to grasp. In fact, I learned how not to write a bad story long before I learned how to write a good one.

Okay. I'd missed my chance to get into TZ, but I figured I had to be good enough to crack one of the small press markets. I made a deal with myself. I'd give it six months. If I couldn't get a story published in a small press magazine in that time, I'd bust my pencils, give up writing, and start thinking about going to grad school (which is what most everyone in my family thought that I should do).

With the help of Bob Morrish's TZ article and Janet Fox's market 'zine, Scavenger's Newsletter, I made a hit list of potential markets. With the death of Twilight Zone, I put The Horror Show at the top of my list. Over the next several months, I submitted four stories to Dave Silva. His rejects were always kind and cordial and he always asked to see another story, but I never could crack him.[4]

I didn't let Dave's rejections stop me. I sent stories to a little magazine called 2 AM, and I received rejection slips from them. Ditto for another mag called Eldritch Tales. Other rejects came from Space and Time, Starwind, and Thin Ice. I was tempted to lose faith. In truth, it would have been easy, but I tried my best to avoid crying in my beer. My modus operandi was to reread the rejected tale as soon as I finished reading the rejection slip, maybe revise it a little if I thought that was necessary, then force myself to get that sucker back in the mail ASAP. That way I didn't dwell on the rejection. I put it behind me, and I focused my thoughts on my story's possibilities with the next best market on my hit list... and on writing a new story to send to the market that had rejected me.

Soon I had several manuscripts making the rounds. Three months into my six-month plan, I scored. I cracked one of the markets on my list, selling a story to Noctulpa. The week after that I sold another one to a college kid named Rich Chizmar who had just started a new magazine called Cemetery Dance. For the princely sum of $17.50, Rich bought a story called "Save the Last Dance for Me" for Cemetery Dance #2.

Both markets paid on publication. That meant I had to wait. The next issue of Noctulpa wasn't published until the following January. The second issue of CD came out in June '89, about three months after Rich accepted the piece.

"Dance" got the lead slot in the issue, and I got my $17.50. I think that was enough to buy a pizza and a sixpack—maybe I rented a video, too— but the money didn't matter.

Finally, I'd sold a short story.

That was what mattered.

My first year writing, that $17.50 check from Rich Chizmar was my total income. Second year, I was up to $809.90. Third year total was $1,511.08.

Sometimes I'd look at those numbers and think that I was nuts. I'd come home from my day job knowing that I'd have to spend the entire evening working on a story if I was going to beat the editor's deadline. I'd look at that computer with the scorched side sitting there on the kitchen table and wonder if I'd ever get anywhere publishing fiction in small markets, or if I was just a guy with a minor leaguer's quotient of talent who was chasing after an unrealistic dream. I'd think about friends of mine who were starting to get somewhere on more traditional career paths—the ones who were buying houses and new cars—and I'd wonder if maybe I should just cash in my chips and send in those grad school applications after all.

But most of the time I didn't feel that way. I felt like putting an investment in the bank that would pay off later. I knew it would take time to earn my chops. So I kept at it. I read new anthologies and magazines (new novels, too). I studied the careers of writers who'd made a name for themselves in my chosen genre, and I read biographies of pulpsmiths like Max Brand and Edgar Rice Burroughs. I ate up books of interviews with contemporary novelists (Stan Water's Dark Dreamers: Conversations with the Masters Horror was especially helpful). I learned a lot about the business of writing from these sources, and also through the pages of magazines like Publisher's Weekly and Locus.

Most of all, I wrote more stories. I typed "The End." I printed out manuscripts on my dot-matrix printer in a big, fat Apple font—because they were unreadable if I used Times Roman—and put the manuscripts in the mail.[5] Sometimes they'd come back with rejection slips. But with greater frequency they'd come back with an acceptance letter and a contract... which meant (somewhere down the road) a check.

But some nights, working late on a story, I worried about my computer. After all, those checks I was getting for my stories were rarely very large, and I didn't want to pony up for another power board. Subtract the cost of printer ribbons, paper, envelopes and postage, magazines and books, and my profit margin was slim enough (hell, some years it was nonexistent). A new computer seemed like a pie in the sky dream. It was something I tried not to think about.

Once in awhile the Mac would hiccup. Or freeze. Sometimes it'd eat a file,[6] or refuse to load up a disc. When that happened. I'd stare at that little screen and wonder if maybe this writing thing was the biggest mistake of my life.

Sometimes I'd turn off the machine and call it a night.

Sometimes I'd turn off the machine, click it back on, and reboot.

Then I'd get back to typing.

I had a start, but I knew that was all I had.

My first pro sale, the editor called me while I was taking a bath. My first wife was so excited that she dragged the phone down the hall and handed it to me while I was still in the tub. "Norm, it's Charlie Grant!"

I managed a hello. I guess I sloshed around a little bit, which gave away my location. Charlie had a good laugh, and so did I. He accepted "Wrong Side of the Road" for Final Shadows and seemed surprised to find that I wasn't a grizzled World War II veteran like the character in my story. I took that as a compliment, and I hung up the phone dripping wet and extremely happy. Grant's Shadows anthologies had been textbooks to me, and cracking the last volume was a special moment.

A few days later I received a letter of acceptance from Joe Lansdale for Dark at Heart. That made two solid anthology sales in one week. I kept writing, kept sending stuff out. I attended my first World Fantasy Convention in 1991, where I met several of the writers and editors I'd been working with face-to-face for the first time and made some new connections. Pretty soon I cracked a Marty Greenberg anthology, and sold a story to the slick revival of Amazing Stories. One of my stories ended up in Ellen Datlow's Year's Best compendium, and another made the cut for the Stephen Jones/Ramsey Campbell version, Best New Horror.

I was developing a reputation as a new writer worth watching. I was still green, but I was learning what it took to be a pro. I started thinking more about writing a novel, and about finding an agent to handle my work.

Things were looking up. I was getting somewhere.

But I wasn't where I wanted to be.

I knew I still had a long way to go.

The Mac with the scorched side died about the time I was finishing my first novel. It was 1993, and the machine had lasted six years. During that time, I served my apprenticeship as a writer. I wrote more than fifty stories and was paid for most of them. I wrote and sold my first novel and my first short story collection. I published in magazines laid out in dotmatrix font in a college computer lab, and hardcovers typeset in big publishing houses in New York. At first I was paid beer money, then grocery money, then enough money to pay my rent.

That little workhorse of a machine served me well. On it, I wrote most of the stories you're about to read. The first eight tales in this book comprise the original contents of my first short story collection, Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales. Roadkill Press, a small imprint out of Colorado, published the book. The project was done mostly for fun; the publishers were friends. We never expected the book to do much. To tell the truth, we all figured we'd be happy if we managed to sell out the 500-copy print-run. It was a great surprise for all of us when Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales won a Bram Stoker Award and gained attention as a World Fantasy Award nominee.

These days I've seen copies of the original edition go for $400.00 on the collector's market. That's almost as much as I was paid to write the thing. The high price of that original volume is one reason I wanted to do another edition of this book... but it's not the only one. As I read the stories from Mr. Fox (and the dozen or so other early tales included in this book), I couldn't help but remember the days when I wrote them. Ten years have passed since I last looked at most of them. Since then I've written five novels, and sold one of those to the movies. I've followed Mr. Fox with two more story collections. I've worked in comics. I'm proud to say that I've pretty much sold every word of fiction I've written since that first published story in Cemetery Dance, and I've won a few awards while doing it.

I don't say that to brag, just to let you know that I've come down the road a piece. So it should come as no surprise that more than a few of the stories you'll find in this book seem rough around the edges to me today. I was learning my craft when I wrote them. They creak a little bit, and their engines sputter, but they speak honestly of the writer I was when I first slipped them into envelopes and mailed them to prospective publishers. That's why I resisted the temptation to revise them. Doing that would have been a cheat. I wanted that writer, and his stories, to come through for you on the page.

I hadn't been in touch with that guy in quite a few years. Meeting up with him was a bit of a revelation. As I leafed through old small press magazines and files of correspondence with editors and publishers, I became reacquainted with the guy who wrote the stories you're about to read. Any talent I had back then was raw talent. Any knowledge of the writing game I possessed was raw, too. But what I lacked in polish I made up for with determination and hunger, and those were the qualities that saw me through.

I couldn't have done it without them. Of course, I didn't realize that then. But it was determination and hunger that allowed me to put my faith in a blank piece of paper when there was no good reason for me to believe that I could do anything with it. That little revelation came back to me time and time again as I read these early stories, and with it came some pretty fine memories.

I remembered the excitement of pulling my first acceptance letter out of the mailbox, and cashing my first check from a professional publisher. I remembered what it was like to type "The End" to a story that I thought really did the job, and sell it to an anthology, and see that anthology in a bookstore several months later with my story set in hard black type. And I remembered what it was like to have my fiction praised by writers like Stephen King and Peter Straub and Joe Lansdale, and to have writers I'd grown up reading—Robert Bloch, George Clayton Johnson—treat me like I was a member of a very special club.

If you're one of the lucky ones, you'll get a few moments like that in your career. They're moments you've worked hard for. You never forget them, and they come with a kind of payoff that dollars can't provide. But there are other moments you don't forget, either—moments that aren't nearly so sweet—and the memories of those moments waited for me in these stories, too.

Like having my words confined to 8 1/2" x 11" manuscript, and wondering if they'd ever make it between the pages of a magazine or a book. Like typing a cover letter that ended with the words: "I am an unpublished writer, but I hope that won't prevent you from considering the enclosed manuscript." Or the feeling I'd get when I pulled that manuscript out of my SASE on its return trip, and I'd find a rejection slip attached, and I'd try to work up the courage to send that story out again when I was sorely tempted to toss it (and my scorched Mac) in the trash and call it a day.

Those are the kind of moments that stop a lot of writers before they ever get started. As I read these stories, I remembered what it was like to fight my way through them, to force myself to be bullheaded enough to muscle through the negatives until the positives came within reach. If you're an aspiring writer, you've probably already learned that that isn't an easy thing to do. It's a personal battle, and there are probably as many ways to go nose-to-nose with it as there are writers sitting in front of keyboards.

For me, facing that battle took the determination and hunger I've already spoken about... and maybe something else. Maybe it required a special kind of energy you only get when you're starting out... an energy fueled by that very hunger... an energy I'm better off not trying too hard to define. Whatever it was, finding that energy again in these early stories was a real gift. It charged me up in a way I wasn't expecting. As I assembled the stories for this long overdue volume and began to work on the introductory essays, I felt like I did when I was starting out—like someone had slapped a couple of Everready's in my backside and thrown a switch.

That's when things got interesting... and that's when I began to think that maybe I had more than a collection of short stories on my hands. The subtitle of this edition of Mr. Fox is: A Collection/A Recollection/A Writer's Handbook. There are stories here, and there are memories, but for me that last part of the subtitle has become the real focus of this book.

If you're a fan of my work with no writing aspirations of your own, I'll try not to bore you. In fact, I think you'll find a lot of the material within these pages of interest. But if you're a writer who's trying to build a career in today's market, I've tried to write this book with you in mind. If you're looking for nuts and bolts advice on submitting your work, you'll find it here. If you want some tips on dealing with editors and publishers, or on finding an agent, look no further. If you want to know the upsides and downsides of working in the small press and the mainstream press, I'll be glad to tell you what I think. And I'll make one promise before we go any further—I'll be honest with you... sometimes brutally so. What I've learned, I've learned by doing, and I'll do my best to communicate that knowledge here—straight-up and unvarnished—both the positives and the negatives.

But I'm after something more than just a nuts and bolts game plan. I'm looking beyond an "insert tab A into slot B" and you'll become an amazingly popular writer(!) kind of book. There are other things I want to talk about with you. They're the things most books for aspiring writers don't mention, the things that don't have anything to do with writer/editor etiquette, or proper manuscript format, or the mental acumen you'll need to develop in order to survive in the freelance fiction marketplace. In truth, they're the kind of things that don't have much to do with your brain at all. They live in your heart, or down deep in your gut. And ultimately they're the things that make the words you get down on the page worth reading.

And maybe that's a good place for us to begin. Maybe you're on the other side of this page, staring down at black print, wondering what you'll have to do to get your own words between hard covers. Maybe that's your dream. Maybe some days it seems like the best idea you ever had, and some days it seems like the worst. Maybe working up the courage to put all your faith in a blank piece of paper and what you can do with it seems about as easy as surviving a long night locked in a cage with a pack of hungry timber wolves. Hell, maybe it seems ten times tougher than that... like the toughest damn thing you have ever set out to do in your life.

I'm here to tell you—there isn't a writer sucking wind who didn't start off feeling just that way.

I was one of them before the stories in this book first hit the printed page.

These tales and I made the trip together.

The tales will tell you their stories.

I'll tell you mine.

Little Bookshop of Horrors

Dan Simmons once said that Little Bookshop of Horrors was like a clubhouse for writers. That's more than true, for Doug and Tomi Lewis' bookstore was certainly a haven for Denver, Colorado's sizeable creative population.

I first wandered into the store sometime in the early nineties. My first wife was from Boulder, which was about a half-hour drive from Little Bookshop's Arvada location. I'd read about the store in Ed Bryant's Locus column, and I decided to drive over to Little Bookshop to pick up some of the chapbooks published under the Lewises' Roadkill Press imprint.

Pulling into the parking lot, the place sure didn't look like much. Just a hole-in-the-wall store in a hole-in-the-wall mini-mall. But inside, the story was different.

Because inside Little Bookshop were treasures. Up front, the limited edition of King's first Gunslinger novel stood in a glass case by the cash register. Donald Grant books were arranged by author on the wall, along with every Dark Harvest and Mark V. Ziesing hardcover you'd want. Several rows of bookcases bisected the store, all filled with new science fiction, horror, and fantasy paperbacks. In the back was a used section jammed with budget books and more than a few guilty pleasures, including all those Zebra Press novels with the black spines.[7] But the real hotspot was directly across from the front counter. There you'd find the new arrivals section, which was always packed with novels, anthologies, and even small press magazines.

Now, remember... this was the early nineties. There was no Amazon. No eBay. No internet bookstores like Matt Schwartz's Shocklines. You didn't find specialty horror stuff easily. And you sure didn't find it all in one place.

I don't think I drooled while I checked out the stock that day, but I must have looked like someone had hit me upside the head with a two- by-four. Doug Lewis was working behind the counter. If he noticed that my bliss-o-meter was running very high, he didn't comment. But Doug was like that. He was quiet... definitely more comfortable around books than people. As long as you weren't one of those perennially clueless folks who wandered into the store asking for geometry textbooks or Jackie Collins novels, he'd generally leave you alone.

Well, I didn't need any help finding what I was looking for anyway. Doug sold quite a few books that day. And magazines. And Roadkill Press chapbooks. He totaled the sale on the little adding machine he kept at the counter, and we got to talking about fiction. I'm sure he took one look at the stuff I was buying and knew that I was tuned in to the small press horror frequency. I'm just as sure that he also knew that I was an out-of-towner, because Denver's writing community was a tight bunch.

I'd published a handful of stories by that time, but I definitely wasn't in the habit of walking into a strange bookstore and announcing, "Hi... I'm a writer." But Guignoir and Other Furies was sitting there on the shelf, and I thought that "Guignoir" was the best story I'd written up to that point. And since Doug had mentioned that he liked hard-boiled stuff in the course of our conversation, I thought he might enjoy it.

I grabbed the book off the shelf. "I’ve got a story in this one," I said. "Give it a read if you get a chance. It's a Jim Thompson kind of thing. You might get a kick out of it."

We said our goodbyes. I drove back to Boulder. Doug read "Guignoir" that afternoon. If you've read Ed Bryant's foreword to this edition of Mr. Fox, you already know what happened—Doug passed the story on to Ed and practically insisted that he read it. Ed turned around and reviewed Guignoir and Other Furies in Locus.

In a solid review, Ed singled out my story for mention.[8] George Hatch, the editor/publisher of Guignoir, nearly expired in delight. His anthology hit the radar screens of other people in the business. Ultimately, Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell selected "Guignoir" for inclusion in Best New Horror 3. Then it was my turn— I nearly expired in delight.

It might be that none of that would have happened if I hadn't walked into Little Bookshop of Horrors that day. I can't say, because I don't know how Stephen Jones and Ramsey Campbell ran across my story. But I'm betting they first saw it mentioned in Locus, and that set the ball rolling, and one or the other of them decided to seek it out and give it a read.

How it happened doesn't really matter. What matters is that I'd walked into a lot of bookstores up until that time. I'd bought lots of books. But I'd never had the guy behind the counter take a genuine interest in me as a writer, or turn out to be a champion of my work.

Doug Lewis did both those things, and he did them right from the beginning.

I was in Boulder often during the next few years, and I spent a lot of time hanging out at Little Bookshop. I got to know Doug better, and came to appreciate his sly sense of humor. We ate a lot of Chinese takeout from the place next door, and we traded opinions on lots of books and writers. I also got to know Ed, who invariably seemed to find an excuse to hit the store once a day. I can remember many afternoons spent with Doug standing behind the counter, me sitting on a little three-step ladder, and Ed browsing through the stock—he didn't like to sit still—picking up books at random and talking about publishing.

If I told you it was like going to school, I think you might believe me. But Ed wasn't the only person I learned from sitting on that three-step ladder. I talked to plenty of other writers who were part of the Denver crowd. Steve and Melanie Tem were always a delight. So was Connie Willis. And the camaraderie of the younger writers who'd gather at Little Bookshop was wonderful. I made many good friends there—Gary Jonas, Sean Moore, and Lucy Taylor among them. Not all my friends were writers, though. There was a tight crowd of readers and reviewers, too. I have great memories of talking books with Mark Graham, who had a column in the Denver paper and read just about everything. Each time I came home from Colorado, I'd invariably dig a bunch of notes out of my pocket with Mark's scribbled recommendations.

There were so many nice folks... I wish I could name them all. Unfortunately, I don't have the kind of space (or the kind of memory!) that will allow me to do that. But there's one very special person I've saved for last... the late Tomi Lewis.

If Doug was the brains of Little Bookshop, his wife Tomi was definitely the heart. I think Ed Bryant hit the nail on the head when he described her thusly: "Tomi Lewis, though younger than I, was the big sister I'd never actually had. Funny, sardonic, and absolutely clear-eyed in her vision of the world, Tomi was somebody I could confide in and get good advice from when I wanted it."

I think a lot of the guys who hung around Little Bookshop felt that way about Tomi. I was definitely another one of her "little brothers." When you had a conversation with Tomi, you had a conversation. She picked up on things. She noticed, and remembered. She was the kind of person who instantly knew if you were having a bad day, even if you didn't especially want her to know.

Tomi organized the series of "Night Voices" readings and signings at the store, bringing events off with a relaxed intimacy that made everyone feel like they had been invited to a really good party. Not an easy task—especially when you consider that she was also working full-time as a stylist at the salon next door to the bookshop, and assisting Doug with Roadkill Press.

We had a lot of fun behind the scenes. One visit I'd do a reading, and the next time out I'd be sweeping up in front of the store while Doug and Tomi scrambled to set up chairs for someone else's show.[9] That's the kind of place Little Bookshop was. It was a real family atmosphere, and egos were properly checked at the door.

Both books I published with Roadkill were special events for me. Mr. Fox was my first stand-alone book, and it gave me a chance to show what I could do with short stories at that point. I went into the project with an idea of publishing a "calling card" I could use to promote my work, while Doug and Tomi were eager to move beyond single-story chapbooks and see what they could do with a longer book. Mr. Fox turned out great for all concerned, and we followed it up a few years later with a chapbook, "The Bars on Satan's Jailhouse." For me, that one really hit the mark. When I look over my own stories, "Bars" is probably my personal favorite. I'm glad I did it with Doug and Tomi.

A couple of quick stories associated with those Roadkill Press projects: Doug used a local printer to produce his books. The printer was late with Mr. Fox, but he promised us he'd get us enough copies to see us through the Night Voices reading we'd scheduled for the book's release. Well, the guy was true to his word... but just barely. Those first copies of Mr. Fox didn't show up until the afternoon of the reading!

When Doug opened the box, he noticed right off that there'd been a production problem—all the text on the front cover was white, when it should have been black. Well, there wasn't much we could do about it at that point. I did the reading, and we sold forty or fifty copies of Mr. Fox that night. The next day Doug talked to his printer and had the covers for the rest of the copies reworked. That's why some copies have black lettering and others have white... all the copies with white lettering were sold the night we released the book.

"The Bars on Satan's Jailhouse" was nearly an instant replay, but without the lettering problem. The print-shop guy had a family emergency and showed up with copies of "Bars" an hour before the audience. They were literally hot off the presses. I was afraid I'd smear the ink when I started signing them.

But those were good times. If I started telling stories, I wouldn't know where to stop. Like spending a long night in a copy shop with Doug and Tomi before a Nancy Holder reading, helping to assemble Nancy's Roadkill chapbook.[10] And post-reading dinners when we'd literally take over half a restaurant and hang out 'til we were kicked into the street, then drive over to the Lewises' house and talk some more while their cats ran for cover. And the moment I discovered that Doug had started stocking Diet Dr Pepper (my beverage of choice) in his store fridge, and I knew for certain that I'd been accepted as an honorary Colorado writer.

I remember standing outside a reading in the winter cold, listening to Sean Moore explain how he wrote a Conan novel on spec... and actually managed to sell it to a publisher. And singeing the hair off my arms while I barbequed enough chicken to feed an army in Doug and Tomi's backyard, then sitting in a tilty lawn chair while I talked with Joe Lansdale for the first time. And I'll never forget attending a World Fantasy Convention down in Georgia, sharing a cabin with the Lewises and Ed Bryant at a backwoods resort that reminded all of us of Camp Crystal Lake from the Friday the 13th movies.[11] Or the wild ride we took at another convention, where a whole crowd of writers jammed into an economy car that Mark Graham had borrowed from a relative so we could all go out for a Mexican dinner. I was in the backseat, stretched across Steve and Melanie Tem's laps, telling them how nurtured I felt.

And I'll always remember seeing Doug and Tomi—neither of whom ever wanted to be the center of attention—take the stage to accept a well-deserved World Fantasy Award for Roadkill Press. That was a proud moment... not just for Doug and Tomi, but for me, and Ed, and a whole bunch of other people who'd been lucky enough to work with the Lewises over the years.

Those were special times, and special people. But like all good things, it didn't last forever. Cancer took Tomi at 44. Sean Moore also died much too young, just as he was hitting his stride as a writer. Other people drifted away, as people do. Life moves on. I drifted away too.

It's a funny thing, though. Some memories fade, and some linger. Others sneak up on you with startling clarity when you give them a chance, even though you haven't thought about them in years.

Sometimes that's a very good thing. Sometimes you can still hear the laughter, just over your shoulder. And sometimes, you don't realize how lucky you were until you take a good, long look behind you.

I know I was lucky.

I think we all were.

MR. FOX

Mr. Fox was in love for the first time in his life, and he found that being in love heightened his senses. Eyes closed, he could smell everything.

The lake.

The morning.

The smoke curling from the chimney of the summer house — pine smoke, seasoned pine ripe with dry slivers and cracked knots and bark as hard as the frozen dead of Korea, circa December, 1951.

And the living pines that surrounded his hiding place... yes, he could smell them, too. They secreted not just a single scent, but fragments of scent that he dissected and identified while he waited: sweet, sweet sap; spicy cones; the heady perfume of needles melding with the damp stink of bark. Not just a simple smell, but a complete atmosphere that was as satisfying as the mingled odors of cigarette smoke and beer and harsh perfumes and gook beaver found in a Pusan whorehouse.

God, yes. Memories to rouse the senses.

And when he opened his eyes he could see for miles. Squinting over his shoulder he glimpsed the rising sun, gold and magnificent, shining on the mist-blanketed lake, shining on fishermen in tiny silver boats that seemed to float on shimmering cotton candy, not water.

He smiled at the scene, appreciating the little things that let him know he was home. Sportsmen with segmented poles and whispering reels and lures of chrome and plastic, not scrawny gooks with hunks of bamboo and lengths of demolition wire and twisted shrapnel hooks.

No, he was home now. He just had to look and he could see that. Men in warm vests — bacon and egg sandwiches in hand, thermoses of coffee at their feet —not peasants huddled like pitiful animals on the edge of a goddamn puddle in the miserable Korean countryside, glad for the jab he could deliver with his rifle butt that would put them out of their misery....

Christ, no. He wouldn't think about Korea. He'd see only what was in front of him. Only that. And he'd turn away from it when the sight brought him home, finally, and his memories were shoved far away. Only then would he allow his gaze to fall upon the summer house.

Calm down, Mister Fox, a voice inside him warned. Clam up, Mister Fox.

Relaxed, his breathing steady once again, he turned to face her window. Saw her there in the distance as the morning breeze puffed the lace curtains. Admired the sway of her naked breasts as she stared out over the golden lake and brushed her golden hair, not seeing him at all.

His lovely Mary.

Saw the sheen of her golden hair. Could almost smell those delicate curls. Watched the gleaming silver brush....

Heard something padding over dead pine needles.

He backed against the nearest tree, his hand wrapped firmly around the bayonet he'd brought back from the other side of the world, the bayonet that came out of its sheath without the slightest sound. Okay, lieutenant, wait for the moment... wait for just the right moment...

And then the cat passed by, belly to the ground as it glided under a shrub. White and pure it was, but for jet black paws and one other spot of color. And quiet, even with a bell on its goddamn neck. Completely silent, that silver bell. Not one jingle. Only the sound of the animal's little Puss 'n' Boots feet.

His lovely Mary's cat.

A spot of blood on its face. A dead sparrow clamped between its jaws.

Christ, he was hard now.

Calm down, Lieutenant Fox. Clam up, Lieutenant Fox.

He smiled, running the bayonet along his crotch. Yeah. Okay, now. Little gook sparrow. That's all.

He looked to his love's window, but now she wasn't there. His lovely Mary was on the expansive porch, wrapped in a warm robe, a cup of coffee in one hand, the New York Times in the other, and he smelled bacon frying in the kitchen, heard the tinkle of ice cubes in a Bloody Mary glass and the steps of Mary's maid, Alma Reilly, before the woman even emerged from the house, nearly tripping over the black-booted cat that skittered beneath her feet and presented its bloody trophy to its mistress before the Reilly woman could chase it away.

The bayonet nearly slipped from his sweaty fingers as he studied the sudden brightness that shone in his lady's clear blue eyes.

Love. Now, that’s love.

The maid shooed the cat away and swept the dead bird from view.

Fox closed his eyes. Heard: sensible shoes scuffing over the pine deck.... gook sparrow dropping onto a bed of dead pine needles... the shivery whisper of a cat bell... little black paws padding past his hiding place....

The cat brushed against his ankle.

Sweet love. Pure love.

Calm down. Lieutenant Fox.

He opened his eyes. Alma Reilly was gone. Mary was eating breakfast now.

She had a good appetite, his Mary did.

Clam up, Lieutenant Fox.

He slipped the bayonet into the converted shoulder-holster. Put it away, he warned himself All of it. The gook fishermen. The gook sparrow. Just like you put away the bayonet. And put away Lieutenant Fox, too. You're a civilian, now. You're Mr. Fox, friend of the rich and famous, a man on the move, a man with a future.

And he was, and he wanted to be, until he smelled the aroma of bacon mixing with the flowery scent of his love's golden hair, until he heard her whistling for her beloved Puss 'n' Boots, until he saw her slip beneath the porch and place a greasy reward upon the corpse of the gook sparrow.

A delicious shiver capered up Fox's spine.

Sweet love, pure love, perfect love....

Mary clipped the article and pasted it into her scrapbook, a proud smile creeping across her face. Her hunter had finally made the New York Times. Today there was a feature article concerning the disappearances at the lake, the lack of clues, and the local police department's complete confusion as to how to handle the investigation.

Mary reread the article slowly, appreciating every hint that signaled the killer's genius. Six murders — disappearances rather, for no bodies had been found as yet — zero evidence.

He was a smart one, her hunter.

Determined. Strong. Successful.

And certainly alone.

Just as she was. Not just alone in her room and her bed, but alone everywhere. With her family, and even with the quiet man whom she was going to marry. Always alone, within herself. Always alone with that secret self she refused to share. Was kept from sharing, for that self was determined and strong. And, to date, extremely unsuccessful and extremely frustrated.

Quiet, girl, quiet.

Old wounds are best buried deep, she thought as she closed the scrapbook. She closed her eyes as well and imagined the secrets locked within her hunter's heart. She imagined him standing here, in this room, with her.

No, not with her. With her secret self.

Tiny claws scraped the windowpane.

Mary opened her eyes and saw the cat. Puss 'n' Boots, its whiskers slick with bacon grease.

Thankful for the smallest attention, Mary raised the window and let the fierce hunter in.

Not alone, she thought as she stroked the cat. Not alone, after all.

After Mary's brothers had caught all the fish that they were going to catch, they came slogging up the road that led to Mr. Fox's estate. Fox studied them from the single window of his most secret room, secure in the knowledge that they couldn't see him through the one-way glass.

The brothers hadn't invited Fox to join their morning expedition. He was glad of that because he'd had plenty of work to do in preparation for the bachelor party, and besides, he certainly hadn't wanted to skip his morning vigil at the family's summer home.

Not that Bobby would have invited him, anyway. Bobby hadn't asked Fox to go fishing since the time Fox had pulled a grenade from his tackle box and tossed it into deep water, killing half the fish in the lake. Well, maybe not half the fish, but it had sure as hell looked that way. And Bobby had said so, his voice a wary hiss, his head swiveling as if he expected a game warden to pounce on their silver boat at any second.

As usual. Jack had thought that the whole thing was funny. He thought everything Fox did was a real scream, even when he'd been Fox's CO back in Korea. He laughed and laughed at the fish gag, and then he started telling stories about Tin Tits Ridgway, the general who swaggered around the Korean battlefield with two grenades hooked to his uniform like a couple of deadly falsies.

Bobby remained subdued. Fox could see why the senator might not laugh at dead fish, but how anyone could keep from busting up over Jack's Tin Tits stories... well, that was almost superhuman. No, it was inhuman, just the kind of studied restraint that made Fox watch what he said around Jack's kid brother. It was obvious to Fox that Bobby spent too much time in Washington, watching the polls and waiting about three days before reacting to anything. Fox didn't like that about him. He wondered what Bobby's wife got in the bedroom, wondered if Bobby ever allowed himself to come inside his beautiful bride except when procreation was the order of the day. Sometimes Fox thought about Bobby, and Bobby's wife, a lot. And sometimes, when his glance was very quick and the dinner table conversation was very quiet, he caught Bobby's wife looking at him.

But when his future brothers-in-law entered his house for the first time (actually the house was owned by his betrothed's family, but this was the first time anyone besides Fox had set foot inside it since the construction company had completed the special refurbishing job he'd ordered), Bobby seemed happy enough. And when Fox joined them in the kitchen, Bobby seemed downright jovial. Fox didn't know if Bobby was just in a good mood over catching more than his limit or if the senator's wife had played the especially cheerful alarm clock earlier that a.m., but he was relieved to find that Bobby was willing to join him in a beer before the clock on the mantelpiece struck noon.

Bobby set to work cleaning fish, kidding Jack all the while because he'd supplemented his own catch by finishing his big brother's limit. The two of them were always like this —playing cards, touch football, or politics. They were competitors, and Fox had to laugh at that. Two Ivy Leaguers playing at being hunters. Catching fish, shooting boar, bringing down deer and elk with good old bow and arrow. Fox scratched his ribs, not because they itched, but because he suddenly missed having the bayonet strapped to his side.

Now that was a real weapon. Not like the flimsy blade Bobby wielded as he shaved gold and silver scales from the side of a plump trout. Not some silly little fishhook with a plastic-faced lure that could pass for the star of a Saturday morning cartoon show.

Unaware of Fox's disapproval, Bobby finished cleaning the trout with studied, senatorial aplomb. He said, "With fare like this little beast, we'll have one heck of a bachelor party for our friend Fox."

"One hell of a bachelor party," Jack corrected. "Loosen up, Robert. Jesus, it's not every day we add a war hero to the family lineup."

"A retired war hero," Fox put in.

"All the better," Jack said. He was obviously smarting from the jabs he'd taken from Bobby over the fishing contest and meant to get his licks in. "With me nailing down the Agency, I sure as hell can't play the knight in shining armor. Nope, I knew back there on that hill in Korea that I'd found an authentic hero for the family, just the guy who could anchor my little brother's presidential ticket."

Bobby severed the head of a trout that Fox judged to be a tad short of keeper status. "Now slow down, big brother," Bobby said. "Let's not put the cart before the horse."

Fox grinned, anger suddenly boiling. "Who are you calling a horse, Bobby?"

"Now you know I didn't mean...." Bobby flicked the cleaned trout onto a piece of tin foil, searching for a diplomatic way to frame his complaint. "I'm certainly not challenging your record. Fox, but, after all, I am the one with political experience."

"And a medical that saved you from Korea. Undescended testicle, wasn't that the trouble, Bob?" Fox jabbed Bobby a good one on the shoulder and the littler man listed to one side, the silver fishhooks pinned to his vest jangling like the merry cymbal crash that punctuates a comedian's punchline.

Jack laughed. Bobby didn't.

"C'mon, Bobby," Jack coaxed. "He was only joking."

Bobby grunted and Jack made him pay for his bad manners. "Jesus, Fox, I hope you never do anything like that in public. We wouldn't want to tarnish Bobby's tough-guy image. I mean, here's a fellow who can hook more than his limit, for chrissakes, and all you ever did was take out a full battalion of screaming Red Chinese — "

"All right. All right, damnit." Bobby rubbed his shoulder. "Point taken."

Fox's voice was quiet and conciliatory. "Really, Bob, no hard feelings?" he asked, and Bobby nodded. "I know you would have been there if they'd let you. I know that. And you've more than made up for it, anyway. You've done one hell of a job for the family up in Washington."

Again, Bobby nodded. But his hand wasn't steady now, and the next silver-scaled fish that he took from the basket slipped from his grip, slid across the tiled counter, and flopped onto the floor.

Fox picked up the trout. Felt its torn scales. Glanced at its dull, dead eyes. Smelled blood and deep lake water and cold bone and flesh.

Grinning uncontrollably, he slapped the fish onto the chopping block.

Calm down, Mister Fox. Clam up, Mister Fox. Put the lieutenant away.

Nobody said anything for a minute. Jack was waiting for Fox to make a crack about Bobby's clumsiness. Bobby was waiting, too.

Fox let the opportunity pass, seeming magnanimous.

"Okay then. Jack and I will get the charcoal ready. Our guests should arrive around noon, and then the revels shall commence." He placed a big hand on Bobby's shoulder. "A crown prince and his court. Right, Bobby? The noble old house that the prince has deeded to his honored champion—along with the hand of his fairest sister — is christened by the men of the clan. Get me?"

"And the royal revel shall set the tone." Jack laughed. "Camelot... that's the image. The genius and the he-man. We're going to start selling it tonight, and the vacationing lords of Washington will be buying, believe you me."

Bobby stared down at the dead trout, "That's the image, but I'm the reality. And we're not going to forget that."

"Not a chance, brother Bob," Fox said, catching but not acknowledging the wink that Jack delivered from behind his brother's back.

The cat was so wonderfully warm and so alive. Mary stroked it, listening to the rhythmic purr that seemed loud enough to fill the house, which was empty but for Mary and Alma Reilly.

Mary's father was dead, of course, as was his first wife, her mother. Her stepmother —Bobby's mother —was off checking with the florist, and then she was to dine with her own parents, who were driving in from out of state. Mary's brothers were at her intended's bachelor party. And her sisters-in-law were God knows where, probably hunting up love in a quiet motel or bar.

Mary knew all about her brothers' wives, and no one else in the family knew that, not even Jack, who had all those supersecret spies at his disposal. No one else in the house knew but loyal Alma. The maid had told Mary many secrets about comings and goings; she had given Mary letters that had never been delivered to the object of one wife's desire. Mary had kept those secrets well, sharing them with no one but Puss.

Who else would she share them with? She was alone.

But Puss was here, and Alma was here, and she was here.

And it was almost as if the house were another place. When those other people were gone, it seemed that it was her place, and that was an idea so delicious that it made Mary shiver. She could close her eyes and imagine that the summer house was a castle, far away, where she lived alone but for cat and servant.

No, she wouldn't live there. Not in a castle. Not quiet, dutiful Mary.

No. Such a place would be home to her secret self.

Mary tried to imagine it — tried to dream the smell of heavy stone and paintings of dark oil, the feel of rich red velvet —but her room betrayed her. She could only smell the girlish, flowery perfumes that her brothers gave her each Christmas. She could only feel the bedspread of lavender lace. And all at once she remembered dozens of awful stories from childhood about suffering princesses locked in tower rooms. Wilting, crying girls who dreamed of heroic princes.

Mary shivered and Puss sprang from her lap.

She stared at the door of her room.

It wasn't locked.

The house was empty.

Though Mary was a wilting, crying sufferer, her secret self was not.

She rose, not bothering to straighten the ruffled bedspread.

She could go anywhere.

"So, this is the house that the princess can't enter until her wedding night," said the Speaker of the House, a big man who evinced a lyrical bent when he was in his cups.

Fox pretended to enjoy the congressman's humor. "A man's got to appreciate his bachelorhood while he's got the chance."

"Now, now," Jack said. "That's almost my sister you're talking about."

They all laughed. Jack steered Fox away from the speaker. "Good job, m'boy. I think you've spent enough time pressing the flesh. Time to segue to the main event."

Fox agreed, but Jack hardly noticed. He was saying, "I'll announce that we're adjourning to the gallery for brandy and cigars — "

"Slow down. Jack," Fox broke in. "This is my house. I'm the host. Just sit back and let me steer everybody in the right direction, and you can pump them up when I'm done steering."

"Hey, Foxy, I didn't mean—"

"No need to apologize. Let's get down to business."

Fox set his drink on a silver serving platter. His voice rang out and all other voices were instantly still. He led the men of Washington from the walnut-paneled dining hall, through the mirror-lined entry hall, and across to the opposite side of the mansion. They passed through several heavy doors that were decorated with brass lions, bears, and other animals. Fox all the while detailing how he'd had even the most minor decorations fashioned to his exact specifications. Finally, the company came to a door before which Fox paused. With all eyes fixed upon him, he pointed to a spot above the door where a silver plate was mounted with silver screws. Upon the plate was etched:

"Be bold, be bold."

Puzzled expressions crossed the men's faces. Fox had counted on that. He glanced to his left, at Jack, and saw the appreciative grin creasing his comrade's face. Instantly, Fox knew that he'd done right, and he launched into his well-practiced speech. He explained how his war experiences had changed him. He painted a picture of his innocence pre-1951. He even postulated that he might not be the man he was today if not for Korea. Finally, Fox said that when it came time for him to design a bar for the home which he intended to occupy for the rest of his natural life, he could think of no greater purpose than to make it a shrine to the war that had made him what he was.

It was all a lie, of course.

"But the words," the Speaker broke in, unafraid to interrupt his host's introduction. "'Be bold, be bold.' What do they mean?"

Jack grinned. "It was part of a motto that our squad adopted in Korea. Fox came up with it, and we all swore that it would remain our private watchword, shared only among those of us who survived. This is only part of it, so I don't think that our host has broken that pledge."

Fox said, "And now, gentlemen, I would be very proud if you would do me the honor of christening this very special, very personal place. In other words, THE BAR IS OPEN.”

The room was very cold. No one lived there and the door was rarely opened, for this room was kept as a shrine.

Mary stepped inside, closed the door, and turned on the lights.

Her brothers' room. The place where they'd spent their boyhood. The place they'd forgotten when they became men.

Mary smiled. They'd abandoned so many boyish things here — model airplanes and baseball pennants and novels by Robert Louis Stevenson and Zane Grey — but they'd also left behind the very things that had allowed them to become men. The trophies were still here, signifying victories in sport and scholarship, some tarnished, others peeling metal coats that were as thin as paper. Diplomas hung framed above work-worn desks. Here too were examples of the taxidermist's craft — a gigantic trout, gasping for breath, arched over the door; a mountain lion crouched in one corner, eternally vigilant, forever ready to spring.

The corner closet housed the tools that had been denied her, a simple girl. The bows, the guns, the boxing gloves and footballs.

Yes, these were tools, for they brought the trophies. And the trophies led to everything else.

The trophies made her brothers men.

Adults.

Mary stepped into the shadowy closet. It smelled of gun oil and mothballs and rotted leather. She touched a rifle and the barrel was colder than night. She fingered a bow and it seemed impossibly flimsy. The tips of the arrows felt much too blunt to do harm.

Mary wept. It was far too late to learn.

No, Mary. Never too late.

The voice startled her, for it was the voice of her secret self.

The voice of a hunter.

Let her brothers play with bows and arrows, the voice whispered. Let them find pleasure in the petty victories that had always been denied her, for the hunter inside her knew of other game, other victories far more satisfying....

Other weapons, far more dangerous.

If only sweet Mary would listen.

The celebration went splendidly, and the best thing about it was that Fox didn't have to say a word. The room spoke for him. The photographs, dozens of them, framed in silver and hung on the walls. Fox in battle. Fox with the president. Fox speaking to students at the Point. His medals, encased in glass globes that dominated small tables, globes that captured the room's muted light and made the medals seem somehow larger and brighter. His army-issue rifle, its butt still scarred, its barrel notched with dozens of hatch marks, hung above the bar.

The room spoke, and the lords of Washington heard its words.

Jack knew it. Bobby knew it. Fox knew it, and most of all, he was thankful, for it saved him from dangerous blunders. Oh, he'd made it through the first part of the evening okay, but that was only because he'd drilled that simple speech into himself over a period of days, practicing and memorizing and praying that he wouldn't sound stilted.

But he still had a long way to go, and while Mister Fox wouldn't blunder, the lieutenant might. That was why he had to put the lieutenant away. The fool might say "gooks" instead of "Reds." He might smile as he explained a particularly gory photograph. He might even volunteer to open the heavy door behind the bar, the one that led to the broad stairway, the final door, and the trophies that he had never shared.

No. He wouldn't think about that. The lieutenant was a dead man. Finished. Tomorrow Mister Fox would sign the prenuptial agreement, and after that the private chambers that opened onto the bar would be locked. He would hold the only key. The secret rooms would be a museum, nothing more, a place where he could admire his beloved bayonet (for it would never again leave this house, never again pierce flesh).

And with sweet Mary at his side, he'd have the power to resist. Love would keep him strong. Love would bury the urge. Mary would be enough. He'd lose himself in her. He'd be the man of the hour, only shadowed by one man — and then but faintly — and one day he would stand with his Mary on the steps of the nation's greatest palace, and he would tell her about the room and the past and all the things that made him do what he did, all the awful things he knew before he knew her, and she would understand.

The revelers swarmed around him. He looked above their gray heads, at the silver plaque mounted over the door behind the bar. It revealed another sliver of his squad's motto, as much as could be shared without betraying the memory of the men who had fallen in battle:

"Be bold, be bold, but not too bold."

Yes, he'd be bold. For his lovely Mary.

But not too bold.

Fox smiled, in perfect control, knowing perfectly well that the battle was won. And then Jack and Bobby grabbed his elbows and spun him around so that he faced a gigantic cake, all yellow and white with silver sparklers, and the music started, and a woman burst through the top layer, her breasts sugared with frosting, and the lieutenant laughed and laughed and laughed.

"Just now she brought me another letter and told me to take it to him. But I did like you told me and brung it to you instead."

"Very good, Alma." Mary took the sealed envelope and stared at the short, eager woman. "You may go now. We'll discuss this later, when I've had time to think about it."

Alma didn't move. Mary knew that the maid was deciding if she should be hurt by Mary's desire to examine the letter in private. "Yes, miss," Alma said after a moment. "We'll talk later. I'm sure it's just like those other letters I brung you, anyhow. Why, that hussy just won't leave nobody's man alone."

Mary nodded in agreement and closed the door of her brothers' room. She opened the letter and read the love-words Bobby's wife had written to Mr. Fox. That hussy, as Alma had called her, couldn't understand why Fox hadn't acknowledged her other messages. She couldn't believe that he wanted quiet Mary when a former star of stage and screen was willing to give up everything just to have him. She was going to meet him, late tonight, at his house. She was going to make one last attempt, face to face, and she promised, quite salaciously, to do her best.

Mary smiled, for every word was a knife, a bullet, an arrow. Every word could maim the brothers that had hurt her so many times.

It would also hurt Mr. Fox, of course, and he was an innocent. At least he appeared that way when he was near her, so quiet and meek and breathless in her presence was he that she nearly felt that they were indeed close in a way that meant they should be man and wife.

And that was the way it would be.

But not for long.

Because Mr. Fox was the ultimate weapon. He was a sword that could slash Bobby down at the height of his power and send Jack scurrying for cover.

Maybe tonight. If Mr. Fox ran off with Bobby's wife, that alone would ruin Bobby. Black, black type. Screaming headlines. Even if Fox only loved the woman once, Mary could pretend that the knowledge of the incident broke her heart and drove her mad, and that would cut nearly as deep. If not tonight, she would bide her time. Hone the blade and wait.

Mary reread the letter. The visit was planned for the small hours of the morning. Bobby's wife vowed to enter the house the princess had never seen. She swore that if Mr. Fox was indeed a real man, quiet Mary would never see it.

Mary's blue eyes gleamed.

Yes, she would see the house.

Before the dawn.

He was crying, tripping along the shore, running through the dark woods, crying harder with every step that he took. He tasted his own tears, so bitter and salty, and felt their warmth on his cheeks and smelled the night and the trees and his own misery.

This was the last time. He hadn't planned it this way, but the prenuptial agreement had yet to be signed, and he had always promised himself that that would be the moment that forever signaled the end to the lieutenant. So, in his heart of hearts, he was still true to his word.

He plunged through the woods, needles and branches scraping against his arms and face, punishing himself because no rationalization would do. If one was accepted, there would always be room for another. He'd failed, pure and simple, and it was time for punishment.

Time to remove temptation.

The summer house was dark, the chimney cold. Silent as a cat, he moved beneath the shadow of the porch. He placed the girl's head there, brushed the last bits of frosting from her hair, and closed her eyes.

To leave her here. To give her away. Oh God, that was punishment.

But not punishment enough.

Slowly, he unsheathed the bayonet, raised it high, then brought it down swiftly, spearing the severed head to the cold hard ground.

He would leave it there as a warning to himself and a promise to his beloved.

A token of true love.

Indeed, it was a castle. And it was empty —Mr. Fox's car was gone and an hour still remained before Bobby's wife was to arrive.

Mary stood in the mirror-lined entry hall and stared at her many reflections, thinking how weak she appeared and knowing at the same time how strong she had become. She smiled and her reflections followed suit, for it was a castle, and one day it would be home to her secret self.

Mary hurried down the hallway. She passed through several heavy doors decorated with brass lions, bears, and other animals, so enchanted with each discovery that she nearly laughed in delight. Finally, she came to a door above which a silver plate was mounted. Upon the plate was etched:

"Be bold, be bold."

Mary's eyebrows arched. A mystery!

But she was brave, and she was curious, and she opened the door.

She smelled the smells of her brothers' room as she walked among the photographs and medals. She stopped and stared at the scarred rifle that hung above the bar, and she considered Mr. Fox's quiet manner, which was quite unlike her brothers' boring, boasting ways. He of all men, quiet; he, who by the looks of this room had more right to boast and brag than other men. She spun round and round, looking everywhere.

"I am inside Mr. Fox's secret self," she whispered. "His secret self has private chambers!" And then she saw a second plaque, mounted above a second door:

"Be bold, be bold, but not too bold."

But Mary was bold, now more than ever. She opened the door and went up a broad stairway that led to another door, over which was written:

"Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.

Lest that your heart's blood should run cold."

But Mary was bold, and she opened the door...

.. .and came face to face with her true love's trophies.

Bobby's wife was talking, but Fox wasn't listening, wasn't even looking at the woman. He stood on the driveway, his eyes fixed on the one-way window of his secret room. Icy fingers were traveling his spine, for he had the strange feeling that someone was watching him from behind that blind window.

But that was impossible. No one was in the house, and no one would enter his secret chamber. No one.

Suddenly the woman's arms were around his neck, and he pulled away. "How can you ignore me?" she asked. "How can you want that old maid when you can have me?"

They always talk too much, he thought. They always jabber on, like gook whores. He made himself smile at her. God, she was crying now, and he remembered all at once that she'd been an actress.

The lieutenant reached out. Gently, he took her gook hand. Quietly, in his most courteous voice, he invited her inside.

Mary crouched behind the bar, fighting back tears.

She wasn't afraid. She wasn't frightened by the death screams that echoed through the empty rooms.

She was brokenhearted.

Mr. Fox was her hunter. He had a secret self just as she did, and he lived in two worlds, just as she did. And without knowing any of these things, he had loved her with a gentle love that was indeed sweet and pure and perfect.

The death screams ended. Other screams began, and they were deep, growling, and anguished.

Mary wiped away a tear. She shared pain with her hunter, as well. She had never dreamed that together they could have so much.

The door whispered open, and he came into the room. Mary heard the sound of Bobby's wife's high heels dragging across the hardwood floor, twin spikes clicking over inlaid floorboards. She heard a thump as Fox planted the body on a barstool, saw her sister- in-law's head hanging over the side of the bar, bloody wisps of hair glued to dead staring eyes while other long strands danced free, tickling the necks of bottles of vodka, bourbon, and gin.

Fox screamed curses at the corpse. "I'll have something from you, my dear. A present for my Mary!"

The knife came down hard. A severed hand, one finger encircled with a diamond ring, slid across the bar and flopped at Mary's feet.

Fox swore again, but didn't come searching. "Time to put you to bed, little wife," he said, and the last word made Mary tingle. The big man hefted the corpse over his left shoulder and carried it through the door behind the bar, not seeing Mary at all.

He would have seen her had he looked, for she hadn't moved. She sat staring at the diamond ring, the gift that her hunter meant to give her. Crying once more, she thought what a wonderful gift it would have been, had the hunter inside her not recognized it first as a wonderful tool.

He came to the summer house the next morning, another man, quiet and gracious and ready to sign the prenuptial agreement. Alma Reilly served a splendid breakfast of steak and eggs and honey cakes, but Fox, seated across from Mary, had no appetite for anything but a smile from his love.

Finally, she allowed him to catch her eye. "Are you all right, Mary dear?" he asked. "You seem awfully pale."

"I had a bad night," she said. "Horrible dreams."

Bobby smirked. "Dreams go by contraries, sis. Tell us your dream."

Mary turned to her younger brother, disallowing his bad temper, enjoying how small he seemed sitting next to his wife's empty chair. "I dreamed that I went last night to Mr. Fox's estate, and I found it in the woods, with great granite steps and a mirrored hallway and heavy doors, and over one of those doors was written:

'Be bold, be bold.' "

"But it is not so, and it was not so," said Mr. Fox, looking down at his breakfast.

Mary's eyes widened as incredulous expressions crossed her brothers' faces. She did not look at her lover, who never boasted, never bragged. "And I went into that room, and inside that room was another doorway, over which was written:

'Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.' "

Fox whispered, "It is not so. My love, tell me it was not so."

Mary wanted to reach out and take her lover's hand, for she knew she was causing him pain. Instead, she looked at the sweat on Jack's brow and said, "And then I opened that door and went up a broad stairway that led to another door, over which was written:

'Be bold, be bold, but not too bold.

Lest that your heart's blood should run cold.' "

"It is not so... it was not so." Fox said, and Mary saw everything that was hidden behind his eyes. He added, "And, sweet Mary, God forbid it should be so."

Mary smiled sadly at Mr. Fox, the lover who placed trophies at her feet like a loyal pet, but the hunter inside her pushed her on. "And then—and then I opened the door, and the room was filled with bodies of poor dead women, all stained with blood."

Jack's mouth opened, but no words came out. Bobby reached to the empty chair at his side.

Fox's hand drifted to his ribs, scratching, his face now pale and empty. "It is not so. It was not so. And God forbid it should — "

"Then I dreamed that I looked through the window and saw you, Mr. Fox, coming up the front steps, dragging after you a young lady, rich and beautiful."

"It is not so...was not so...God forbid...."

"I hid behind the bar, when you, Mr. Fox, came into the room, dragging Bobby's wife by the arm. And as you passed me, Mr. Fox, I thought I saw you try and get off her diamond ring, and when you could not, Mr. Fox, it seemed to me in my dream, that you snatched up a knife and hacked off my sister-in-law's hand to get the ring."

Fox looked to Jack. "It is not so."

"But it is so," Mary said, "and it was so. Here's hand and ring I have to show." And with that she pulled the lady's hand from her dress, and pointed it straight at Mr. Fox, all the while thinking of the secret room in her castle; and her beloved Puss 'n' Boots; and the trophy speared with a bayonet, safely hidden beneath the folds of a lavender lace bedspread that lay tangled and wrinkled in the bottom of a laundry basket.

Shaking, Bobby snatched the silver steak-knife from his plate.

Jack reached under his coat and produced a dainty pistol, all in one fluid motion.

Mary smiled at her hunter. "I wish it were not so."

Grinning furiously, Fox scratched his ribs and waited.

In the last moment of silence, the diamond ring sparkled.

Hard-Boiled Horror

My buddy Joe Lansdale has called me "a multi-genre writer, sometimes all in one story." I plead guilty. Mixing and matching genres is something I've become known for, and something I've always enjoyed.

As a kid I was blissfully unaware of the dollar words such as "genre." What I did was write stories. Western stories, war stories, action-adventure yarns—I was all over the map. A good number of these tales included a monster along with the usual trappings, so I guess I was bending genre from an early age. I even wrote a series of stories about an elite military unit that circled the globe hunting everything from Japanese goblins to Himalayan Yetis to that big green thing that's said to swim around Loch Ness. The hero of these stories was Major Colt Maverick, a name I chose because I thought it reeked of masculinity and Old Spice and testosterone. In retrospect, I'd say "Colt Maverick" has a little too much equine-barnyard scent, but hey... I was about twelve at the time I thought him up.

The good major's adventures aside, my familiarity and facility with different genres was a plus when I was breaking in as a pro. By then I had learned to think about such things in regard to specific markets, and that worked to my advantage when I was trying to build my resume. I'd hear about a horror anthology, and I'd try to do something a little different than most submitters by splicing genres. Early on I sold lots of horror/crime hybrids—but we'll get to those in a minute. First a few words about breaking into the short story market.

Unfortunately, there's no simple trick to make your stories rise from the slush pile to publication. I wish there were—I could have used it. The main advice I have to offer is of the tried-and-true variety: know your market, follow editorial guidelines, turn out quality stories, and (hopefully) juice those stories with a little something extra that will make them stand out from the rest of the submissions crossing the editor's desk.

Simple advice, but the follow-through isn't simple at all, especially when you're submitting to top-drawer anthologies or magazines. When you start playing the game at that level you need to bear down, work hard, and get about as serious as a heart attack, because your story doesn't just have to be as good as the submissions from the "name" writers you're competing against, it has to be better... and I'm talking better by a long shot, not by a hair. Otherwise, why should an editor take a chance on you, an unknown, rather than give the slot to an established pro with a name readers will recognize when they eyeball the table of contents page?[12]

So my multi-genre approach was something a little different, and it helped make my early stories stand out. Now, I'm not saying that writing genre-bending fiction was my key to breaking into the pro markets, but the multi-genre approach definitely opened a couple of doors for me. As I've said, most of my early published stories were horror/crime hybrids— I call 'em hard-boiled horror stories. These were the first stories that got me noticed.

Of course, I wasn't the first writer to write hard-boiled horror. Way back when, Robert Bloch wrote more than a few tales that would qualify as such. So did most of Bloch's L.A. contemporaries, from William F. Nolan to Harlan Ellison. These gentlemen were influenced by the classic pulps, and, perhaps of equal importance, by radio shows such as The Shadow, The Whistler, Inner Sanctum and Suspense. For the generation of writers that followed Bloch and company, you can add comic books to the equation. Especially EC comics—if you're familiar with those you already know that there aren't too many issues of Tales from the Crypt, The Vault of Horror, or The Haunt of Fear that you can pick up without running into at least one story with crime and supernatural elements.

All of the above ingredients were cooking in my brainpan for years before I sat down at the Mac with the scorched side and started turning out tales I hoped to sell. Probably the best of my early attempts at hard-boiled horror were "Guignoir" and "The Cut Man," which were the first stories that got me into the annual year's best horror anthologies. Other personal favorites from this period are "Dead Celebs," "Tombstone Moon," and "Styx." Other attempts were... well, to put it kindly, others were what might best be termed "learning experiences."

"The Baddest Son of the Bitch in the House" fits in the latter camp. For me, the most interesting thing about it is the hardass voice—that's what carried me through the reread for this book, anyway. The rest of it's about what you'd expect... if you've read enough EC comics, that is. But I'll have more on that (and the perils of writing trick endings) later.

I "sold" this story the first time I sent it out. I was delighted, but only because I hadn't yet learned that when it comes to writing the word "sold" doesn't necessarily involve money changing hands. The editor who "bought" the story was putting out a little magazine that looked like it was going places. This guy had started up shop about the same time that Rich Chizmar was publishing the first issues of Cemetery Dance, and for a while it looked like Rich's magazine and the publication-which-will-remain-nameless were even money to succeed Dave Silva's The Horror Show as the premiere small press publication.

Anyway, the editor-who-will-remain-just-as-nameless-as-his-publication accepted "The Baddest Son of a Bitch in the House." Somewhere in there he accepted two other stories from me. He put me through rewrites on a couple of them—something I was rarely asked to do—and he actually commissioned an artist to adapt the third as a comic ("When the Fruit Comes Ripe," a story you'll also find in this volume [sorry... at present the commissioned artwork is only available in my office closet]).

None of my stories ever saw print in the nameless magazine. Still, apart from hearing that the editor in question once served up cans of cat food as chip-dip at a convention, I really don't think he was a bad guy. Maybe not smart, but not bad, either. I do think he bit off way more than he could chew, though, and I'm not talking about Friskies. As the years passed and I talked to other writers who were breaking into the horror market in the early nineties, I discovered that nearly everyone I knew had "sold" a story to this guy.

Some people even claimed that accepting a story was his clever ploy for drumming up subscriptions. Hey, "buy" a story and get a subscription check from a grateful writer. After all, there's a sucker born every minute, right? I don't know. Stranger things have happened, but I'd hate to think that I was quite that stupid, because—you guessed it—I subscribed!

Anyway, the nameless magazine soon went belly up, and I lost a few bucks on my subscription. Needless to say, I was never paid for my stories. About all I've got to show for the endeavor is a half-dozen letters from the nameless editor, including one regarding 'The Baddest Son of a Bitch in the House."

He wanted to use that one in a "Special Offensive Titles Issue." I'm not kidding. The only problem was that my title wasn't quite offensive enough for him. After all, he'd commissioned a special piece entitled "A Blow Job for Joey," so it should have come as no surprise that he wanted me to change the title of my piece to" The Biggest, Baddest Motherfucker in the House."

You can imagine my delight, reading that.

But, boys and girls, that's the life of a writer.

And, in its own way, that's editorial advice at its finest.

Because when you come right down to it, writing's all about choosing just the right word, isn't it?

THE BADDEST SON OF A BITCH IN THE HOUSE

Smit laughed at the men on the porch. "Hell, ain't none of you ever seen a red man before?"

The Indians stared at him, button-lipped. Smit spat on his dye-stained palms and rolled up his dye-splattered shirt-sleeves. He laughed again —short and hard, a challenge — and all eyes turned away.

Pussies, plain and simple.

Smit's boots thudded over pine porch steps. Before him, the cabin wall was covered with wooden masks —birds and fish and bears and beavers and all kinds of other spooky-looking totem pole shit. The masks smiled and leered, peeking at Smit over slumped Indian shoulders and downcast Indian heads. Smit grinned back, appreciating the contrast.

Fuckin' masks. It was the same thing everywhere. Pussies always wear masks when they want to act tough. In the city, it's a gangbanger who's scared shitless without a bandana mummy-wrapped around his pimply face. Out here, it's an old drunk baying at the moon, goddamn totem pole face strapped to his head, scared of God or the Big Buffalo or whatever.

The men inched out of Smit's way. He cupped his hands against the dirty window and peered inside the cabin. Dark. A Budweiser sign glowed feebly above an empty bar. A dingy pool table sat in one corner, unattended.

"Got a place to wash up in there?" Smit asked.

No one answered. No one even looked up.

Indians. Who could figure 'em? Smit sure couldn't. First he'd had to put up with Cochise, and now these morons.

Smit pulled out his pistol. "Let's see some eyes," he said, and the Indians obliged. "Okay, here's the drill: I got this gun, but I ain't lookin' to take any money from you boys. In fact, if things work out right tonight you all stand to pick up a little scratch for your trouble." Smit paused just long enough to let the idea sink in, and then he turned to the biggest, meanest-looking Indian on the porch, a hatchetfaced man who was missing an ear. "You —Van Gogh —I'm putting you on the payroll. Fifty bucks an hour. Figure three hours work. Right now I see five pickups parked down the road, and it's your job to make sure that they don't go anywhere. If I hear any engines, see any headlights, it's your ass."

Van Gogh smiled, nodded.

Relaxing, Smit slid the pistol under his belt. Without throwing a single punch, he'd just beaten the biggest, baddest cat on the porch. None of the others would try shit with Van Gogh in line.

Smit was a student of human nature. What he realized, what the other men on the sagging porch didn't know (and didn't have the stones to find out), was that a guy like Van Gogh was a dog, a loser. Sure he looked tough, but someone had taken his ear and a man couldn't forget something like that, especially when he was confronted by someone like Smit, who could flash a perfect, ear-eating grin. And if the man with the grin was smart, he'd offer the dog a bone — say a few fifties—just so the dog could save some flea-bitten face.

"Good enough," Smit said. Grinning, flashing big white teeth, he left Van Gogh with an unspoken warning: You and me know how you really are, so be smart and don't push it.

Smit opened the rusty screen door and slipped inside the bar. The bartender thrust a thumb over his shoulder. "Can's in the back."

Smit slapped a twenty onto the bar. "You got any steel wool? You know, like SOS pads, or Brillo?"

"Sure." The bartender's thumb did an instant replay. "Back there. In the can." He covered Smit's twenty with a callused palm and slid it across the bar. Cash somebody's welfare check with it, that's what he'd do. Out here in the sticks, nobody would complain if Andy Jackson had red hair.

Hell, out here, a twenty was still a twenty.

Smit headed down a hallway, past more creepy masks. He was sure that the bartender had seen his gun, and just as sure that this little backroads shitsplat didn't have a telephone. No one was going to call the cavalry while he was indisposed, not unless one of the guys on the porch had a car phone in his pickup.

The very idea of that made Smit laugh out loud.

It wasn't a spotless Chevron shitter, that was for sure. Smit would have given a hundred bucks just to see one square inch of clean porcelain anywhere in the place, but such was not his luck.

Smit peeled off his shirt and T-shirt and stared into the mirror. The red dye was all over his hands and face, and in his hair, which was now half dusty-blond and half red. He looked like a king-sized demon who'd escaped from hell.

No wonder the Indians had been scared. Some bloody-looking bastard, bigger than George Foreman, comes out of the dark talking about how he's a red man, and he's got a gun too, for Christsakes. You're just naturally going to get out of the motherfucker's way.

Smit dug around under the sink and found a cake of Lava and an old box of Brillo pads. Lathered up with the soap. Rinsed off. Lots of hot water.

Shit. Still red as a motherfuckin' beet.

He took a Brillo pad from the faded box, humming a corny commercial jingle that had aired when he was a kid. Well now de pot was callin' de kettle black... Harry Belafonte calypso beat. And de kettle was ashamed to answer back... Smit worked the pad over his fingers, rubbing them raw. Den de kettle got shined with a Brillo pad... Sanded his knuckles down to scar tissue that was white and smooth. Now it's de pot dat's feelin' bad... The steel wool caught the fine hair on the back of his hands. Ninety-nine squeezes, ninety-nine... Smit pulled the pad loose; macho electrolysis. Make de Brillo soap pad shine shine shine...

Hands clean, Smit started in on his face, wincing despite his best efforts. He no longer felt like humming.

Add this one to your resume, smart guy. Failed bank job. June 17, 1992. Roseburg, Oregon. John Smith-known professionally, and in Salem Correctional, as Smit - falls for the old exploding-dye-bomb-in-the-money-bag trick.

Oh, but he'd been so smart. An inside job. Get to know that little Indian teller, the one with the nice ass. Liked him to call her Cochise. He should have known that she'd be trouble the first time he saw her naked. She had Bill tattooed on one cheek and Larry tattooed on the other. Smit remembered thinking, Christ, where's she going to put my name?

The whole thing seemed funny now. Especially the job. Some old biddy squawking to Cochise about a lost social security check that never made direct deposit, and Smit gets the wrong teller — some prune-faced bitch who clears out her drawer right away. Acting so scared, too.

Shit. Acting was right.

Okay. He didn't panic. Stuck to the plan. Took Cochise "hostage" and jammed. Left everyone listening to the old biddy, who was still complaining about the social security check.

Cochise was trying to warn him when the dye bomb exploded.

They got away, but then Cochise got weird. The first night, camping by the Umpqua River, Smit sorted through the money. In the middle of the packs he found $7,000 in twenties and fifties that had been protected from the worst of the dye. Cochise acted like they were set for life, like they were Bonnie and Clyde. She practically raped him on the spot.

She was good — had a tongue on her that could have done battle with the baddest boa constrictor in all of Brazil — but she wasn't worth thirty-five hundred.

Smit waited, of course. Waited until she got them over the old switchback trail that cut through the forest, waited until he learned which logging roads to take. And when he saw the bar, the first sign of a genuine American automobile since they'd ditched the getaway car, he dropped Cochise with the prettiest left-right-left you'd ever want to see and tied her to a fat Douglas fir.

Smit rinsed the Brillo glop off of his face. Better. The dye was coming off.

Smit grinned... because skin was coming off too.

Smit started down the hallway, rubbing his freshly shaved skull. The skin on his hands and face glowed bright pink, but not red, and at least he could sniff his fingers now without smelling moss and banana slugs and all that other outdoorsy shit.

Dim light from the bathroom played over the hanging masks, angling across a black-and-red beaver face. A few teeth were missing from the grinning muzzle, and Smit smiled at that because the deformity made the mask look like the face of a blood he'd clobbered in Salem Correctional. Smit remembered another pretty left-right-left, saw the blood down on his knees picking teeth up off the basketball court.

The memory charged Smit's confidence. "Beer," he said, pounding the bar. "Whatever you got on tap."

The bartender brought out a tall stein—ceramic, naked women twined around it like fleshy vines, undoubtedly hand-painted. "Got this off a biker who came through here once," he said. "Okay?"

Smit nodded. The bartender knew how to treat a paying customer, and how to draw a beer. An inch of foam on the top. Just right.

"Good stuff." Smit wiped his mouth. "Imported?"

The bartender grinned tightly, his chapped lips showing cracks. It was one of those goofy, mystic grins that said he knew the real poop about life, and at the same time looked sorrowful because you, poor bastard, would never even be on sniffing terms with it.

Smit looked down at his beer. The head had died, and the dark liquid suddenly reminded him of an old guy in the slam who had bad kidneys and pissed brown after drinking too much jailhouse hooch.

No sense thinking about that. Smit drained the beer. Slapped down another half-red twenty to show his appreciation.

The Indians gathered at the bar. Smit sized them up, trying to figure out how much this was going to cost him. There was old Van Gogh, of course, the aforementioned one-eared dog, but he wasn't the only guy in the bar who looked like he'd spent considerable time as an ass-kickee. Smit looked over the group and saw a fine array of scars, twisted noses, and cauliflower ears, and a dozen-plus getting-out-of-your-way-right-now-sir expressions.

Still, Smit was wary of a trap. This was too damn easy. Just to be on the safe side he was generous with his money, paying more than he should have for a change of clothes and an old Ford truck. He couldn't figure out why the bastards weren't pushing him. Not even a little bit. There was usually one idiot in every crowd who finally popped off—but the Indians went along with the drill, cooperating like a bunch of soft, flabby businessmen.

Okay then, Smit. Why worry? No rush. Have another beer. Wash the tinny taste of canteen water out of your mouth and put a quarter in the juke. No juke here, though. Doesn’t matter. In this joint, a red-spotted fifty buys a cheap Panasonic boom box and a handful of ancient and mournful Buffy Sainte-Marie tapes.

The bartender kept on pouring twenty-dollar beers, and Smit's hands and face started to feel a whole hell of a lot better.

The Indians remained quiet.

Not that Smit's buddies weren't doing anything. While he drank, they crept one by one into the hallway and donned their masks, quietly, so Smit wouldn't notice.

"Where ya goin'?" Smit asked when the bartender stepped from behind the bar.

For an answer the bartender smiled, full and wide. Smit saw the man's split teeth. Then he saw the beaver's split teeth and grinning black lips slip over the man's smile.

Another mask came toward him. A wolf face, missing an ear. "Can I get that hunert-and-fifty now?" Van Gogh asked.

"Hell." Smit laughed, drunk. "Where's my mask?"

A bird whispered through its broken beak. "You don't get one."

"C'mon, guys. I'll pay. I wanna play too. Howl at the moon or whatever you're gonna do."

A roar came from the other side of the rusty screen door.

The bartender ran the tap, then slammed a bowl of beer onto the counter.

Smit turned toward the door. Nothing there. Eyed the Indians. Leering, animal faces stared back at him, every mask deformed in some way. Twisted noses, missing teeth, mangled ears. Shattered faces crowning thick male bodies... but one body wasn't the same as the others.

Cold sweat beaded on Smit's forehead as his gaze traveled over cocked hips and generous curves and settled finally on the mask above — a beautiful face, brown as the earth, with a red-eyed snake jutting from between amused lips.

The snake's head eased over the cedar mouth, forked tongue licking at splinters.

No. Smit blinked. He was seeing things. He had to be seeing —

The wooden porch creaked and moaned.

The smell of moss and banana slugs drifted into the bar.

The screen door squeaked open.

The thing that stood in the doorway wasn't wearing a mask. It grinned — a full, foot-wide, slobbering grin, yellow teeth glimmering.

To be precise, it was the biggest, baddest, ear-eating grin that Smit had ever seen.

Rejection, Resolve and Respect

The following story includes a satanic cult, illicit use of a baseball chalker, king-sized bat creatures, several topical references which have dated badly, and a couple of small-town heroes who are just this side of clueless. If you were reading small press magazines in the late eighties and early nineties you probably encountered more than a few tales like this—goofy adventure yarns with fantastic sensibilities that could only see print in publications designed on a home computer.

Call 'em dot-matrix pulp. Done right they were just this side of a guilty pleasure, and I admit that I loved 'em. Like the best of the old-time pulp stories, dot-matrix pulp tales cranked hard, got where they were going, and didn't apologize for being purely entertaining.

Joe Lansdale wrote more than a few. I'm thinking of stories like "The Junkyard" and "The Valley of the Swastika." Fact is I can almost see Joe cringing at the mention of the latter. Doesn't matter. Let him cringe all he wants. "Valley" is by far the best lost Nazis in the Appalachians story I have ever read. I love the damn thing—inbred cavemen, clay-and-straw airplane, and all.

When I sat down to write "Black Leather Kites," I tried to put myself in a Lansdale frame of mind. After all, Joe was one of my favorite writers back then (still is), and sooner or later I was bound to try a little imitation. You'd have to look pretty hard to find a beginner who hasn't done that, intentionally or unintentionally. But it's tough to pull off, kind of like trying to wear another guy's clothes when you're not even close to the same size. Hell, those clothes might look great on him. But on you....

Well, you'll see what I mean when you read this one. If you're in the right mood you just might get a kick out of it. Anyway, go ahead and give "Black Leather Kites" a test drive, then come back and check in with me when you're done. I've got another story to tell you that'll keep until then.

All right. Time for "Black Leather Kites," Part Two, with a little writerly advice about rejection, resolve, and respect.

So I'm finishing up my tale of runaway lawnmowers and werebats and wondering where I should submit it. The phone rings. It's Rich Chizmar, editor of Cemetery Dance, calling up to talk shop. In the course of our conversation Rich mentions that he's heard about a new dark suspense anthology that Joe Lansdale's editing. "Sounds right up your alley," Rich says. "Maybe you should send Lansdale a query and see if he'll take a look at a story."

By this time I'm eager to break out of small magazines into the professional short story market, so Rich's suggestion sounds like a plan to me. I don't know Joe Lansdale from Adam, so I query away—keeping my letter short, mentioning my credits, asking Joe if he'd be willing to look at a story. Joe replies that he is indeed editing a dark suspense anthology (actually, he's co-editing it with his wife, Karen), and they're open to submissions.

I figure, hot damn, do I have a story for the Lansdales—it's definitely suspenseful. As for "dark"—well, hell, it's got werebats. Gotta be that fits the bill. In short order I finish up "Black Leather Kites." Then I type a cover letter, enclose a SASE, and hand off my manuscript to the good folks at the USPS.

I wait. A couple weeks later, here comes my manuscript, rebounding with a note from hisownself:

Norman:

Thanks for "Black Leather Kites." Not bad at all, but not what I'm looking for. I'm doing a suspense, not a horror anthology, though I might buy something with horror if it struck me just right. It should go somewhere, however, and I wish you luck with it and your writing career.

Best,

Joe Lansdale

Whoops. A cordial, kind letter, but certainly not what I was hoping for. Still, looking over Joe's rejection, I see that I made the most basic of mistakes with my submission—I didn't understand what the editor was looking for when I sent in my story. I heard "dark suspense," and it meant one thing to me. Obviously, it meant something else to Joe.

Now, "dark suspense" was a new term at the time, and it was being defined a number of ways. Take a broad view, and maybe there was room for werebats.[13] Take a narrower view, you're looking more along the lines of dark crime or noir. Either way, in this particular case, Joe's was the only definition that mattered. Why? Easy answer—he was the editor.

And I was left sitting there with a rejection letter in my hands. Now, I could have sat there kicking myself all afternoon. I could have beaten myself up over blowing a chance to crack a top-drawer anthology. Worst case scenario, I could have moped around, cried woe is me, and not written another word for a week or a month.

I didn't do any of those things. Instead, I went for a walk. I got some air and some sunshine and some distance from my mailbox, but not from Joe's letter. It was still there in my head. I couldn't help wishing that I'd asked him exactly what kind of story he was looking for when I first sent my query instead of making an assumption, but I hadn't done that and I couldn't turn back the clock and do it now, so the knowledge didn't do me any good when I'd already submitted and been rejected.

Or maybe it did. I thought about Joe's letter, what it said and what it didn't say. He hadn't praised my story to high heaven, but he hadn't slammed it, either. "Not bad at all," was what he said. And while he hadn't invited me to send another story, he hadn't told me that he was closed to submissions, either.

Now this wasn't exactly a glowing ray of sunshine, but it did give me a little hope, and I grabbed it. Right then and there I decided to try Joe with another story—the right kind of story this time. Something suspenseful and dark... but not at all supernatural.

Only holdup to that little plan was that I didn't have any stories like that lying around. No problem. I'd write one. I'd do it fast, because I didn't know if Joe had a deadline or not. After all, this was an anthology I really wanted to crack, edited by a writer I really admired. That kindled what you might call your basic fire-in-the-belly, which is something every writer needs when he's trying to set the bar a little higher than it used it be.

By the time I finished my walk, I had an opening scene and the skeleton of a plot. By the time I went to sleep that night, I had completed a rough draft of a 3,800 word story called "Dead Celebs." Next morning I got up and started polishing my manuscript. By the time the clock hit five that afternoon, that sucker was in the hands of the United States Postal Service and on its way to Nacogdoches, Texas.

Two weeks went by. This time I didn't get a rejection letter. Another two weeks passed, and I started thinking, "Well, maybe Joe's holding it for another look." Two weeks after that I was torn between feeling like I might have a pretty good chance of making the final cut and hoping that my manuscript hadn't gotten lost in the mail.

Two weeks later I opened my mailbox and yanked out an acceptance letter from Joe... which I never would have received if I'd sat around staring at my rejection slip for "Black Leather Kites," feeling sorry for myself, and not writing a damn word.

Now he didn't set out to do it, but that was the first lesson Joe Lansdale taught me about writing. It's one you need to learn, too. Simple fact of life—your stories will be rejected. When that happens, don't feel sorry for yourself. Don't give up. Toss that rejection in the waste basket. Pin it to your wall and use it for inspiration. File it in your filing cabinet and forget about it. But whatever you do, get back in there. Sit down at your desk. Turn on your computer. Get to work.

Or as someone I know says when offering up one-size-fits-all writing advice: "Put ass to chair in front of typewriter...."

I'll leave you with a few words about writers further up the food chain. If you're lucky starting out, you'll meet up with more experienced writers who'll answer your questions and give you advice. Of course, there's no set way to "make this happen," and it's not a good idea to try too hard to do that. But if it does happen (at a writer's convention, or in an internet chatroom, or through an editorial relationship or a review of your work), take advantage of it. Listen. Learn. Because there's no book or website that can teach you as much as a professional writer who's already been down the road you want to travel.

As a green newcomer, I was lucky enough to have a few experienced pros in my corner. There were the gentlemen I have come to think of as The Two Ed's—Messrs. Bryant and Gorman. As mentioned earlier, Ed Bryant noticed my work early on, reviewed it enthusiastically in Locus, and was generous with both his time and his praise. The same goes for Ed Gorman, a fine writer who took an interest in my fiction, bought stories when I really needed the sales, and (like the other Ed) answered my questions without once making me feel like a wet behind the ears beginner.

I got to know Joe Lansdale a little later. After accepting "Dead Celebs" for Dark at Heart, I met Joe and Karen at the World Fantasy Convention in Phoenix. We had a couple of short chats at the con and met up again a year or so later at the Little Bookshop of Horrors in Colorado—first at a reading and then at a barbeque at Doug and Tomi Lewis' house. That's when we really started to get to know each other.

Joe never sugar-coated things much when offering advice, especially when it came to relating mistakes he made when he was starting out or the innumerable ways a writer can be screwed by editors, publishers, or agents (easy to do the latter once you learn the ropes, tougher to develop the self-critical eye that allows you to do the former). Joe learned from his mistakes, and when he offered them up as warnings, I learned from them, too. Certainly, the knowledge I gained from Joe spared me making some mistakes of my own.

Joe's a good man and a good friend, and I'm always happy to pick up the phone and find him on the other end. If I've got good news, he's one of the first to hear about it. Over the years I've been lucky enough to use him as a sounding board, and I think he'd say the same of me.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that we share similar backgrounds and a similar view of the world, human nature, and the business of writing. Maybe that's why many readers who enjoy Joe's work also enjoy mine. Stylistically, we're really pretty different, but that doesn't mean we haven't got a lot in common when you cut through the meat of the writing and get down to the bones of the stories. We do.

To tell you the truth, most relationships you'll develop as a writer turn out to be pretty disposable. You'll work with someone on a project— say an editor or a publisher—and for a while you'll have close contact, but in the end they move on to other things and so do you. Sometimes business itself can get in the way of these friendships, especially if business goes bad. Unfortunately, that's just the nature of the beast. Even under the best conditions, writers and editors/publishers are naturally on the opposite sides of the fence and will often butt heads.

Relationships between writers can be just as tricky. No matter where you live on the food chain, lots of things can ruin a friendship. You can start your list with jealousy and envy ("You sold a story to that anthology and I didn't!"), toss in pride and hurt pride ("Your lousy story won an award and my brilliant masterpiece wasn't even nominated!"), and go on from there. In other words, the same old human emotions that sour everyday relationships are apt to sour relationships between writers.

But please remember this: it doesn't have to be that way—not in life, and not in writing. Sure, it might take some work, but most worthwhile things do. Because when you come right down to it, no matter how hard you work on your writing or how much you invest in it, the end result is a stack of paper that'll end up between the covers of a book or jammed in a desk drawer somewhere.

Your friends are worth a little more than that.

For me, that's the good news.

I hope it'll be the same for you.

BLACK LEATHER KITES

The riderless Toro mower rounded second base and headed for third, and from his perch atop the pitcher's mound Dennis Wichita eyed the mechanical beast the same way a man stranded on a desert island eyes a hungry shark. At least that's the way the scene looked to Deputy Chavez, who admired Gary Larson's Far Side cartoons.

"All this one needs," Bernardo Chavez said, "is a palm tree and a duck."

A dust devil swirled across the baseline and chalk powdered the deputy's Nocona boots. The Toro motored toward home plate, coughing like an aged DH. Then the rampaging mower suddenly changed course, and the trio of flashlights duct-taped to its chassis illuminated Dennis Wichita.

"C'mon, Nardo!" Wichita's expression melted from simple concern to full-bore hysteria. "Jesus H. Christ, c'mon!"

The deputy's fingers danced over the grip of his .357. The Toro had red fenders and a blue body, a custom paint-job that left little doubt in Nardo's mind as to the identity of the mower's owner. But reason reared its ugly head, and his gun remained in its holster. Nardo didn't want to piss off Letty, though a dead mower would serve Bill right for putting a relative through this kind of grief on the third watch.

Nardo Chavez charged the Toro. He was a stocky man, 209 pounds the last time he'd bothered to tangle with a scale, and he mounted the mower gracelessly, cutting the power just as the machine skirted the mound.

The deputy leaned against the steering wheel and worked up his Jack Webb voice. "Let's hear it, Wich."

The junkman popped a Lifesaver between his thin lips and endeavored to stay downwind of the deputy. "Damnedest thing, Nardo. I was heading home from the junkyard when I seen the lights. I thought some bikers were tearing up the field... figured it for a Halloween prank, y'know. Anyway, I helped coach one of the teams last season—Ascot Funeral Home Panthers, we finished in third place — and I sure don't want my boys fielding balls out of a bunch of tire tracks next year, so I pulled over and started hollering. Just about then a truck pulled out from behind the equipment shed. Damned thing headed right for me and creased my fender, and about the time I scraped my chin up off the seat cushions I seen—and I swear to God this next part is true, 'cause it's a full moon tonight and I could see just as plain as day anyway, what I seen in the back of that truck was a bunch of boys all dressed up in hoods and such. And you know how windy it is tonight and all, and when I seen what happened next I figured it had to be a prank for sure 'cause the bastards let loose with a half-dozen kites right off the truck-bed while they tore down Highway 63!"

The deputy laughed. "I think it's time for you to toe the baseline. Or you can try lobbing a few quick ones over home plate...see if you can strike me out. Take your pick."

"Shit, Nardo...."

A dry breeze drove a wave of dust across the field. Nardo squinted, fighting the urge to rub his eyes. "Okay, let's try this again, with some ground rules this time. Lights I can buy. I can buy a truck sideswiping you. Hell, tonight I can even buy guys in hoods and you being sober. But box kites? C'mon, Wich."

"Not box kites." The junkman's hands went as wide as an imaginative fisherman's. "They were big enough, all right. And they were made of something heavy and shiny, like leather. Black leather. But they looked like.... Aw shit, the damn things looked like bats."

"Bats. Uh-huh. How about the truck then? It look like the Batmobile?"

"Shit no. Dodge."

"You sure?"

"Dodge Dakota. I know a goddamn Dodge Dakota when I see one, Nardo. Same truck that I'm driving. A damn good one. For an Eye-talian, that Iacocca -"

"Spare me." The deputy shined his flashlight across the field, pausing when the beam illuminated a blue-and-red baseball cap that had been ripped to bits by the rampaging Toro just short of second base. "Blue-and-red truck?" he asked.

"Yeah. How'd you know?"

The deputy flashed his light on the blue-and-red mower, then on the shredded blue-and-red cap. "I'm a trained observer," he said.

Nardo sent Wichita to check the concession stand and the equipment shed for signs of a break-in. Then he thumbed the extender mic fastened to his left epaulet and hailed dispatch by way of the handpack radio attached to his belt. "71SAM1 here," he said, and Sylvia Martin acknowledged. "Put me out of service, Sylvia —investigating suspicious circumstances at the little league field. Let's go code 4 with this one. We'll let 71NORA1 enjoy his nap, wherever he might be." Sylvia laughed and Nardo signed off, happy to get a jab in at Ron Allen, the deputy who was working the northern end of the county.

Wichita hadn't returned. Nardo found a pay phone behind the bleachers and was embarrassed when he had to look up Letty's number in the phone book. Of course, he flipped to "Chavez" before he remembered that she'd be under "Bleu" these days. Her voice was groggy with sleep. "Billy, it's one o'clock."

"Not Billy, nina... it's only your big bad big brother."

"Nardo! What's up? Don't tell me something happened to — "

Not wanting to answer the obvious question, Nardo cut her off with a half-truth. "Looks like my least-favorite brother-in-law left some of his precious equipment here at the little league field. I thought I'd save him a trip, if you can tell me where I might find him."

"It's hard to say. With this heat wave and the full moon, he decided to work late, when it's coolest. He left here about nine tonight, but he could be almost anywhere because he's got to change the timers on all the watering systems he services. You know — daylight savings time ends tonight."

"Tell me about it. I've got to pull an extra hour of mandatory."

"Sorry I can't help you." Letty's voice brightened. "You can always drop Billy's stuff here at the house. I can make some coffee. Bill left a slice of peach pie in the fridge, and there's some Haagen-Dazs in the freezer... vanilla, I think. It's been a long time, hermano.”

Nardo almost swore. His baby sister baked peach pie for the bastard! Bill Bleu sure as hell didn't deserve that. And they ate designer ice cream, too. Hell, they were probably doing well enough to afford that imported beer with the tin-foil jackets. The landscaping business must be pretty damn solid.

"Well?" Letty said. "How about it?"

"Naw. I think I'll just hunt up your husband. Who knows, he could be stumbling around with amnesia or something." Nardo sighed. "And I'll pass on what I'm sure would be a damn fine cup of non-instant coffee, and the pie, and the ice cream, and the truffles and finger sandwiches and whatever other goodies the maids and butlers didn't get into today."

"Watching your weight, El Bandito?" she teased. "Making a comeback?"

"Your husband wishes," Nardo said, and he hung up laughing.

El Bandito. It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. Nardo walked to second base and scooped up the tattered cap. Before he could straighten up, another blast of hot wind sprayed dust in his eyes. He swore, squinting, not rubbing because he remembered all too well the doctor's warning about rubbing an eye that had suffered a detached retina.

The injury had come in his biggest fight, a bout with Carl "The Truth" Williams, who at the time possessed the best jab in the heavyweight division outside of Larry Holmes. Best thumb, too. Anyway, the detached ret had ended the career of Bernardo "El Bandito" Chavez, an in-your-face boxer with a good left hook who had KO'd a string of fringe contenders.

While the doctors had been able to repair his eye, they had also recommended that he retire. Nardo had taken their advice, and since then no one had succeeded in finding him another career that satisfied his lust for designer ice cream and foil-sheathed beer. Lately, he settled for the in-store brand when it came to ice cream, and his beer of choice was canned and the special of the week.

At least he'd earned enough from his loss to Williams to buy a new house in his hometown and a used Firebird. And time. Time to think things through for the first time in his life. And when the money ran out he was done thinking; he took the law enforcement exams at the county office and now here he was. A deputy. An upstanding member of the community. But drawing county pay meant that luxuries came few and far between—his Noconas were on their third set of heels and three of the four speakers in his Firebird were long dead — and the things some people called him these days made him long for the days when they'd called him "El Bandito."

At first, Bill had pushed for a comeback. Training Nardo was the only job he'd ever had, and he wasn't happy about losing his one-and-only client. "Look at Sugar Ray Leonard," he'd whined. "He didn't quit when they fixed his eye. He made big money afterward."

"The gravy train's done run its course. Bill. You'd better get yourself a job, because if you don't take care of my sister I'll put your ass in a sling." Those had been the deputy's exact words.

Fuck it. Nardo rubbed his eyes and felt blessed relief from the dust. He dribbled in some eye drops as an afterthought and was still blinking when a blurry Dennis Wichita came jogging toward him.

"You were right!" Wichita called. "There is something missing! The equipment shed was busted open, and the chalker is gone!"

"The chalker?"

Wichita pointed to the indistinct first baseline, which disappeared under a cloud of dust. "You know —the machine we use to line the field.”

Nardo took Wichita's keys and told him he'd be back in a hour or two with a full report, suggesting not too subtly that Lee Iacocca had designed the seat of the Dodge Dakota especially for sleeping off tough nights. Then the deputy thumbed his extender mic and arranged a meeting with Ron Allen at the Ascot Funeral Home parking lot.

After Nardo related the story of the missing chalker and a good bit of family history, Ron asked, "Is your brother-in-law drunk, or is he just naturally insane?"

"Who knows? Maybe the whole thing is a Halloween prank. Bill and his buddies might do something crazy if they got a real snootfull. They might be out there this minute chalking dirty words on decent folks' lawns."

"Halloween night." Ron laughed. "And a full moon, to boot. Shit, I hate working mids. The only time to deal with nuts is in the light of day."

"If then."

They decided to soft-pedal it for a while. When they found Bill, they'd try to talk sense to him, convince him that the thing to do would be to pay for Wich's truck repair and return the chalker. And maybe skip a couple of the county's field maintenance bills, too, just to show that he was genuinely embarrassed about the whole thing. If Bill did that, and if he was very nice about it, maybe they wouldn't worry about the 459, the 2002, and the big bad deuce rap. It sure as hell would save all concerned a whole bunch of paperwork, and Dennis Wichita had already told Nardo that the last thing he wanted to do was deal with his insurance company. Again.

Nardo got behind the wheel of the patrol car and headed for the county line, thinking about Bill's biggest contracts, the places he was likely to visit first. He'd start with the cemetery, then work his way back toward the heart of the county. Soon he found himself thinking about Haagen-Dazs and foil-wrapped beers and steak dinners — thick filet mignons smothered with mushrooms and garlic and red onions—but he couldn't work up a good head of jealousy over Bill's success. His brother-in-law was a real entrepreneur. Two years ago he'd started out with a mail-order book called How to Earn $50 an Hour with a Pickup Truck, and now he was....

Hell, now he was driving around drunk while his loony buddies flew black leather kites off of his truck-bed.

Nardo eased the blue and white Dodge Diplomat onto Old Howard Road, careful to avoid the many potholes that dotted the blacktop. Up ahead, a blue-and-red pickup was parked on the sloping shoulder. Nardo killed his lights as he pulled in behind it.

Stepping onto the gravel shoulder, he took his nunchaku from the inside door panel. When he was a teenager, he had seen every Bruce Lee movie that had played at the Visalia Drive-In at least a dozen times, and he'd been sold on the preferred weapon of Okinawan rice farmers ever since, even though his police training with the chucks had disappointed him, concentrating on wrist locks rather than elegant flourishes and passes. Still, he had seen many a perp freeze at the very sight of them, and he thought that the chucks were a hell of a lot more intimidating than the nightsticks most cops carried or the tonfas favored by the California Highway Patrol.

Nardo checked the truck. Nothing. He tried contacting Sylvia Martin with his extender mic, but he was too far from the station's repeater and the signal was miserably weak, so he called in his position using the patrol car's more powerful radio.

Once again, code 4. Once again, investigating suspicious circumstances.

The full moon shone a chalky white-blue, the color of an oyster. Nardo hustled quietly across a weed-choked drainage ditch and through a tangle of scrub oak that partially circled the cemetery fence, glad for the moon because it made his flashlight unnecessary. He started to swing open the rusty gate before he saw the men, and the squealing hinges would have given him away for sure if not for the loud chanting that began at the same instant.

The darkness, the darkness,

The light, the light.

At midnight, at midnight.

On Halloween night.

Nardo dipped low, taking cover behind a leafy oak. He'd nearly walked right into it.

There were about ten of them, and just like Dennis Wichita had said, they were flying kites. Nardo saw three bat-shaped silhouettes darting and diving before the bright moon, though it didn't appear that any of the men were holding kite reels or paying much attention to the aerial acrobatics.

One of the men came forward, pushing something that looked like an old lawn mower. The chalker. The man bent low and jammed his arm into the machine, first to the wrist, then the forearm, then the elbow, and when be stood up, in the brief moment before the heavy, leathery sleeve of his robe descended, it appeared that he had lost his right arm.

Nardo inched back toward his patrol car. It was a trick, he told himself. Damn spooky, but just a trick. Still, he wanted to call Ron Allen for backup.

The one-armed man pulled another man forward, and a third man started to push the chalker, circling the first two. Nardo's hand drifted to his gun.

Darkness... Light... Midnight.... There was a sudden series of sharp beeps —someone's wristwatch signaling the hour —and a circle of flame exploded between Nardo and the crowd. Inside the circle, two ashen faces swam against a roiling red-orange background, and Nardo immediately recognized Bill as one of the men.

A glint of metal amid the flames. A knife arcing above Bill's head.

Bill and the other man disappeared behind a curtain of sparks.

Nardo banged through the gate and sprinted through a tombstone obstacle course. The sparks were flickering low, but rising curls of mushroom-colored smoke hid his progress from the chanting men. Again, he went for his gun, hesitated just an instant at the thought of an elaborate prank, and instead pulled his chucks and dove for the circle just as a dozen sprinklers fountained water over the cemetery lawn.

The flames were quenched almost instantly. The edge of the circle glowed orange, and as Nardo passed over it he saw Bill again, saw the cartoon-like outline of a bat glowing red on the grass at his brother-in-law's feet. Then the wind kicked out of Nardo's lungs and he felt like he was elbowing through something alive, like you'd feel if you were flailing around in the guts of a whale, and the chanting that boomed in his ears suddenly increased in pitch until it became a shrieking whine. But all he could think about was getting there, getting to the knife that even now was descending toward Bill's heart, and he whipped the chucks around the one-armed man's wrist and levered the two sticks together.

There was a sound like an ear of corn being stripped from its stalk as the man's wrist powdered. His hand fell away. The knife landed at the point of the bat-design's left ear.

"Jesus." Nardo pulled his gun as the tall man dropped to his knees. "Jesus!"

The screeching whine screamed to a deafening pitch. Nardo whirled toward the robed men. A few of them crouched at the perimeter of the circle, dying beneath cascading fountains of water, puddling to nothing like outcasts from The Wizard of Oz. Nardo was ready to surrender to a feeling of crazy relief— Bill already had and was laughing heartily at the wild sight of dissolving devil cultists — but then Nardo saw that several others had escaped the sprinklers; they had transformed themselves into huge black bats, not kites, and now they flapped leathery wings and dived before the full moon, staying well away from the sprinklers.

Hot wind blasted through the circle, a scorching twister driven by the circling bats. A black shadow washed over the moon, and Nardo's mind couldn't accept the reality of the dark silhouette until his patrol car came crashing down, shattering marble tombstones and collapsing a section of wrought-iron fence. The creatures that had dropped the car darted to the edge of the cemetery, and just as Nardo noticed that the water from the sprinklers wasn't penetrating the circle, the sprinklers sputtered and dripped off to nothing.

Bill swore. "Those bastards turned off the timers. They're gonna come for us now, Nardo. Christ, do something!"

Before the last sentence had issued from Bill's lips, a huge bat dived toward him, its steely incisors dripping saliva. Nardo fired just as the creature dodged up toward the moon, and then another sound cut at the men inside the circle, the sound of a bullet ricocheting off metal. Three tiny flashes exploded at the circle's perimeter, and the bullet fell spent on the singed grass before Nardo could begin to react.

With the stump of his wrist, the one-armed man rapped on the invisible barrier. Three echoing knocks, like knuckles on a empty oil drum. Then the man laughed, and his laughter increased in pitch until it was an ugly shriek.

Bill snatched up the cultist's knife and moved to finish him, but Nardo held him back. "Let me go, damn it. The bastard tried to kill me!" Bill pointed the knife at the singed grass beneath his feet. "And besides, look what the fucker's done to my Kentucky bluegrass!"

They couldn't leave the circle. None of the bat-things could enter, though they kept trying. The creatures battered the invisible barrier like moths drawn to a well-lighted window. As soon as the blistering wind dried the grass, the things landed and slammed their furry bodies against the barrier, folding their wings and using the tips of their long, bony fingers as pole vaults. Hell, Nardo had never seen a bat pole-vault over a tombstone before. That was weird enough, but the snot trails they left on the invisible wall when they bashed it with their rubbery pink snouts were just plain disgusting.

Okay. They couldn't get in, and Nardo and Bill couldn't get out. But the scorching whirlwind could pass straight on through. It burned Nardo's lungs, hotter now than it had been at the ballpark, though he couldn't understand how that was possible.

The one-armed man stood at the opposite side of the circle. He refused to meet Nardo's gaze. Bill sat in the circle's center, nervously tugging brown clumps of Kentucky bluegrass, the knife cradled in his lap. It had been about a half an hour, Nardo figured, since they'd been trapped.

Nardo spoke first. "This boy is pretty quiet, isn't he. Bill? I mean, considering all the excitement."

"Now, hell yeah, but you should've heard him earlier. As soon as his boys pulled me off my mower he starts in with 'All glory to Satan' and some shit about the full moon and Halloween and sacrifice and rebirth, and they're all bowing down to him like he's the Grand Poobah or something. C'mon, Nardo, we already know the bastard ain't human. He lost a good chunk of his anatomy to the chalker, and he ain't even bleeding." Bill quit pulling grass and gripped the knife. "Why don't you just let me whack the fucker's head off and we'll see if he's still so cheery!"

"Naw," Nardo said. "That happens, maybe we're stuck here forever. Our friend here is probably the only one who can tell us the way out of this fix we're in. Maybe he's got some little way we can help him out, and we can just call this whole evening a standoff." Nardo stared down at Bill. "Now, be a good boy and give me that knife before you get us into trouble."

Protesting, Bill did as he was told, and Nardo tucked the blade under his belt, noting with satisfaction the cultist's appreciative smile. Nardo returned the grin, then winked at Bill. Good cop, bad cop. It had worked before. It was probably a brand new scam to a werebat, or whatever the hell this guy was, and maybe it would buy them some time.

Nardo pointed his pistol at the cultist's severed hand. "Sorry about that. Bet it hurt like hell."

"Not much."

"Well, I guess it'll put a crimp in your human sacrificing for a while. Damn shame, I suppose. I hope it doesn't get the man downstairs all pissed off at you." Nardo wiped sweat from his brow. "Look, I've read Rosemary's Baby and I've seen Brotherhood of Satan. Isn't this the point where you're supposed to offer me three wishes, or immortality, or something?"

"That could be arranged."

"C'mon, Nardo, let's ice this fucker — "

"Put a sock in it, Bill." Nardo slipped his .357 into its holster and raised his empty hands to the cultist. "Do tell," he invited.

"Well, Sheriff-"

"Don't gild the lily. Make it Deputy."

"Very well. Deputy. There is one way out of this situation, and that is to raise that knife and plunge it into your friend's heart."

"I wouldn't call him a friend. He's my brother-in-law. But say I do that little thing. Then the walls come tumbling down and you just let me go?"

"That would be telling."

"Well, do I have some time to think it over, at least?"

With the stump of his wrist, the cultist pointed to the edge of the circle. The dust was dry now, powdery, and the swirling wind was beginning to thin the boundary. "Even now the dust of my life scatters. See? My brothers have stirred Satan's breath. That is the only thing that keeps us alive, the only thing that can penetrate the circle until the dust is charged with the blood of the living. And that must happen soon, for when the circle is no more, I will be no more. And then my brothers will be most unhappy, for you will have sentenced them to death. You two won't last an instant against them."

Bill inhaled deeply. "Satan's breath, huh? My ass. I'm a Christian man, and I can breathe this air just fine."

Nardo shook his head. "Well, Bill, maybe God doesn't approve of you transporting devil cults in your Dodge Dakota. I don't recall anything about that in the Ten Commandments, but maybe it didn't make the short list."

"Levity in the face of doom is admirable. Deputy. But if you're going to make a decision, you'd best make it soon."

Nardo whistled. "Kind of one of those moral dilemma things, huh?" He ran his finger over the blade. "I just have one other question, then. If I do this for you, will I be flapping around for all eternity?"

"There are worse things."

Nardo returned the knife to Bill. "Don't get any ideas about turning the tables on me, Billy. You sprout bat wings, you'll have one hell of a time scratching your ass."

The cultist whispered something, but his words were eclipsed by the angry shrieks of his winged brethren.

Nardo pulled the one-armed man to his feet. The bats hovered at the edge of the circle, furiously beating their wings, kicking up the powdery remnants of the cultist's arm, uncovering the scorched grass below.

Nardo lashed out. A left jab. A hard one. The one-armed man's nose collapsed; his cheeks cracked and caved in, and Nardo pulled his second punch as the man hit the edge of the circle and crumbled within the folds of his leathery robe.

"If you would've hit Carl Williams like that, we wouldn't be in this fix," Bill said. "'Course, Williams had two hands and could hit back."

"Don't start." Nardo grabbed the cultist's robe and shook it at Bill's feet. Bits and pieces hit the ground. Some bounced. Some didn't.

"Look, I don't want any part of this," Bill whispered.

Nardo grabbed the cultist's withered cock, powdered it in his fist, and sprinkled it at the edge of the circle. He glanced at Bill. "I did that little bit because I didn't want to hear you complain. Now get busy, and I mean directly."

"Even if we grind this sucker up, he ain't gonna last forever. Those furry bastards will just keep on flapping, and pretty soon we'll be right back where we are right now."

"I don't plan to be here all night. Sylvia Martin knows where I am. I can't reach her with my handpack, but pretty soon she'll send Ron Allen along to check on me, and — "

The sound of a siren rose in the distance. Nardo fumbled with his extender mic. Ron was in range, and he hailed him easily, the signal strong and clear.

"No, this isn't a gag, Ron.... Yes, we've got a dangerous situation here.... I guess the most I can say right now is that hostages have been taken, and I want to hear a hell of a lot more sirens before I see any lights."

If the bats understood, they didn't panic, and they didn't break away to pursue Ron. Instead they flapped, screeched, and circled, intent only on their fallen brother and the men who had killed him. Nardo couldn't help watching the things. He knew that they were consumed by the need for revenge, and he figured that the hunger for his blood was probably the only thing that kept them from powdering away to nothing.

But they couldn't last forever, not without the ceremony. That was plain enough. Satan's breath tore thatches of red-brown fur from their chests. Shingles of leathery flesh drifted over the cemetery like falling leaves. The bats' anger was stirring the wind and speeding their destruction. It was a race they couldn't win.

Nardo bent down and helped his brother-in-law. A gray cloud mushroomed up from the cultist's crumbling hand. Blinded, Nardo rubbed his eyes, but Bill pulled Nardo's hands away.

"Watch yourself. Here, use my bandana, but be careful."

Nardo cleaned his eyes and almost said something stupid and sentimental about blood being thicker than water.

Bill beat him to it, then added, "I'm sorry about that Carl Williams crack. Really."

"If you treat me to a slice of peach pie when this is over, and maybe toss in some Haagen-Dazs and a couple bottles of good beer as an appetizer. I'll think about forgiving you."

"Sure thing." Bill coughed as he reinforced the circle. "Really, this ain't so bad. Hell of a lot easier than installing a new sprinkler system."

"It shouldn't be long now," Nardo said. "When we make our break, do you want to take the knife or the chucks?"

Bill thought it over as he powdered the cultist's head and siphoned the dust through his fingers. "Shit, Nardo, how about you be a real sport and let me take the .357?"

Shaking his head, Nardo handed over the gun.

Headlights bloomed out on 63. The bats didn't seem to notice. Nardo and Bill stepped to the center of the circle, back to back, and the chalky boundary dusted around their boots.

Nardo brandished the chucks, stirring a breeze all his own, and cocked the weapon over his shoulder.

"Batter up," he said.

The First Dance

If you started out as a horror writer between 1981 and 1989, it wasn't hard to find a good market for a short story. All you had to do was finish a piece, address an envelope to Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone Magazine, and stick that sucker in the mail.

It wasn't a hard call to make. Twilight Zone was the complete package: a professional newsstand publication built upon the reputation of one of the genre's giants that featured fiction by the best names in the business. During its nine year run, I learned a lot by reading it. But like all good things, TZ didn't last forever. When it disappeared, writers of the strange were left with a king-sized gaping hole when it came to finding a "first stop" market for short fiction.

I was one of those writers. I'd submitted a couple of early efforts to TZ during its final days, but I didn't place them. And when TZ went under... well, I wasn't sure where to send my stories when I first turned 'em out of the chute. While there were several established fantasy and science fiction magazines, TZ was pretty much the only game in town when it came to horror fiction.

But that didn't mean that there weren't any other magazines that specialized in horror. As I've already mentioned in my introduction to this volume, the June 1988 TZ featured an article on the "small press" horror scene by a young guy named Bob Morrish. I was first introduced to a bunch of fine publications through that article—magazines like The Horror Show, Fantasy Tales, Grue, and Weirdbook, all of which were flying under the radar of the New York publishing world. Soon I discovered a few more independent publications that were doing interesting stuff— George Hatch's Noctulpa and Stephen Mark Rainey's Deathrealm were two other favorites—not to mention a burgeoning company of writers who were just starting to break into the field. In fact, the small press magazines of the nineties were a real breeding ground for new talent. These days, many of the writers who first published in those little 'zines have solid careers in the mainstream press.

Eventually my fiction appeared in quite a few small press magazines.

I was in Noctulpa and Grue and Deathrealm, Not One of Us and Haunts and the British Fantasy Society's Chills. And while I have good memories of the folks who ran those journals—including a special fondness for George Hatch and his Noctulpa anthology series—it was another magazine, and another publisher, which turned out to be the best fit for my fiction... and did the most to help me kick my writing career into gear.

Richard Chizmar was a junior at the University of Maryland when he decided to publish a magazine with the unlikely title of Cemetery Dance. Like me. Rich was a reader of TZ and The Horror Show. Like me, he admired both magazines—not so much as a fan, but as a student who was eager to learn from them.

Rich was also an aspiring writer,[14] but the publishing bug bit him hard. He jumped into the small press pond with both feet. The first I heard of him was in a series of announcements for Cemetery Dance in Janet Fox's Scavenger's Newsletter, which was the main source of markets for new writers back in those days.[15] If I remember correctly, I also saw some ads for CD in other small press magazines. Anyway that was enough to convince me to send off for a sample copy. Cemetery Dance #1 wasn't much to look at, but it did feature a roster of impressive writers: Dave Silva, Steve Tem, Bentley Little, and Ron Kelly. That was a pretty solid lineup for a debut issue.

Of course. I'd have probably been more impressed with the look of CD #1 if I'd known that Rich was a college kid who was flying on a wing and a prayer. I don't think too many folks knew that back then. I especially love Rich's story about putting that first issue together in the days before most people had PCs and printers sitting on their desks: "We laid out #1 in the college computer lab and also printed it there. We were renegades because we weren't supposed to be in there, much less working in there; we hit PRINT and sprinted from the room because we knew how pissed all the other students would be when they found out someone sent almost 100 pages—we printed it twice—to the spooler or whatever it's called; there was only one printer for the entire lab; we snuck back in an hour later and did a grab-and-run...."

Like I said, I didn't know any of that then. Hell, I was an unpublished writer. I didn't know much. I didn't know if I was ever going to manage to sell a short story or get one published. I didn't know if there would be a second issue of Cemetery Dance. I certainly didn't know that a few years later I'd find a story of mine slotted behind one by Stephen King on CD's table of contents page, or that a couple years after that Rich would publish my first novel (Slippin' into Darkness), or that he'd go on to become one of the leading small press publishers in the horror genre.

All I knew was what my gut told me: that maybe this guy Chizmar was trying a little bit harder than some of his small press contemporaries, even if his first issue did look pretty rough. From the beginning, I sensed that Rich's efforts were serious.[16] The table of contents page for CD #1 told me that he wasn't afraid to go after writers who had made their way out of the small press pool. He wasn't afraid to put his money (or his student loans!) where his mouth was to publish his magazine and promote it, either.

In short. Rich seemed hungry as a publisher, the same way I was hungry as a writer.

That was enough for me. Dave Silva had just rejected a story called "Save the Last Dance for Me," and I was looking for another prospective market. I thought, "Hmmm...  'Save the Last Dance for Me'... Cemetery Dance...."

It certainly wasn't the most brilliant marketing strategy ever conceived, but I went with it. Rich called me on the phone a couple weeks later and accepted the story. "Last Dance" was my first published fiction, and it took the lead slot in CD #2.

If you want to chart a very minor coincidence, Cemetery Dance #2 bore the same cover date (June 1989) as the final issue of The Twilight Zone. According to Rich, readers enjoyed my debut story, and I sold seven more stories to Cemetery Dance as we worked our way through the nineties. In those days, a lot of readers thought of me as the house writer at CD, though a look through my back issues tells me that Bentley Little and Gary Braunbeck could lay claim to that title, too. These days Tim Lebbon's work appears frequently, and I'm glad to see him making his mark in CD; Tim is a writer with a bucketful of talent.

Myself, I was pretty lucky from the get-go with CD. Rich and I were on the same wavelength. We'd grown up on the same books. We admired the same writers and the same kind of stories. Or, to put it another way, I had Mr. Chizmar's number. As an editor. Rich was looking for exactly the kind of story I was writing. We want tales that are powerful and emotional— creepy, chilling, disturbing, and moody. Suspense/mystery/crime tales with a horror element ore always welcome. That's how CD's submission guidelines read today; it's also a pretty fair description of the stories I was writing in the nineties, many of which were horror/crime hybrids.

One thing I'm sure about—my early appearances in Cemetery Dance helped me gain a foothold in the business. How do I know that? Simple. I know because people who mattered in the industry told me. I'd find myself being introduced to an editor or a publisher at a convention, and I'd hear a comment that went something like this: "Oh, yeah. Norm Partridge. I really liked that story you had in the last Cemetery Dance...."

It wasn't unusual for those conversations to end with an invitation to contribute a story to a professional anthology, or an offer to look at my first novel when I managed to finish it. In those days, that kind of offer spelled Motivation... most definitely with a capital M.

But I've been extremely lucky that way—not only with opportunities that have come my way, but also with my dealings with the small press. Most of the publishers I've worked with have not only grown and prospered, they've become powerhouses in specialty publishing. Rich Chizmar published my first short story and my first novel. I've worked with Bill Schafer at Subterranean Press since he started his company, and we have a longstanding relationship that continues to this day. Night Shade Books, one of the most ambitious of today's new presses, published my last short story collection, The Man with the Barbed-Wire Fists.

Yep. I've been lucky with the small press.

Extremely.

Now a word of warning (and you probably figured this was coming, didn't you?).

If you're an aspiring writer, don't count on luck.

The following is a bit of one-size-fits-all advice, and it applies to every writer. Whatever your chosen field of endeavor—whether you want to write screenplays, short stories, novels, or comic scripts—it's wise to remember a point Jack London made a long time ago: the works you produce as a writer are marketable goods.

Your stories (or novels, or scripts) are commodities. You're selling them. To do that, you need a game plan. The tried-and-true one most writers stick with is simple: when you finish a project, submit it to the highest paying appropriate market first and work your way down the list of other appropriate markets until you make a sale.

Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule. Sometimes you'll just flat out take a chance on an unproven market, especially when you're starting out. And sometimes you might be looking for another kind of payoff besides cash. You might want to crack a prestigious anthology or magazine that doesn't pay enough to fill a Prius' gas tank but will give your work good exposure and get you noticed."[17]

So it's not always about the money. Sometimes that's okay. There are steps you'll take on your career path as a writer that won't put dollars in your pocket. But you always need to concentrate on moving forward. If you want to be a writer, your fiction is the vehicle that will take you for that ride.

You need to learn to pick your shots. You need to learn to make those shots count. If there's one thing being a writer isn't about, it's instant gratification. I've seen too many new writers dragged down by that particular ball and chain. If you give away your best story to your buddy's webzine before trying to sell it to a well-paying market with a high circulation because you're too impatient to wait a few months for a professional editor's reply, what good has that story really done you? If you "sell" a story to a POD anthology that pays in shared royalties (and that maybe twenty people will read), how has that advanced your career? If you spend a year writing a novel, and you cut a deal with the first small publisher who buys you a beer at a writer's convention instead of working to find an agent who can represent your book or a publisher who will treat it as more than a cool hobby he can tinker with on weekends (unless it's football season, that is)...well, don't say I didn't warn you.

Be patient. Pick your shots. Make them count.

If you're an aspiring horror writer. I'll give you the first one for free. Let's say you just finished a new story. You've revised it, and then revised it again, polishing it to the best of your ability. The story's got a little bit of a mystery angle, and you think it's pretty good. In fact, you think that maybe it's the creepiest, most powerful thing you've written.

Take my advice. Submit it to Cemetery Dance.

It just might get you noticed.

SAVE THE LAST DANCE

I guess the biggest thing that Carl Hart ever did was shoot those people down at radio station KTCB. At least that was the biggest thing I ever saw him do. Anyway, we buried Carl next to Mary Lyn McCarthy last week, and yesterday KTCB knuckled under to Reverend Tim and changed the format of its midnight-to-six show. I keep requesting "Save the Last Dance for Me," but the chickenshit disc jockeys won't play it anymore.

Holding Carl in minimum security was a big mistake. He escaped ten days ago, on Mary Lyn's birthday, just like I said he would. The chuckleheads up in Fresno didn't even know that Carl was gone when he rammed his '57 Chevy into the Fiddler 7-Eleven and died with a ton of red-and-green cinder blocks in his lap. Mr. McCarthy said that someone must have jammed a few of those blocks up under Carl's rib cage with how heavy his coffin was and all, and I don't disagree. My shoulder is still sore from carrying that big metal box.

It rained a little the day of the funeral, just enough to kill the dust around the cemetery and make everything look a little cleaner. Reverend Tim didn't seem to know what to say about Carl. First he had Mr. McCarthy say something, and then Tim managed a few words about fate and love in that deep, John Carradine baritone of his. Sherry, Mary Lyn's niece, busted down in tears. I damn near lost it myself when I saw that.

It was a damn shame. Sherry seeing all that death so young. Everyone said so.

Carl's Chevy sat in the 7-Eleven parking lot for a couple days, full of bloodstained comic books and those pantyhose that come in plastic eggs. Some 7-Eleven big shots came out in a Cadillac and looked over the store, but that was just for show. Fiddler ain't exactly the best place for a chain store; most people around here are loyal to Millie's Liquors when it comes to buying cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and beer. They'd rather let someone they know gouge them than pay an extra buck to some outsider who gets pissed off if he's got to make change. I can't blame 'em—I hate to get cussed out in Vietnamese myself. Anyway, the 7-Eleven people have been looking for an excuse to close down their Fiddler store for years, and Carl finally gave them one. Now you can't get a Slurpee around here anymore, and you've got to drive to Fresno or Bakersfield to buy Dark Mistress Magazine because Millie won't carry it. She says carrying Hustler is bad enough.

Anyhow, I was going to tell you about Carl's Chevy. If you want to know the truth, the Chevy was in worse shape than Carl after the accident. The 185-horsepower engine was all bashed up, the frame was bent, the heavily waxed, iron-blue paint-job was scarred and rutted. About the only thing that wasn't scratched or dented was the rear license plate, and the only reason I decided to keep that was because it said MARYLYN. I didn't feel funny about keeping it — hell, I was supposed to inherit the whole damned car.

Dennis Wichita down at the junkyard gave me a hundred bucks for the Chevy. Out of respect for Carl, he didn't charge me for the tow.

I was walking out by the cemetery when Dennis hauled the Chevy down Highway 63. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, everything was kind of purple, and it was so quiet. After Dennis pulled out of view, I jumped a ditch choked with hamburger wrappers and beer bottles and went down to the road. Little bits of the Chevy's windshield dotted the blacktop, reflecting purple sky. I followed the glimmering trail for miles, until it petered out and ended by the McCarthy's almond orchard. There's only so much broken glass can come out of one Chevy, I guess.

Folks around here say that it's over, but I don't think so.

The night it happened Carl and me and half the guys from the tire factory were down at the Iron Horse to watch the Mike Tyson fight. Bill, the owner and bartender, has a satellite dish that can pick up just about anything you'd want to see; I think he's single-handedly responsible for keeping HBO out of Fiddler. Anyway, Iron Mike chopped his man down in two rounds, and a bunch of drunken Mexicans were hogging the pool tables, so Carl and me settled into a booth for a couple extra beers.

Must have been more than a couple, though, because I don't remember leaving the Iron Horse — next thing I remember is having a burger down at the Sno-White Drive-in and seeing Sherry drive by in Mary Lyn's old Mustang.

We finished our burgers and headed out Highway 63 toward my place, which is closer to the factory than it is to Fiddler. "Mind if I turn on the radio?" I asked, trying to sound like I didn't care one way or the other.

Carl grunted an okay from behind a Marlboro. "I want you to hear my new speakers, anyway. They're Jensens. Just put 'em in this morning."

I twisted a knob and tuned in KTCB. A doo wop song —something by the Platters, I think — was just finishing up. "Sounds good," I said.

A throaty voice drifted out of the speakers. Fact is, the Jensens made it sound like someone was sitting in the back seat of Carl's '57. “This is your lonely girl, the Dark Mistress, coming to you from midnight to six on KTCB, radio-free Fresno. I hope all my bad boys out there are listening tonight, especially my lovely crying boy. I’ll have something special for you in just a few minutes, but first we must do some business."

Carl shot a bleary glance my way. "Listen to this stuff?"

"Uh-huh. Helps me get through the long, lonely nights."

Carl flipped on his brights, pulled across the solid yellow line, and passed a semi. "Ain't this woman kinda sick?" he asked. "I mean. Reverend Tim had a petition against this show. I think he cost KTCB a few sponsors."

I grinned. "If she's sick, KTCB doesn't care. They're making a pot of money off her. Just listen to this ad." We quieted for a minute, listening to the sexy-voiced DJ pitch a series of Dark Mistress videos. Carl blushed at her suggestive come-on. You know the one: ‘‘I love getting into my work, and sometimes it gets into me."

"See what I mean?" I said, opening a beer. "She buys up all the ad time from midnight to six. That's a lot of money, Carl."

"But Reverend Tim's petition says — "

"Hell, I bet half those old farts who signed Tim's petition are jackin' off to this show right now." I swallowed beer. "Maybe Tiny Timmy is in the church bathroom with a portable radio, hidin' out from Eloise — "

Carl's expression soured. "Jack, I'll have no talk like that in this Chevy."

I just smiled and drank beer.

The Dark Mistress laughed. “How's my crying boy tonight? Are you lonely, like I am? I haven't seen you in such a long time. You used to come to me every week. With roses, remember? You'd come to the cemetery and sing our song."

I recognized the familiar bass intro to "Save the Last Dance for Me." So did Carl. He tromped on the brakes and we skidded down Highway 63 just as Ben E. King started singing; whitewalled Firestones screamed, beer splashed across the dashboard. "Christ, Carl, you — " I yelled, and the rest of my words were cut off by the blaring horn of a semi coming fast from behind.

Carl bit his lower lip; the Marlboro flipped out of his mouth and landed in a fold in his jeans. I grabbed for the door handle and missed just as the semi hit its brights and shot around us. Demon-red tail-lights swam through the darkness; wind sucked after the truck, buffeting the Chevy. Carl's big hands didn't move from the steering wheel. His foot slid off the clutch and the Chevy lurched and died.

I started in on him again. "Carl, you crazy bastard, you want to die?"

Tears were in Carl's eyes. Blood ran from his lip. He said, "Yes."

I pulled off my T-shirt and wiped down the dashboard; Carl got rid of the Marlboro and brushed ashes off his jeans. Suddenly the greasy hamburger in my gut didn't feel very good. "Christ, I hope I haven't screwed up your car," I said, just to say something.

Carl twisted the key and the Chevy roared to life. The final notes of "Save the Last Dance for Me" faded out and Carl flipped off the radio. "Mary Lyn loved that song," he whispered. "She said it was ours. After she died, I used to go up to the cemetery late at night and sing it to her. I'd bring her roses that I stole from Mrs. Castro's garden."

Hell, everyone in Fiddler knew about Mary Lyn and the song. But Carl had never told me about the roses before, or his midnight cemetery visits.

I raised the beer bottle to my lips, but there wasn't even a trickle left. "Jesus," I said. "How do you think the Dark Mistress knew?"

Carl eased off the clutch and the Chevy kicked out. The car notched RPMs; Carl shifted, hit the gas and shifted again. We turned onto Old Howard Road, which was (and is) famous for the biggest potholes in Tulare County. I should have told Carl to slow down. Instead, I opened another beer and stared out at the midnight fields. Drinking made my stomach feel a little better, and I reached into the grease-spotted bag between us and grabbed a handful of cold fries.

Carl took the beer out of my hand and chugged it down. "I got to see Mary Lyn," he said.

Everybody around Fiddler remembers Mary Lyn's funeral. The casket was metal, silvery-pink, and the funeral parlor was so full of roses and carnations and lilies that Reverend Tim took a carload out to those less-fortunate folks at the senior citizens' home in Dinuba. Someone at the wake said that the florists up in Fresno must have made a fortune, but I imagine that the fellow who rented Mary Lyn's dad the white, horse-drawn hearse made a good bit more. A lot of folks whispered that Mr. McCarthy was turning Mary Lyn's funeral into a circus, but he just said that his daughter was too special to go to the grave in a black limousine.

He was right. I remember Mary Lyn in that silvery-pink coffin, yellow velvet all around her. Her blonde hair was just so, curling like she liked it to, and her skin was so white. White like the ivory cross on Father Tim's pulpit.

I know I shouldn't say it, but they should have left Mary Lyn's eyes open. Her eyes were so blue and pretty. I don't know what they'd remind you of—it sure wouldn't be anything you'd find in a place like Fiddler. And they really did sparkle, especially when Mary Lyn was enjoying herself.

I never told Carl about this, but I guess it won't hurt to mention it now. On weekends back in high school, I used to borrow my cousin's pickup and follow Carl and Mary Lyn. Usually they went to the drive-in outside Visalia, which is closed down now. I'd park a couple rows behind Carl's Chevy and get some popcorn. Then I'd watch them. I usually left before they did, and every now and then when I hit my lights I'd catch the glint of Mary Lyn's blue eyes through the Chevy's back window as she rested her head on Carl's shoulder. And that's how I remember her: sparkling eyes in the dark.

I remember staring down at Mary Lyn in her coffin, thinking that the pink ribbon tied around her neck wasn't quite wide enough. Maybe it was just me. Most folks said that they couldn't see the rope burns at all.

In the moonlight, Carl looked like a man made of shadows as he sprinted away from Mrs. Castro's garden. He flung open the car door and his sweaty white face came toward me; droplets of blood splattered against my naked chest as Carl flung roses into the back seat.

The car door slammed shut. I grabbed one of Carl's big paws and held it up to the radio light. Jagged, bloody rips crisscrossed his lifeline. "Didn't have no shears," he said. "I had to rip 'em loose."

I didn't know what to say. I was quiet all the way to the cemetery. Carl hit damn near every pothole and didn't even cringe.

A rusty road sign bobbed in the darkness. FIDDLER CEMETERY.

"Comin'?" Carl asked, collecting the roses with bloody hands.

"She's dead, Carl," I whispered. "Take me home. I don't want to see this."

Carl squeezed the rose stems. His eyes narrowed. "You don't want to see nothin', you just don't watch, then."

Slam. Carl was out of the Chevy. Slam. In and out of the trunk. He loped into the darkness, roses in one hand, something else in the other.

I sucked down the last drops of the last beer. Damn. First time that I could remember Carl not listening to me. He always listened, even in high school. If I dropped three fingers, he threw a slider. If I dropped my pinky: fastball to a left-handed batter.

I rolled down my window. Somewhere, a high keening voice, breaking with emotion. Carl singing "Save the Last Dance for Me."

Shit. Why couldn't I be at home? A couple more beers there, nice and cold. A Dark Mistress video. The one with her in that little black leather outfit; you know, nasty little leather strips, full of holes and tight like you can hardly believe. Makes her look like she sprang off the cover of some kinky science fiction paperback. Wearing that leather mask that never comes off. Blonde hair spilling around it; web from a black widow's ass.

Hell, you know the feeling. Only real D. M. fans like you and me understand how you get addicted to that kind of stuff, right?

Outside, a shovel bit into the cemetery lawn. I listened. The shovel bit again. Then I was out of the Chevy and screaming, "Carl!"

I guess not many people know that I was the first one to see Mary Lyn that morning. Mr. McCarthy had hired me and Carl to work on farm equipment that summer, only Carl decided that he couldn't keep the job because he was afraid he'd get his pitching hand caught in some machine. Besides, he didn't feel right about taking money from Mary Lyn's dad.

It was Saturday morning, not quite light and already hot like it gets in August. I opened the barn door and saw those blue eyes hanging in the shadows, heard the rope twisting. I tripped over the fallen ladder. I had to look, and then it seemed like I couldn't stop looking.

Mrs. McCarthy broke down when I told her. Mr. McCarthy wanted to cut Mary Lyn down, but I said we'd better wait for the sheriff.

They never did find a suicide note, and I guess that's why Mr. McCarthy still says it was murder. The sheriff didn't agree. When he found that broken 45 on the record player in the loft, he was sure that he had found Mary Lyn's final message. The sheriff went straight to Carl.

Of course, the sheriff's guess was right. "Save the Last Dance for Me" was Carl and Mary Lyn's song. And that's what was on the broken 45.

I tackled Carl and knocked the wind out of him. The shovel went one way, we went the other, and before we hit the grass Carl's head came down hard against Mary Lyn's tombstone.

Took nearly five minutes for him to come around. I was trying to imagine what prison would be like when he shook his head and tried to sit up.

"Just a minute, buddy," I said, holding Carl down. I could feel a bloody goose-egg rising on the side of his head just above his ear. "You'd better sit still until — "

Carl sobbed. "Damn you. Jack. I gotta see Mary Lyn. I heard her on the radio! You did too!"

A car skidded around an axle-buster out on Old Howard Road. I lay down next to Carl and the headlights passed over us. When the car was gone, I said, "I heard the Dark Mistress, not Mary Lyn. Someone we know must be playing a joke. A real sick joke."

Carl rolled over onto his belly and yanked a handful of grass from Mary Lyn's grave. He buried his head in his arms. For a minute I thought that he had passed out, but then he said, "Why'd you leave, Mary Lyn? Didn't you know you'd take everything away?"

He sat up and stared at me, his face shiny with blood and tears, his eyes wild and unfocused. "Take the shovel. Jack," he said. "Dig me a grave. I been dead for years, can't you see?"

I reached for him and he batted my hand away. There wasn't any stopping him now. "She took it all away — the wedding, the kids, the baseball — all of it. Without her, I just couldn't do nothing. I didn't have the confidence, didn't have none of her strength, didn't even want to try. It would have been like trying to pitch without you catching for me."

I smiled at that last thing, though I don't know how. "You could have kept pitching," I said, hoping I could get him talking about something besides Mary Lyn. "If you would have signed that Triple A contract like you should have, folks around here would be sayin', 'That Seaver boy from Fresno was good, but let me tell you about Carl Hart from Fiddler — '"

"How could I sign? Mary Lyn dead half a year.. .everyone looking at me like I was some kind of ghost, like her death was my fault...."

"But you could have left Fiddler."

"Could have. Should have. Those are terrible words, Jack." Carl wiped blood out of his eyes. "No, I could never leave Mary Lyn. I'd never go anywhere without her. This damn town stole her from me." He laughed: a hard, bitter sound. "You want to know the truth? They never wanted to let her leave. None of 'em. Didn't you see her parents whispering to each other at the wake? Like they were happy that she'd never change? Like they were relieved somehow?"

"Carl, that's crazy talk."

He didn't even hear me. "Mary Lyn would always be that perfect girl from Fiddler who everyone could worship. She'd never get fat or old, never get wrinkled, never leave." His head sank forward and he blinked back tears. "But they'll have to put up with me forever. I'm a ghost, Jack. As long as I'm here, even when I'm old, they'll look at me and see Mary Lyn."

Carl wobbled to his feet; he stood big and bloody, black sky and bright stars rimming his head. "Now they want to drive me away." He laughed and threw the shovel into the darkness. "Almost did, didn't they, buddy? But it ain't so easy. Take more than some crazy bitch playin' around on the radio to get rid of Carl Hart. Someone's gonna learn that tonight, that's for damn sure."

I remember the rest of it kinda blurry, and Reverend Tim says that's probably for the best. I remember the clump of graveyard grass that Carl set on the dashboard, the Chevy hitting potholes, and then Carl cussing the headlights on 180. I remember wishing that I had another beer.

Gray outskirts of Fresno... tall black radio transmitter with a single red light... buzzing sound like ten million fireflies and Carl slipping a key into the locked trunk, reaching for his shotgun... empty hallways in the unlocked building... the smell of floor wax... following Carl... the Mexican woman in black jeans and a black KTCB T- shirt and her familiar blue eyes... Carl smiling, grass stains on his knees... shotgun pellets turning her T-shirt red while she screams Spanish... Carl's words and then a fat technician shouting "Christ, she's only the janitor" and Carl lets him have it too, the fat guy lurching against a desk, scattering glazed donuts and spilling coffee... and then Mary Lyn's voice coming from the speakers.. I love getting into my work, and sometimes it gets into me... Carl screaming laughter now as he pulls a cassette out of some machine and the Dark Mistress's voice gone and the song gone and Carl laughing at the dead air....

I was looking at Playboy up in the barn loft the first time it happened.

"I see you," Mary Lyn said, peeking over the top rung of the ladder.

I tossed the magazine away and stared into those sparkling blue eyes. Dead quiet in the barn. Both of us eighteen, scared. Mary Lyn waiting.

"'Course you see me," I said. "I'm right here. You see me damn near every day."

Mary Lyn came off the ladder. Her bare feet padded across the rough wooden floor. "I mean I see you at the drive-in. I see you watching me and Carl." She ran a thumb across her stomach and hooked it under the top button of her Levi cut-offs.

I laughed and she came closer. I said, "I never — "

Mary Lyn picked up the magazine and flipped through it. Her eyes widened. Sparkled. "Why, Jack, you're a bad boy. No wonder the girls stay away from you." She laughed. "You lonely? Is that why you like these magazines? That why you like to watch?"

"No, it isn't like that. I just like to dream about how things might be."

Sparkle. Mary Lyn dropped the magazine, and she unbuttoned her loose blue work-shirt, and she came closer. I undid her cut-offs, kissed her blonde curls. "Show me your dreams. Jack," she whispered, "and I'll show you mine."

It would have been fine that way. We could have had our own separate world, one little spot where we could be like we wanted. We could have done everything. Trouble was, after a while Mary Lyn wasn't like my dreams at all. And then she started talking about bringing Carl into it. She should have left things alone. It could have been so wonderful.

Could have. Should have. Those are terrible words....

Funny how it ended. I remember it was a quiet August night. You could hear the old windmill down by the almond orchard sighing in the breeze; you could smell the heat, even at midnight.

Sparkle. Nothing blue like that anywhere in Fiddler. Mary Lyn laughed.

She thought the rope was part of some new dream.

I've got an uncle up in Sacramento who's been after me to move north for years. He's got arthritis and wants me to take over his body and fender shop. Last night I talked it over with Sherry and we decided that it wasn't such a bad idea. We don't care anymore if people find out about us — we're leaving Fiddler for sure — but we're just sorry that we won't be around when folks find out that an eighteen-year-old cheerleader has run off with a guy who's been cashing paychecks from the tire factory for fifteen years.

Sherry's gonna be just fine. She doesn't have one single dream rattling around in her cute little head. Course, I won't ever be able to tell her things like I could with Mary Lyn. I'll never look up from my morning coffee and say, "Hey, babe, I ever mention those cinder blocks I put in Carl's coffin? I ever tell you about the things I like to do with his head?"

But Sherry's not the real reason I'm leaving. And it's not because KTCB replaced the Dark Mistress with tapes of Reverend Tim and his pals, either. See, the last two nights after I finished my shift at the tire factory, I was followed home by an iron-blue '57 Chevy. Damn thing chewed my tail all the way up Highway 63. And tonight, flipping around the dial while I was waiting for Sherry out in the McCarthy's almond orchard, I heard a woman's voice on KTCB after midnight.

She sounded a lot like Mary Lyn; she sounded a lot like the Dark Mistress. I wrote down the name and frequency of the Sacramento radio station she told me about.

She said that I should avoid working on '57 Chevys, and then she played the song I've been wanting to hear: "Save the Last Dance for Me."

It was a request from someone named Carl.

Building Your Sandcastle

Most aspiring writers don't have a problem dreaming big. I was no exception... and you can see a little of that in "Sandprint," a bittersweet tale of a bestselling husband/wife writing team which reaches its conclusion on a storm-swept beach in Hawaii.

And—minus the storm, of course—that's not a bad place for us to begin. See, I'd like to talk to you a little bit about writer's dreams, and about sandcastles. Fact is, I'd like to do more than talk. If you're a beginning writer mapping out a career, you can jump in and help me. Let's grab a couple shovels and a couple pails and get to work, imaginatively speaking. We'll hunker down and build ourselves a castle big enough to house your not quite Stephen Kingsize but definitely bigger than average dreams.

Sound fair enough? Okay. Check out the following little scenario and see if it sounds like something you'd like to shovel into your bucket: it's your first year of serious writing, and you're amazingly successful. You've been trying to market your fiction for awhile now—last year you sold a couple of stories to webzines which in truth didn't pay enough to buy you a cheeseburger and fries—but now that you've really started to work hard the real-deal editors have started to bite. In January you sold a story to Cemetery Dance, and February and March brought acceptance letters from The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction and Subterranean. Not long after that you managed to crack Tom Monteleone's Borderlands series, and you sold another story to a John Pelan anthology. Those sales topped off your creative gas tank, and during the summer you finally knuckled down and finished that first novel you've been working on for the last few years.

So you decide to take a chance and buy yourself a ticket to the World Fantasy Convention, where you hope to meet some publishing people and maybe get something going with your novel. Sure, it's going to cost you some money to make the trip—even if you do share a room with a couple writers you met on a message board. You'll have to buy a membership. And since the convention site isn't anywhere near your neck of the woods, you'll have to buy a plane ticket too. But you're willing to take the chance.

And since this is your lucky year, the risk pays off. A Locus reviewer who's enjoyed your work introduces you to one of the top-flight agents in the business at a con party, and the guy actually gives you his card and tells you to send a copy of your novel to his office. Well, no one needs to tell you twice. You jam your manuscript into a box as soon as you get home.

You FedEx that sucker... and, wonder of wonders, the agent reads it right away.

He flips for it.

He shoots your manuscript over to an editor at Tor, who—wonder of wonders. Part II—drops everything to read it. She flips for it, too. You get an offer just before Thanksgiving. It's a five-figure advance. Not extremely high five, or extremely low five, or even middle-ground five. Let's say that Tor puts twenty grand on the table, and that seems damn good to you. Twenty-thousand bucks is a lot better than the two or three grand advances most of your friends have been getting selling paperback originals that are stripped and pulped almost as soon as they hit the bookstore shelves (hey, even some of the old-timers you've met are scraping by on that kind of money, so you know you just got lucky and then some).

The novel contracts come, and you sign them and send them back. You are ecstatic; you are also very eager to get paid. Your agent tells you he'll try to get your check soon, but he's a straight shooter—he admits that nothing much ever happens in New York during the holiday season, and you'll maybe get your first installment in January... and that's if he really gets lucky. But that's okay with you. You're flying high, because you've had more good news on a couple other fronts. Based on your novel sale and the stories that saw print this year, a small press publisher has called to talk about doing a collection. Hey, no big surprise there. After all, you're hot... or did I forget to mention that one of your stories has garnered recommendations for the Bram Stoker award that register in the double digits? And did I omit the fact that Ellen Datlow has just selected that very same story for inclusion in The Year's Best Fantasy & Horror?

Yep. That's the icing on your own personal cake. You've arrived at long last. You kick up your heels. You buy a bottle of champagne. Not the cheap stuff, either. You buy yourself a bottle of Dom Perignon, the same stuff good old Paul Sheldon drinks when he finishes up his bestsellers in Stephen King's Misery. And when it comes to the holidays you spoil that significant other of yours a little bit, because God knows that he or she deserves it for all the days he or she clocked with you before you—yes, you can now say it officially—hit it big as a writer.

See, that's what you've done. You have beaten the odds and then some. You've had the kind of year that most folks who put pen to paper only dream about, and I tip my hat in your direction.

Congrats! Three cheers! Encore!

Now let me rain on your parade.

And why shouldn't I?

After all, you just had a very rough year.

Here's why:

You sold five stories to really good markets, but even really good markets don't pay that much for short fiction. Mostly, the rate of pay for an established writer of short fiction will be somewhere between five and ten cents a word. Even at the high end, that certainly isn't a king's ransom.[18]

And let's face it, as a newcomer you're going to get the low end. Let's say you were paid five cents a word for all five stories. And let's say that the stories themselves averaged 5,000 words. That makes 25,000 words of fiction at five cents a word. That's $ 1,250 American.

But wait a second. One of your stories was selected for The Year's Best. That's quite an honor, but the truth is the payment for such a large reprint anthology is more in the form of an honorarium than a check that will see you through a trip to the grocery store. The pay for your Year's Best story amounts to $50, at a rate of one cent a word for 5,000 words. And the Stoker nomination? Well, it's great to be recognized by your peers, but that particular feather in your cap doesn't bring you a penny (even if you end up winning that cool little haunted house statue).

So we're at an even $1,300 for your year's work. And no, I haven't forgotten about that novel you sold, or the twenty grand you'll be paid for it. But remember, your agent told you that you wouldn't get that money until the following year. Maybe it'll come in January... maybe it'll come later. Either way, it will come in installments—most publications break up novel advances into three payments, the first coming on acceptance, the second on acceptance of the completed (i.e. revised to your editor's specifications) manuscript, and the third on publication. So it's going to be awhile before you see any green on that front.[19]

When you do get it, it won't amount to $20,000 anyway. Your agent will take 15%. And if you're smart you'll put a chunk away for the taxman, who will come for his cut whether you've saved it or not.

And, no, I haven't forgotten that short story collection you sold to a small press, either. We can size up that deal using the same scenario as we did with your novel, only on a smaller scale. Figuring the averages, a hot newcomer can probably get a two or three grand advance for a collection. You're really doing well if you get more than that. Either way, you've got more work to do before you get all of that money. You'll actually have to write a few new stories for your collection, because most small publishers insist that a certain percentage of any single-author collection be comprised of original, unpublished material.

So there's no novel money in your pocket this year, and nothing for the short story collection (though the publisher promises he'll send a first installment of $500 in January). But that's all okay. It's still been an amazing year for you. You're building a reputation. You're up for an award, and your fiction will be reprinted in The Year's Best Fantasy & Horror. You cracked a handful of tough short story markets. You sold your first novel. And you made thirteen-hundred bucks for your trouble.

Or did you? Remember, you had a few expenses along the way. You went to the World Fantasy Convention. The membership cost you $125. You plane ticket was $343.[20] Your cut of the room you split with your message board buds was $186. And you did have something to eat while you were there, and you did hit the bar a couple of times. Out of pocket expenses on that front: figure $175 if you really economized.[21]

Total that and you've got $829. Hack it off your $1,300, and you're left with $471. We'll keep it simple and lowbuck the other expenses you no doubt incurred while writing—the books and magazines you bought, the cost of office supplies and software or hardware for your computer, the postage tab for mailing your manuscripts, the subscription cost for a couple online newsletters. Let's say you spent $300 there, which cuts your total to $171.

But let's not forget your significant other. Remember, you wanted to spoil him or her a little bit during the holidays. Well, $150 isn't exactly going to put you in the big spender's league, but at least your heart is in the right place. I figure anyone who puts up with a writer deserves at least that much.

We're down to $21 and holding.

Wait a sec—I forgot that bottle of fine champagne you uncorked when you found out you'd sold your first novel. Dom Perignon runs $75 a bottle. Or at least it did in 1987, when good ol' Annie Wilkes bought a bottle for her favorite writer, Paul Sheldon.

Oh, well. We'll be generous and give you the '87 price. Consider that bottle of champagne a bargain. And congratulations. You've succeeded where most others have failed. Your writing dreams have come true.

Oh, and by the way, you just ended a phenomenal year of writing success fifty-four bucks in the hole.

For your sake, I hope you haven't quit your day job.

And that's the point of this essay. That's why I helped you build that pretty little sandcastle. And that's why I just spent the last couple of pages kicking it down.

I'm not trying to be cruel... just realistic. Of course, there's one little problem with that. Most writers—by their very nature—don't do realistic all that well. But you have to be realistic if you want to make it as a pro. You have to be honest with yourself about your relationships, your life, and your money. You have to be honest about your writing, too. When it comes to the work itself, you need to avoid any illusions you might have about your own particular brand of fiction. You have to learn to look at it squarely. You have to be able to judge what it can earn you out there in the marketplace, and what you might be willing to change about it if you want it to earn more.

Myself, I've been both a full-time writer and a writer who also has what is commonly called a "joe job." Both approaches have upsides and downsides. Write full time and it's a pretty sure thing that you'll find yourself scrambling for a dollar when the bills come due. Even if you're successful, you probably won't be able to make ends meet by writing and selling your own original fiction alone. Most full-time writers need other projects to supplement their income. This means they take on work-for-hire projects; they write a lot of short stories for theme anthologies; maybe they even branch out into comic scripts, or editing work, or ghost-writing for celebrity authors who have never even read a novel, let alone written one.

For most full-timers that kind of work is hard to avoid... almost as hard as dodging those bills I was talking about, or the inevitable trips to the grocery store, the dentist, and the auto mechanic that'll add more bills to the pile. But that's just the way the mop flops in the writing business, and the simple truth is that there are damn few full-time writers who make a career following their creative hearts into the office every day.[22]

Oh, some writers get lucky. A few manage to snag the dream career— writing the novels they want to write, getting five or six figure advances for them, picking up other projects of interest as they have time—but that's by far the exception rather than the rule. And while some freelancers manage to make a decent living from work-for-hire projects, that kind of a career can be one long hustle. If you're built for that, more power to you. But it's my belief that writing stories other people want you to write instead of the stories you want to write can steal something essential from your fiction. Follow that path and you just might find yourself waking up one day to the not-so-fine realization that that your work isn't even yours anymore. Worst case scenario, you can lose the magic, and your writing can end up as just another joe job.

When I was a full-timer, that's the way I came to view work-for-hire projects (and the time-devouring "pitches" for that kind of work in the form of synopses or outlines).[23] Oh, there were certainly projects I enjoyed doing in that regard, but those are the ones I really don't remember much. It's the ones that I didn't enjoy that stick in my mind (and my craw). A few of those blocked me up so badly that I didn't want to write at all. And when I did force myself to sit down and confront the blank page—well, I hated every minute of it. Doing that kind of work. I'm not exaggerating when I say that the idea of going into my office actually made me feel physically ill. Forget the word processor. I was more in the mood to face the porcelain megaphone.

I knew that wasn't the way for me to go, and I figured I'd be better off flushing the whole idea of full-time writing if that was my frame of mind. I feared that if I followed that path I would lose the magic that had made my writing something special, and that was something I wasn't willing to give up. I didn't want to crash my creative machine into a brick wall.

It was a simple decision, really, when I faced up to it. I didn't want my writing to become my joe job—so I went out and got one. I had ten years experience working in libraries, and when I decided to go shopping for a salaried position I ended up getting hired at the first place I applied. These days I'm an evening supervisor at a local college library. I'll tell you flat out—having a regular check is great. My monthly living expenses are covered. My credit cards are paid off. And the benefits are good, i.e. the health plan that cost me nearly five-hundred bucks a month as a freelancer now costs $67 (with exactly the same coverage).

Most of the time, I work 4 p.m. - midnight, five nights a week. That still leaves me the daylight hours to write. Of course, I've still got a life to live, too. I've got a wife I love. I've got friends I enjoy. And I've got errands to run, appointments to keep, and groceries to buy. With all that going on. I'd be lying if I told you that it was easy to make writing the focus it once was for me. Sometimes it's even difficult to make it a priority. There are plenty of days I wish I could give a writing project my full attention but can't. There are plenty of stories that I could have knocked out in a week as a full-timer that take me a month to write now. My productivity isn't anywhere near what it once was, or close to what I'd like it to be. That can be frustrating... and that's the main downside to having a joe job if you're a writer.

On the plus side I've got more financial security and more creative freedom. That's great. On the minus I've got less time and (sometimes) less energy. That's not so great. Laying it out for you in the last few pages. I'm reminded of the way a writer friend summed it all up a few weeks ago in a telephone conversation about my future prospects: "Norm, the best thing you've got going for you is your job, and the worst thing you've got going for you is your job."

For me, that says it pretty well. There's your joe job, Norm... just another double-edged sword in the writer's armory. But that's not the whole story. There are other benefits to my library gig that don't have anything to do with financial security, or health plans, or the control of my creative destiny. I'll tell you about one of them, and leave it at that.

Most semesters I've got a crew of 10 - 15 students working for me. Few of them have read my stories and few of them ever will. That doesn't matter to me. The words I put on the page are important, but they're not the only way I define myself. I will say this: the students I hire tend to keep the job until they graduate. I've had very few students quit. For me, that says something.

I get to know some of them better than others, and vice versa. I come to work when most of the staff is heading home for the night. After the first few hours, it's just me and a student running the show until we close up at 11:45. Some nights that makes for a pretty good hustle—it's a three- story library, and there's plenty of ground to cover. Other nights, things can be pretty slow. That gives us a chance to talk.

One thing I like about working with young people: they still have their dreams. Life hasn't turned them upside down and shaken out their pockets yet. Sure, some of them have had a tough time growing up—I don't know anyone who doesn't think they haven't had it tough in one way or another. But there's a difference when your experience with tough occurred under your parents' roof and not under your own. You fly solo for the first time, you find a way to open yourself up to a dream or two no matter how tough you had it growing up.

And that's a special ability. Most people lose it as they grow older. Like I said, life grabs hold of them and shakes out their pockets. They start out with a dream of being a bestselling writer, or a painter who'll rival Van Gogh, or an architect whose designs will change the face of the industry. And then life gets hold of them, and it turns out it doesn't come cheap. Bills pile up, and dreams don't pay for them. Pretty soon it seems that there's an eternal landlord knocking at their door. And, damn, those dreams just get pushed aside, because they have to answer the door and take care of business.

And the way it turns out is that there's always someone knocking at the door. And they keep on answering it, and they keep on taking care of business, and pretty soon they forget all about their dreams.

Odds are that happens. It happens to almost everyone.

But it hasn't happened to the students who work for me. They're young. They haven't received a visit from that eternal landlord. Not yet. They haven't pushed their dreams aside. Instead, they're open to them, and it seems to me that the very act of being open can create opportunities. They take that summer internship working on an archaeological dig in Peru; they sign up for that screenwriting class, and they work two jobs so they can afford to fly to Sundance and see what the world of independent film is all about; they spend a semester in South Africa working with children who have AIDS. In short, they take chances to pursue their dreams. Those dreams push them in directions that aren't necessarily found on the safe and easy road.

There's a lot to be said for that.

In this essay I've told you to be realistic. I've told you to be smart. I hope you'll take that advice to heart. I meant every word of it.

But don't forget to be open to your dreams.

If you want to be a writer, that's a skill you'll definitely need to remember.

SANDPRINT

Ben Winslow couldn't understand how someone who didn't exist could have accumulated so much junk.

Irene Benjamin's possessions were piled in little islands on the sea-blue carpet. Book awards, reviews, first editions, and yes —Ben forced a smile — even rejection slips.

Ben chugged rum from a heavy tumbler. He thumbed through a stack of rejections, glancing at the coldly rational notes his wife had written on each. Irene had always handled the rejections, always protected his ego. And now, without Irene and Irene Benjamin, without both of them....

"I'm lost," Ben whispered.

Ben tossed the rejections into a cardboard box and finished his drink. Outside, waves surged against the beach. A muggy wind whipped through the doorway, rustling the paper islands. Kona wind, heavy with the perfume of the night, heavy with the threat of a storm.

Ben leaned against the sliding-glass door and listened to the sea whisper over the sand. In California, wet sand was like concrete, the waves like thunderous slaps. But here in Hawaii the sand was soft, forgiving....

Somewhere in the past, Irene Kaneholani had taught him about the sand. "Ben, this scene with the sailor and the ghost is great, but the description of Infinity Beach is all wrong," she had insisted. "The sand there isn't gray, like this gritty California stuff. It's golden, Ben, golden and soft."

"Give me a break," he'd protested. "I'm a starving college student. I've never traveled, except via bad Elvis Presley movies. Why'd I let you pick Hawaii, anyway? I can't write about things I — "

" — don't know." Irene giggled. "C'mon, Ben, that's why we're working together. Two heads are better than one. And when we hit the best-seller list with this little opus we'll quit Berkeley and move to Kauai. I've had my eye on the perfect spot for the ultimate beach house ever since I was a little girl. We'll have lots of golden children. I'll get fat, and before you know it you'll be a regular kamaaina...."

Smiling, Ben had eyed the battered typewriter and shrugged.

She'd kissed him then. "Okay. Now that I've lifted your big bad depression, you're gonna suffer for that Elvis Presley crack."

Ben closed the glass door and thumbed the lock. The Elvis record she'd tortured him with so long ago sat on the turntable. How many times had he listened to it in the last month? Had he listened to anything else?

Ben cued the needle onto worn vinyl. Elvis sang. “Night and you... and blue Hawaii…”

Ben walked to the kitchen and poured himself another rum. The plastic bottle slipped from his fingers, bounced once, and rolled toward the living room, sloshing golden liquor over blue tile. Then the bottle reversed direction and returned to him.

"Ghosts," he whispered.

No. Not in the real world.

In the real world, it's like this: if you build a house on stilts, in sand, there's simply no way that it will stay perfectly level, even if it's the ultimate beach house that you've been dreaming about since you were a kid. At least that's what Ben had told Irene. But Irene Kaneholani hadn't liked his explanation. She'd wanted Irene Benjamin's home to be perfect.

"She's real, Ben. She's us."

"Irene, you're getting weird about this. Irene Benjamin isn't real. She's just a publisher's gimmick, someone the editors invented to appeal to the romance fans."

"No, Ben. She's much more than that."

The idea seemed ridiculous to Ben, but he couldn't say that. He couldn't tell Irene that he was truly worried about her, about them. He couldn't say. When you put on those fancy suits, those silk blouses, I wonder what happened to that college girl who used to live in one pair of jeans. These days you buy shoes so expensive that they'd make Imelda Marcos blush, and the salesgirls at Liberty House positively salivate when you visit the perfume counter. And when you put on those clothes and spray yourself with those scents, it’s like you're a different person, like you're not the girl I fell in love with anymore.

No. He couldn't say that. He couldn't hurt her that way. So he tried to make light of it. "It's a con, honey. Irene Benjamin—psychic chronicler of ghostly romance. It's just a name that looks good on glossy book jackets." He grinned. "There's a reason they didn't put our names together and come up with Winslow Kaneholani, you know."

Laughter. The last laughter heard in Irene Benjamin's house.

Ben drank. It wasn't right that he wouldn't hear his wife's laughter anymore.

“Night and you...night and you...and blue...."

It wasn't fair.

Drink in hand, Ben entered the bedroom. On the hibiscus-print spread were three boxes addressed to Irene's family on Maui. Mostly fancy clothes and perfumes, stuff Irene's sisters would want.

Ben knifed open the middle box, telling himself, "Just one more look."

He dug through a layer of silk blouses, past a bag filled with turquoise jewelry, and found a pancake-sized hunk of plaster stamped with a child's hand-print. Irene's Hawaiian name was printed underneath. AILINA.

The plaster was cold. Ben traced the tiny lifeline, ran his fingers over the name.

Irene, Ailina, and Irene. All of them gone.

It wasn't fair.

It had been a mistake. The moonlight swim. The Kona wind. The wave that took them away and never returned. The wave that left him behind.

“Night and you...night and you...night and you...."

Ben gripped the plaster hand-print. Ailina had been real, as real as Irene Kaneholani.

Maybe, in her own way, Irene Benjamin had been real, too.

Everything was on the beach.

A receding wave foamed around the first box, tugging it into the surf. Ben grabbed a book award, wound up like a discus thrower, and sent the bronze plate flying into the night.

"You took them all," he shouted. "You took too much. You owe me."

A warm wave surged around his ankles; soft sand tickled his feet as the water receded. Boxes and manuscripts drifted out to sea like toy boats; Ben threw a dry, dusty protea arrangement after them and shouted a hearty bon voyage.

Ben tumbled another box and threw clothes, perfume bottles, and jewelry into the sea. Everything had to go. Only then would the sea understand that when it took Ben's love, it took three people. It wasn't right, taking all of them, and leaving him with nothing at all.

Sweaty and exhilarated, Ben reached for more.

In the sand, next to the empty box, he found the plaster handprint.

Ailina. The sea seemed to whisper the name. Ben shuddered, gripping the plaster disc tightly, his big fingers overflowing the tiny furrows made by a child's fingers so long ago, and suddenly he saw Ailina for the first time, a poor girl who dreamed of wearing elegant clothes and perfumes that were advertised in slick magazines. A sweet, serious little girl who dreamed of living in the ultimate beach house on a perfect piece of land in Hawaii. He saw that little girl, and he remembered how hard she'd worked for her dreams as she grew older, and he remembered all the struggles he'd shared with her.

Ben and his wife. The two of them. And Irene Benjamin, and Ailina. The four of them.

Berkeley. Rejects. Agents. Publishers. Together, they'd shared it all, along with the eventual success. In some ways, for both of them, for all four of them, success had been the greatest struggle of all.

The clothes, the perfumes, the jewelry... even the beach house. They were her things, after all. They belonged to a child named Ailina, and to a woman named Irene Kaneholani. They belonged to Irene Benjamin, as well.

And to a man named Benjamin Winslow.

He remembered his wife's words (She's real, Ben. She's us.), and now he understood them.

Not three, not even four, but one.

And, realizing that for the first time, one was more than Ben Winslow could stand to lose.

A wave crashed behind him. He whirled. Warm water closed around his legs — pushing, then pulling, pulling—drawing him off balance. A protea stem scratched his ankle. Wet clothes slithered across the slick sand like heavy slugs. Perfume bottles bobbed in the surf. Ben splashed after them. He caught them up and wrapped them in a cotton dress, smelling a dozen scents that spoke his wife's name.

He recovered what he could. Then, exhausted, he dumped his bundle at water's edge.

A spent wave lapped at his ankles, and he stepped on something hard — the plaster hand-print, half buried in the wet sand. Gingerly, he pulled it up, saw the tiny golden hand printed in the sand, the name printed backward beneath it.

Ben's fingers slipped between the soft, sandy fingers. Interlocked.

"Ailina."

The Kona wind rippled over the waves. Muggy breath warmed Ben's neck.

Between his fingers, the sand grew warm.

Wriggled.

Ben's lips brushed the sand and found her golden lips waiting there, open to his kiss. And then there was only the soft, warm sand, and the Kona wind, and the wave closing over them.

Seeing the Wizard

In some stories, writers give it up to you. They pull back the curtain and show you the man who's hiding behind it, just the way that little black dog does in The Wizard of Oz. You get a nice long look at him. That's the writer's intent.

Other times, in other stories, you don't see the wizard. Oh, you might see that curtain move a little. You might even glimpse a faint silhouette and have a good idea who—or what—is behind there. But you can't quite be sure...and that gnaws at you, and it unsettles you.

The latter method of storytelling can work especially well when crafting horror fiction. Sometimes it's the things we glimpse in the shadows, not the things we see clearly, that can frighten us the most. Read a few of Ramsey Campbell's tales and you'll see what I mean.

Writing a story of that sort isn't easy. Word selection becomes extremely important. So does creating a mood. And so does editing. Sometimes the hardest part of the job is deciding if you've revealed too much to the reader, or not quite enough. Falling too solidly on either side of that line can ruin the effect you're aiming for. But hitting it right... well, that can be something special. Just read a story like Campbell's "The Trick," or Charles L. Grant's "Coin of the Realm," or Al Sarrantonio's "Boxes," and you'll see what I'm talking about.

Writers like Campbell, Grant, and Sarrantonio inspired me to try this one. It's another early experiment in style. And since we're talking about other writers, I'll admit here that I named the three characters in "Vessels" Steve, Pete, and Chet as a tip of the hat to three fine gentlemen whose work I've admired: Steve Rasnic Tem, Peter Straub, and Chet Williamson.

I remember revising this story several times over a period of weeks in an attempt to get it just right. I'd cut a few lines out, then let it sit a week, I'd take another look, and I'd put the lines I'd cut back in. Back and forth I went until one day, in near exasperation, I decided to go with the stripped down version. That was that. "Vessels" went in the mail, bounced around a few times among small press editors, and finally found a home as one of the originals in Mr. Fox.

Rereading "Vessels" for the first time since its publication in 1992, I'm still not sure that I didn't carve too much off the bone. But that's made for a few interesting conversations over the years with people who've read it. I've heard a few interpretations of the story that, in truth, hadn't occurred to me in the writing.

That doesn't mean those interpretations aren't valid. The less is more style can create a more collaborative experience between writer and reader in that regard, and that can make for a special kind of magic.

I'll shut up now.

It's time for the story to do the talking.

VESSELS

There were three of them. Two stood on the gravel shore while the other stripped down to her panties and waded into the lake.

"Ditch it, Chet. We're busted."

"Relax, Steve. It's only a bunch of girls. Sierra Clubbers or Greenpeacers getting all touchy-feely with nature — not deadly Amazons come to punish you for your heinous pilfering."

Pete nodded in agreement. "Besides, Steve, the chances are a million to one that they're looking for it. That thing was down there deep... you said so yourself."

Chet picked up a pebble and squeezed it. "Water must be freezing. God, look at those nipples. Like little rocks...."

The girl in the water gasped, the sound echoing clear and sharp off the rocky island where the young men sat, and Steve was already thinking of his CPR training when her head dipped below the surface. Her ass arched for an instant as she twisted her body — Chet gave a low whistle — and then she kicked strongly, completing her dive.

"Smooth and pretty," Chet said. "Smooth and pretty."

Steve shivered. Nothing to worry about. Only a dive.

A last kick. A hollow thump as her foot displaced water, a sound like a big stone hitting the still surface of the lake, and then quiet.

Spooky. That's what it was.

No. Just a sound of displaced water and displaced air, Steve told himself. Nothing spooky about that.

But the hollow thump stayed with him. His mind was still running over his CPR training, only now he was remembering the rubber dummy —lips cold, painted black eyes open—and the empty gasp it had made when he turned his head from its head. He remembered it so clearly. A single sour breath blowing from the dummy's soft red lips, washing over his cheek.

And he remembered thinking, God, all that work, and the thing still isn’t alive.

"Relax, Steve. She's just taking a swim."

"But what if she's diving for it? Huh? And when she doesn't find it, what if she swims over here and asks us? She'll see that we stole it."

Pete rolled his eyes like Groucho Marx. "And we’ll see a little bit of heaven."

"You've got that right." Chet twisted the butt of his pocket knife and the cork came out of the smoky-green bottle with a quiet pop — another sound of displaced air, as hollow as the diving noise the girl had made.

"What is it?" Pete asked, but Steve knew right away what it was, for the smell was deep and rich, tinged with the scent of seasoned oak.

Too strong a smell. He didn't like it. It overpowered the soothing perfume of pine and moss and water. It brought to mind the sour puff of air that had issued from the lips of the CPR dummy.

Chet raised the bottle and silently toasted the girls on the shore. He tipped it back and a black trickle broke the corner of his mouth and rolled down his unshaven chin.

Pete laughed. "You look like a sloppy vampire," he said.

"Give me a break," Chet drank again. "I'm thirsty."

Pete got some food out of his rucksack, and they ate sardines and cheese and crackers while they passed around the bottle. Steve sitting on a rock at water's edge, Chet sprawled in the rubber raft, Pete leaning against a stunted pine tree. The pine had been a blessing in the hot afternoon, but now it swarmed with bugs that buzzed off the calm water in kamikaze waves, and Pete was doing more swatting than drinking.

Twenty feet away, the girl broke surface, gasped, then dived again.

"Here's to our last binge," Pete said. "No more fun when we hike out of here and get in that car tomorrow. Me off to Berkeley, Chet to Harvard, Steve to — "

Chet laughed. "Hey, Stevie, where do lifeguards go after summer vacation?"

Steve didn't answer. He hadn't told Chet and Pete about the awful things that lifeguards had to do. He wasn't going to tell them now.

By his watch, the girl had been underwater for a full minute. "Got a hot date?" Chet asked.

"Huh?"

"You keep looking at your watch."

Steve caught a hint of annoyance in Chet's voice. "No... nothing." He motioned for the bottle.

It was cool in his hands. Not slimy with algae. Thick smoked glass. It wasn't a new bottle, but there was no label to date it. How long had it been down there before he'd found it? Who had lost it? Or had someone left it in the water to cool?

The girl.

She came up for air. Gasped. Dived again.

Dark hair. Dark eyes. Steve exhaled sharply, as if someone had knocked the wind out of him. This girl... she could have been a twin to that girl on the beach at Santa Cruz. She could have been —

No. That was stupid. Lots of girls had dark hair and dark eyes. It wasn't anything strange, or rare, or —

"Drink up," Chet said. "I can't wait all night."

Steve drank. He didn't like red wine, and this was the good kind, the expensive stuff that was so heavy it seemed to stick to his teeth. He passed the bottle and stared at the girls on the shore. They hadn't moved. They watched the water, not Steve or Pete or Chet.

Steve wondered what they were waiting for, what they were doing. They weren't laughing, like friends enjoying an outing. They weren't making camp, or skipping stones, or talking.

Steve drank again. The girls didn't move, but somehow they seemed upset. Frustrated beyond all hope of any action that could vent their frustration. Like fisherfolk without poles, like hunters without weapons... resigned to watch the prey slink by.

Steve knew something about that kind of frustration.

But where was the diving girl?

Steve checked his watch. Three minutes had passed. Had she come up while he was drinking?

Yeah. Had to have.

The bottle went around again.

"Guys, she's been under for a long time."

"Steeeeve... give it up."

"I'm serious."

Chet passed the bottle to Pete, saying, "She's probably swimming. Gone around the side of the island or something."

Steve didn't think so. The water was damn cold when the sun went down, and it was starting its descent now, the sky shading from blue to purple as the sun passed behind the mountains to the west. But he didn't want to argue, didn't want to spoil the last night of a good time, so he said nothing.

Instead, he took another drink.

And he didn't like the cold feel of the bottle on his lips.

It wasn't like the other lifeguards had said it would be, and after it happened they all knew that it hadn't been the same for him, and they knew that it bothered him, too.

"I don't know what to do about it," he'd told his boss. "I mean, I know I did all that I could, textbook-wise. But I keep dreaming about her, about her black eyes. It seemed like there was something there when I dragged her out of the water, but then it went away. I saw it go. With every ventilation I saw those eyes change, and I knew that she wasn't going to make it. And, God, when I gave up, I couldn't stop looking at her. I kept thinking how much she looked like that CPR dummy we use in the classes. You know —the one with the perfect face like a department store mannequin? And then I started thinking that that couldn't be, that I had to know her from somewhere, because all of a sudden it seemed like I did know her, all about her..."

His boss had said that he'd heard it before. Other lifeguards had felt the same way after a failed resuscitation, especially when it was the first they had ever attempted. "It bothers some people. Then again, some people it doesn't bother at all — it's like their minds aren't tuned in to that kind of stuff. But the ones who think about it... well, they think about it a lot. They remember those stories about your soul escaping with your last breath. They get the idea that somehow the escaping soul got mixed up with their own inhalations, or that their own breath is trapped in the body of a dead person, and they worry that they've lost a little bit of themselves, taken a little bit from the dead.... Look, Steve, it's normal to think about this stuff, but it's going to pass. There'll be another. And it won't turn out the same way next time."

Steve had wanted to believe that. He'd waited for the next time, thinking about the dead girl almost constantly, hoping to see the next sleeping face come alive under his ministrations. But the season ended before a next time, and a next face, had come.

Steve took off his shirt and dropped it on the rocks. "I'm going in. See what's up."

Pete shook his bead. "Christ, Steve. That's stupid. I mean, look at her friends. They're just standing around. Do you think that they'd be standing around like that if she was in trouble?"

"No... but..." Steve couldn't say more. He was suddenly cold. Even standing on the shore, he could feel the numbing power of the dark water.

His lungs burned. Sour wine churned in his belly.

He sucked a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them and stared across the still water. The girls were watching, their eyes hard on him.

Not knowing why, Steve reached for his shirt.

Chet laughed. "Bashful boy."

"C'mon, Steve," Pete said. "Sit down and have a drink."

Steve sucked another deep breath. Barely got it down. Gut-warm wine started up his throat, but he held it down.

Chet jumped up, a joyful leer spreading across his face. "All right! They're taking off their clothes!"

Steve looked across the water. The girls peeled off their jeans, slipped off their shirts, and waded into the lake, naked.

They weren't moving fast, but they weren't moving slowly, either. Steve unbuttoned his jeans. "I'm going in."

Chet raised the bottle. "Bring 'em back alive, m'boy," he said.

The water was cold, but the cold kept Steve moving, his hands slicing before him, his thick shoulder muscles driving his arms back to his sides as he swam deeper and deeper.

Looking for a needle in a haystack, that's what it was like. He could hardly see a thing; the water was as dark as the smoky-green wine bottle. And every time he broke the surface the two girls were nowhere in sight, and when he hollered to Pete and Chet they invariably said that the pair had just gone under. So Steve kept diving, moving closer to the shore each time, his hands scrabbling along the lake bed when he hit bottom.

The bottom was loamy mud dotted with algae-slick rocks. It would be hard to see the bottom under the best conditions; it was almost impossible now that the sun was going down, reducing to a bare minimum the reflected light that managed to wash the depths of the lake.

Steve knew that he couldn't stand the darkness or the cold much longer. He treaded water for a moment, then let his body drift silently. Listened. Heard nothing: no sounds of swimming, no sounds of bodies breaking surface, no one nearby. A few bubbles escaped his mouth and brushed his cheek, and he reached out to paddle further.

His fingers scratched the bottom.

It had to be a rock. It was big and slick. But it was almost too smooth, and the way it curved —rising and falling back, narrowing and widening — was strange. His fingers found two smooth mounds, both dotted with a single thick protuberance.

More air escaped Steve's mouth. He had to start for the surface, and he twisted his body so that he could push off of the rock with his feet.

It shifted under his toes.

Gooseflesh rose on his arms. His ankle was caught.

He kicked, hoping to free himself from whatever it might be — a tangle of rope, an old fishing line —his calf had gone numb with cold and he couldn't sense what was holding him. He opened his eyes and looked down but saw only grainy blackness.

His lungs gave up. A torrent of bubbles escaped from his mouth.

Something white and round passed before his face. Two cold circles above a slash of red. It passed again, or another just like it. And then he was pushed down against glassy curves, and the curves met the muscular curves of his body. Pointed mounds dug into his chest.

Steve scratched at the smooth surface, trying to find purchase and push off.

His fingers found a rough circle in front of his face.

A feel like wood.

He tore the circle away and bubbles boiled up below. He opened his mouth. Gagged on water, but found air, also. Forced his face down against the circular gap he'd opened and sucked a deep breath.

Now that he had air, he realized that nothing was holding him. Only his imagination. Only....

A last trickle of bubbles tickled over his cheek. Time to get to the surface. His heels slipped on the glassy mounds — one of the pointed knobs speared his instep — and he didn't get a good push, but it was enough.

Steve broke surface, bobbing like a great cork.

And, gasping deep breaths, he stared at the cork in his hand.

The fire crackled. Steve held his hands before it, flexing the numbness from his fingers.

"Man, you scared the shit out of us," Pete said. "You were down way too long."

Steve rubbed his knuckles. "You're telling me that they left? The girls, I mean. They just got out of the water and walked away?"

"Yeah," Chet said, spinning the empty wine bottle on the pebbly shore. "Didn't say a word, either. Just kind of glared at us." He chuckled. "Like a couple of angry Amazons."

"They didn't leave empty-handed, though," Pete added. "Both of 'em found a bottle down there. I'll bet that there are a dozen cases of wine in this lake. Guess everybody knows about it. It's too bad we've got to break camp tomorrow, or we could fill our packs with good stuff."

Steve added a branch to the fire. "You saw all three of them, right? You saw the first girl, too?"

"Well, it was dark. And half the time we were watching out for you. But hell, Steve, of course she had to go. The others wouldn't have gone without her, now would they?"

"I don't know," Steve said. "If you didn't see her, I just don't know." He stared at the flames, then at the lake. The full moon's reflection swam on the black surface like a shimmering dish.

"Look at that," Pete said. "So damn clear. You can see the eyes of the man in the moon."

They were quiet for a moment. The only sound was the scratching of pebbles against glass as Chet spun the wine bottle.

Chet said, "I wish they would have come over here. Man, an empty bottle to spin and everything. You know that would have been fun."

Pete grabbed up a flaming branch and tossed it out over the lake. Sparking, it twisted end over end and splashed into the liquid moon.

A slash of red suddenly gone black.

"Don't do that," Steve said.

The reflection smoothed, and once again Steve could see the eyes of the moon shimmering in the water. Black eyes. Liquid black.

Not the eyes of a man at all.

The bottle spun to a stop, pointing at Steve.

Chet laughed. Spun again.

Pebbles scratched glass.

The bottle pointed at the moon.

On Zombies … And Hunger

Only two of the stories in the original edition of Mr. Fox were reprints. The other five were originals—which, for the uninitiated, means they were stories that had never before seen publication.

That doesn't mean that I wrote them specifically for Mr. Fox. Nope. Most of those stories had kicked around the small press a little bit without being accepted. Some were revised and buffed up for Mr. Fox, some I left alone. Of the others, one had been accepted but never published, and two had been rejected by theme anthologies published by the mainstream press.

For most of us who got our feet wet in the small press scene in the early nineties, getting a story accepted for a theme anthology was the first step in advancing to the pro ranks. There were a lot of books like that coming out of NYC in those days. Some themes were pretty broad (say, an anthology of ghost stories), while some were more constraining (ghost stories that take place in haunted houses), and some were damn near impossibly specific (ghost stories that take place in ranch-style haunted houses located five miles south of Possum Shit, North Dakota).

Quite a few anthologies focused on a particular type of monster (vampires, werewolves, zombies, etc.). Others focused on specific characters (the usual suspects like Dracula or Frankenstein, and once in a while some less expected choices like Elvis Presley or—gasp—magician David Copperfield). To be honest, some of the themes were pretty silly. Not quite as bad as my ranch-style haunted house example in the last paragraph... but close.[24]

Anyway, landing a spot in the best of those anthologies could get you noticed. Everyone in the business read them. Publishers, editors, agents. If you were a new writer and you scored with a story in an anthology published by a mainstream press—say your piece was singled out for praise by reviewers, or earned a slot in a Year's Best anthology, or was nominated for an award—you could get little bit of a buzz going. At the very least, editors or agents might recognize your name and give your work a little extra attention the next time they fished one of your manuscripts out of the slush pile.

Several of the stories I placed in theme anthologies helped me build a reputation as a newcomer worth watching. Like the early stories I had in Cemetery Dance, these tales introduced my work to editors who invited me to submit to their own books. More often than not, I followed up on those offers. But even in the professional market, the money for short stories wasn't great. Most editors paid somewhere between five and ten cents a word, and god help you if you ever expected to see a royalty check. Still, every now and then you might catch a little lightning in a bottle. One example: my tale in Poppy Brite's Love in Vein antho probably earned me more money than my first novel did. Love in Vein was originally published in 1994, but I still get royalty checks on that piece, and over the years I've even had a few nibbles on it from Hollywood.

Of course, not everyone saw theme anthologies as a good idea. I knew a few writers who refused outright to submit stories to any anthology of this sort. They preferred to follow their own artistic sensibilities. They disliked the idea of the marketplace directing their muse. In their view, any writer who wrote for theme anthologies was selling out.

I saw this as an exceedingly precious point of view, but then again I've never been much on muses. Mostly, I trust my gut. And when it came to theme anthologies, my gut and I saw it this way: some of these projects were opportunities, and others were disasters waiting to happen?[25] I figured I was smart enough to know the difference.

It was really as simple as that. My goal was to be a professional writer. I wanted to succeed both critically and commercially, and writing for theme anthologies was a means to that end. Besides, crafting a story within the constraints of a particular theme could be a challenge. Writing those stories took me to places as a writer that I wouldn't otherwise have gone. They made me stretch in ways I hadn't expected. The proof of that is in the work I published in some of those anthologies. I'm thinking of stories like "Styx" in Peter Straub's Ghosts, "Coyotes" in Scott Urban and Marty Greenberg's The Conspiracy Files, and "Do Not Hasten to Bid Me Adieu" in Poppy Brite's Love in Vein. Those tales are all personal favorites, and I doubt that I would have written any of them if I hadn't been forced to "think inside the box" presented to me by those editors.

I wrote "In Beauty, Like the Night" as a submission for Skipp & Spector's Still Dead: Book of the Dead 2, an anthology set in the universe of George Romero's zombie movies. The first volume had gained a lot of attention, with stories by Stephen King, Ed Bryant, Robert McCammon, Ramsey Campbell, David Schow, Richard Laymon, and a host of others. The second volume looked to be more of the same.

I wanted to place a story in that book. Badly. First off, I was a huge fan of Romero's zombie movies. Second, I was certain that I had Skipp & Spector's number. Mailing my manuscript, I figured there was no way on earth that the splatterpunk[26] boys could turn down "In Beauty, Like the Night." I mean, I wrote a story about a Hugh Hefner-style impresario who was trapped on a desert island with a bunch of zombie centerfold girls. "In Beauty..." featured a lone wolf armed with a Heckler & Koch P7M13, airplane crashes, cocaine and Cuervo Gold and, well... zombie centerfold girls. How could a couple of splatterpunks turn down a story like that?

Guess what. They did.

And I was stuck with a rejected zombie story, one that had taken me three weeks to write. Ouch. I'm sure I wasn't the only one paddling around in that particular canoe, and if those other writers saw things the way I did they knew that submitting a bounced zombie story to another market at that time would have been a waste of postage.

Now, I don't want you to get the idea that a single rejection slip signs a story's death warrant. Usually, it doesn't work that way. In fact, one rejection wouldn't much matter to me if we were talking about a story that wasn't intended for a theme anthology—in that case. I'd simply give the piece a read-through, maybe do some revising, then get it out to the next market on my list.

But with a story that was written for something as specific as Book of the Dead 2, a single rejection could matter bigtime. One thumbs down and a story like that could end up the double-spaced equivalent of a busted flush, because any editor who put a letter opener to an envelope containing a submission that smelled of George Romero's zombies would add two and two together and figure they'd just been sent a package jam-packed with damaged goods. They'd know that the story had already been bounced by Skipp & Spector, and that would probably be enough reason for them to bounce it, too.

And why would they do that, Norm? you ask. My answer is simple. No one likes sloppy seconds, pal. Especially editors.

There's not much you can do about that. Sometimes things don't work out. Your story bounces. You put that story in a drawer somewhere and you try not to think about it. Maybe a few years down the line you take it out and dust it off, submit it somewhere else. Maybe not.

In one sense, it doesn't really matter what you do with that story.

What matters is that you don't dwell on the rejection when it comes.

What matters is that you find yourself another market and write something else.

Just a few points that I want to reinforce before I finish up here:

First: always have your eye on the next rung of the career ladder. I started off selling stories in the small press. It was a great place to get rolling, but I didn't want to make a home there. I was always looking for opportunities to break into the professional marketplace. Most pro anthologies were "invitation only" markets, but a few were open to anyone. When I was starting out, Charlie Grant's Shadows was an open market; these days, it's the same with Tom Monteleone's Borderlands series. Quality markets are out there if you're willing to look for them (try ralan.com. or Kathy Ptacek's Gila Queen's Guide to Markets, or Judi Rohrig's Hellnotes). Submitting to those markets should be a top priority.

And always remember to send your stories to the best markets first— the ones that pay the most; the ones with the highest circulation. It's like an old pulp writer told me a long time ago: "When you submit a story, always aim high. Editors will be more than happy to tell you if you've fallen short."

Second: an open professional market is an opportunity to earn your chops. Don't take an opportunity like that lightly. Step up to the plate. Challenge yourself. Get serious and work hard.

I remember how it felt to write stories aimed at markets I figured were beyond my reach. I knew the competition was fierce, but I was hungry. It was a special kind of hunger, and it drove me to try things in my fiction that I wouldn't have attempted if I'd decided to play it safe and write another story for a small press market I was sure I could crack.

Working that way was like trying to ride a tiger. At times I was convinced that I didn't know what the hell I was doing, and I was sure that tiger would buck me off and maul me for trying to do such a damn fool thing. Sometimes I'd type "The End," drop my story in the mail, and immediately wish that I could snatch my envelope out of the mailbox and bury it (pretty deeply) in a drawer somewhere. In the weeks that followed I'd walk out to my mailbox, fearing that I was about to receive a rejection letter nasty enough to destroy my confidence for life. But it didn't work out that way for me, and seeing my efforts pay off with story sales that moved me up a notch made me want to aim higher, and having writers I'd grown up reading tell me that I was writing some damn fine stories of my own was a special kind of validation that made me keep trying just a little bit harder.

So, you're a new writer. I'll bet that you're hungry, too. Let me tell you, that hunger is a tool. Use it to drive yourself and your creative engine. Get it into your stories. Get it down on the page. Get those pages in front of editors.

Your hunger is a source of strength.

In truth, there isn't one that's finer.

IN BEAUTY, LIKE THE NIGHT

The beach was deserted.

Somehow, they knew enough to stay out of the sun.

Nathan Grimes rested his elbows on the balcony and peered through his binoculars. As he adjusted the focus knob, the smooth, feminine mounds that bordered the crescent-shaped beach became nets of purslane and morning glory, and the green blur that lay beyond sharpened to a crazy quilt of distinct colors — emerald, charcoal, glimpses of scarlet — a dark panorama of manchineel trees, sea grapes, and coconut palms.

Nathan scanned the shadows until he found the golden-bronze color of her skin. Naked, just out of reach of the sun's rays, she leaned against the gentle curve of a coconut palm, curling a strand of singed blonde hair around the single finger that remained on her left hand. Her fingertip was red —with nail polish, not blood —and she thrust it into her mouth and licked both finger and hair, finally releasing a spit curl that fought the humid Caribbean breeze for a moment and then drooped in defeat.

Kara North, Miss December.

Nathan remembered meeting Kara at the New Orleans Mansion the previous August. She'd posed in front of a bountifully trimmed Christmas tree for Teddy Ching's centerfold shot, and Nathan—fresh off a plane from the Los Angeles offices of Grimesgirl magazine — had walked in on the proceedings, joking that the holiday decorations made him feel like he'd done a Rip Van Winkle in the friendly skies.

Nathan smiled at the memory. There were several elegantly wrapped packages under the tree that August day, but each one was empty, just a prop for Teddy's photo shoot. Kara had discovered that sad fact almost immediately, and they'd all had a good laugh about her mercenary attitude while Teddy shot her with a little red Santa cap on her head and sassy red stockings on her feet and nothing but golden-bronze flesh in between.

Empty boxes. Nathan shook his head. He'd seen the hunger in Kara's eyes when the shoot was over. A quick study, that one. Right off she'd known that he alone could fill those boxes in a finger-snap.

And now she knew enough to stay out of the sun. They all did. Nathan had been watching them for two days, ever since the morning after the accident. He wasn't worried about them breaking into the house, for his Caribbean sanctuary was a Moorish palace surrounded by high, broken-bottle-encrusted walls that were intended to fend off everyone from prying paparazzi to anti-porn assassins. No, the thing that worried him about the dead Grimesgirls was that they didn't act at all like the zombies he'd seen on television.

Most of those miserable gut-buckets had crawled out of the grave and weren't very mobile. In fact, Nathan couldn't remember seeing any zombies on the tube that bore much of a resemblance to their living brethren, but that could simply be chalked up to the journalistic penchant for photographing the most grotesque members of any enemy group. It was an old trick. Just as they'd once focused attention on the most outrageous members of the SDS and the Black Panthers in order to turn viewers against those groups, the media would now focus on the most bizarre specimens of this current uprising.

Uprising. It was an odd word to choose —once such a hopeful word for Nathan's generation — but it seemed somehow appropriate, now stirring images not of demonstration but of reanimation. Cemeteries pitted with open graves, shrouds blowing across empty boulevards... midnight glimpses of a shadow army driven by an insatiable hunger for human flesh.

Nathan wondered what the network anchors would make of Kara North. All theories about media manipulation aside, he doubted that there were many other suntanned zombies besides last year's Miss December. Stateside, the victims of an accident such as the one that had occurred on Grimes Island would have been devoured by predator zombies before reanimation could occur. That hadn't happened here, because there weren't any predator zombies on the island when Kara and the others had perished. So something different had happened here, maybe something that hadn't happened before, anywhere.

Kara raised her good hand in what might have been a feeble wave.

"Freaks," Nathan whispered, unable to fight off his signature wry smile. "Zombie freaks." He set down the binoculars — an expensive German product, for Nathan Grimes demanded the best in everything—and picked up his pistol, a Heckler & Koch P7M13, also German, also expensive.

The sun inched lower in the sky. The waves became silver mirrors, glinting in Nathan's eyes. He put on sunglasses and the glare flattened to a soft pearly glow. As the horizon melted electric blue and the shadows thickened beneath the coconut palms, Kara North, Miss December, shambled toward the glass-encrusted walls of Nathan's beachfront palace. Again, she curled a lock of blonde hair around her finger. Again, she sucked the burned strands wet.

Strange that she could focus on her hair and ignore her mutilated hand, Nathan thought as he loaded the Heckler. His gut told him that her behavior was more than simple instinct, and he wondered just how far her intelligence extended. Did she know that she was dead? Was she capable of posing such a question?

Could she think?

The curl drooped, uncoiled, and again Kara went to sucking it. Nathan remembered a Christmas that had come in August complete with the holiday smells of hot buttered rum and Monterey pine, the sounds of the air-conditioner running on HIGH COOL and seasoned oak crackling in the fireplace. He recalled Kara's dreams and the way she kissed and her red nails slashing through wrapping paper as she opened gifts he'd originally intended for Ronnie. And then, when he was fully ready to surrender to his memories, the shifting July winds brushed back across Grimes Island, carrying the very real stink of scorched metal and charred rubber.

The scent of destruction.

Nathan covered his nose and raised the pistol.

Two days ago, Nathan had the situation under control. Certainly, considering the circumstances, the arrangements for evacuating the Grimesgirls from the United States had been maddening. Certainly, such arrangements would have been completely impossible if Nathan hadn't had the luxury of satellite communications, but such perks went hand in hand with network ownership.

Two days ago, he was, in short, a completely satisfied man. After all, the foresight which some had dubbed paranoia was paying off, and his contingency plan to end all contingency plans was taking shape: he had his own island fortress, adequate provisions, and a plan to sit out the current difficulties in the company of twelve beautiful centerfold models.

So, two days ago, he didn't worry as the hands of his Rolex crossed past the appointed hour of the Grimegirls' arrival, for the dangerous part of the evacuation operation had already been carried out with military precision. In rapid succession, a trio of Bell JetRanger choppers had touched down on the roof of the New Orleans Mansion, and the Grimesgirls had been transported without incident to a suburban airfield where a private security force was guarding Nathan's Gulfstream IV. Needless to say, takeoff had been immediate.

Of course, the operation was costly, but Nathan considered it a wise investment. He expected that there would be a real shortage of attractive female flesh by the time the government got things under control. The public, as always, would have an immediate need for his services, and he figured that the people he laughingly referred to as his "readers" wouldn't mind looking at last season's models, at least until the competition got into gear.

If there was any competition left. Nathan got himself a tequila — half listening for the Gulfstream, half watching the latest parade of gut-buckets on CNN — and soon he was imagining his chief competitors as walking corpses, one with gold chains circling his broken neck and an expensive toupee covering the gnaw marks on his skull, the other with his trademark pipe jammed between rotted lips, gasping, unable to fill his lungs with enough oxygen to kindle a blaze in the tar-stained brier.

Nathan grinned, certain that he'd never suffer such a humiliating end. He was a survivor. He had plans. And he would get started on them right now, while he waited.

He found a yellow legal pad and started brainstorming titles. GRIMESGIRLS: OUR ISLAND YEAR. No, too much fun in that one. GRIMESGIRLS: FROM HELL TO PARADISE. Better. He'd have to search for the right tone to stifle those who would accuse him of exploitation. And Teddy Ching's pictures would have to match. Hopefully, Teddy had shot lots of nice stuff during the evacuation — decaying faces mashed against the windows of the Mansion, the French Quarter streets clogged with zombies — shots that stank of danger. Pictures like that would make a perfect contrast to the spreads they'd do on the island.

GRIMESGIRLS: NATIONAL TREASURES SAVED. Nathan stared at what he'd written and smiled. Patriotic. Proud. Words as pretty as dollar signs.

Wind from the open door caught the paper, and Nathan trapped it against the table. For the first time he noticed the darkness, the suffocating gray shroud that had come long before sunset. The plane was horribly late. He'd been so caught up in planning the magazine that he'd lost track of time. Jesus. The Gulfstream could be trapped inside the storm, fighting it, low on fuel....

The storm rustled over the coconut palms with a sound like a giant broom sweeping the island clean. Rainwater guttered off the tile roof. It was only five o'clock, but the darkness seemed impenetrable. Nathan sent Buck and Pablo to the landing strip armed with flares. He put on a coat and paced on the balcony of his suite until the thrashing sounds of the approaching Gulfstream drove him inside. He stared into the darkness, imagining that it was as thick as pudding, and he was truly startled when the explosion bloomed in the distance. Ronnie (Miss October three years past) tried to embrace him, but he pushed her away and rushed from the room. It was much later, after the rain had diminished to a drizzling mist, that he stepped outside and smelled the wreck for the first time.

Buck and Pablo didn't return. The night passed, and then the morning. Nathan didn't go looking for the boys. He was afraid that they might be looking for him. He hid his pistol and the keys to his Jeep, and he slapped Ronnie when she called him a coward. After that she was quiet, and when she'd been quiet for a very long time he played at being magnanimous. He opened the wall safe and left her alone with a peace offering.

Downstairs, he hid the yellow legal pad in a desk drawer that he rarely opened. He closed the drawer carefully, slowly, without a sound.

That was how it began, two days ago, on Grimes Island. Since then, the living had moved quietly, listening for the footsteps of the dead.

The Heckler was warm, and as Nathan reloaded it he wished that his talents as a marksman were worthy of such a fine weapon. He set the pistol on his dresser and went downstairs, fighting the memory of the purple-gray mess that Kara North's forehead had become when one of his shots — the fifth or the sixth — finally found the mark.

That wasn't the way he wanted to remember her. He wanted to remember Miss December. No gunshots, only Teddy's camera clicking. No blood, only a red Santa cap. Sassy red socks. And nothing but golden-bronze flesh in between.

Nathan took a bottle of Cuervo Gold from beneath the bar. When it came to tequila he preferred Chinaco, but he'd finished the last bottle on the night of the crash and now the cheaper brand would have to do.

"I saw what you did." Ronnie confronted him the way a paperback detective would, sliding the Heckler across the mahogany bar, marring the wood with a long, ugly scratch. "You should have asked Kara in for a drink, made it a little easier on the poor girl. That was a damn rude way to say goodbye, Nate."

Nathan filled a glass with ice, refusing to meet Ronnie's patented withering stare, but that didn't stop her words. "She looked so cute, too, worshiping you from a distance with those big blue eyes of hers. Did you see the way she tried to curl her hair?" Ronnie clicked her tongue against her teeth. "It's a shame what a little humidity can do to a really nice coijfure."

Nathan said nothing, slicing a lime now, and Ronnie giggled. "Strong and silent, huh? C'mon, Nate, you're the one who blew off the top of her head. Tell me how it felt."

Nathan stared at the tip of Ronnie's nose, avoiding her eyes. Once she'd been an autumnal vision with hair the color of fallen leaves. Miss October. She'd had the look of practiced ease, skin the color of brandy, and large chocolate eyes that made every man in America long for a cold night. But Nathan had learned all too well the October power of those eyes, the way they could chill a man with a single frosty glance.

He pocketed the Heckler. He'd have to be more careful about leaving the gun where she could get at it. Coke freaks could get crazy. He poured Cuervo Gold into his glass and then drank, pretending that the only thing bothering him was the quality of the tequila. Then he risked a quick glance at her eyes, still chocolate-brown but now sticky with a yellow sheen that even Teddy Ching couldn't airbrush away.

Ronnie picked up a cocktail napkin and shredded its corners. "Why her? Why'd you shoot Kara and not the others?"

"She was the first one that came into range." Nathan swirled his drink with a swizzle stick shaped like the cartoon Grimesgirl that ran on the last page of every issue. "It was weird. When I looked into Kara's eyes, I had the feeling that she was relieved to see me. Relieved! Then I raised the gun, and it was as if she suddenly realized...."

Ronnie tore the napkin in half, then quarters. "They don't realize, Nate. They don't think."

"They're not like those things on TV, Ronnie. You noticed the way she looked at me. Christ, she actually waved at me today. I'm not saying that they're geniuses, but there's something there... something I don't like."

Bits of purple paper dotted the mahogany bar. Ronnie fingered them one by one, lazily reassembling the napkin. Nathan sensed her disapproval. He knew that she wanted him to strap on his pistol and go gunning for the Grimesgirls as if he were Lee Van Cleef in some outre spaghetti western.

"Look, Ronnie, it's not like they're acting normal, beating down our walls like the things on TV do. We just have to be a little careful, is all. There are eleven of them now, and sooner or later they'll all wander close to the gate the same way that Kara did. Then I can nail them with no problem. And then we can go out again... it'll be safe."

"Don't be so sure." He made the mistake of sighing and her voice rose angrily. "They didn't fly in by themselves, you know. There was a pilot, a copilot... maybe even a few guards. And Teddy. That's at least five or six more people." Now it was her turn to sigh. "Not to mention Buck and Pablo."

"You might be right. But who knows, the others might be so crippled up that they can't get over to this side of the island fast, or at all. Or they could have been incinerated in the explosion. Maybe that's what happened to Buck and Pablo." Nathan looked at her, not wanting to say that the boys might have been someone's dinner, and she pursed her lips, which was a hard thing for her to do because they were full and pouty.

"Hell, maybe the boys got away," he said, realizing that he was grasping at straws. "Took a boat or something. I can't see the docks from here, so I can't be sure. It could be that they reasoned with the girls, tricked them somehow — "

"Are you really saying that zombies can think? That's crazy! If they're dead, they're hungry. That's it —that's what they say on TV. And Kara North sucking a little spit curl doesn't convince me otherwise."

Nathan cut another slice of lime and sucked it, appreciating the sharp tang. It was the last lime on the island, and he was determined to enjoy it. "Maybe the whole thing has something to do with the crash," he said, taking another tack. "I can't figure it. I saw the explosion, but all the girls seem to be in pretty good shape. Kara was missing a few fingers and her hair was singed, and a few of the others are kind of wracked up, but none of them is badly burned, like you'd expect."

"We could drive out to the plane and see what happened for ourselves," Ronnie offered. "They can't catch us in the Jeep." She touched his hand, lightly, tentatively. "We might be able to salvage some stuff from the wreck. Someone might have had a rifle, maybe even one with a scope, and that would be a much better weapon than your pistol."

Nathan considered her argument, then jerked his hand away as soon as he realized what lay behind it. "Who was bringing it in for you? C'mon, Ronnie...you know what I'm talking about. Who was your mule this trip?"

She tried to look hurt. Did a good job of it. "You think you're quite a detective, don't you? Well, round up the usual suspects. Ronnie's a coke freak waiting on a mule. Buck and Pablo pulled a Houdini, or maybe they had a powwow with Kara and her pals, the world's first intellectual gut-buckets. C'mon, Nate, put it together for me, but do it before those things out there turn nasty and come after us." She grabbed the remnants of the napkin and flung purple confetti at his face. "Wake up, boss. The party's over. Me, you've got figured, but them... they're dead, and they're hungry, and that's that."

She let the words hang there for a minute. Then she rose and walked to the stairs, gracefully, like brandy pouring from a bottle. With fluid elegance, he thought wryly. He watched her calves flex, enjoyed the way she swung her ass for him. Eagerly, he ran his thumb over the little plastic breasts on the cartoon-inspired swizzle stick.

"Me, you've got figured." She did the measured over-the-shoulder glance that she'd used three years ago in her Grimesgirl centerfold, then turned and ran long fingers over her naked breasts, along her narrow hips. Nathan's thumb traveled over the cute swizzle-stick ass; he pressed down without realizing it, and the plastic snapped in two.

Ronnie laughed, climbing the stairs, not looking back.

After he'd come, Nathan kicked off the satin sheets and opened the wall safe. He cut three lines on a vanity mirror and presented them to Ronnie, then hurried downstairs because he hated the sound of her snorting. In the kitchen, he popped open a Pepsi and took a box of Banquet fried chicken out of the freezer. He chose two breasts and three thighs, placed them on a sheet of Reynolds Wrap, and fired the oven.

While he waited for the chicken, he turned on the television and fiddled with the satellite controls until he found something besides snow. Immediately, he recognized the Capitol dome in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, just below the CNN logo. It was a favorite camera setup of Washington correspondents, but there was no reporter standing in frame. There wasn't a voice-over, either.

A gut-bucket in a hospital gown staggered into view, then lurched away from the light. Another followed, this one naked, fleshless. Nathan watched, fascinated. It was only a matter of time before one of the zombies knocked over the camera or smashed the lights. Why didn't the network cut away? He couldn't figure it out.

Unless he'd tuned in some kind of study. Unless the camera had been set up to record the zombies. Bolted down. Protected. That kind of thing.

But to send it out on the satellite? It didn't make any sense. Then Nathan remembered that all satellite broadcasts weren't intended for public consumption. He might be picking up a direct feed to CNN instead of a broadcast from CNN. In the past he'd enjoyed searching for just such feeds with his satellite dish — on a location to network feed, you could pick up all the nasty remarks that reporters made about the government gobbledegook they fed to the American public, and you could find out what really went on during the commercial breaks at any number of live events.

Nathan stared at the CNN logo superimposed in the corner of the screen. Was that added at the network, or would a technician in a mobile unit add it from location? He wished he knew enough about the technical end of broadcasting to decide. He switched channels, searching for another broadcast. When he was sure he'd exhausted all possibilities, he tried to return to the CNN transmission.

He couldn't find it.

It wasn't there anymore.

A blank hiss filled the room. Nathan hit the mute button on the remote control. A few minutes passed before he noticed the burning chicken, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything about it, didn't want to look at it. Images coiled like angry snakes in his mind, ready to strike, ready to poison him. The explosion, the fleshless zombie on TV, Kara North's mutilated hand.

The snakes struck, and Nathan lurched to the sink and vomited Pepsi.

First he heard her shouts, and he was up off the couch and almost to the stairs before he remembered that he'd left the gun on the kitchen sink. He pivoted too quickly at the foot of the stairway, lurched against the wall, and then ran to the gun, Ronnie's insistent cries still filling his ears.

He returned to the staircase just as she began her descent. "He was calling me," she said, her eyes wild, unfocused. "Outside. I heard him. I went out onto the balcony but I couldn't see.... But I talked to him, and he answered me! Christ, we've got to let him in!"

"You mean someone's alive out there?"

Ronnie nodded, naked, shivering, her hair a sweaty tangle. Nathan didn't like what he saw any better than what he'd heard. Maybe she was just strung out. Maybe she'd been dreaming. Sure.

One of the gut-buckets had pounded on the gate and she'd imagined the rest.

Or maybe someone had indeed survived the crash.

"We're not opening up until I check things out," Nathan said. "Just stay here. Don't move." He squeezed her shoulders to reinforce the order.

Upstairs, he punched several buttons on the bedroom wall before stepping onto the balcony. Deadwhite light spilled across the compound, glittering eerily over the glass-encrusted walls and illuminating the beach. A man wearing a blue uniform stood near the gate. Either the pilot or the copilot. His complexion was sallow in the artificial light, and his chin was bruised a deep purple. He stared up at Nathan and his brow creased, as if he hadn't expected to see Nathan at all.

The pilot's mouth opened.

In the distance, a wave washed over the beach.

"Ronnie... I've come to see... Ronnie."

"Jesus!" Nathan lowered the Heckler. "What happened out there? The explosion... how did you — "

"Ronnie... Ronnie... I've come to see... Ron... neeeee. I've come...."

The muscles in Nathan's forearms quivered in revulsion. He forced himself to raise the Heckler and aim.

He fired. Missed.

Muddy gray eyes stared into the frosty light. Wide, frantic. The thing waved its hands, wildly signaling Nathan to stop. He fired again, but the shot whizzed over the zombie's shoulder. Hurriedly, it backed off, ripping at its coat and the sweat-stained shirt beneath.

Nathan's third shot clipped the thing's ear just as it ripped open its shirt.

"I'm expected," it screeched. "Expected and I've come to see...."

Nathan swore, stunned by the sight of a half-dozen plastic bags filled with cocaine secured to the zombie's chest with strips of medical tape.

Ronnie's mule. Two days dead and still trying to complete its deal.

The thing moved forward. It was smiling now, sure that Nathan finally understood.

Nathan took aim —Nathan, stop! —but black lights exploded in his head before he could squeeze off another shot. "You're crazy, Nathan!" He hit the balcony floor, cutting his left eyebrow on the uneven tile, and his mind had barely processed that information and recognized Ronnie's voice when he realized that the Heckler was being pried from his fingers. "He’s alive, and you tried to kill him!" He tried to rise and this time he glimpsed the heavy German binoculars arcing towards him.

He had just managed to close his eyes when the binoculars smashed into his bloody brow.

Screaming. God, she was screaming.

She must have realized the truth.

Nathan struggled to his feet just as Ronnie's cries were punctuated by gunshots. He leaned against the balcony and tried to focus on what was happening on the beach.

But they weren't on the beach. The big gate stood open, and the dead pilot was inside the compound, backing Ronnie across a patch of stunted grass. She fired the Heckler and cocaine puffed from one of the packets taped to the thing's chest. She got off three more shots that destroyed the zombie's left shoulder. Its left arm came loose, slithered through its shirtsleeve, and dropped silently to the grass. The thing stared down at its severed limb, confused by the sudden amputation.

Ronnie retreated under the jutting balcony.

The zombie followed her into the house.

Nathan stumbled through the bedroom doorway. Ronnie wasn't screaming anymore. That sound had been replaced by subtler but no less horrifying noises: the Heckler clicking, empty, the zombie whispering Ronnie's name. Dizzily, Nathan reached the top of the stairway just as Ronnie mounted the first stair. He tried to grab her but the pilot got hold of her first and tugged her away.

It stared at her for a moment, still pleading, as if it only wanted her to take delivery, but as it pulled her closer its expression changed.

Its nostrils flared.

It pushed her down onto the stairs and held her there.

Its mouth widened, but no words were left there.

Its eyes were wild, suddenly gleaming.

Hungry.

Dry teeth clamped Ronnie's left breast. She squealed and pulled away, but the thing punched its fingers through her left thigh, holding her down. An urge had been triggered, and suddenly the gut- bucket was insatiable. Its teeth ripped Ronnie's flesh; it swallowed without chewing; it was a shark in the grip of a feeding frenzy.

Nathan backed away, staring at the zombie, glancing at the empty pistol on the hallway floor. Another gut-bucket shambled forward from the shadowy bar. This one had something in its hand, a machete, and Nathan was suddenly glad that he was going to die because he didn't think he could bear living in a world where you couldn't tell the living from the dead, where fucking corpses could talk, could remember, could fool you right up to the moment when they started to bite and tear and swallow....

The rusty machete cleaved the pilot's head from his shoulders; the dead thing collapsed on top of Ronnie.

The holder of the machete stared up at him, and Nathan froze like a deer trapped by a pair of headlights.

"Christ, boss, don't worry. I'm alive," Buck Taylor said, and then he went to close the gate.

Buck said he couldn't eat or drink so soon after cleaning up the remains of Ronnie and the gut-bucket pilot. Instead, he talked. Nathan tried not to drink too much Cuervo Gold, tried to listen, but his thoughts turned inexorably to the puzzle of the pilot's strange behavior.

"So the storm was coming down in buckets, splattering every damn inch of soil. Pablo was drinking coffee, and I'd had so much that I just had to take a piss, but it was really coming down—"

The rusty machete lay before Buck on the oak tabletop; his fingers danced over the blade as he spoke. He had once been a center for the Raiders — Good Old Number 66 had never missed a game in seven seasons of play— but Nathan couldn't imagine that he'd ever looked this bad, not even after the most desperate contest imaginable. His bald pate was knotted with bruises, and every time he touched them he looked wistful, like he was wishing he'd had a helmet.

" — so I hacked my way into the forest and got under a tree, that kind with leaves like big pancakes. And I started to piss. And just then I heard the engines. Holy Christ, I got zipped up quick and — "

The twin sixes on Buck's football jersey were smeared with slimy black stains. There was a primitive splint on his left arm, held in place with strips torn from a silver-and-black bandana. The massive biceps swelling between the damp strips of wood was an ugly color much worse than the blue-green of a natural bruise. It reminded Nathan of rotten cantaloupe, a sickly gray color. And the smell coming from the other side of the table was —

" — pissed all over my leg. I ain't ashamed to say it, because the left wing tore off just then and I thought I was dead for sure, with the plane heading straight for me. So I dived — "

Quickly. The pilot had been able to think quickly. He'd ripped off his shirt to show Nathan the cocaine. He'd gotten Ronnie to open the gate. And even though he'd lost an arm to Ronnie's gunfire, he'd acted as if he believed that he was still alive until he got close to her, the first live human he'd encountered since reanimating. That confrontation had triggered his horrible —

" — second thoughts, but there wasn't time. The broken wing flipped around in midair like a piece of balsa wood. No telling where it was gonna end up. Then the 'stream slammed sideways into a big stand of palm trees that bounced it right back onto the landing strip. It rolled and the other wing twisted off. And the wing that was still in the air — "

Came down on the machete. Buck's fingers did. Nathan watched them, and he slid away from the table, eased away from Number 66.

"I could see Pablo in the van. Even through the storm. I saw him trying to find a place to set his coffee. And then the wing hit the van, and the damn thing just exploded."

So the van had exploded. That was why the zombies hadn't been burned. The plane hadn't even caught fire — its fuel tanks were probably near empty after fighting the storm. But the van had had a full tank.

"I'm ashamed about that, but there was really nothing I could do. The fire was so intense. Even the zombies didn't go near it, and by the time it burned itself out there wasn't anything left of the van or Pablo."

Nathan's fingers closed around the pistol. He remembered the pilot ripping open his shirt. He remembered the pilot grabbing Ronnie, the momentary confusion in his muddy eyes, the excited gleam as he surrendered to the feeding frenzy. Buck was in control now, surely he was. But what would happen when he came close to his boss?

Nathan raised the Heckler. Buck grinned, like he didn't quite understand. Nathan looked at Buck's wounds, at the untouched glass of beer in front of him. Good Old Number 66 wasn't drinking, and he hadn't wanted any fried chicken. Maybe he didn't want fried chicken anymore. Maybe he didn't realize that yet, just like he didn't remember what had killed him.

"Buck, I want you to go back outside, back out with them," Nathan said, speaking as he would speak to a child. "You see, risking temptation is the dangerous part. It'll make you lose what's left of your mind."

"Boss, are you okay? Maybe you should get some sleep, stop thinking about Ronnie for a while. Maybe you should — "

Oh, they were smart. Getting smarter every minute. "You can't fool me. Buck. You can fool yourself, but you can't fool me."

Nathan aimed and Buck jolted backward, out of his chair, scrambling now. The first bullet exploded his left biceps, shattering the makeshift splint as it exited, but Buck didn't slow because football instincts die hard. He sprang to his feet, tucked his head, and charged across the kitchen.

His eyes shone with vitality, but Nathan was certain that it was the vitality of death, not life. Buck launched himself in a flying tackle and together they crashed to the floor. Nathan raised the Heckler, and Buck couldn't fight him off because the wound in his left arm was too severe, so he fought back the only way he could. He bit Nathan's shoulder, set his teeth, and tore.

Nathan screamed. White blotches of pain danced before his eyes.

Nathan's finger tightened on the trigger.

A bullet shattered the skull of Good Old Number 66.

Nathan saw it this way:

The crash had killed them instantly. All of them. And when they opened their eyes they found themselves on Grimes Island, just where they were supposed to be, and they imagined themselves survivors. They wandered through the lush forest, across the coral beaches, finding nothing to tempt them, nothing to trigger the horrible hunger.

Trapped in a transition period between death and rebirth, they retained different levels of intelligence but were limited by overwhelming instincts. Instinctively, they knew enough to stay out of the sun. It was a simple matter of self-preservation, for the tropical sun could speed their decay. The instinct to devour the living was strong in them as well, but only when they were exposed to temptation. Nathan was sure of that after his experiences with Buck and the pilot. He was also certain that as long as temptation was absent, up to the very point that the feeding frenzy took control, the dead of Grimes Island could still function at a level that separated them from the gut-buckets. Oh, they functioned at different sub-levels, as he'd seen with Kara North, the pilot, and Buck, but in some cases, they functioned just as well as the living.

Perhaps something in human flesh, once devoured, triggered the change in behavior. Maybe something in the blood. Or perhaps it was the very act of cannibalism. Nathan didn't know the cause, didn't much care.

His wounded shoulder was scarlet-purple and swollen. Five days had passed since Buck had attacked him, and he couldn't decide if the bite was worse or better. Just to be safe, he'd injected himself with antibiotics, but he didn't know if his first aid made the slightest difference.

He didn't know if he was alive, or dead, or somewhere in between.

To clarify his thoughts, he noted his symptoms on the legal pad he'd hidden in his desk after the plane crash. Many were perplexing. He wished that he could consult with a scientist or a doctor, but his first attempt at stateside communications had proved fruitless, and soon he was afraid to communicate with anyone. He didn't relish the idea of ending up as a science project in some lab, and he didn't want an extermination squad invading Grimes Island, either.

The thing that bothered him most was that his heart was still beating. He couldn't understand how that was possible until he remembered that Buck's heart had been beating when he'd shot him — Nathan had felt it pounding against his own chest as they wrestled on the floor — and he was certain that Buck had been dead. Looking at his wounded shoulder, remembering the fire in Buck's eyes when he'd attacked, Nathan was positive of that.

There were other symptoms, as well.

He couldn't eat. Every evening he cooked some fried chicken, even though the smell made him gag and the oily feel of it made him shiver. Last night he'd forced himself to eat two breasts and a thigh, and he'd spent the next five hours coiled in a cramped ball on the kitchen floor before finally surrendering to the urge to vomit. And he couldn't keep down Pepsi or Jose Cuervo either. The Cuervo Gold was especially bad; it burned his throat and made him miserable for hours. He did suck ice cubes, but only to keep his throat comfortable. And he'd started snorting the cocaine that Ronnie's mule had brought in, but only because he was afraid to sleep.

Cocaine. Maybe that was the problem. They said that cocaine killed the appetite, didn't they? And he'd started using the stuff at about the same time that he'd stopped eating. But five days without food... God, that was a long time. So it had to be more than just the cocaine. Didn't it?

He closed his eyes and thought about hunger, about food. He tried to picture the most appetizing banquet imaginable.

Nothing came to him for the longest time. Then he saw Kara North's mangled hand. The pilot's severed arm. Buck's ruined head.

His gut roiled.

He opened his eyes.

The facts seemed irrefutable, but somehow Nathan couldn't bring himself to leave the compound or, conversely, let the Grimesgirls enter. They were on the beach every night, enjoying themselves, tempting him. Miss November and Miss February sang love songs, serenading Nathan from the wrong side of the glass-encrusted walls. He watched them, smiling his wry smile on the outside, inside despising his cowardice.

He was bored, but he didn't risk watching television, either. If the networks had returned to the airwaves, he would certainly find himself looking straight into the eyes of living, breathing people, and while he seriously doubted that such a stimulus could trigger the feeding frenzy, he didn't want to expose himself, just to be on the safe side.

He didn't want to lose what he had.

So he snorted cocaine and wrote during the day. At night, he watched them. They all came to the beach now, even Teddy Ching. He had no legs; that's why he'd taken so long to cross the island. But Teddy didn't let that stop him. He dragged himself along, eagerly pursuing the Grimesgirls, his exposed spine wiggling as happily and uncontrollably as a puppy's tail. Three cameras were strung around his neck, and he often propped himself against the base of a manchineel tree and photographed the girls as they frolicked on the beach below.

More than anything, Nathan wished that he could develop those pictures. His Grimesgirls were still beautiful. Miss July, her stomach so firm, so empty above a perfect heart-shaped trim. Miss May, her skinless forehead camouflaged with a wreath of bougainvillea and orchids. The rounded breasts of Miss April, sunset bruised and shadowed, the nipples so swollen. The sunken yellow hollows beneath Miss August's eyes, hot dry circles, twin suns peering from her face with all the power of that wonderful month.

Twin suns in the middle of the night.

She walks in beauty, like the night... in beauty, like the night... of cloudless climes and... starry skies and all that's best of dark and bright...

And all that's best of dark and bright....

Nathan couldn't remember the rest of it. He wrote the words on his yellow pad, over and over, but he couldn't remember. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them the sea was hard with the flat light of morning.

He hurried inside long before the sunshine kissed the balcony.

The beach was deserted.

A Keyboard Built For One

I attended Sacramento State University in the late seventies and early eighties, majoring in English with an emphasis on American Lit.[27] While I was there I took a few writing classes from Mary Mackey, a novelist who's worked both in the mainstream and fantasy market. While studying with Dr. Mackey I wrote a sword & sorcery screenplay which will never see the light of day, and I ran a bunch of paper through my typewriter while pretending I had idea one about writing a novel, and I took an independent study class in which I wrote several short stories that will never escape my filing cabinet.

In short, I groped around trying to find my direction. Along the way, Mary Mackey taught me quite a bit about the basics of constructing fiction. She was a great teacher, and I learned a lot from her.

I met a couple of guys in her screenwriting class whose interests ran along the same lines as mine. Bruce and John were science fiction fans, and I was into horror... but, hey, we were in the same ballpark. They'd read some Lovecraft and King, and I'd read a bunch of Bradbury and Matheson (which was pretty much as close as I ever got to sci-fi in those days). All three of us had seen most everything movies and television had to offer in the way of science fiction and horror in the sixties and seventies. Heck, we'd even paid money to see those bad Edgar Rice Burroughs' adaptations with Doug McClure and a bunch of rubber dinosaurs. So we spoke the same language, and that gave us plenty to talk about.

Before I got to know them, Bruce and John had put out a little magazine in conjunction with the college science fiction club. I think it was called Star Probe. I just spent about a half hour digging around in a file cabinet hunting for my copy, but it looks like it has been lost to the sands of time.

Star Probe was probably the first saddle-stapled 'zine I ever saw. It was laid out on a typewriter and printed at a local print shop. The cover image was a spaceship, done in a kind of Vaughn Bode underground comics style (hey, this was the seventies). Inside were three or four stories ranging from science fiction to heroic fantasy. I can't recall if the magazine contained any obligatory student-generated sci-fi poetry or not, but odds are good that it probably did.

I'm pretty sure that both Bruce and John had stories in the first issue. Seeing it, I instantly regretted that I hadn't had a chance to submit a story of my own. I asked about doing a story for Star Probe #2 only to discover that a second issue didn't look likely. My friends had gotten funding for their magazine through the college Science Fiction Club, and the club had pretty much gone the way of Doug McClure's rubber dinosaurs by then.

Still, they talked about trying to get Star Probe going again. Those conversations forged us into a three-member writers' group for a while. We'd get together after class and talk about the magazine, and books we'd read and movies we'd seen, and our big plans for the award-winning writing careers that awaited us after college. Most of it, of course, was just talk... usually with beers and pretzels thrown in.[28]

One night our discussion turned to a new movie called Apocalypse Now, which had made a big impression on all of us. The general consensus was that Francis Ford Coppola's reinterpretation of Conrad's Heart of Darkness wasn't really a Vietnam War movie at all—it was really a horror movie.

I can't explain why that seemed such an important distinction to make on that particular night, but it did. We talked about it at length, and then our conversation turned to some of the stranger stories we'd heard from returning Vietnam vets. A lot of those guys were working their way through college on the G. I. bill during the late seventies, and when they got to talking... watch out. That stuff was weird.

It was one of those nights when I felt like I should be sitting around a campfire with a flashlight held under my chin. We were telling spooky stories... only these were spooky war stories. And pretty soon our discussion led to an idea: why didn't we all write horror (or science fiction, or fantasy) stories that took place during the Vietnam war? And while we were at it, why didn't we see if we could get a second issue of Star Probe going with those stories as the core contents?

Well, it sounded like a pretty good idea at the time. John planned to write a vampire story. Bruce was going to do something science fictional. Me, I didn't know what I was going to do. But I kept thinking about the idea—while I was walking to school, or sitting in class, or cooking dinner in my shoebox apartment. I tried to spur my imagination every way I knew how. I read some books about Vietnam, listened to music from the era, even went and saw Apocalypse Now a second time. But I was coming up dry.

One night I stuck a Doors album on the stereo. Coppola had used some spooky Jim Morrison songs to good effect in his film, and I thought I might catch an image from one of them that would get me started. A couple of cuts in, "Riders on the Storm" came on. Suddenly I had the central image of my story—a dark figure running through the rain, armed with a knife.

After that, I wrote the piece fairly quickly. The other guys thought "The Harvesters" (my original title) was pretty good. The only problem was that they couldn't get their own stories going. Before long the whole idea slid by the wayside, and so did our writers' group.

We graduated. We moved on to other things. But that was okay. I'd enjoyed hanging out with Bruce and John, and at least I had a pretty good story to show from the experience. "The Harvesters" was different than the other stories I'd written. I was pretty proud of it. It had an unusual rhythm and voice. Reading the finished product, I got the feeling that for the first time I was mining something down deep in my own gut rather than trying to channel themes or ideas that I'd found in another writer's words.[29]

That's what I thought about twenty-five years ago. Reading my Vietnam horror story today, I'm overpowered by the voice of the piece. It's definitely more baroque than the work I'd do later... but hey, I was reading a lot of Eddie Poe at the time.

I thought I had a pretty good shot at selling "The Harvesters." I submitted it to Penthouse and Whispers, but neither market bit. The story ended up taking up space in my file cabinet for most of the eighties. When I started writing again, I dusted it off and changed the title to "Body Bags" (I thought that had a little more punch than "The Harvesters").

I got a couple almost, but not quite rejection slips on the story, tightened it up, and sent it out again. Peggy Nadramia at Grue bought it. Only took about ten years from the time I originally typed "The End," but that didn't matter. I was happy.

A month after Peggy accepted "Body Bags," I heard from a couple of the editors who'd bounced the story. They'd changed their minds about "Body Bags" and wanted to buy it, and that made me feel pretty good. Not because I took pleasure in telling them the piece had already sold. I didn't need an I told you so moment. That wasn't what I was looking for at all.

No. What I understood was that my story had stuck with those editors. They were still thinking about "Body Bags" months after reading it, and the memory of it had scratched at them so persistently that they contacted me to find out if it was still available.

For me, that was proof positive I'd written a story that did the job.

And that was very satisfying news.

So, that's the story of "Body Bags," and my single experience with a writers' group. In truth, we didn't do a whole lot of writing in our little group. We talked a lot about writing, and that was important. But we didn't sit down and red-line each other's manuscripts or offer criticism of works-in-progress.

That was never something I wanted from other writers. As I mentioned earlier, I love the camaraderie of writers. I loved hanging out at the Little Bookshop of Horrors in Colorado, talking about books and the writing business, learning the ropes from those with more experience than me. I enjoyed joking around and socializing with like-minded people who didn't look at you sideways when they discovered you wrote horror stories. Hell, I enjoyed drinking beer and eating pretzels, too. But I never wanted to get together with a group of writers and "workshop" any of my stories. I had zero interest in that kind of thing.

I'd tried that in a couple of my college courses. There'd always come a point in the semester where the instructor would have the class break up into small groups. We'd read a story/novel chapter/screenplay scene written by the other members of the group, then give them some criticism. If you've ever taken a writing course, I'm sure you're familiar with the experience.

For me it was always a disaster. Not that I thought I was necessarily a better writer than everyone else in the group (I wasn't), or that my stories were perfect (they weren't). But I was trying to write a specific kind of story. Usually it was a horror story. And even though I had a long way to go as a writer, I knew something about horror stories. I'd read plenty of them. I'd done my homework. In fact, I saw that as a prerequisite. I never would have attempted to write one otherwise.

But I didn't know much about gushing romance stories, or tweedy literary stories, or tales of bohemian angst, or whatever else the other members of my group had written. That made me reticent to comment on their work. I just wasn't comfortable doing that. And if a group member's story fell short in a more obvious way... well, I wasn't comfortable ripping anyone a new asshole, either.

But some of the other people in the groups... man, were they comfortable. They relished the opportunity to play critic, and some of them were quite expert at slicing up another member's story. At worst the game became an exercise in creating an academic pecking order. You'd end up sitting in a circle with a few earnest young men who thought that John Updike was the shit, a woman who enjoyed bodice-ripper romances, and a guy who'd read the entire Mickey Spillane canon (three times). There'd be a lot of looking down our noses from one contingent, an equal amount of you guys really aren't all that from the other. When it got down to the nitty-gritty, you'd end up debating fine literary distinctions in an adult manner. You know, you'd talk about the important literary questions. Like, Who's got the bigger dick, anyway? Updike or Spillane?

Which is another way of saying that there was no middle ground. Groups easily devolved or were dominated by the biggest ego in the bunch. In some cases those sessions became a particularly cruel form of living dissection. Sitting there. I'd get the feeling that I was watching someone pull the wings off of a fly. I saw more than a few aspiring writers suffer by this method. I won't say they were crushed, but they were pretty banged up, and for no good reason. In most cases the criticisms offered them weren't what you'd call informed, or especially constructive.

But wait a second. Norm, you might say. You're talking about a roomful of wannabes in their first fiction class. What about a writers' group composed of beginners who are publishing in the same genre, or professional writers who are looking for solid criticism from other pros?

Okay. I've got an opinion on that, too. It can be summed up in three words: Danger, Will Robinson!

Some writers swear by the group method. They believe in workshopping a story. I don't. Oh, I'm not saying it can never work. I'm sure it does... sometimes, for some writers. But I don't believe that writing is a team sport. I believe in creating a solitary vision. That's what works best for me, and that's what drives most of the fiction I admire.

When it comes to my fiction. I'm not open to debate. I don't want to defend my stories through discussion as if they were doctoral dissertations. As far as I'm concerned, any defense necessary should exist in the words I've already set down on the page. If I haven't done the job there, any additional explanations I might offer aren't going to convince anyone. It's like trying to explain a joke. My time would be better spent getting back on the page and trying again.[30]

Another point: while workshopping a story might smooth out a few bumps in your fictive road, it might just as easily rob your tale of some of the things that make it distinctive. Think of Hollywood. That's a collaborative enterprise. How many movies have you seen that have been ruined by too much input from a team of additional writers, or the producer, or the studio behind the film? It's no different with a story you might take to a workshop of professional writers. You might come in the door with the best damn chocolate-raspberry ice cream that money can buy, only to find out that everyone in your group loves vanilla.

And let's remember this—professional writers walk around on two legs like everyone else. They don't climb down off Mount Olympus every morning. They fall victim to the same foibles as the average joe... jealousy, professional envy, etc.[31]

You need to ask yourself—do you really have time for that? Do you have time to read the creative output of a half-dozen writers and try to give them appropriate advice about it, or spend hours on the phone when an especially needy member of your group requires some hand-holding, or attend a meeting every week?

I don't know about you, but I don't have that kind of time or energy. Not that I haven't helped other writers with stories when asked for advice. I've done that for a few young writers, and I've seen them gain confidence, and learn, through guidance. And I've certainly learned things myself working with editors and publishers.

And here I should also admit that my situation's a little different than most—I'm lucky enough to have a World Fantasy nominee right down the hall. My wife, Tia V. Travis, is also a writer. Tia is my first reader. She knows my style, she knows my work, and she knows me... better than anyone. She understands the way I think, and she's given me more than a few suggestions that have helped make an average story something really special. Because she knows my work (and me) so well, I trust her criticism and take it seriously.

But I don't always follow her advice. In the end, it's my call.

After all, it's my story.

That's the way it's always been for me. Early on I decided that I'd tell my stories, and I'd tell them my way. My best teachers came to me from the other side of the page. I studied the work of writers who'd succeeded writing the kinds of stories I wanted to write. I read as much as I could, learning from both the good and bad, and I applied what I learned to my own work. I've said before that it was a process of osmosis. It was also, for the most part, a solitary process.

Working that way taught me a lot. If I had problems with a story, I didn't reach for the telephone. I didn't figure, "Hey, there's a meeting next Tuesday, maybe my writers' group can tell me how to fix this ending." No. I sat alone in my office, and I figured it out for myself.

In short, I learned self-reliance.

They don't teach you that in a writers' group.

Self-reliance is one thing you have to learn on your own.

BODY BAGS

I am the Officer in Charge of the Dead. I am in charge. I sift the squalor for half-remembered souvenirs and rusty legacies, catalog them, wrap them up and send them home. My work is quiet. Essentially simple. It requires consistent precision and a modicum of understanding.

I have that, and more, for I am also a loving curator.

Still, I am not a sentimentalist. My manner is completely professional. I wear a bloody uniform, and I wear gloves.

I wear a mask. Dead man's eyes: lacquered, cotton-colored pools shot through with red. Passionless, rose-petal lips that crumble and drift away when I grin. A bamboo brow: thin, hollow sticks pulsing with sweat. My performance is impeccable. I am the Officer in Charge of the Dead.

Charlie's art both thrills and tortures me. He dresses my brothers for their final appearances, presents them almost theatrically. He is a genius, and I am his only critic. I must look. Identify. Detail. I carefully index his work. I radio the statistics. Names. Numbers. Kill ratios. I mark REMAINS UNVIEWABLE. I protect Charlie's reputation, for I understand his secrets. I am a loving curator, but history is my true mistress.

Secrets float around me, tired doves splattered with blood. Tenderly, I draw them to me and stroke their diseased bodies. Their tiny heartbeats quicken and they sing sweet songs of promise, gorging themselves on my petty fears. Finally, they flap away on broken wings and I see my mask become the skull. I watch the jungle cower beneath the melted Asian sun, the orange and quivering sun.... I once thought that the enemy was the jungle itself, its black-vined mysteries, its crumbling stone blasphemies. I believed that the jungle was Death, that we were simply its victims (but these are very old thoughts). Now my vision is clearer. I see my mask become the skull and know that I am Death.

I rip away my mask and stare at my reflection. Suddenly I realize that fate is not a moderate thing.

I sat in the tent of the dead, the shrine of amputated tomorrows, ignoring the urge to rest. I knew that my cot was useless —a king's bed would have been useless. I would only toss and turn if I attempted sleep, and there was work to be done. Always work. Seated at my wobbly plywood desk, I poured over the reports of the private who had replaced me while I was on leave in Tokyo, correcting his ridiculous errors. The situation was unreal. I couldn't believe that I was back in the jungle.

Two nights before I'd been in the arms of a beautiful companion. She had tried to take me home, asking the name of my girl back in the States. "Jennifer," I had said. Through the purchased hours, between kisses, she had repeated the name over and over, in reverent whispers, as our private mantra. But there was no Jennifer anymore, not even then.

But that is nothing. A detail. The line must stay straight and true if you are to understand. I was in the morgue tent, listening to rock'n'roll on the radio, double-checking reports. The songs and forms wound together: repetitive questions and answers whispered, tired and dying, smashed into insignificance by the cutting melodies of screeching guitars and the funereal beat of iron drums. And every song, every form, was somehow the same — a symphony called KIA. Stamp it. Paint it black. KILLED IN ACTION.

So I went on, squinting in the dim yellow light, finishing only to start again. A quiet drizzle began to fall, brushing the roof of the tent until dampness penetrated. I pushed aside the clipboard of reports and watched the sprinkling silver needles through the open tent flap, beautiful shards of water that slashed at the mud below. "Jennifer," I whispered to the rain. "Tokyo Jennifer."

Before long the tent smelled of musty canvas and rotten rubber, as if the cleansing rain had revealed the impurities of the morgue. I stared at the moon-colored light bulb above my head, watched water drip from a puddle collecting on the roof. Soldiers began talking on the radio, right over the music, talking about going home. "After all, my man," said one, "home is where the heart is." They spoke like dreamers who had dreamt too long, lying in steady voices, painting pictures that were safe and new and clean. Hearing lies like that in the morgue tent angered me. Hadn't anyone told them? None of us had a home anymore.

The soldiers quieted and the song came on slowly, like static at first, or maybe more like rain, descending soothingly, winding forward and back and through. The tenderly fatalistic lyrics were spoken rather than sung, and as the words spun into the rotting fabric of the tent, I realized that the song was designed for this place alone. And for me.

The singer begged me to dream. I had actually seen him once, long before I'd ever known about morgue tents. Jennifer had wanted to see him.

He was thin and intense, overpowering but unsure, as if he knew that he held a death grip but wasn't quite certain where its power came from, couldn't control it. I closed my eyes and tried to picture him as he had been on that distant night, a black leather lizard on stage, but all I could see was the jungle, a vine-choked path washed by whispering rain. A man-a blotch of nightmare the color of an eclipse- ran the muddy path, shivering through the green gauntlet, screaming each time his midnight flesh touched something leafy and alive. But still he ran, sliding in black creeks, skipping ghostlike over skull-shaped rocks, riding the storm....

That was when the song came alive for me.

I blinked away from the dream and lit a cigarette. Soon the room smelled better; the death stench was masked, and that was all that I really wanted. A blanket. One big American electric blanket and we could all be safe from this moldy jungle. We could turn up the power and sizzle away the dampness, dry the slick, rubbery vines and burn their stiff, arthritic remains. All would be safe and new and clean.

Something shuffled in the shadowy back corner of the tent, near the examining tables. I squinted but saw nothing. I listened and heard only the radio, the jungle, the song... he ran faster now, laughing coyote laughs, leaping milky brown puddles, the rain slashing through his shining body. He reached into his hollow chest and tore out a knife; a twelve-inch metal ribbon that glinted like a mirror. His blade ripped left-right, slashing yellow bamboo stalks and he laughed - sucked cold, empty breaths and laughed - sprinting hard now. And then he was gone and the jungle was left to the thunderous percussion of the rain. The bamboo dripped blood....

Another noise in the shadows: a whisper stroke, like something alive slowly rubbing against the side of the tent. I crushed my cigarette against the plywood desk and picked up a flashlight. The beam cut weakly into the far darkness, revealing little as I crossed the tent. I played the light over the examining tables. Two red eyes glared at me from atop one of the bodies the private had bagged. A rat. The rain-slick thing slithered away from the light. Its tiny paws tore at the body bag; its yellow teeth gnawed black plastic.

I didn't move. The dull flashlight beam shone over the chest area of the bag, where a name was stenciled in white;

JACKSON, L. K. / MSTR. SGT

5TH GROUP SPECIAL FORCES

Jackson. I remembered the report. A lurp. A bad mother. I stared at the body bag. The rat chittered. "My, my, my, you're both bad mothers." I chuckled, advancing toward the table.

I stopped. A hand pressed against the side of the bag from inside, molding itself, flexing and stretching into the glossy black plastic. The rat squealed and moved to the corpse's head. "C'mon, Jackson," I whispered. "I've seen the midnight hop before. At least try something more original than rigor — "

A black hand ripped through the bag and grabbed the rat's slimy scruff. The creature's pink feet slashed the air; the black hand squeezed and something wet and red spurted against my hand. I dropped the flashlight. Something else, something limp, hit the floor a moment later.

I scrambled for the flashlight, but the beam waned and died. Nervously, I inched along the examining table, blindly reaching forward. I found the bag zipper and the black plastic crinkled with a puff of air —a breath! There was a grating whiz as the zipper released, and a dark figure jerked up before me with a choking gasp.

I stepped back, startled, and then advanced, extending my hand toward his shoulder. But he moved too quickly, jumping off the table, grabbing me by the wrist. His cold, bloody fingers stiffened and dug in, viselike, twisting against my bones. For a moment we were in the light and I could see his black face, but then he pulled me back into the shadows.

"Where am I?" he demanded, his voice a cutting whisper.

Stunned, I swallowed hard. "You're in base camp, Kham D__. This is the morgue tent; they must have thought that you were — "

"Dead?" He laughed dreamily. "Does it look like I'm dead. Lieutenant?"

His vision was sharp; even in the dark he'd noticed my stripes. Procedure jumped into my mind. "A medic," I said. "We've got to get you to a medic. Who knows what happened to — "

His bloody grip tightened around my wrist and he spun me around easily, bending my elbow and driving my wrist up between my shoulder blades. With one smooth movement he slipped my pistol from its holster. I grunted in pain, rising up on my toes to release the pressure, but his icy hand only stiffened and pushed my wrist hard against my spine. A whimper broke my lips and he let me go; I felt the .45 barrel cold against my ribs as I sank to my knees.

"No medic," he commanded. "I don't need them no more." He paused, bending low and turning my chin toward his own. His flat nose splayed out between large cheekbones, shadowed by a heavy brow. I stared at his strange purple face, searching for his eyes in the darkness. He didn't appreciate the attention. He squinted and pushed me away. "Turn out that damn light," he ordered. "I don't want no one else comin' around here."

His purple face, the chill of his hand — I knew enough about death (even then) to know that something impossible was happening. "Look, Jackson," I implored, "you'd better just calm down and let me get you some help."

He cocked the pistol. "Dammit, Lieutenant," he said, speaking with the cold precision of his action, "seems to me you don't hear too well. Seems to me I said to off that light."

I walked out of the shadows, raised my hand to the weak warmth of the light. I grabbed the cord and pulled. "Happy?" I asked.

"Radio too," he said.

I found my way to the desk and flipped off the music. Outside, raindrops splattered into flooded potholes. I almost jumped through the opening, but he came around me and fastened the flap shut, and then I couldn't see well anymore. I heard a chair scrape the canvas floor and saw a shadow sit in it. Blindly, I groped for the plywood desk and leaned back, gripping the splintery edge. Just stay cool I told myself. Someone will come.

"Ain't nobody comin'. Lieutenant."

I gasped, wondering if I had spoken. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothin' now.... Just sit and rap now. Let things clear up. Hey, I been through a lot lately. After awhile. I'm out to the perimeter. A little huntin', you might say."

I was sure he was crazy. Either that, or I was talking to shadows and I was crazy. But that was before things had melded and reversed, before death seeped into life and bloated it, when I was just the Lieutenant instead of the Officer in Charge of the Dead.

He shifted and his chair creaked. "Now Lieutenant, you goin' to be a good boy and listen. Because now I sit and think on it, wake up, I know it's all true. It ain't no big dream, nothin' out of a bottle or a pipe." He took a deep breath, very dry; it crackled in his throat like autumn wind crackling over dry leaves. "That old man was right," he whispered. "Damn if that old man wasn't right...." He repeated that a few more times, as if finally convinced after long speculation.

Wearing him out —that was the key. I'd always been good with words, and I decided that talk would be the way to wind him down. "What old man is that?" I asked.

He grunted. I knew that he was smiling even though I couldn't see him, didn't even try to see him. Then he spat half sentences: "Old man who birthed me second time. Old man who is my old man now. My new CO, my founder and chief. All that's been and all that'll ever be — "

"What the hell?" I said, not with excitement, but in a voice that was even and skeptical. And then, "What does that mean?" the same way.

Again, the invisible smile. "Means just this, sir. Means I ain't windin’ down like you think. Means I ain't losin' no blood, neither. Means I'm wakin' up, sir. Lieutenant, it means your ass is mine if I just want to reach out...."

I lit another cigarette and said nothing for a long time. The rain came harder; drops pattered against the canvas roof like tiny hammers. I tamped out my cigarette, and in the second of darkness that followed I felt my reserve slipping away. I closed my eyes and dammed up what was left.

"It means," he said flatly, pausing to emphasize his long consideration, "that you are sitting here talking to a dead man."

Something cracked wetly. I remembered the rat. A moment later, I heard Jackson chewing. "Um. Finger lickin' — "

I sprang for the tent flap but only found him. He pushed me back into the middle of the tent, laughing like a coyote. The .45 whipped through the air and slapped against my jaw, and I dropped to the floor. "No... can't be," I said, dazed. "Dead men can't eat, can't hit-"

"You got a lot to learn. Lieutenant," he interrupted. "A dead man can do anything that a living man lets him do."

Something bitter rose in my throat. Dizzily, I lay down and pressed my throbbing jaw against the cool canvas floor.

Jackson patted my shoulder. "I'm sorry. Now you all confused, huh Lieutenant? Don't worry. I'll lay it all out for you. Dead men good for some things. They can tell some tales. The special dead men, that is. The plain dead, they jus' good for something else."

Angrily, I spat on the floor and asked, "Like what?"

What else could I ask? He'd led me carefully.

"Like for life," he said, baiting me.

I said nothing and he laughed again, trying to crack the dark. His laughter was like some strange, fleshy pump gasping and screeching as it drove an overworked machine. The sound somehow ended inside him, echoing in his chest. I squeezed my eyelids shut and didn't listen, but he just waited, "Man," he said finally, drawing out the word, "I am born again to eat the dead."

At that moment I wanted to wake up. I yearned for him to disappear. But he kept on talking, slowly and quietly in that muffled drone, sucking slow, uneven breaths like he was forgetting how.

You see, he made me relax, even though I didn't want to.

"See, Lieutenant," he said, his tone signaling a beginning, "when I was alive, paying attention to the simple laws that frighten you, I was a lurp. You know: assassin, jungle fighter. Oh, the officers at SOG loved us, and you know why? 'Cause we never lost nothin', that's why. We was meaner than Charlie, bigger and stronger. We got anything we wanted. What SOG wouldn't give us we got from somebody else — everybody was scared shitless of my boys, give us stuff just to get us out of their faces. Yeah, we was the baddest of the bad.

"So, anyway, my recon team was on a long patrol, way out from the bases, farther than I'd ever been — 'cept when we was in Laos, of course. Seven of us humpin' through jungle we didn't know, waitin' for the smell of opportunity. But nothin' really turned. Oh, we got us a few tunnel rats, a few stragglers, but the damn Vietnamese scouts from LLDB offed them right quick. And that riled me, 'cause I'm in charge, you see. I don't bring back nothin' for those boys at MACV, it's my ass on the line. Besides, I wanted the $700 bounty that SOG was offerin' for prisoners. Things like that mattered then. I was tuned in to their game. I didn't see the jungle...."

He paused, drawing an empty breath. My jaw ached; my teeth felt like pounding pistons. Rolling over, I opened my eyes and lay flat on my back.

I know he smiled before continuing. "We needed something heavy before we could even think about startin' back. I was edgy, on everybody, and they was complaining about everything — the heat, the leeches — every damn little thing they could come up with. Things was getting too tight between us, and I knew that if we didn't meet Charlie soon, it was all goin' to snap. Now, I'm the boss. I know it's gonna snap right at me.

"We was followin' a band of montagnard hunters, hopin' that they would lead us to Charlie. We lost them late in the day, and that's when we found the idol.

"This thing was a real monster, carved out of the side of a whole damn mountain. A whole goddamn mountain, Lieutenant. And it wasn't no Buddha; it was older than that. The face, what was left of it, wasn't no Asian face. I don't know what the hell it was, but somehow I knew it was so old that it might even give Charlie a case of chills. My men slumped down on one of the feet — must have been 'bout ten-foot long and half as wide—just talkin' about how freaky the thing looked, and the Vietnamese scouts wouldn't go near it.

"These guys was spooked. Anybody could see that. I mean the fear and the anticipation. Lieutenant. Hell, I felt it myself, but I had to set it aside. So I just thought on it, mapped out a plan. I noticed things. The idol was ancient, half rotten, like it was something dead being eaten by the jungle. Vines wrapped around its arms and legs, rain had poured over the shoulders and down the chest carving gullies that looked like scars, its fingers and toes was either missing or joined. The idol was a real mess, but grabbed you in a strange way 'cause it was still there, not gone. You could still see what it had been a long time ago." Jackson hesitated, searching for more words. "The thing had some weird kind of power.

"But anyway, while I was lookin' at it, I noticed two things that told me this idol wasn't forgotten. Oh, it was camouflaged real well— the jungle did that anyway — but someone had been usin' the jungle, workin' with it to make small trails up the thing. The trails winded over the lap and up the belly, right along with the vines, leadin' up to a cave in the mouth.

"That mouth was the freakiest part. The rest of the face was worn almost flat, real smooth; the nose was pushed back wide and almost even with the face, like it was sinkin' in. Anyway, at first it looked like the mouth was that way, too. The bottom lip stuck out just a little, like a ledge, and the top rounded above it, curvin' out a foot or so further. There was two or three feet between. There was vines over the opening, but I could still tell that it was there. I gave the credit to Charlie. He was slick, all right, but I always had a way, always been able to see through him and the jungle, and this time I knew I had him whupped. I took my men back down the trail a ways, let them in on what I'd seen. We planned for night, put on war paint. We ate.

"Night came. We worked it all out and agreed on the kill; even took us some uppers for an edge. The moon came up bright and blue — things was goin' to be good for us. The plan was like this: we climb up to the lap, hide along Charlie's own paths. I climb up further, above the top lip, lob in a smoke grenade and wait for Charlie to come out. My men nail Charlie when he comes down the trail. Easy.

"But when we went to work, the thing twisted off in my mind. See, I was ready for the kill myself. More than ready. I edged up that slimy, scarred chest, smellin' that slick rot, my greasegun tight against my belly.... Lieutenant, I knew it was stupid, but you know how you get instincts, how gambles fill you up. So I grabbed the inside edge of the bottom lip, pulled myself over into the black like a ghost, just quiet and cool.

"Then I was in nothing, failin' fast and straight down. I landed hard on my back, lookin' straight up. I could see the night shining up there, 'bout twenty feet above, hittin' back into the idol's mouth. The opening curved down just like a throat — I could even see knobby rocks that looked like teeth. But that was all I could see; the rest was just black."

Jackson stopped talking. I felt him concentrating, measuring.... I knew that he was sizing me up. Sweat trickled down my forehead; I sat up and tightened. A low whistle broke the silence. I heard Jackson's booted feet stride across the floor. His sharp whistle spit at me from only inches away; it stank of death. I tried to draw back but there was no place to go.

Jackson had me. Brain slid through skull and was his. His to fill with subtle doctrine, his to mold and cut and tie. I opened my mouth and tasted the bloody piece of rat that he placed on my tongue as an unholy sacrament. His wheezing breaths came hard and fast; his whistle sang. I recognized his song as the song, and that is when I discovered the power of the dead; that is how I learned of the levels that lie below death, above life.

Silent, we sat in the dark for a long time. He let me think. Then the story wound on, like all records have to, but now it was much clearer.

"He was black and shiny and big. He came out of the darkness, and I found out what was going down, because I tried to move and couldn't. I could feel blood trickling out my ears; I could feel how my backbone was all twisted and busted. And then his black face was over me, smooth and slick just like a skull. He pulled something out of his chest and put it in my mouth. Tasted warm and sweet like blackberry jelly. And then I saw the idol, all smooth and strong, all new and young. And I looked at him, but he wasn't that way at all. My back straightened and popped and I reached up and touched the deep gully scars on his chest. I read those scars like they was Braille. And then I knew how I could be just like him."

"You have to eat the dead," I whispered.

"Eat my sins, Lieutenant," he corrected. "Our sins. That's what I've got to do. No two ways about it. It is just life." Again he paused, rising and walking across the tent. He opened the flap and stood before the rain, staring into it, feeling it with an outstretched hand. "So then he was gone," he continued, "leaving me to rest easy and wait, just like I'm gonna leave you. Lieutenant. And that's when I heard them crawling closer, saw their flashlights shine. I heard them talk confused while they checked out the empty cave, lookin' for some Charlie who was never there, Charlie who knew better. One said to leave me behind, but I couldn't let that happen. I remembered something he’d said: I had to clean up the past 'fore I could know more. I had to put an end to Larry Jackson 'fore I could move on, and I couldn't do that from the jungle. Hell, I didn't want no one mournin' for me, worryin' where my bones was layin'. My family's God-fearin' folks. They needed a piece of me to come home." He wiped his face with his wet palm.

"So the others said no. I made them. I concentrated and made them radio a Medevac chopper with the excuse that I was wounded bad. I lay there, thinkin' about how to close the books. See, that's all that mattered, all that matters till it's done. Then I realized that all I had to do was come here, exactly where they'd take me. This base was where I could finish off and move on. And I can. I'll get stronger and then I'll start back."

"Back to the jungle," I said.

"Back home." His icy voice echoed. "To our home, Lieutenant. You'll come someday, 'cause once you know you can't hide from it. You can't ignore his power. Soon you'll see more than I've shown you. He'll find you, and then you will rise and come to the mountain." Jackson turned toward me, his obsidian eyes flashing. "Won't be no place else for you to go."

He sighed. "But maybe I told you too much, more than you can understand yet. Anyway, it's time for me to hunt now. Lieutenant. I'm gonna finish things up and then I'm outta here. Now you remember, it might be hard, but you can do it." He tossed my pistol onto the plywood desk. "I will see you again. Lieutenant," he said, his toneless voice trailing off, whispering into the sound of the rain. "We'll be together in a new army, an army of redemption.''

He nodded and started the music. The words were full. He walked down the road, went to kill. I bolstered my gun and stretched out on a cool canvas tarp. It smelled of mud and rain, like the jungle. The song poured over me with the warmth of the Asian sun (my heartbeat kept the time). Each chorus reassured me.

I smiled and fell asleep, filled up with promises.

Sunlight angled through the tent slash. I yawned and pain knifed through my head. Groaning, I ran trembling fingers over my swollen jaw, remembering Master Sergeant Jackson and the way he used a .45. If Joe Frazier had spent an evening nailing me with left hooks, my jaw wouldn't have felt any worse.

I squinted into the light, adjusting to it, hiding from the past. I dreamed of flowers and birds and Jennifer, the real Jennifer, and for a moment it was almost beautiful. I nearly convinced myself that it was over.

The body bag lay black and still on the examining table. I approached it and read the familiar name:

JACKSON, L. K. / MSTR. SGT

5TH GROUP SPECIAL FORCES

Across the chest there was another inscription, this one freshly stenciled:

REMAINS UNVIEWABLE

The zipper growled as I eased it down. I made myself look.

The once-blackface had been stripped of skin down to the neck, smashed, bones broken and cracked as if gnawed upon... there wasn’t a jaw... wet black pits where upper teeth should have been... brain slick like a raw chicken breast... hundreds of slashes on the arms, deep gullies that ran to where the wrists should have been but weren't...God where were they they were in the jungle with the hands... more gullies running down the chest, down to the great rip and then nothing... no balls, no legs... every thing broken beyond any recognition, identification... and the brow was broken bamboo... and the eyes were lacquered, cotton-colored pools shot through with red....

I did not report it. Of course I didn't. Does a son report his father? No, I altered the paperwork on Jackson and sealed my lips with rose petals. My lacquered eyes did not blink when they took the thing in the body bag away. Instead I looked to the jungle and dreamed of Jackson climbing its dark paths, hiding from the glow of the ripe Asian sun, the melted and orange and quivering sun. I saw him as the killer on the road, searching for an idol that is worn by time and gentle wind, intricately carved by streams and rain.

By now Jackson has forgotten how to breathe. He doesn't need to anymore. His bloody lips part and he whispers, “Home home home...."

So, that is the past.

For the last week I have been watching the jungle with Jackson-eyes, and I have seen many signs of Charlie. He is coming. How can he resist? As I have said, Charlie is an artist and I am his loving curator. Together, we will create a great work. Our patrons will gather, guns will scream, artist and art will be as one.

And another will come to revel in our masterpiece. One who knows of sin and devotion. A rider on the storm. He will see the blood, and he will speak the final words.

I feel him now. He comes to assure safe passage.

I have written the report and signed it with the name of my successor, a man who is destined to meet the rider on the storm. I have stenciled the bag with my name and rank. I have stenciled REMAINS UNVIEWABLE. And I know exactly where the private will be when Charlie comes.

Will the private know when he hears the song? Will he understand?

I wonder what he will say when I tear the knife from my chest.

You Can’t Write With a Bowling Ball

"Save the Last Dance for Me" was my first published story, but "Cosmos" was the first story I sold. I placed it with George Hatch, editor/publisher of Noctulpa, which for my money was one of the best of the small press magazines to appear in the nineties.

I rarely see Noctulpa mentioned today, and that's a shame. If you're a reader looking for a treat, hunt up some back issues. Noctulpa first appeared as a magazine but eventually morphed into an anthology series. That was a good move, because George Hatch had an eye for solid fiction—Steve Tem, Jeffrey Osier, Chet Williamson, Kevin Anderson, Nancy Holder, (Stephen) Mark Rainey, and Lucy Taylor all appeared in Noctulpa.[32]

George published a lot of good writers early in their careers. He found more good stories in the slush pile than any other editor I've ever known, and he worked with the writers of those tales to make them better. George also treated his writers extremely well. I'm not just talking about the money—though it's true that he paid much better than most other small press publishers of the day—I'm talking about George's approach to the work and the people who did it. George was a true champion of writers who were unknown or underpublished. A big part of the reason he published Noctulpa was to get those people some attention.[33]

Both "Cosmos" and "Save the Last Dance for Me" were written about the same time. Like most early stories, they rely pretty heavily on plot twists. Most beginners can't avoid doing that, and I was no exception. When you first try to write stories, building up to a "trick ending" can seem like the point of the entire exercise. Especially if you're a heavy reader of genre fiction, it's hard not to see things that way.

And that's one reason why so many early efforts fall short. Most beginners are so intent on setting up a big surprise to wrap things up that they neglect other storytelling essentials. They don't do much with atmosphere, or narrative voice, or character development. Instead they concentrate on coming up with that final twist, and when the time comes they fire it at the reader like a bowling ball. The story itself becomes a vehicle to send that bowling ball screaming down a black-and-white alley of words, and they roll that twist ending through the company of characters they've set up on the page in hopes of scoring a sold strike with the reader.

Only problem there is that bowling isn't exactly the most exciting of spectator sports. Watching some guy topple a bunch of little white pins isn't exactly thrilling, even if the guy manages to knock 'em all over every time he lets fly. And that's because those white pins with the little red collars are all pretty much the same. It's hard to make an emotional investment in them. And it's the same with the characters you'll find in a lot of stories by beginners. They're not real people. They're stereotypes, or cardboard cutouts, or walking ten-pins with made-up names. The only reason they're on the page is to await the arrival of the bowling ball.

Your characters deserve better than that. You need to believe in them. When you put them down on the page, you need to concentrate on making them breathe. You need to get their blood pumping. Of course, giving your characters (and their stories) life is not an easy trick, but you can do it. Like any job, you have to use the right tools.

In this case, nothing fancy is required. When it comes to creating living, breathing characters, you can do the job with a pencil. Or you can do it with a typewriter or a word processor. But you can't do it with a bowling ball.

Writing "Cosmos," I knew going in that the plot relied heavily on twists, but I tried hard to avoid making those twists the focus of the story. To do that, I invested the characters and the setting with a shot of everyday reality. The approach I took was based on the oldest writing advice in the book—write what you know.

That's what I did. The neighborhood in "Cosmos" was the neighborhood where I lived at the time. The next-door neighbor, Cummings, was based pretty solidly on the guy who lived next door to me, and the one early morning scene between Cummings and the main character pretty much happened between my neighbor and me, note for note.

There's not much more I can add. Let's just say that the real-world Cummings did not come to a good end. He was still alive when I published "Cosmos," but he didn't last long after that. His personal demons took him out cold and hard, and all the fantastic goings-on and noirish shadows in the following tale pale pretty damn significantly in comparison to the chill I get thinking about that.

COSMOS

"Honey, come and look!" she cried from the backyard.

He dropped a box marked "kitchen stuff" next to the refrigerator and squeezed through a maze of grocery bags and moving boxes. It was great to see her so excited. "Like a kid in a candy store," he said, tripping over a popcorn popper.

The screen door banged behind him as he walked across the patio. She stood on the other side of the overgrown lawn, ankle-deep in a garden of purple and white flowers.

"What are they?" he asked.

She laughed. "Cosmos, you big dummy! Don't you know anything?"

"Don't be so rough on me. I'm the guy who flunked botany, remember?" He shrugged. "Anyway, who planted them? They weren't here the last time the real estate agent brought us out."

"The summer rains brought them back, silly. The last owner must have had a garden here. Once you plant cosmos, you can't get rid of them." She plucked a few blossoms and threaded them through her auburn hair. "You've got a lot to learn, mister. Otherwise, they're apt to kick us out of the neighborhood."

He jumped across the dewy lawn, grabbed her and kissed her neck. "Maybe if I work on it, they'll kick us out anyway."

She kissed back and swatted his rump.

He squeezed her behind and sprang away, scraping under the branches of a pear tree. She gave chase; ripe golden pears rained down on her head as she ducked under the quivering branches. "Ouch," she groaned. "Now you're gonna get it."

The screen door banged behind them. She tripped over the popcorn popper and he pulled her into an embrace. "Worth it?" he asked.

"Every penny. Even with the outrageous interest rates."

She unpacked the blender while he assembled the new barbecue. They showered, ate rare steaks and drank cold margaritas, and spent the evening in the backyard. Bees nestled in the cosmos, dancing from blossom to blossom. He told her how much he loved her, and she kissed him and made another batch of margaritas.

They slept outside in old sleeping bags that they hadn't used since hiking trips back in college. They were too tired to make love. Crickets sang in the cosmos, and a bug-zapper sizzled next door.

The rev of a poorly tuned lawn mower woke him at 7:30. "Ah, suburbia!" he grumbled. "I love the sound of lawnmowers in the morning!"

She kicked him playfully and then made instant coffee, which they both hated. "I can't find the coffee grinder anywhere," she apologized.

"I'll live," he said, only half kidding.

The rest of the day was spent unpacking. They worked in different rooms, kissing and hugging when their paths happened to cross. He unpacked his things, she hers.

The neighbors left them alone. The house on the left was owned by Joe & Peggy Davidoff, a couple who worked for the phone company. They had several children and always seemed to be hosting a birthday party. Every now and then the Davidoffs would wave from inside a Honda or a Toyota as they backed out of their driveway, but they never seemed to have time to stop and talk. He figured that the Davidoffs barely had time to talk to each other.

Cummings, the owner of the poorly tuned lawn mower, lived on the right. He was a big man, a plumber, with long black hair and empty blue eyes. He lived alone —his wife had recently left him. No one seemed to know if it was a divorce or just a trial separation, and they certainly didn't want to ask.

They hated Cummings. His only visitors were noisy, gray-faced men who came carrying six-packs of canned beer. Sharp-nettled weeds spidered out from his property, his dogs yapped and howled, and an ever-changing collection of rusty cars sat on the brown clumps of grass that passed for his front lawn. She took one look at Cummings's junkers and spent seventy-five dollars on oleanders, which she immediately planted in an orderly row just their side of the property line.

Things were slow to shape up. After two weeks, they could move through the house without dancing around boxes. He'd made more trips to the dump than he cared to think about, and she felt like an old German housekeeper. They both returned to work.

Nothing had changed at the shop. As usual, his employees hadn't done much while he was gone. Several customers were screaming for the new Jack Nicholson/Meryl Streep video, and no one had bothered to order extra copies. He didn't really care. He wondered why people who wanted Nicholson and Streep came to his shop in the first place —classics from the thirties and forties were his specialty.

One of his employees, Marie, worked overtime to help him catch up. While they labeled a dozen Nicholson/Streep cassettes, she reviewed several new arrivals in her usual breathless manner: an atmospheric Val Lewton classic (sharp print, too), a Stewart Granger epic that made her long for Ronald Coleman (bad sound, even worse dialogue), and a great new print of Bell, Book, & Candle (oh, that Hermione Gingold!). He listened and laughed at her funnier comments, filing them away to toss at customers who might ask his opinion.

Lately, he didn't care about movies. He cared about quiet dinners, limey margaritas, and his wife's smile.

It seemed that he had to stop on his way home every night to buy charcoal or lighter fluid. The summer was unusually hot, and she didn't want to heat up the house by cooking in the kitchen. He didn't mind barbecuing. Things were busy at her law firm, and she was often too tired to fix dinner. He cooked nearly everything on the grill —meat, fish, even corn and potatoes —and she took care of the margaritas.

Once a month, a van from a local restaurant supply came through the neighborhood. The driver sold them the same steaks, king crab legs, salmon, and pork chops that they would get if they ate out at the local restaurants. The freezer was filled for the price of two meals out, and they congratulated each other on their thrift.

After dinner, they sat outside and read or listened to baseball on the radio. Sometimes they just closed their eyes and smelled the barbecue, the limey margaritas, and the wonderfully green grass. "God, now I know what my parents loved," she said, more than once.

Past the cosmos, beyond the leaning grape-stake fence, lay a community trail that wound through a neighborhood park. Occasionally, eyes closed, they could hear the chatter of walkers and the whir of coasting bicycles coming from the trail.

One night, after an especially large dinner of steak and crab legs, she said, "Hey, chubbo, let's go for a walk."

"Sounds good." He chuckled, slapping his stomach. "I've got five extra pounds that I don't need, and I'd better start doing something about it."

They both thought it was funny how soon the walks became a habit. Night after night they would wash the dishes and start off at about 8 o'clock. Sunset was at 8:30, but on a clear night they could walk until shortly after nine. Besides, fewer people walked after eight. "The fewer, the better," he said.

The other late evening walkers were usually familiar. There were five or six dog-walkers, an old woman who had apparently suffered a stroke and shuffled slowly with one arm curled across her stomach, and several packs of energetic housewives who giggled and gossiped as they trotted along. The pastel jogging outfits worn by the housewives amused them both. Incredibly, no two ladies in any group ever seemed to be wearing the same color, and while he was sure that they all telephoned each other to prevent such an embarrassment, she chalked it up to some special kind of Shirley MacLaine-bred suburban telepathy.

As newcomers, they enjoyed being unconventional. He wore old sweat pants from his college days and one of a dozen T-shirts that he had collected long ago at sporting events and rock concerts, while she favored running shorts over a one-piece spandex swimsuit. The suit hugged her breasts, hardening her nipples, and in the evening breeze she almost felt naked. Sometimes she wore one of his old dress shirts if it was cold. And she always carried a paper bag at her side. They were both sure that everyone was dying to know what was inside the bag, but no one ever asked.

Under the milky light of a July full moon, they had explored a rocky path that dead-ended at the far corner of the park. While she stopped to take a pebble out of her shoe, he wandered off the little- used path, never dreaming that he'd discover anything interesting.

"Don't get into any poison oak," she warned. "I don't want a husband who looks like one of the Mushroom People."

"Hey, I was a Boy Scout," he protested, ducking under a low tangle of oak branches that hid a shallow creek. "Even got a merit badge for poison oak detection." Laughing, he jumped across the creek and squeezed between two thick tree trunks; he found himself at the edge of a dark, tranquil pool. Ten feet away, perched on broken concrete block on the other side of the water, sat a moon-white cat, purring while it cleaned its paws.

The cat wasn't frightened at all. It came straight to him, begging for attention that he provided happily. His wife joined him and tugged a few burs out of the cat's fur. "Poor little guy," she said. "You're all ribs and backbone."

The next night when he stopped for charcoal, he picked up a box of Friskies and a package of lunch bags. They began their walks earlier, jogging sometimes, so they could feed the cat before darkness fell.

They thought about bringing the cat home, but decided against it. He didn't think it would be happy in anyone's yard, and she agreed, even though she said she'd love to play with a kitty in the garden of waist-high cosmos.

Instead they visited the pool every night, gazing at their reflections in the still water while the cat ate and purred.

The pool had given him an idea. In the backyard, he cleared a large section of cosmos and began to dig a hole. His plan was to build a concrete pond and partially cover it with a cedar-slat deck. He borrowed several books on water gardens from the public library and read them at work. Marie enjoyed looking at his sketches, and she phoned several lumber yards searching for a deal on some cedar.

"This is above and beyond the call, Marie," he said. "You'll have an engraved invitation to the unveiling party."

Marie blushed. "I'll bring the champagne."

He didn't know exactly when the crying started, but he suspected that she had been hiding it from him for quite awhile. Now she couldn't. He would be barbecuing and hear her weeping while she made margaritas, or she would break down in the middle of dinner. They couldn't seem to make it through an evening without tears. Anything could set her off: a sad song on the radio, the rusty tinkling of a wind-chime, even a lone hummingbird in the cosmos.

The firm was getting to her. She was bringing home more and more work each evening, and he couldn't remember the last time they'd actually spent an entire weekend together. If she wasn't working on a case, she was off to a distant seminar or retreat. There was nothing to be done about it. At least, that's what she said.

It was September, and he was working like a madman to finish the pond before the rains came. Their evening walks had become evening runs. She said running helped her to sleep and he didn't argue — running the distance to the pool gave him more time to work on the pond. Besides, they were both terribly fit. He liked the way she looked when she peeled off her swimsuit — firm and hard and white — and most nights he coaxed her into the shower, where they would make love under the hissing water.

One night she started to cry in the shower. "I'm going to have to work late for awhile," she said between sobs. "With daylight savings time ending and all I'm — "

"It's okay," he said. "I understand." He kissed her forehead. "Maybe for Christmas we can go somewhere, maybe Mexico...." Neither one mentioned the cat.

The weekend was supposed to be completely unremarkable. She was off to a meeting on the coast, and he was planning to work on the pond. He had finished the wooden forms and iron skeleton the previous evening and was going to pour the concrete today. After showering, he dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt and walked outside to his truck.

Cummings was at the edge of the driveway, puking in the oleanders.

He turned away, but there was no escape. Cummings looked up and wiped yellow spittle off his lips. "They're no damn good," Cummings said. "They leave you. They get what they want and they leave you. Christ, the things they ask you to do. Crazy things. And you stumble around and do everything they ask, because they can make you do it, even if you don't want to. And then they're gone — doesn't matter what you've done — they still go. They leave you with a ball of barbed wire in your guts." Cummings laughed bitterly. "And maybe one morning you find yourself puking in the neighbor's bushes."

He watched Cummings stagger away; the big man kicked through tangles of dry, spidery weeds that planted tiny burs in the cuffs of his overalls. When the plumber was gone, he uncoiled the garden hose and sprayed the oleanders until the puke mixed into the dark soil below.

Six hours later he sat in the backyard, drinking a cold bottle of beer and admiring the wet, gleaming concrete. A stand of tall cosmos bent their flowery heads over the rim of the pond, as if inspecting his new creation. Grinning, he took a swallow of beer and hoped that they approved.

A wind rose in the west. Purple and white cosmos petals blew into the concrete hole. Swirls of maple leaves and dust followed. He was going to have to cover the damn thing. "Shit," he said, and went to buy a tarp.

Monday came and she didn't come home. No one at the firm knew where she was. Maybe she stayed over an extra day to relax, they suggested. Maybe he should call the hotel. He checked with the hotel and found that she had never checked in. He called the police and they came and asked him questions. Afterwards, he saw them talking to Joe Davidoff and Cummings. They came back the next day and talked to Cummings some more. Marie phoned and said that the police had talked to everyone at the shop, too.

He didn't go to work. He didn't finish the pond. He drank beer and threw the empty bottles into the concrete pit. He got tired of looking at the pile of fresh cedar 2 by 2s from the lumber yard and covered it with a tarp. He barbecued steaks and pork chops and salmon. And then, one night, he decided to start running again.

He found his sweat pants in the clothes hamper, along with a T- shirt he'd bought at a championship fight in Las Vegas. Smiling, he filled a paper bag with Friskies and took off. At first he couldn't get his wind. After the first mile, his lungs were burning. The pastel housewives gaped at him as he raced by, and if he hadn't been busy sucking mad, ragged breaths, he would have laughed.

He was sure that they were all wondering what he had in the bag, now more than ever.

The cat was gone. Some nights as he approached the creek he imagined that he could hear his wife calling it —kitty kitty kitty, her voice a hissing whisper — but when he squeezed between the two old oak trees, she was never there, and neither was the cat. Still, he always ripped away the top of the lunch bag and left the cat food. The next night it would be gone. He didn't think the cat was eating it —he was probably feeding a skunk or a raccoon. It didn't really matter.

After his run, he watched a couple movies before turning in. He'd returned to work, and Marie was supplying him with a steady diet of Cary Grant comedies that he hadn't seen in years. Often they made him laugh, and he covered his mouth in shame.

He was shaving when the doorbell rang. It was a sunny but cold October morning, and he wiped his face and tied a robe around his waist as he walked down the hall. A detective was at the door with a search warrant. He blinked and stared at the detective. Marie had sent him home with The Awful Truth the night before, and he thought that the man bore a startling resemblance to Ralph Bellamy.

The detective was accompanied by two men with a jackhammer. They set it up in the backyard and started breaking through the pond's concrete bottom. He finished shaving and came outside with a cup of coffee just as the men started to clear the debris. They heaved jagged pieces of concrete over their shoulders. The gray slabs landed in the garden, crushing several stands of cosmos; the thin yellow stalks broke like strange, diseased arms.

The men dug deeper and deeper, using shovels now, and then they started widening the hole. The idiots damn near broke the water main. He stayed out of the shade and kept wishing that it would get warmer, but it never did.

The detective and his men left at 4 o'clock. He put on boots and gloves and found a pair of black-handled clippers. Lovingly, he trimmed the broken cosmos. Then he filled a bag with Friskies and went for a run.

He came home earlier now, stopping along the way for takeout pizza or Chinese. Even though nights could be incredibly busy at the shop, Marie said she didn't mind the late shift. The whole thing was kind of cute. Each day she would send him home at 4 o'clock like a schoolboy.

He enjoyed the luxury of running at sunset, when most people were only just getting off work. He sat quietly at the pool until twilight, and then he returned home, where he read or watched television.

It was sprinkling the first night Marie came by. She said that she'd unpacked a late UPS shipment and found an old Robert Mitchum movie that she knew he wanted to see. He could hardly be inhospitable. Besides, he'd just opened a bottle of wine and didn't feel like drinking it alone.

They sipped Chenin Blanc and watched the movie. Robert Mitchum and Jane Greer were in Mexico. A government payroll was missing, and William Bendix thought that Mitchum was responsible. Marie inched across the sofa, her knee met his, and he was embarrassed by his quickening pulse.

Marie smelled nice. Her black hair was damp with rain. She wore a black skirt and a cream-colored silk blouse that spilled loosely over her large breasts and gathered at her waist. "I love movies like this," she said. "Cheap movies where they don't have to play by the rules. Old black-and-white movies where you can't tell what's going to happen."

He rose and turned off the television. Marie stared at him, afraid that she'd said something wrong. He stared at her breasts. She looked away; she didn't seem to know what to do with her hands. Her wine glass sat empty on the coffee table. She almost reached for it, but changed her mind. It was raining outside.

He bent behind the couch and pulled a cord. The heavy green drapes whispered closed.

Quiet in the room, but for the rustle of cream-colored silk as Marie unbuttoned her blouse. She slipped it off her shoulders and closed her eyes. He just looked at her. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean—"

He smiled, brushing her long hair away from her scented breasts. "Don't be," he said. "Sometimes it's easier not to know what happened."

Two weeks later they started jogging together. He hired a couple college kids to work nights so Marie could go home with him at 4 o'clock. They didn't try to hide anything.

A cooling breeze rose over the hills in the evening, but it didn't yet smell of fall. Marie wore sweatshirts and nylon running shorts. She carried a paper bag at her side.

The pastel ladies looked away when Marie smiled at them.

It wasn't easy to tell Marie about the pool, but he couldn't imagine keeping it from her. She wanted to know everything about him.

Each time he tried to explain it — the cat, his wife — his words sounded muddled, even to him.

One night while he was staring at his reflection in the still water, Marie tossed a pebble into the pool. He was surprised to see her — Marie said that the pool made her feel uneasy, and she rarely followed him between the two oak trees for that reason. He tried to embrace her, but Marie scampered away, grinning like a naughty child. Turning sharply, she slipped on the thick mat of oak leaves and fell backwards onto the ground, giggling and smiling up at him. A gusting breeze rippled across the pool and shivered over his back. "Oh, God," he whispered.

The dirty white horror lay next to Marie's head. There was no way he could hide it from her. She slowly turned to look at the halfburied thing — the matted fur, the crusty blood, the swarm of ants — and screamed.

His hand caught hers and she pushed him away. Shaking, Marie moved toward the cat, forcing her left hand out in front of her. Suddenly her hand darted forward; she pulled the muddy buck knife out of the cat's body and closed it, hiding it in her ivory-white fist.

Marie kicked papery brown leaves over the carcass. "No," she said, her eyes brimming with tears. "No!"

Clutching the knife, she ran, her expensive jogging shoes crunching over dry oak leaves.

The breeze whispered over the pool, smoothing the rippling water. Soon the pool was glassy and black. Calm. He closed his eyes and wanted to smell barbecue and limey margaritas and wonderfully green grass, but he smelled nothing but old oak trees, dead leaves, and night.

It took him a long time to walk home.

They didn't run anymore after that night, and Marie never mentioned the pool or the cat again. He began working on the pond deck in the evening, and she returned to work at the shop. Some nights she would come over, most nights she wouldn't.

He had a hangover the morning he found Cummings's dog. He went outside to get the Sunday paper and discovered the animal on his driveway, slit from shoulder to gut, dead. Blood was everywhere. Splattered on his car, his driveway, his Sunday paper. Everywhere.

He called the police. Cummings wouldn't answer his door, but that was because he was dead in a bathtub full of his own blood. His wrists were slit to the bone. Two of his dogs were dead in his bedroom—Cummings had slit the animals' throats. The third dog, the one that had ruined the Sunday funnies, hadn't been so lucky. It had jumped through the bedroom window, crawled through the oleanders, and died in someone else's driveway with a shard of window glass lodged in its ribs.

Later, the coroner would announce that Cummings had ingested a great deal of vodka during his last few hours. The coroner never revealed that the plumber had also swallowed a small ball of rusty barbed wire.

In a drawer in Cummings's bedroom, the police found a woman's spandex swimsuit. Wrapped inside it, in a Ziploc bag, they found a human hand.

Detective Ralph Bellamy returned to the neighborhood with his jackhammer crew. They found Cummings's wife buried beneath his new cinder-block barbecue pit. The corpse had two hands.

They kept digging. He was starting down the driveway, a bag of cat food in hand, when someone started crying beside a hole in Cummings's backyard and the detective called him back to the house.

Marie moved in just before Thanksgiving. She took over the shop. Everyone told her not to work so hard, that she really shouldn't work at all during her first pregnancy, but she wouldn't listen.

He stayed home, renovating Cummings's house. No one else had wanted the place, so he'd made an offer on it and picked up the property for a song. He had dreams of jacking up the price and making a bundle, but if that didn't work he was just going to sit back and collect rent until the market was better. So far he'd painted the interior and refurbished the bathrooms.

One afternoon, while he was refinishing Cummings's living room floor and quietly cussing the dead man's dogs, the detective who looked like Ralph Bellamy showed up with a large cardboard box.

"I believe these belong to you," he said. "We found them in Cummings's junk. Seems your neighbor had a rent-a-space outside of town."

The box was full of videotapes from his shop.

The cedar slats creaked as Marie stepped onto the deck. She unfolded the buck knife and sliced through a water-filled plastic bag. A dozen koi spilled into the pond, their bodies all black and gold, white and tarnished silver. Marie closed the knife and tossed it into the murky water.

Glistening scales ruffled the still surface as the koi explored the pond. He told her about the cop, and about the box of tapes.

Marie kissed his cheek. "That Cummings," she said. "He thought that he was awfully cute, always coming to the shop at the last minute, thinking he could pick me up because it was closing time. And he thought that I was so interested, just because I let him take home all those tapes for free." She laughed. "He said that I was crazy — good crazy, good-in-bed crazy.

"You should have heard him laugh when I asked him to plant the cosmos. Now, Marie, he said, why in the world do you want me to plant flowers at a vacant house? Kind of a housewarming gift, I said. A magic good-luck offering. I told him that I had a premonition that my boss was going to be his new neighbor. Of course, it was more than a premonition—just a week before. I'd spent a day clipping real estate listings for you.

"You should have heard Cummings tease me about it, though. He thought witchcraft was some kind of funny hobby, like collecting postcards or matchbooks. He thought that until I put the knife in his hand for the first time and told him about the spidery weeds in his yard."

Marie's smooth white hand drifted over his cheek. "He didn't know when it was over, though. Poor Cummings, visiting the shop with his wounded puppy eyes, complaining about how badly my weeds made his tummy hurt, begging me to help him. He was so happy the night I told him that I wanted to see him again—at his place for a change. I said that I'd bring along a movie that didn't have an end. I promised that I'd make everything better. Of course, by that time, there was no way I could."

They watched the koi for awhile, and then Marie went inside to open the champagne. He thought about his wife feeling guilty, leaving for yet another business trip. He saw her slipping into her spandex swimsuit and nylon shorts, closed his eyes and dreamed of her squeezing between the old oak trees with a great big bag of Friskies in hand.

Marie had been at the pool with Cummings. Marie wore cosmos in her hair; Cummings had the knife. Maybe Marie pulled out the Ziploc bag first and told her what it was for. After awhile they did it. And then Marie killed the cat because the little bitch wasn't going to take care of it anymore. Or maybe Marie was afraid of the animal. He didn't know. Didn't want to know.

He sat and waited for Marie to bring the champagne. He didn't really want any — lately he'd had trouble with strange stomach pains.

A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he remembered all the weeds he'd pulled in Cummings's yard during the last few weeks. How many trash bags had he filled? Ten? Twenty? He wondered what Marie would say if he told her how hard he'd been working.

A fish jumped in the pond and disappeared in the dark, swirling water. The cosmos stood dying, stiff and brown; the broken stalks rattled in the cold evening breeze.

An Oxblood Stetson Hat

I'd always wanted to write a story involving Stackalee, the legendary African-American badman. Most of us who came along during the baby boom first heard of Stack in Lloyd Price's '60s hit, "Stagger Lee,"[34] which was a reworking of the folk song that I used as a basis for this piece. Growing up, I loved Price's song. And as I grew older—and began to study American folklore—I knew that Stackalee was a character I wanted to work into a story if I ever got the chance.

I sold "Stackalee" to Cemetery Dance in March 1990. The story was a good fit for Rich Chizmar's magazine—it raced along, hit a couple of good bumps, and tied up in 3,000 words—but I kind of wish Rich had taken a pass on it. If I would have had "Stackalee" sitting around a few months later, I would have pitched it to the first volume of Jeff Gelb's Shock Rock instead. But that's the way it goes sometimes—by the time Shock Rock rolled around, I didn't feel like writing another rock 'n' roll horror story, so I didn't take a shot at cracking that anthology (which featured good stories by Stephen King, David Schow, and Brian Hodge, among others).

"Stackalee" was published in CD #5. I got busy with other projects, but somehow the story kept nagging at me. It wasn't that I was dissatisfied with it. I'd set out to write a quick little shocker, and the story did the job fine. But somehow I felt like I'd missed an opportunity with the character of Stack himself, for in truth he's really a minor figure in "Stackalee."

The focus of that tale is really Billy Lyons, a singer who shares the same name as the man gunned down by Stack in the classic song.

And when I finally put my finger on it, I realized that that was the real problem. What bothered me about "Stackalee" was that I'd written a story about the wrong guy. I was interested in the man who gunned down Billy Lyons, not in Billy himself. Sure, I did what I could with ol’ Billy... but he wasn't the kind of character I'd come to think of as a "Norm Partridge guy."

And here I'm going to hit the brakes and ask you to trust me on that one without a whole lot of explaining, because I'm not about to describe to you exactly what (or who) a "Norm Partridge guy" is. Let's just say I know him when I see him and leave it at that. To tell the truth, self-analysis of that sort makes me uncomfortable. I'm not the kind of writer who's tempted to unscrew the plate on the back of my creative pocket watch and start fiddling with the gears and wheels to see exactly how it works. Nope. I've always been afraid that if I did too much of that I'd lose some of the magic... and maybe break the damn watch while I was at it. To put it another way: I've always relied on instinct as much as studied intent. When it comes to my creative pocket watch, I'm more likely just to check the time, wind that sucker up, and let it start ticking.

And that's what I did a few years later, when I decided to take another shot at working with the character of Stackalee. The second time out I turned Stack into an anti-hero of sorts for a long story called "The Bars on Satan's Jailhouse." That tale proved a more comfortable fit for the character I had in mind.

In "Bars," I wanted Stack to retain the menace of his folkloric antecedent, but I wanted to 1) take him down the road a piece and 2) figure a way to make him the focus of the story.[35] I didn't want to define Stack as the classic western bad guy in the black hat, and neither did I want him to be the classic good guy in the white one. I wanted him somewhere in between, a one-of-a-kind force of nature—the stranger in the oxblood Stetson hat.

To do that, I had to change him. I've always loved characters whose heroism was cloaked in the villain's cape. Think of the '60s television version of the Green Hornet or Disney's Scarecrow of Romney Marsh. Both characters went nose-to-nose with evil, using methods their adversaries might employ. Society-at-large often saw them as villains. While I also loved more conventional heroes growing up, these two characters caught my attention early on and have held it to this day.

Stack, of course, was different from the Green Hornet and the Scarecrow. He wasn't the kind of character who'd have a secret identity, though I did create a past for him that was something less than his larger-than-life present. But it was his present I needed to focus on in "The Bars on Satan's Jailhouse," and that wasn't hard to do when that present fell within the confines of the mythic American west... another favorite vein of folklore and American legend. That was when the idea of Stack as anti-hero came in, and a few other influences came into play as well. Think Leone's Man with No Name from the spaghetti westerns, and you'll have an idea what I'm talking about.

I'll step out on a limb here and say I got it right the second time out. Of all the things I've written, "The Bars on Satan's Jailhouse" is probably my personal favorite. For me, it's the Norm Partridge story that hits on all cylinders. I'm really proud of it, and of the way I used the legend of Stackalee.

Of course, without the story you're about to read, I never would have made it to that one.

I hope you'll enjoy "Stackalee," too.

STACKALEE

Billy Lyons stared at the painted message above the fireplace. The red letters dripped, still wet, trickling down the grass cloth wallpaper and over the white Fender Stratocaster that hung above the oak mantelpiece. He dropped his car keys, took down the guitar, and wiped its polished body with his shirt-sleeve. The red paint came off too easily, soaking Billy's forearm. The few droplets that remained beaded like water on the instrument's glassy pickguard, trapped beneath the strings.

The Fender slipped from Billy's grip; a gunshot crack sounded as it struck the hardwood floor. Red droplets spit through the strings and spattered Billy's tennis shoes as the instrument bounced once, twice, and then collapsed. He backed away, trembling, not thinking about how much the guitar was worth, not worrying about damage.

Blood, he thought, and for a long moment that was the only word in his vocabulary. Blood... not paint!

Billy wiped his hands on his jeans and stared at the message. Part of it had been written on the guitar, and now without the instrument mounted on the wall the red letters looked like a puzzle from some twisted game show. But Billy was a winner; he'd been clued in ahead of time and recognized the message well enough. It was the same garbage that had been eating at him for weeks, ever since his recording of "Stackalee" had hit number one.

WHERE'S MY MAGIC STETSON? That's what the message had said, just like the postcards he'd been receiving. But this was one hell of a lot worse than a postcard — this had rattled Billy to the bone. Without thinking, he'd smeared the bloody writing and touched things he should have left alone, like the guitar, and the cops would be highly pissed about that. He'd probably screwed the whole crime scene. And with his fingerprints all over everything and blood splattered on his clothes and shoes, he might be accused of setting up the scene himself, for publicity.

The phone rang and Billy snatched it up, expecting to hear the song again, figuring that his tormentors would have their cues planned perfectly. Instead, he was greeted by his agent's voice; "Billy, where are you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago for the costume fitting. We're shooting the 'Stackalee' video tomorrow, remember, and — "

"They've been here, Alan," Billy interrupted. "They've been inside my house. This time they stole a page from Charlie Manson's playbook and painted a message on the wall. It's about the song again... Jesus, I don't care if it is a hit, I wish I would have listened to those old bluesmen and left the damn tune alone."

"Calm down. What'd they write?"

Billy looked at the wall. The blood was dripping over the mantel, dribbling down the stone hearth. The words that had stared at him from the grass cloth were nearly illegible now, just pinkish shadows. "Doesn't matter what they wrote. It was written in blood, that's what matters, and it just dripped away." Billy sighed. "But it was about the hat again. Just some silly shit about magic."

"I want you to call the cops. I'll be there as fast as I can."

"I don't know, Alan. I touched a lot of stuff. I got blood all over my clothes. The cops might think — "

A sharp series of clicks rippled over the line. Billy heard laughter, then the sound of a needle skating across a record.

"Alan? What's going on?"

The answer came in Billy's own voice, singing softly:

At midnight on that stormy night there came an awful wail -

Billy Lyons and a graveyard ghost outside the city jail.

“Jailer, jailer," says Stack. ‘‘I can't sleep.

For around my bedside poor Billy Lyons still creeps.

He comes in shape of a lion with a blue steel in his hand.

For he knows I'll stand and fight if he comes in shape of man."

"Alan, don't pull this shit."

"It's not coming from my end, Billy."

Floorboards complained in an upstairs bedroom. The receiver squawked like a wounded bird and then went quiet. A single thought hit Billy, something he should have realized long before now: if the blood on the wall was fresh enough to drip down the fireplace, the painter couldn't be far away.

"Alan, I think someone's in the house."

"Get out of there. Get the hell out. If you won't go to the cops, come over here...."

Billy dropped the receiver and ran for the door. He twisted the knob as his own voice roared at him from somewhere upstairs:

Red devil was sayin', "You better hunt your hole;

I've hurried here from hell just to get your soul.”

Billy hit the brakes and the Testarossa screeched to a stop just inches away from a Pinto's rusty bumper. Music slammed at him from six speakers, and he stared at the red light and tried to stop thinking about the blood on his Fender Stratocaster. He popped the clutch when the light turned green and the Testarossa peeled out, whipped up an on-ramp, and roared onto the freeway.

Yes, Stackalee, the gambler, everybody knowed his name:

Made his livin' hollerin' high, low, jack and the game.

Once more, Billy slapped at the tape deck controls, but his effort was useless. In the short time that he'd been in the house, someone had screwed with the deck. The knobs wouldn't turn. The eject button wouldn't work. The deck was caked with some kind of superglue, and the only song that Billy was going to hear tonight was his newest hit, his own version of "Stackalee" cranked up to full volume, over and over —

A horn blared from the right. Billy jerked the wheel and brought the Testarossa back into the fast lane. He glanced at the rearview mirror and spotted the car he'd nearly sideswiped. A big lemon-yellow Cadillac. The Caddy flipped its brights and pulled behind him.

Shit. Billy eyed the pimpmobile's smoked windows and angry lights, and then he eyed himself in the Testarossa's rearview mirror. His long blond hair was stringy with sweat (the same hair that Tiger Beat always referred to as "Lyons' mane"), and his eyes were swimming with fear.

Billy looked away. He rolled down the window and gulped a deep breath of winter air as he hit the gas, leaving the Caddy behind.

It was on one cold and frosty night

When Stackalee and Billy Lyons had one awful fight.

All about an old Stetson hat.

Billy stared at the tape deck, his lips curling in disgust. "It'll be a great record, Billy," he said, his voice a lisping imitation of his agent's. "Folk music's in. Ethnic music too. We can hire these Delta blues boys for next to nothing. It worked for Paul Simon, didn't it? He gave those African singers a hit record, and you can do the same thing for these old boys."

Billy gripped the wheel and thought about that. The Delta bluesmen hadn't even cared about having a hit. They'd only wanted the money. All through the session they'd treated Billy like a plantation overseer who was pushing for an extra bag of cotton. Oh, they'd been polite about it, but they'd never gone out of their way to influence the project. Until Alan said that they should record "Stackalee," that is.

The old men wouldn't touch it. "You shouldn't ought to sing that one," said a guitar player called Iron Box Jack.

"Why not?" Alan asked. "It's too perfect to pass up. It's got a guy called Billy Lyons in it, just like our Billy."

Iron Box shook his head. "That's 'xactly why. Boy name of Billy Lyons shouldn't even be thinkin' 'bout Stackalee, let alone singing 'bout him. Man, don't you know about Stack? Don't you know that old Scratch give him a magic oxblood Stetson that allow him to do all kind of devilment? Don't you know how he shot Billy Lyons on account of he thought Billy stole his magic hat?" The old man looked straight at Billy. "You don't want to sing that one. Stack's a trickster, Billy. He might use you to worm his way out of hell."

Billy laughed. Alan shook his head.

"Iron Box, they don't believe you," a wizened bass player said. "Why, just look at 'em. They ain't got no knowledge of that stuff."

"Guys, guys, it's just a song," Alan began, but the conciliatory coaxing routine didn't work with this crew. The bluesmen flat-out refused to record "Stackalee" with a singer named Billy Lyons, contract or no. So Billy did the only thing possible to please Alan—he strapped on an old acoustic and went into the studio alone, where he made a hit record that put anything Springsteen did on Nebraska to shame.

Thinking about that, Billy smiled in spite of himself, and in spite of the damn song blaring in his ears. He'd shown those old bastards, even with all the shit he was taking about it now. He'd shown them. He'd recorded the song on his own, without their help, and the fact that it was an unexpected hit was just icing on the fucking —

Billy's head snapped back, slamming against the crown of the driver's seat. Sharp pain bloomed at the tip of his spinal column. The Testarossa shuddered, Billy managed to pull out of a skid, and then his head snapped back once more. Black spots of agony danced before his eyes; he squinted around them and focused on the rearview mirror.

The Caddy sat on his tail, its angry headlights blinking like wild strobes.

Stackalee got his gun. Boy, he got it fast!

He shot poor Billy through and through: the bullet broke a lookin' glass.

A bullet exploded the Testarossa's back window, ricocheted, and shattered the rearview mirror before its power was spent. Billy ducked low, his neck muscles twitching spasmodically. The Caddy rammed the Testarossa a third time. Billy lost control of the car, skidded across three lanes and raced along the dirt shoulder, the Testarossa's thick wheels kicking up beer cans and garbage. He screamed, braking just short of a chain-link fence that separated the freeway from a shadowy embankment.

The Caddy roared through a cloud of dust, its wheels spitting gravel that pelted the Testarossa, then pulled back onto the blacktop and sped into the night.

The dust died down. Traffic whispered past Billy, the drivers unaware that the nation's number one singing sensation sat locked in his fancy car at the side of the road, shivering, fearful of losing his dinner.

The worst part was not knowing who was after him. So many people had made threats. A headline-grabbing Muslim minister had called him a white devil, and a rap group from Chicago had threatened to kill him. It had been in all the papers. The rappers had called him "Massa Billy" and used his album for target practice. And they weren't the only ones calling for his head; the critics were after him too. Rolling Stone had done an article claiming, not too subtly, that Billy Lyons had climbed to the top of the charts on the backs of a bunch of poor, old black men.

Okay, maybe he had, but who hadn't? Had the critics forgotten about The Rolling Stones? Had they forgotten about Elvis?

“But," says Billy. “I always treated you like a man.

'Tain't nothin' to that old Stetson but the greasy band.”

Billy shifted into first gear and pulled onto the freeway. He was going to make it through this. He'd just recorded a song, that was all. He hadn't done anything wrong or broken any laws. He listened to his singing, heard the pain and energy there. "I'm not Salman Rushdie," he whispered, "and I'm not Pat fucking Boone, either."

“Have mercy," Billy groaned. “Oh, please spare my life;

I’ve got two little babies and an innocent wife."

Billy entered Alan's house through the unlocked front door. After spending an hour at the mercy of the Testarossa's blaring speakers, his ears rang as if he had two enormous seashells jammed against his head. The whispering sound was worse than any shellshock he'd ever suffered after performing in front of the towering speakers he used at stadium shows. It didn't hurt as much, but it was twice as haunting.

Billy flipped on lights as he moved from room to room. He covered the downstairs — all clear — and then started toward the stairway that led to Alan's bedroom.

Billy paused at the foot of the staircase. Quiet. No music upstairs. No voices. He climbed into the shadows and found a light switch at the top of the stairs.

And then, standing alone in the dark, he noticed a knocking sound. Not anything with a solid beat, but measured, insistent. Definitely there.

Billy turned on the lights and almost fell backward. A man stood ramrod straight at the far end of the hallway. Big shoulders and an ankle-length black leather duster. An oxblood Stetson hat. No face.

A mannequin. Jesus. Suddenly Billy remembered the costume fitting for the "Stackalee" video. This was his outfit. Had to be.

"Alan," Billy said, "this isn't funny."

Billy moved down the hallway, following the knocking sound that seemed to be coming from Alan's bedroom. He pushed against the bedroom door, but it wouldn't give. He pushed harder, the knocking stopped for a moment, and he managed to squeeze into the room.

The door fell closed immediately, pushed by Alan's weight. The agent was still alive, but Billy could tell that there wasn't anything left of him. There was a small black hole on one side of his forehead and a bigger hole on the other, and his white sideburns were sticky with blood. Part of his brain lay in a glob on the carpet, but there was enough left in his skull to control his right hand, which tapped a measured beat on the bedroom door.

The costume designer was on the bed. He had a similar wound, but he wasn't moving. On the wall above the bed, four words were scrawled in blood: WHERE'S MY MAGIC STETSON?

Billy pulled the bedcovers over the designer's corpse. A silver-plated Colt .45 tumbled out of the tangled blankets and landed at his feet. He scooped up the weapon and checked for ammunition. Four bullets remained. Billy clicked the cylinder closed.

And then he realized that the whispering ringing in his ears was gone.

Alan's meaningless Morse code suddenly took on a steady beat, like one of the old bluesmen pounding a guitar to keep the rhythm. A gold bracelet on the agent's wrist made a shivery sound like a tiny cymbal. Billy cocked the pistol. Involuntarily, his foot began to tap.

Billy licked his lips. He stared at Alan's wrist, at the gold bracelet. And then he sang, his voice quavering with horror as the words spilled out of his mouth, unbidden.

The White Elephant Barrel House was wrecked that night;

Gutters full of beer and whiskey; it was an awful sight.

Jewelry and rings of the purest solid gold

Scattered over the dance and gamblin' hall.

Billy slipped through the doorway, holding the pistol before him. The house was quiet now. He'd moved Alan to the center of the bedroom, where the only thing to tap was the lush, soft carpet.

The silence felt good. No seashell echo. No singing. Billy took a deep breath. He'd get into the car and drive to a police station, or anyplace where he could find people. He'd find safety in numbers.

At the top of the staircase, Billy turned abruptly and stared down the hallway.

The mannequin was gone.

A blast of heat boiled up the staircase; the smell of hot slag and brimstone burned Billy's nostrils. He whirled and pointed the gun at the looming figure who stood in the shadows below. A smoky red glow enveloped the man, and Billy stepped back from the power of his evil smile.

"Thanks for the return trip ticket, Billy Boy. I've been too long in old Scratch's Jailhouse." The man grinned. "I'd surely rather spend my time in one of these here Cadillacs than in a little ol' brimstone cell." He spread his big hands, weaponless, and the song rumbled from his gut and boiled over his lips.

Stackalee shot Billy once; his body fell to the floor.

He cried out, “Oh, please. Stack, please don't shoot me no more."

"Not this time, you son of a bitch," Billy said.

Stackalee threw open his coat and went for his gun, but Billy was already firing. The first shot pierced the Stetson. Blood and brain matter splattered the wall behind the black man, sticking there like gory pudding, but the Stetson stayed on Stackalee's head and he barely rocked back on his heels. The second and third bullets slammed into the big man's chest, and the last hit him in the mouth.

Stackalee spit teeth, laughing. Blood pumped from the holes in his chest and dripped down his shiny black coat, pooling in his pockets and around the pointy tips of his boots. Again, he sang.

And brass-buttoned policemen all dressed in blue

Came down the sidewalk marchin' two by two.

Sent for the wagon and it hurried and come

Loaded with pistols and a big Gatling gun.

Billy dropped the gun and wiped his bloodstained hands on his jeans; Alan's blood mixed with the blood from the Fender Stratocaster. His eyes went from the stains to the gun to Stackalee.

Stack's a trickster. Billy. He might use you to worm his way out of hell.

"No," Billy whispered. "No!"

Stack nodded. "Fingerprints, Billy Boy. All yours. Powder burns on your gun hand, too." Growling laughter, he pointed a long index finger at Billy and cocked the imaginary weapon with his thumb. "Bang bang, Billy Boy."

Outside, sirens wailed.

Stackalee tipped his Stetson and disappeared into the shadows. His footsteps echoed through the house, keeping time for the lyrics that spilled over his bloody lips.

Now late at night you can hear him in his cell,

Arguin' with the devil to keep from goin' to hell.

And the other convicts whisper, "Watcha know about that?

Gonna burn in hell forever over an old Stetson hat!"

Billy Lyons closed his eyes and whispered, "Everybody's talking 'bout Stackalee."

A Couple of Wolves At the Door

As a tail-end baby boomer, I grew up loving black-and-white movies with teenage monsters, giant bugs, and flying saucers. There's an undeniable lowbuck humor to most of these fifties cheesefests, but to tell the truth there aren't many of them that hold up very well for today's viewers. I'm not sure exactly why that is. Maybe you had to grow up on those movies to see past the cheese. Or maybe you need to be able to place yourself close enough to the original context of those movies to steel yourself against the camp factor. Either way, I can still make the trip.[36]

So I'll readily admit that more than a few of those old black-and-white timewasters give me a charge when I slap them in the VCR or DVD player, and I should probably be ashamed to admit how much I love them. Just in case you're not familiar with the kind of movies I'm talking about, I'll list a few faves here: I was a Teenage Frankenstein, I Was a Teenage Werewolf, Them!, Invaders from Mars, Tarantula, Teenagers from Outer Space, The Mole People, The Cyclops, She-Demons, Earth vs. the Spider... I could go on and on....

I wanted to find a way to translate that enthusiasm into my fiction. "Tooth & Nail" was an early attempt at writing a story with a drive-in movie sensibility. Stephen King mined this vein early on with tales of haunted cars and teenage delinquents returning from the dead for one last chicken ride. He made the whole exercise look effortless, and I could never quite figure out how he pulled it off. It's a fine line to walk. Writing about a haunted hot rod or a walking corpse with a ducktail and a leather jacket is the stuff of obvious parody. Getting the reader to take that kind of material seriously enough to actually feel a chili from it is a real challenge.

I found out soon enough that it wasn't easy to do that. I had some "drive-in" story ideas in mind, but I didn't want to go the obvious route with them. I didn't want to do the kind of straight-ahead parody Robert Aspirin or Piers Anthony might try. I wanted to have my cake and eat it too. My goal was to invest my stories with a dramatic energy that would involve readers enough to get them inching toward the edge of their seats, and at the same time provide a few laughs through the very nature of the material (i.e. the archetypes found in drive-in movies).

It took me awhile to figure out how to do that. After a few attempts that went over the top from the get-go, I discovered that the secret was pretty much the same approach I used when constructing all my stories. First, I needed to invest in the situation and the characters, no matter how outlandish they might be. Whether I was writing about a teenage monster, a bounty-hunting werewolf, or a high school witch, I tried to give my characters a walking talking sense of everyday reality. I knew going in that I'd have to get the reader to buy the character if I wanted them to buy the over-the-top scenario I was selling.

The humor came as an outgrowth of the story. I wasn't after jokes or puns that came straight at the reader. Instead, I wanted to introduce a more sardonic kind of wit that came from the characters, from their perceptions of the events (no matter how outrageous) and the conflicts they encountered in the course of the story, and—sometimes most importantly—their interplay with the other characters in the piece.

By the time I wrote "'59 Frankenstein," I was getting a pretty solid handle on the setup and follow through I've described above. That story starts off with a straightforward situation you wouldn't be surprised to find in any fifties J. D. melodrama—a kid asking his father if he can borrow the car keys. Only in "'59 Frankenstein," the kid is a teenage monster and the father is the overbearing scientist who made him. The story worked pretty well, balancing straight-ahead suspense with that sardonic humor I was after. The same kind of approach also worked in a story called "The Pack," which was about a (maybe, maybe not) werewolf motorcycle gang laying siege to a backwater town in the early sixties. I also used it in "She's My Witch," another story set in the fifties.

"Tooth & Nail" features both a werewolf and a vampire. It was written about five months before I did "'59 Frankenstein," and it also predates "The Pack" and "She's My Witch." I had a lot of fun with the characters in this one. At one point, I thought I'd do more with Birddog and The Jones. I enjoyed hanging out with them,[37] though I don't know why I made the werewolf in this story a surfer instead of a leather-jacket-wearing juvenile delinquent. If there was anything in this edition of Mr. Fox that I was sorely tempted to revise, it was that.

A werewolf with a surfboard.

It just doesn't seem right.

So that's the deal with one wolf at the door (with a surfboard). Now let me talk about another one—the wolf that wants to take a bite out of your checkbook.

Most of the stories in this volume were sold to small press magazines or anthologies, and (no surprise here) most of them didn't earn me much in the way of $$$$. Probably the low end of the small press payment scale was 1/4 cent a word (that's what Grue paid), and the high end was 3C a word (which was the rate over at Noctulpa). The most money per word I made for a story in this book was 8C per for "¡Cuidado!," which sold to an anthology put out by a gaming company.

So, I wasn't getting rich writing these stories, but I didn't worry too much about that at the time. The way I saw it, I was publishing to learn my craft and learn the business. If "real" money was going to come, I knew that it would come later.

Most of the time, I didn't try to negotiate my pay rate when an editor/publisher accepted a piece. In most situations, I don't think there was more to get in the way of $$$$$. Those publishers sure weren't socking away a fortune in profit from their little 'zines, so trying to negotiate with them wouldn't have exactly been a profitable use of my time or energy.

But that doesn't mean there weren't other things I could have asked for besides money. There were. And while they weren't things that would necessarily make me any richer, they were things that might have done me some good.

It took me awhile to learn to ask for those things, and how to ask for them. One thing's for sure, it always pays to be reasonable and polite when dealing with editors and publishers. Sometimes how you ask for something is just as important as what you ask for. In other words, it's important to be a pro, especially if you want your phone to ring the next time the editor in question is putting a project together.

End of etiquette lesson. Now on to the meat of the meal. Here are some things you can ask for in addition to money when selling your stories to markets large and small:

•   If it's a magazine, ask for free ad space. If you've got a book for sale, that'll provide you with an opportunity to promote it. It'll also make a nice impression on the publisher of that book—you just saved him some money and got the word out about his product.

•   Same thing if you're publishing on the web (or if the publisher to whom you're selling your story has a website): ask to run a banner on his site and/or add a link to your site. This can promote another work or lead readers to your website... in the end, it all means more attention for you and your work.

•   For both print magazines and websites: if your work is beginning to gain attention, see if you can interest the editor in an interview. Most readers love to find out what writers have to say about their work, and an interview will give you a good opportunity to promote other projects.

•   Ask for more contributor's copies of the magazine or anthology you're involved in. in some cases you might want to sell these extra copies yourself, or you can use them as a promotional tool. Many professional writers run contests on their websites with free books as the carrot to get people to sign up for promotional e-mails, etc. Apart from that, I've yet to meet an editor or publisher who doesn't like to get free books, especially if we're talking about a nice limited edition volume. Even editors in New York with whom you might be building a relationship will get excited about a freebee. Not to say that something like that will get you a novel deal... but it might get your novel looked at a whole lot quicker than it would be otherwise, and with a kinder eye.

•   I've never pushed it this hard, but some writers do: I've known guys who routinely ask for their name to appear on the cover of any magazine/anthology in which they have a story. Some will ask for the lead slot in the magazine (i.e. their story comes first); some will ask the editor to consider a cover image based on their story. Personally, those requests all cross the line for me. The way I see it they're editorial decisions...not mine.

Of course, there's one other rule that will stand you in good stead; always get paid for your work. Make that a priority; and, as you move up the career ladder, make the size of your checks a priority, too.

And don't work for free. Early on, I decided that submitting my fiction to markets that didn't offer at least a token payment was a waste of my time. I never submitted stories to markets that paid nothing at all, or only paid in contributors' copies. If an editor wasn't even willing to invest a token sum in me, I wasn't willing to invest my talent in him or his product. And, for the most part, that's the way I've played it—since I started publishing in 1989, I've given away exactly one story, to a British Fantasy Society publication called Chills.

Why'd I do it? Simple. The editor was the first guy who came asking for a Norm Partridge story. He wrote me a fan letter, said he admired my work, and asked to run a piece in his magazine.

It was the first time an editor came looking for me, instead of the other way around. That was a moment I'd been waiting for, and at the time it was a good enough reason for me to make an exception to my rule. After all, sometimes rules are made to be broken.

TOOTH AND NAIL

In a vault beneath a ruined house, the Lord of the Night rose from his coffin. One slow movement, much practiced over the years, performed with a macabre grace that raised gooseflesh upon the heaving breast of the comely maiden chained to the wall.

The Lord of the Night trained his depraved stare upon her innocent blue orbs. She looked away, whimpering, and he knew that only the gag stuffed between the maiden's ruby lips prevented her from releasing an agonized scream or a woeful plea for mercy. He approached her, his cape whispering over the dank floor. With manicured fingernails, he gently tickled the meaty wound upon her delicate neck.

A delicious tremble shook her very being, and she swooned.

This pleased the Lord of the Night. He attempted a malevolent smile, but the memory of his recent encounter with a man who wore a silver gauntlet over one fist stunted his smile at an embarrassed grin.

The man with the silver gauntlet was the maiden's protector. At least, that was what the man believed. The Lord of the Night knew that this was not so. From the moment his eyes first met those of the maiden, he had known that she was only for him. He would be her protector. Her final protector. Just as he had done for so many others. How many, he could not quite recall.

No matter. Surely, the man's ingenuity had surprised the Lord of the Night. And the human had proved a dangerous opponent, certainly. The Lord of the Night could well remember spitting teeth in the wake of the man's attack. But, in the end, it was the Lord of the Night who held triumph in his evil grip. He had dispatched his foe with startling force, and, in spite of his wounds, had supped upon the blood of his enemy's charge, she who had so recently whimpered and trembled and swooned at the very sight of him. She who wore chains on her wrists of marble, and the mark of his remaining fang upon her ashen neck.

Yes, this was triumph. He laughed heartily, shaking his fists at the worm-eaten beams overhead, his eyes cold fire branding the corpses of his previous victims. Once his sustenance, now only decaying mannequins locked in helter-skelter poses, horrid decor for his shadow-choked bedchamber.

And when he had vented his wicked merriment, the Lord of the Night climbed the stairway and strode through the house, ready for the vile beauty of another night of wanton menace.

He flung open the front door and trained his iron gaze upon the town. Humanity had abandoned this place long ago, no doubt in fear of him. Normally, the view of the deserted streets and the crumbling relics which mankind had left behind — matched with the eldritch spectacle of the final sliver of sunlight being buried in the decrepit cemetery on the edge of town beneath a shovelful of night sky — would have cheered the vampire's cold heart, but this night it did not.

For the Lord of the Night spied a strange silhouette in the cemetery. Indeed, there was a shovel. But it was not heaped with the night. It was heaped with earth.

And the shovel was held by a man. A man bathed in the glow of one final sliver of sunlight.

A man bathed in the cacophony of earthly desire.

The Lord of the Night slammed the worm-eaten oaken portal of the ruined house.

He hated humans.

But more than anything, he hated rock 'n' roll.

Boot slammed shovel. Shovel gobbled hard-packed earth. The man put his back into it and his lumbar region cussed him good, but the words passed his lips as nothing more than a pitiful groan, a groan that the man couldn't hear because Little Richard was shouting wop-bop's and a-loo-bop's and a-lop-bam-boom's over the transistor radio.

Headlights bloomed in the distance, and the man tossed the shovel aside. A battered van was coming in his direction, engine roaring as it traversed a town which had been abandoned shortly after the freeway moved thirty miles south. The big black machine belched exhaust, fogging neon signs that hadn't tasted the spark of electricity in five years —The Coyote Flats Drive-in Theater...El Borracho Motel...Billy the Kid's Bag-'Em Hamburgers. The driver downshifted as he passed the latter, and the van responded with a fetid exhalation of black smoke that did nothing to cheer the fifteen-foot tall plywood gunfighter who stood watch over the abandoned burger stand.

Expectantly, eagerly, the man in the boneyard picked up the scent. He smelled scorched oil that hadn't been changed in 20,000+ miles, and he smelled brakes which were getting by without much-needed shoes and — for want of same — were taking out their frustration on drums that were as thin as a miser's last dime. Besides that, he smelled a man who could stand a splash of Hai Karate and a clean pair of socks and about half a bottle of Listerine. What he didn't smell was red meat, and not only wasn't it red meat, it wasn't rare meat. Now the man did cuss, long and loud, and neither Little Richard's screech nor the squeal of the van's worn brakes could bury his words.

The van made a sharp turn and raced through the cemetery — collapsing headstones, kicking up dust devils — finally screaming to a stop just short of the cussing man. The bedraggled driver stepped down from the van, took one look at his sweating buddy, and grinned. "Hey Bird-Dog," he said. "Ain't it a little early for you to be digging for bones?"

The digger didn't even crack a smile, though he did take the time to bend low and turn off the transistor radio. "That's not funny, Jones," he said. "The hunger's starting to creep over me, my back is doing grievous bodily harm to my pain centers, and, like Elvis said. I'm itchin' like a man on a fuzzy tree." He peeled off his shirt, bent low, and scratched his back against the arm of a wooden cross. "Damn, my belly is on fire. I hope my nose is playing tricks on me. I hope you remembered those burgers."

Jones shrugged. "No burgers. Only an old wrinkled-up grandma at the burger stand. I got fried chicken instead. Coupla real sweethearts workin' at the diner in town. This one gal, she looks just like Carroll Baker. I'm here to tell you — "

"Save it, Jones. I don't want to hear it."

Jones bit into a meaty breast. "That waitress...man oh man. One look at her and I broke out in a cold, cold sweat. Two looks and I'm yellin' MAYDAY! MAYDAY! 'cause she's givin' me the eye right back and I'm goin' down in flames. I'm shoutin'. I'm singing. I'm high on a mountain of LOVE. I mean, she was pure-D Carroll Baker, top to bottom. You ever see that Baby Doll movie, Bird-Dog? Man, oh man. You seen that movie, you know what I'm talkin' about." He chugged Budweiser, knowing he wouldn't get an answer out of his partner with a hook and a line, but he kept on asking questions just the same. "Say, Bird, you want a beer? You want some chicken? Maybe some fries?"

Bird-Dog waved him off. "Get it out of my face, Jones. Just the smell of that stuff makes me sick." Bird looked at the fries, little flaccid things sweating grease; they were about the same color as Casper the Friendly Ghost. "Jesus, the things you people eat."

Jones smiled, punctuated the smile with more beer, more chicken, more fries. "If you'd rather, I think we still got some of those dog biscuits in the back."

"Oh, that's rich. My stomach's growling in serious anticipation. I'm just all set for that, except I wouldn't know how to wash it down. What do you recommend, Jones? A Chenin blanc, perhaps? Or maybe a Burgundy? I think a Chenin blanc might enhance a dog biscuit's crunchy zip. Biscuit's kinda like an appetizer, y'know —light, flaky.. .just like you, Jones. Anyway, you never go heavy with appetizers. Anybody knows that. You save up those Burgundies for heavier fare —Alpo, and Happy Chow, and such."

Jones waved him off. "I knew I should have never buddied up with some silver spoon surfer boy. You Californians, you think you know everything. "

"Not everything. Just wines."

"Oh, yeah?" Jones laughed, short and hard. "Tell me then. Bird, what kind of wine goes best with vampire?"

"You're not serious."

Jones chugged beer and gobbled fries and stripped a chicken wing clean in one bite, little bones scrapping between his store-bought choppers. He pointed at the tilting old mortuary at the foot of the hill. "Maybe I'm not serious, but that guy down there...he's serious. And I'm talkin' pure-D."

Bird swore. His stomach growled. The hunger was really bad now, bad enough to drive him to extremes much worse than grave-robbing. He stared up at the rising moon and scratched his skin raw with fingernails that were one inch, then two inches, then —

"Mayday!" Jones shouted, spitting beer and laughter. "Mayday!"

The Lord of the Night watched the men. One swilling liquor. The other capering madly in the moonlight, as if invoking pagan gods.

The fools. Mere peasants, emboldened by drink, come to take the monster's head. He feared such men little. Had he not faced other maddened villagers in his travels? Had he not destroyed them through the power of his iron stare?

Yes. Just as he had vanquished the man with the silver gauntlet.

The Lord of the Night told himself that this was so. Still, he could not help staring at the coach that waited on the edge of the property. Dark and sleek it was, stealthy and fast as a winged demon. He could abandon this place at a moment's notice, leave these men behind.

No. That was the coward's way. The Lord of the Night was a creature of power, and he would not —

The capering man in the old cemetery dropped to all fours and howled at the moon.

The Lord of the Night swallowed hard.

"Sure, you track just fine, Bird-Dog. You got us here, all the way from Vegas, one straight line through two hundred miles of sand and dust. Our gangster client is gonna be real happy to get his girl back before the Feds accuse him of doing something nasty to her all by his lonesome, and we'll probably get a bonus for doing the job real quick-like, thanks to your nose. But I'm the fellow who fills in the blanks, and don't you forget it."

Bird's eyes were little coals. It wasn't easy talking around the sharp teeth that sprouted from his gums, but he'd had lots of practice over the last few years. "Fill, then."

"Well, folks talk in a town like the one up the road. Funny little burg. Kind of Mayberry meets Peyton Place. Anyway, I stopped in and had a talk with the dentist, had him check out my store-boughts. Just a hunch I had. Anyway, dentists likes to gab. They're lonely people, mostly. Have a high suicide rate. So he tells me all about a strange fella who put in an order for a bridge. Fella lost a couple of teeth in a fight, and he wanted 'em replaced with fangs. And get this —the fella would only make his appointments at night."

"All that means is the guy's a nut."

"Add it to the rest of the picture. Remember the people we talked to in Vegas? The bartender?"

"Guy was a rummy."

"Well, he saw the whole damn thing. He saw the guy grab the girl. Said the guy was done up in a black cape, tuxedo, and top hat."

"Guy was a near-sighted rummy."

"Said the guy talked like he was from Transylvania."

"A near-sighted, deaf rummy."

"Shit. He heard well enough, and he damn sure saw well enough. Saw the girl's bodyguard tussle with the guy. He said that he spotted a silver knuckleduster on the bodyguard's hand, saw it glinting in the moonlight. Saw broken teeth on the ground after the bodyguard laid into the kidnapper."

"Chrome. The knucks were chrome-plated."

"Whatever they were, they knocked out a few of the kidnapper's teeth. The bodyguard figured he had the guy. He left him there in the parking lot and started toward his own car with the gangster's girl in tow."

"And then the kidnapper ran him over with a VW bug," Bird said. "Now, that's not supernatural. It's not even menacing. It's just straightforward German engineering. The front bumper broke the bodyguard's neck and the right rear tire popped his skull like a melon, and the kidnapper grabbed the girl for keepsies. We've been over this."

"It all happened in the middle of the night. Bird. When the living dead rise from coffins lined with unhallowed earth — "

"This moron isn't a vampire." Bird sniffed the night air. "He stinks, all right, but not near bad enough."

"He's havin' a dentist make him a new set of fangs. Bird. He wants to suck him some serious blooooood...."

"Me too," Bird snarled. "You were supposed to bring me a hamburger. A rare hamburger."

"You sent me to town. You knew the risk."

Bird's eyes were red things nestled in a hairy face. "Damn right I knew the risk. I can't count on you for the littlest thing. All I wanted was some red meat, and you bring me fairy tales."

"It's night now. Bird. I'll bet he's out of his coffin."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Of course. Hell, this is going to be good. First Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man. Then The Robot vs. the Aztec Mummy. Now Bird-Dog vs. the Vampire Kidnapper. I tell you, man, I can't wait to see you huff, and puff, and blow this bloodsucker's house down. I think I'll have to get out my camera. I gotta have a picture of that one."

The werewolf growled. "Give me a break, Jones." He pointed a claw in the direction of a battered VW sitting at the side of the ruined mortuary. "Can you picture Bela Lugosi driving that?"

Jones whipped out a bowie knife. "You want me to carve a stake for you. Bird?"

"Steak." The werewolf's stomach growled. "Damn."

Down below, the Veedub coughed alive. The little machine shuddered, put-putting into the night like a scarab beetle that was shy three or four legs.

"Better hurry. Bird, 'fore he works up a head of steam."

The werewolf loped through the cemetery, his mouth watering.

Jones chugged beer. "Surf's up, compadre," he yelled, staring up at the moon. "And it's one mean night-tide."

The Lord of the Night slapped the reins, but the team of stallions could run no faster. He had put five miles between himself and the town, but, even so, he knew that he was far from safety.

Behind him, he could hear the howling.

And then, quite suddenly, he could feel the thing's breath, hot on his neck, and he turned and saw that the creature was racing at his side, keeping pace with his dark chariot, and all he could think of was a scene from one of those old Universal Studios monster movies —he couldn't remember which one — the Wolf Man, Lon Chaney, Jr., grabbing Bela Lugosi as the latter transformed himself into a bat, both of them plummeting into a dark ocean, lost forever, together, in the cold tides of eternity.

The Lord of the Night had always admired Bela Lugosi. He had long emulated the most famous Dracula. If things were to end — here and now —he would find a way to take this hellish opponent with him, just as Lugosi had done in that aged film.

There were a couple of problems with his plan.

First off, he didn't have the slightest idea how to turn into a bat.

Second, the nearest ocean was two hundred miles away.

This was the desert.

The werewolf slammed against the Veedub and felt it shudder, heard its engine scream.

He couldn't help it when the hunger was on him. When the hunt roared in his blood, he'd dig up graves in search of an unpicked bone. In a pinch, he'd eat roadkill. Anything for the taste of flesh, preferably human. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help it.

Worst of all, he loved to play with his food. And he was playing with the Veedub, and the man inside it.

Kicking through the sand, he picked up speed. Raced to the front of the car. Reached out, slashed a bald tire with one deadly paw. He allowed himself the luxury of enjoying his victim's stunned expression, then he hit the Veedub one last time, pounded it hard with a well-muscled shoulder, rolled it good, watched it tumble through a dry forest of creosote brush and yucca, heard the music of busting glass and twisting metal, the percussion of exploding tires.

An ocean of blood washed through his head. He remembered the echo of tumbling breakers in the California night. The salty perfume that rode the darkness beneath a blanket of cool fog.

The scent of the ocean, like the scent of blood.

It had happened a long time ago. All alone, in the glow of a moon that hung in the sky like a ripe grapefruit, he'd gone to ride a nightwave that smelled of salt and blood. But that night, surfboard held under his arm, he'd met a wolf on the beach.

Now that night was in his blood forever, and he didn't have a surfboard anymore. He was a hunter now. It was his curse, his destiny, and he followed its scent through snags of creosote brush, under the spiked arms of yucca trees, until he came face to face with twin pits of fear gouged on a dying man's face, a cold pair of eyes that held nothing more than the most terrible of hungers.

The wolf snarled. The man before him was not out to enjoy a pleasant evening. He was not a man with an eye for the peace of the ocean, the love of the wave. This man was a kidnapper. A sadist. And the wolf's nose told him that this man was more than that, for the scent of death and decay hung heavy over the abandoned mortuary which sat at the dark heart of the deserted town called Coyote Flats, just as it hung heavy on this sick man who would be a monster.

The man looked up at the wolf. The car had collapsed around him, pinning him inside. Like a sardine packed for the grocer, he could not move at all.

He opened his mouth, revealing teeth filed to deadly points, and just how much sick agony the man had enjoyed while performing such a task made the wolf shudder. A man like this, he'd probably enjoyed having a few teeth knocked out.

The man hissed, "We should be brothers. Tooth...and nail."

He sounded just like Bela Lugosi.

"That's a pretty good imitation." The werewolf barked laughter. "But you've got to understand — I'm the real thing. You...you're just infringing on a copyright."

Hearing these words, the man closed his eyes.

And then there was only the scrape of sharp claws slicing weak metal, and the whisper of teeth cleaving flesh that was, also, much too weak.

But the man refused to surrender his illusion.

Dying, he screamed just like Bela Lugosi.

He lingered over his meal, torturing the hunger that burned within him the same way the hunger had tortured him. He didn't realize how far he'd chased the Veedub until he started back toward Coyote Flats. By the time he reached the cemetery, the sun was on the rise, and he was nearly a man. Still, the woman screamed when she saw him.

Jones was suffering a hangover. His eyes crossed up at the sound of the woman's wail. "Easy, baby," he said. "This is my partner. He's one of the good guys, just like me. Fact is, he's your knight in shining armor."

Bird stared at the woman, at the ugly wound on her neck. It revolted him now, but he knew that hours earlier the same sight would have excited him.

Jones turned a pot on the edge of a small campfire. The aroma of coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the dry scent of the desert. "You want a cup, Dog?"

"No."

"C'mon now. Every time we have to go through this feelin' guilty shit. Okay. Sometimes I can buy it, but this time? With this guy? Like they say —a man's gotta eat. Well, a werewolf's gotta eat, too, buddy. And last night you did the world a big favor, putting that sick asshole in your belly. I just hope he don't give you the trots, like that baby-killer up Seattle way did."

Bird didn't say a word. He stared down at the shovel he'd used the night before, at the grave he'd nearly opened. Just like a dog in search of a bone, that's how strong his hunger had been. His full belly churned with misery and self-loathing, and he looked away.

At the mortuary, at the rising sun cresting over the ruined building's warped roof-line. He closed his eyes, caught the scent. Stronger than the scent of coffee, the scent of the desert.

There had to be at least ten of them down there. Maybe fifteen. Some of them had been dead for a long time. Others, not so long.

Bird grabbed the shovel. Burying them was the least he could do. He started toward the mortuary.

"Hey," Jones called. "We gotta get rolling —get this girl back to Vegas, collect our bounty from her boyfriend. I'm ready to hit the Strip, Bird. I want to do some howlin' of my own, and I want to do it tonight."

Bird didn't look back.

"Shit," Jones muttered. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, shivering against the morning cold.

He wanted some bacon. Some eggs. Some coffee.

He poured a cup from the pot.

Handed it to the girl, wrapped a blanket over her shoulders.

"Wait here," he said.

Bird had made it to the front door of the place.

Jones hurried after him.

"You want to bury 'em, we'll bury 'em," he yelled. "But it ain't gonna be no six feet under, and I ain't sayin' no prayers. God knows why I buddied up with a self-righteous, pitiful creature like you, anyhow."

The werewolf pushed through the front door.

"You knew the risk," he said.

Coming Soon: The Small Press Apocalypse

I wrote "The Entourage" the same year Mike Tyson lost the heavyweight championship to Buster Douglas. That fight was one of the most stunning upsets I've ever seen, though it really shouldn't have surprised anyone. Tyson's demons had turned spotlights on the darker corners of his personality by the time he stepped into that ring in Tokyo, and even the good folks at HBO had pretty much given up trying to convince the world that Iron Mike was a reasonable facsimile of the rough 'n' tumble all-American boy.

I never bought the hype about Tyson. In his prime he ranked among the best heavyweights of all time, but he was a bully at heart. There were snakes coiled in his brainpan. I tried to get some of that on paper in "The Entourage," which concerns a heavyweight boxer, the insular group of hangers-on that surrounds him, and the dark little world they've made for themselves.

Since the story pretty much speaks for itself, I won't comment further here. Instead, let me take the opportunity to talk a little bit about another insular community that can be fraught with peril. I'm talking specifically about the world of small press publishing, and some of the dangers that world holds for an aspiring writer.

Speaking of spotlights. I'd better get out my own while we're talking.

Let me turn on that sucker and hit the high-beam.

We're going to need it to see through the shadows... and the hype.

First off, let me tell you how it was when I started out in the good old days—way back when in the early nineties.

Back then, the big problem for beginning writers was getting published. The small press made that a little easier for some of us. The home computer had sparked a small press boom. Would-be editors were turning out little magazines, affording new writers the opportunity to get their feet wet. Now, some of those markets were better than others. Some of those little magazines lasted and some didn't. But the good ones that managed to stick around for awhile—say Cemetery Dance, or Deathrealm, or The Horror Show—really did impact the business. Their editors became gatekeepers of a sort. Often, they were the first ones to spot new writers who would later graduate to professional careers.

I was one of those writers. I saw the small press as an opportunity to gain both experience for myself and attention for my work. My goal was to write good stories, get them published in the best markets I could manage, and show anyone paying attention to those markets that I could write on a professional level. Of course, I always submitted my work to pro markets first if those markets were open, but the small press was my fallback. My plan was simple: stake out my ground in the small press while I learned my trade, and at the same time bang on the "mainstream publishing" door until someone decided to let me in.

That was one reason I did the original version of Mr. Fox. The book was a small press product, but I knew that a stand-alone collection might help me advance my career. Mr. Fox did just that. It sold well and received positive reviews. It won a Stoker. It got noticed. As a result, I got noticed, too, and I got on the map with a few New York editors.

I was in a similar situation with my first novel. I'll have more to say about Slippin' into Darkness in the next chapter, but I'll give you the short version of the story here. I finished Slippin' and couldn't sell it to a New York publisher. Rich Chizmar published the book as an entry in his burgeoning Cemetery Dance book line. Apart from laying out the novel on his Mac, Rich produced the book using traditional publishing methods. He paid me an advance. He paid for offset printing. He paid for advertising. He paid to produce ARCs, or advanced reader copies (no-frills paperbacks that could be sent to reviewers before the hardcover was published).[38]

In other words, Rich pretty much ran the New York playbook with my novel, but on a much smaller level. He only produced 500 copies of Slippin' into Darkness, but he still had quite an investment in the book in up-front costs. But Rich knew his market. He was developing a core group of dark suspense readers through his magazine, and many of them ordered copies of my novel directly. And those ARCs paid off better than we expected. The reviews of Slippin' were almost universally positive, and—beyond that—those reviews weren't limited to the small press. They appeared in traditional trade publications like Library Journal and Publishers Weekly, and that gave us a chance to attract buyers beyond Rich's customer base. Even though we only did 500 copies of the book, we were intent on reaching beyond the small press audience. We sold books to libraries and brick-and-mortar bookstores. In fact, we soon realized that we'd underestimated the sales potential of the novel—by the time the orders generated by those mainstream reviews rolled in from the big distributors, all copies of Slippin' were already sold, and quite a few orders went unfilled.

In many ways, the above scenario became the standard operating procedure for selling small press product through the middle nineties. Rich continued producing books in the specialty press, gaining a strong foothold in the horror market. Kensington reprinted Slippin' as a mass-market paperback, and I went the NY route with my second and third novels, selling them to Berkley. Some of the small publishers—most notably Dark Harvest—faded away. New ones arrived on the scene—Subterranean, Golden Gryphon, and Night Shade among them.

While all this was happening, the internet came along.

So did a new technology called print-on-demand publishing.

And the small press game changed dramatically.

The internet cut out the middleman. Would-be editors hoping to create the next Cemetery Dance, Deathrealm, or Horror Show could choose to produce electronic "magazines" at a much lower cost than traditional print medium allowed. Horror-related websites started running fiction. Some paid token fees and operated as traditional editor/writer markets; other sites simply had no-frills forums where aspiring writers could post their stories themselves.

Some writers bypassed editors entirely. They created their own websites, posted their own work, and promoted themselves and their fiction through internet chatrooms, message boards, and links on websites related to horror (or mystery, or science fiction). Finding an audience was no easy task, but it did become easier for aspiring writers to make an end-run around the traditional gatekeepers of the publishing world. Basic definitions began to blur. Debates sprang up. What did it mean to be a published writer? Who was a pro and who wasn't? Was internet publishing the real deal, or just the literary equivalent of open-mic night?

Print-on-demand added another question to the mix: what was a book, and what wasn't? POD allowed publishers to produce books at an upfront cost much lower than traditional offset printing, because POD could offer very short print runs at reasonable prices. Of course, the results weren't nearly as attractive—most POD books looked like the poor relations of trade paperbacks. The real attraction to the technology was the rock-bottom price when it came to up-front costs. Besides a cut-rate approach to layout and cover art—meaning, most publishers didn't actually pay for either—a POD outfit could get a first novel into print for as little as a $20 insertion fee with the company that actually produced the book.[39]

If the book sold well, the publisher had a hit. If the book didn't sell, he lost practically nothing in upfront costs. He could dump the book, find another writer, and try again.

POD publishers began to form relationships with the latest crop of small press talent. A few writers got noticed this way, while most saw their books dive-bomb and vanish. But even the writers who did garner some attention found that POD was a tough way to go. Most POD publishers didn't pay advances. Often, they counted on writers buying copies of the books themselves in order to sell them at conventions, give them to relatives, etc. POD publishers couldn't get their products reviewed in traditional publications, and they couldn't get bookstores to carry them. There was only one sure way for a new writer to sell a POD book—through plain old-fashioned Barnum-style promotion, and the lion's share of that task fell to the writer.

Not all new publishers followed the POD model. Some were running a stripped-down version of the Rich Chizmar playbook. They watched the message boards and POD market for hot prospects, and they hooked up with them. They also cut deals with more established writers looking for opportunities in the limited-edition horror game. The market began to narrow. Print-runs shrank. Quality decreased. There was a lot of talk about collectability. Instead of trying to sell a book beyond the collector's market, some new publishers focused on that audience almost exclusively. They didn't care what was going on in New York, or in the local Borders or Barnes & Noble. They cared about what was going on in the small press. They were content to move a couple hundred copies of their latest book to the hardcore horror fans, and they worked to create a fan- specific buzz about their titles in order to do that.

Now the game was different. POD brought a new level of affordability to publishing. Niche marketing placed a stronger focus on the collector's market for publishers going the offset route. The number of small presses increased dramatically. There were lots of websites running fiction, and lots of message boards promoting that fiction. But most of all, there were lots of stories and lots of books. And lots and lots of new writers, all of them competing for attention.

So the game had changed since I started out, and aspiring writers now faced a completely different problem than the one I had encountered as a beginner.

It was no longer any great trick to get published.

Now the trick was getting read.

And that's the great danger I see in the small press today. Horror has always been a small pond, and small press horror is an even smaller one. Right now, that little body of water is brimming, and the genre is more crowded than I've ever seen it.

I noticed this a few years ago, at the last World Horror Convention I attended in Seattle. At previous cons. I'd been able to keep up with new writers and the books they were turning out. But at that con—whoa. It seemed that things had suddenly hit overload. Everyone I met had a book or chapbook to sell. The dealers' room was jammed with work by young writers hoping to jumpstart their careers. At the mass-autograph signing, there were more people sitting at tables hoping to sell books than, there were fans asking for signatures.

Nearly everyone I met at the con was a writer. And those that weren't...well, it turned out they were publishers. The problem was, not many members of either camp were managing to sell books. And the worst news of all was this: traditional publishers had taken a pass on the whole event. In Seattle, I counted exactly two editors who were working at New York publishing houses. I didn't see any agents there at all. It seemed the genre (and the small press) was cutting itself off, almost deliberately, as if intent on marginalization.

I talked to several young writers at that con. They were paying their dues in the small press, trying to find a way into the professional market. Some of them told me that they wanted to do what I'd done—publish a book like Mr. Fox or Slippin' into Darkness with a small press, then use that book to get their foot in the door in New York.

One look around that hotel and I knew that the odds had narrowed on that approach. Too many young writers were trying to run that playbook, and too many young publishers were trying to do what Rich had done with Cemetery Dance. I'm not saying that it had become impossible to get noticed that way. A few of the young writers I met at that con have since gone on to establish professional careers, but the competition is fierce. Many more writers have gotten lost in the shuffle, and so have the novels and stories they spent long hours producing.[40]

Today it's worse. New presses appear and disappear with great regularity. Writers sign contracts and get burned when amateur-hour publishers cash in their chips. There are a lot of presses publishing books aimed exclusively at the collector's market, and way too many books going for forty or fifty bucks a pop. I'll submit the bad news here—this can't last. Like I said, the horror pond is small. There's only so much room in the water, and flooding the marketplace is never good. It didn't work in the '80s with paperback originals that cost $3.95 a pop, and it's not going to work any better with expensive hardcovers now (no matter how limited their print runs).[41] There just isn't a large enough horror fanbase to support that kind of action with cash on the barrelhead. To be perfectly blunt, there isn't a deep enough talent pool, either.

That's right. The pond's full, but it's also getting diluted. New writers are publishing books that aren't quite ready for primetime. Established writers are publishing books that should remain locked in their attic trunks. Publishers are slapping expensive price tags on both products. They're selling them to the hardcore fans, who'll no doubt get pretty tired of bleeding green in an attempt to keep up with their favorite authors, old and new.

It's a simple law of economics, really: those readers and collectors can only max out so many credit cards in pursuit of a good read. The way I see it, there's a small press apocalypse waiting just down the road. It'll be a reckoning of sorts. A Grim Reaper's going to take a walkthrough the neighborhood in the next few years. He'll swing his scythe and take down some publishers who tried too hard to milk the market—those who got too greedy, those who bet the farm on new writers who weren't ready for primetime or older writers who went to the limited well one time too often, those who wasted capital on mediocre projects. He'll chop down some writers, too—those who underestimated the competitive nature of the small press, or published too soon, or bet their chips on the wrong publisher.

The Reaper will cut the wheat from the chaff, but I doubt that he'll kill the golden goose. He'll be careful not to do that. When he's finished, the small press will still be around. But it won't be the same place it is today. It'll be a little smaller. A few publishers who didn't get it will find themselves flipping burgers; more than a few writers will end up with a first novel that didn't sell sitting on their shelf, back at square one in the writing game.

That's the way the business works. The only sure thing about the publishing world is that things are always going to change. What you have to learn to do is change with them. That's why there is no comfort zone for a writer. Never has been; never will be.

No matter where you live on the food chain, don't expect to find one.

All right. When it comes to the perils of today's small press, you can consider yourself warned. If you want a piece of the small press pie, your first job is to understand the current market. Then you can decide what opportunities that market presents for you and your fiction, and set about making those opportunities work to your advantage.

So let's talk about your fiction now, and where it might fit in today's market. Let's consider the book you want to write, and how you're going to go about selling it. In fact, let's say you just completed your first novel, and you're thinking about sending the manuscript to a few small press markets. Before you lick those stamps, ask yourself these questions:

1. Is your prospective publisher "the real deal?" You'll need to do some homework to find that out. Talk to other writers in the publisher's stable, or do a little checking on the publisher's website to determine his past history. Ask questions, both of yourself and of any prospective publisher. Have you heard of the writers he has published? Do his books have a "professional" look? Are they reviewed in professional markets like Publishers Weekly, Kirkus, or Library Journal? What rights is the publisher tying up, and for how long?[42]

Who sells the publisher's books? How are they distributed? Does he produce projects on time and pay on time? Will your fiction (and you) match up with the publisher and his current product—i.e., has he been successful publishing writers at your level of the game, and does he publish the "style" of book you've written (quiet horror, splatter, literary, etc.)?

2. Is your publisher willing to invest in you and your novel? Will he pay an advance against royalties? Will he pay for quality cover art, design, and layout? Will he pay for promotion and advertising? This is especially important in the case of POD publishers. I've heard horror stories from more than a few young writers who went with POD outfits that didn't pay an advance. They found out the hard way just how quickly most of those outfits would abandon a project if it didn't sell, and just how little the publisher was willing to do to sell it. One young writer told me that his first novel sold 26 copies. His publisher did absolutely nothing to promote the book. The guy simply took a calculated risk because the writer had made a little bit of a name for himself in the small press. When the novel didn't take off, the publisher cut his losses and walked away, leaving the writer holding the bag. The publisher was out the cost of an insertion fee, which wasn't much of an investment. The writer made less than a hundred bucks on royalties from his first novel. He might as well have tossed his manuscript in the garbage can for all the good it did him.

That's why I'd advise any beginning writer to avoid POD projects. POD might work all right under certain circumstances—say for an established author who wants to market a work that is out of print in New York—but it's a pretty sure disaster for anyone else unless they have a very savvy sense of promotion.

3. Will publishing your book advance your career? This is your first novel. It's important. The answer to this question will depend on a lot of the other answers you've already gathered, but the basic question you'll want to consider is this: will your book afford you the opportunity to be noticed by the mainstream press in terms of reviews, production values, and—most importantly—content?

4. What are you willing to do to sell your work? When it comes to promotion, do you expect your book to sell itself? Are you comfortable going on message boards or attending conventions to hawk it? Remember what I said about the competitive nature of the small press, especially if you're planning to try to publish your first novel in the hardcover limited market. Do that, and you'll be competing with some of the best writers in the business.[43] Also understand that there can be a downside to publishing limited editions, even if you do manage to sell them. If your fans can't get your books because of low print runs or high prices, they're liable to get a little bent out of shape.[44]

Beyond that, the ultimate point of writing is communication. You've got to aim for the larger readership if you want to build a real audience for your work. If you fail to do that, you're shouting into the wrong end of the megaphone. Which leads us to the next, and perhaps the most important consideration:

5. Have you exhausted your possibilities in the mainstream market? Have you tried to interest an agent in your work? Have you networked with professional contacts and asked for their advice about the best way to sell it? Have you queried New York editors who publish the kind of book you've written? If you haven't done all that, you haven't given yourself (or your book) a fair shot at mainstream success.

Remember, always start at the top when marketing your work. It's a much harder road. I doubt you'll find one bit of instant gratification on it. You'll probably get more people grinding their heels into your ego than you would if you focused exclusively on the small press. You'll almost certainly get more doors slammed in your face. But remember—most good things don't come easy.

Remember this, too:

Don't sell yourself short.

Don't sell your work short, either.

THE ENTOURAGE

We had Melani stuffed inside a Bijan suitcase for one simple reason; if the crowd waiting to enter the coliseum would have seen her — mummy-thin, just a skeleton covered with cream-colored skin that was as transparent as tracing paper —they would have started a regular stampede. But we couldn't tell that to the security guard who wanted to check the case for forbidden accouterments, like brass knucks or knives or maybe a gat or three.

"Man, we're part of the Bonegrinder's entourage," StiltMilt shouted, waving a bony finger at the rent-a-cop. "And this here suitcase is the Bonegrinder's personal private property.”

"And besides, we don't even have a key to the damn thing," I lied, shooting a glance at StiltMilt that put the ball back in his court.

"That's the truth, officer." StiltMilt went to the hoop. "And if you think I'm gonna let you slice open the Bonegrinder's personal private property, you got another thing comin'. You think the Bonegrinder wouldn't be pissed 'bout that, you just think again."

The rent-a-cop was thinking about it, and hard. Riot fear shone in his eyes. All summer the slums on the nasty side of the river had been burning, figuratively and literally. Some neighborhoods were now little more than fire-gutted ruins, and a lot of people were dead. Hundreds of poor folks, but also a good number of shopkeepers, cops, firefighters, and even the rare social worker. So it was a sure bet that the guard was under strict orders to search everyone entering the coliseum, because if a riot started here, tonight, thousands could die.

I rebounded and took the argument on fastbreak, playing on the rent-a-cop's fears. "Look, man, if we don't get this suitcase inside, the Bonegrinder might decide that he doesn't want to box tonight. He might check out and leave you with a whole coliseum full of unhappy people who came to see a fight."

StiltMilt grinned as wide and ruthless as Don King. "Folks who come to see a fight, well, they usually see one, one way or another...even if it's their own fightin' they end up watchin'."

Now the cop was angry, because he knew us black boys had him. Bigoted anxiety squirmed in his pea brain as he considered the wall of black and brown faces behind us, and just that quick his jowly red face dropped like a brick building in an earthquake. Suddenly acting like it wasn't a big thing, he handed StiltMilt a pair of passes that would get us into the luxury box section.

In we went. Laughing like a hyena, StiltMilt slapped me five.

"Slam dunk," I said.

Melani was getting frantic. I felt her lashing around inside the suitcase as we made our way past souvenir and concession stands. "Calm down, girl," I said. "It's your own damn fault, anyway. You wouldn't be having this problem if you'd quit starving yourself."

"That's an idea," StiltMilt said. "I'm gonna get me a hot dog and a beer." His skinny fingers squeezed my left biceps. "You want anything, JoJo?"

"You know I don't eat that crap."

StiltMilt looked hurt. "Shit, JoJo. You go hungry, then, skinny fool."

While StiltMilt bought his eats, I looked over the souvenir stand. There were Bonegrinder posters, T-shirts and silk jackets, boxing gloves, action figures, even replicas of the Grinder's championship belt that looked like they were cast from gold and green crayons. It all looked fine, like dollar signs, but none of it was selling.

Then I saw why. Kids were circled around a youngblood who was hawking T-shirts stamped with the challenger's image and nickname from a cardboard box. Sweetmeat —stupid name —typical of the jive a kid from the nasty side of the river would go for. Obviously, the kid's people didn't know much about marketing, but at five bucks a pop it didn't matter; the shirts were going fast.

StiltMilt returned and spotted the huckster raking in dough. "Man, somebody's gotta break up that shit." Milt's eyes had gone all frosty, like a banker's. "That boy is bustin' in on our income." He sipped his beer. "And didn't Bigjack say that he cut the kid's people low on the concession deal? Ain't this T-shirt shit strictly verboten?"

Verboten. That was the one German word Milt had picked up on our trip to Berlin. Course, we weren't in Deutschland very long —it only took the Grinder one minute and change to goosestep all over the German champ's title aspirations. But it wouldn't have mattered if we'd been in Berlin a whole month—Milt would have never got past that one word. No matter where he went, he was the kind of guy who was always face up with a whole hell of a lot of NO. Any language, any place.

But I had to agree with him about the huckster. We were supposed to be making money tonight, not Sweetmeat. He was just an opponent, a kid who'd come out of nowhere during the long hot summer with a string of first round KO's. Sweetmeat was the kind of adversary who sounds good to the public but really isn't a match for a seasoned pro, physically and financially speaking.

Before StiltMilt could argue, I traded the Bijan for his half-eaten hot dog. Then I shoved through the crowd of kids, jammed the youngblood against a cement pillar, and smeared his face with dog and mustard and pickle relish.

I licked some mustard off his ear. "I'm with the champ's entourage," I whispered. "You get your small-time hijackin' huckster ass out of here before I eat you all up."

The youngblood rabbited. Lucky for me. If he would have shown some backbone, I would have been forced to discover just how weak I'd become in the year since the Bonegrinder's last title defense.

But the bluff worked and the youngblood was long gone, and that made StiltMilt happy. He grabbed the youngblood's abandoned Sweetmeat T-shirts and tossed them to the kids, laughing that same hyena laugh. "This boy's gonna lose," he announced, his voice singsong and cocksure. "Y'all get this sorry shit for free."

"That's right," I said. I jostled one of the kids and stared down at his round black face, his little knotted fists. I saw anger and defiance — riot-bred — but then I pulled him closer and watched his face twist and close up like the petals of a flower that fears the night.

Fear. It was like a jolt of good brandy rocked off some slant-eyed grocer. I pressed a twenty into the kid's palm. "You don't want to be a loser, little brother. Now, you be a winner and go spend some jack at the Bonegrinder's stand."

The private box was pretty damn nice. Seats with red velvet cushions and crystal ashtrays set in mahogany armrests. A bar with brass railing and a bartender with a gold-capped grin. Big screen tube for the instant-replay action. Pretty damn nice, and since we were the first to arrive we had it all to ourselves for the time being. Not counting Melani in the Bijan, of course.

StiltMilt got another beer and sent the bartender after peanuts and a couple more hot dogs. "Heavy on the mustard," he said, laughing, shooting me his patented evil eye.

We settled in and watched the crowd through my binoculars while we waited for the prelims to start. A wild cross-section of humanity swarmed around the ring. Pimps and gangstas done up in leather finery, bankers and politicians dressed in conservative pinstripes, women who looked like pure wetdream goddesses: that was what you saw at ringside. All around them crowded the city's masses. There were folks who'd come to see a real celebrity (the Bonegrinder), and there were others who'd come to see a fight, and there were some who'd come just for the violence — the same ones who'd torched the ghettos and learned the power of the match, the fist, the knife, and the gat.

Once you feel that kind of power, you can't stay away from it. It becomes the only sustenance your body will accept. It's ten times worse than any other Jones, and there's no way to go cold turkey.

The shrinks got that one right. Psychology Today. I subscribe. I've been reading anything and everything since I can remember. I can tell you how damn near anyone thinks. But I've been living too, if you want to call it that. I understand the big ugly machine grinding behind the shrinks' words better than they do, because I'm a mechanic and they just ride in the damn thing.

Violence as energy. Tell me about it.

That night, you could smell it. Sneaking around the scent of beer and peanuts and hot dogs, the air was sweet with the perfume of anticipation and at the same time sour with the stink of nerves and sweat-stained money about to change hands.

God, it all smelled so good.

In the last year, the Bonegrinder had only given us a whiff of it once or twice. Teasing bastard, that's what he was. Every now and then he'd say, "StiltMilt, get my bag. JoJo, get my gloves. We're going to the gym." And then he'd work out a couple rounds with some bum, and we'd all watch him, salivating, eating up the speed and power and strength that for him seemed so effortless, and hoping all the while that he'd announce his return to the ring.

But he never did. Until that night on the penthouse roof, but he was drunk when that happened. It shocked him, though, and scared him something awful, because it was something that hadn't happened since we were kids. It put one hell of a dent in his ego, too, and I was real glad that it happened because it got my skinny ass out of that penthouse and into a fine, soft seat in a plush luxury box.

And man oh man was I ready to feed my Jones.

I thought about that night on the roof. The Bonegrinder and Hammer Jakkson—an old sparring partner who'd come to dinner — circling each other in the rooftop cage that had been home to the Grinder's pet panther until it took sick and died, everything dark except for the lights that glowed rheumy yellow from the city streets below. Barefisted jabs shooting out quick and fluid from licorice-colored arms, even though the two fighters were both pretty drunk. All of us outside the cage, our fists tight around the bars, watching. At first, our eyes wide, drinking in the beauty of the Bonegrinder's powerful combinations. But then he tired, and Hammer came on. One of his hooks split the Bonegrinder's lip, and Melani fainted as the Grinder sagged back against the bars, and all of us stood there, scared shitless because we suddenly realized that we were all scorched and empty and exhausted and we couldn't do a damn thing. All except StiltMilt, who was thinking right — he keyed the padlock, entered the cage, and pulled Hammer off of the Bonegrinder before he could do any real damage.

It was a close call. We all felt sick about it afterward, even though the Bonegrinder had orchestrated the scene just to torture us. It sure didn't work out like he'd planned it, though.

The Grinder was a scared pup that night. A stone punk with his back to the bricks.

The bartender returned with StiltMilt's food. Milt tipped him, settled back, gobbled the dog, and then started shelling peanuts, tossing them between lips smeared with mustard. After he ate a few he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Man alive," he said. "It smells great, don't it, JoJo?"

I nodded, knowing just what he meant.

A few other members of the entourage showed up. Chynagirl, Lester, and the Bonegrinder's little brother, who was known as Splint for some reason I've never really figured out. Each one of them wearing finery that had looked real sharp a year ago at the Bonegrinder's fight in Berlin, but now the clothes hung on them a little too loosely, and Lester's leathers smelled strongly of stale musk, which is about what you'd expect of the Grinder's punk snitch, anyway.

God, I hated Lester. We all did, because he was always running to the Grinder with stories about the rest of us. Always begging for attention. He'd been pathetic even in the best of times.

I stared at Lester, then at the others. For the first time in a long time I really saw them, and I thought of kids playing dress-up. I guess that was because I'd spent the last year bottled up with them and I'd learned how they really lived, day after miserable day. All of us crowded in that penthouse, hardly ever leaving, swarming around the Bonegrinder like hungry puppies fighting for a turn at a juicy teat.

Puppy dogs. That's what we were. Cute at first, but after awhile we were just dogs, lazy and dependent.

Chynagirl: stretched out on the couch day after day, legs spread wide as the Grinder walked by, calling him a miserable faggot, just begging him to get rough with her. Lester: when I thought of him, I thought of the bedroom where he holed up with all those splatter videos, whacking his meat and getting off on the gore. And Splint: shit, even though it thrilled me at the time, I hated the memory of him smashing his hand through that glass-topped coffee table, hated the remembered sound of shattering glass and blood spattering the shag carpet.

After he'd done that. Splint smiled at us with glassy eyes. "Y'all don't have to thank me for it." That's what he said while Chynagirl picked the glass out of his hand.

Me, I barely spared Splint a glance after that little bit of a thrill wore off. I went back to my Psychology Today. My Freddy Nietzsche, and Lester's Freddy Krueger. Chynagirl's Art of War, which is really a big pile of useless Chinese shit when you look at life from my angle.

At least that's what I thought back then.

I haven't changed my mind about Splint and his bloody hand, though. Bloody paw, I should say. Christ. There's nothing in the world that I hate more than dogs. They'll watch anything. They'll chew themselves down to the bone. They'll even eat their own shit.

Dogs.

Like StiltMilt says: it takes one to know one.

The prelims started. Two white boys, both fat, flopping around like a couple of beached whales. It didn't do much for me, but the crowd seemed to get a charge out of it.

"Where's Bigjack and Carmilla?" StiltMilt asked.

"They'll be here," I said with more confidence than I should have shown. Bigjack was dependable, but Carmilla was a different creature entirely. I remembered the stunt she'd pulled a couple of years back in Zaire, and I didn't like to think of the trouble she'd nearly caused. Though it did charge the crowd and make the whole experience that much more satisfying. Even Melani, who had already started to tire of the fight circuit, had been juiced by that action.

I scanned the audience. Call it a premonition. And then I spotted Carmilla scuttling gracefully down the aisle like a spider sheathed in purple silk and black leather. I handed the binoculars to StiltMilt and pointed her out.

"Shit," he said. "Fuckin' Zaire all over again. I'll bet."

Hearing that. Splint got excited. "Oh, yeah, man. I remember that. God. The way she sucked on that rich bastard's little pinky at ringside, the way she bit it off at the fuckin' joint and spit his diamond ring right in his face — "

I looked up, but the bartender wasn't paying attention. I pointed at the man and put a finger to my lips, and Splint shut up.

"Shit!" StiltMilt said. "The crazy bitch!"

I stared down at the crowd. There was a swirl of activity near where Carmilla had been standing. I saw a black kid with his hand pressed against the side of his head, blood coursing through his fingers. He was screaming. A bunch of his buddies had a hold of Carmilla, and they were banging her head against the cement floor. Black kids, black T-shirts. Yelling and screaming. Watching. Carmilla's long hair coiled around her face with every smash the way a spider's legs convulse and close up around its body when it dies.

Even the two Pillsbury Doughboys in the ring stopped to watch, if only for a second.

StiltMilt said, "Bitch was trying to get them charged up. Bitch bit off the little fucker's ear!"

Bigjack was down there trying to break through the crowd. He couldn't do it, because another gang of boys grabbed him and hustled him down a ramp that led God knows where. And then the mob of boys who'd attacked Carmilla rose up as one and carried her toward the exit, and by the time the rent-a-cops made it down from another section the crowd was a roiling tangle, everyone on their feet craning their necks to see, and the boys and Carmilla had disappeared.

StiltMilt pointed. "There she is!"

I grabbed the binoculars away from him and focused on a shadowy section beneath the second deck. The boys had slammed Carmilla's dead body into a seat before scattering in different directions, and it had all happened so fast that the people sitting around her corpse couldn't do more than gasp and stare.

I looked at the crowd, saw how they looked at Carmilla, little boy ear still clamped between her dead Pepsodent smile. Milla's last little trophy, and she was holding on to it.

My mind toyed with the memory of the way the black-shirted boys had watched their friends trash Carmilla. Something more to that than met the eye.

"Damn," Splint said, interrupting my thoughts. "Do you think Milla's dead?"

He whispered it, but it was so quiet in the box you'd have thought that he'd screamed the words.

No one answered.

No one said a word, until Melani started screaming from inside the Bijan.

The bartender dropped a shot glass. He stared at the suitcase as he backed toward the door.

Chynagirl glanced at Splint and Lester, and they sprang at the guy and brought him to the floor. She turned to me. "It's going to be tough without Carmilla," she said. "If anything goes wrong, that is. I think we'd better let Mel out of the case, and I think we'd better do it right now."

StiltMilt protested. "That crazy bitch won't be no help, Chyna. She's just gonna cross our wires, and then we won't do the Grinder no good at all."

Chyna shook her head. "She's hungry. If she doesn't help us, she'll die. I think she'll decide to help us."

"Sorry, Milt," I said. "Chyna's right."

I reached into my jacket pocket for the suitcase key. Inside the case, Melani wailed like a Jesus freak caught up in the spirit.

Lester punched the bartender in the face, then slammed the man's head against the bar. "Get you for what you did to Milla, you bastard," he said.

My fingers shook and I couldn't get hold of the key. Lester was gone gone gone, his mind firing on circuits that didn't connect.

"Chill out, Les," Splint said. "The bartender didn't do nothing to Milla." Splint smiled at me. "Don't worry, we'll take care of him just the same, though."

Splint flicked open a switchblade. "Hey, Chyna, remember that movie we was watchin' with Lester the other night? Slice ‘n' Dice Degenerates? Y'know, the part where the nuts cut off the hero's — "

"Shut up!" StiltMilt pushed Lester and Splint out of the way and dragged the bartender behind the bar. "This man's out of it. And this ain't no time to be playin'."

Chynagirl grabbed my arm and shook me. "JoJo?" she said. "The key."

"Yeah," I said. "Right away."

We got Melani out of the Bijan and tied her into one of the plush chairs using our neckties and the sash from Chynagirl's dress. Mel looked awful, even worse than when we'd locked her in the case a couple hours earlier. She still wouldn't open her eyes, and she kept shaking her head back and forth like a patient in a psycho ward.

Cartilage popped with every twist, and her big moon of a skull seemed ready to break free and topple off her skinny neck at any second.

"I'm not helping him," she said. "He did this to us. He tried to kill us, and I'm not helping that dog at all."

Chynagirl bent close to Melani's ear, though I couldn't understand how she could stand to get so close to that mummy face. "The Grinder made a mistake," she said. "He knows that now. But he wants to make everything okay. He wants us to be strong again. That's the reason he took this fight — "

"No it's not!" Melani's head moved faster. "He took it because he's scared! He took it because Hammer gave him a beating, and he realized that he'll be in big trouble if he doesn't feed us!"

Splint grabbed Melani's chin and held her head still. "Open your eyes, bitch. Open your eyes and watch my brother fight. Otherwise, I'll cut off your eyelids and make you watch."

StiltMilt went at him, twisted his arm, and made him drop the knife. I stepped to the door; Melani managed to shift in her seat. Eyes closed, she turned her bony face in my direction, her big cheekbones jutting out like sharp rocks, and it was like she knew what was going on in my head.

"You know it's true! You know that the Grinder wanted to kill us! And you know that the only reason he didn't go through with it is because he realized how bad he needs us!"

"Chill!" Lester pointed at the squared circle below. "The Grinder's in the ring!"

I looked down at the Bonegrinder, my hand on the doorknob, and I know that it's impossible, but I swear that he was looking straight into my eyes.

The look gave me a real jolt. It was a look of pure terror, the same one that I'd seen in his eyes twenty years before in a back alley on the nasty side of the river.

We'd all been kids then, eight or nine years old. The Grinder was bigger than the rest of us, our leader. And then one afternoon someone a little bigger came looking for him, and the Grinder ended up in an alley with his back to the bricks.

The other kid was strong and fast, and he was beating the Grinder bad. It was vicious, a massacre, but it turned my blood into gasoline and when that gas hit the fire that had been burning in my brain for way to long...well, watch out. I remember how my heart clenched up like a fist when the Grinder dropped from a big left hook, and I remember how he looked straight into my eyes then, and how Melani grabbed my hand so tightly that it ached for days afterward.

Her fingers were sweaty. I felt a charge, like electricity, jolt though my body. Then I grabbed hold of Chynagirl's hand, and she took Lester's, and Lester took Splint's, and Splint took StiltMilt's, and Milt took Carmilla's, and Milla took Bigjack's.

And we all stared into the Grinder's eyes.

And when that happened, the Bonegrinder had a different look in his eyes. A regular fire. Gasoline, napalm, and hate and fear and anger. He got up, and he put that bigger boy in the hospital.

After that, we knew. The punches, the violence, charged us. Fed us. Made us stronger than any Eveready, more powerful than any Duracell or DieHard. And we could hold that power, like batteries, or we could shoot it back at the Grinder.

But when he became rich and famous, he didn't want to believe that anymore. He wanted to believe that he'd done it all himself. He convinced himself that he could live without us. And I think that he wanted to torture us, because deep down he knew that the championship was ours, not his.

So he stayed away from the ring. He made us feed on any little scrap of violence, and we were so used to feeding off violence that involved him that it was hard for us to survive on anything else. Lester managed with his gory movies. Splint with self-mutilation, Chynagirl with abusive sex. Me and StiltMilt, we just watched them.

But Melani wouldn't watch at all. She starved herself. Closed her eyes and withered away to nothing.

It was slow suicide. We all knew that.

The Grinder was going to let it happen. Until his old sparring partner gave him a beating and made him realize that he'd be in serious trouble if he let us die.

Spotlight beams danced on the canvas ring. I looked away from the Bonegrinder, studied his tattered entourage. Melani, a refugee from an Egyptian tomb, her eyes squeezed closed. Chynagirl begging her to open them. Milt and Splint wrestling, but Milt with the upper hand, pawing the floor, searching for Splint's knife. Lester staring down at the ring, fists clenched, stamping his foot like a frustrated child, a punk snitch with nowhere else to go.

"Wait'll the Grinder hears about this," Lester whispered. "I'm gonna tell him every word."

Below, the crowd cheered as the fighters were introduced. Sweetmeat stepped forward, and a thousand kids in black T-shirts leaped to their feet and chanted his name.

Sweetmeat turned and raised his fists. He was one of them, a phoenix risen strong and proud from ghetto ashes.

The kids in black roared like the lions of an unforgotten summer.

They had done in Carmilla and Bigjack. Shit, they'd nearly destroyed a whole city in a summer's time, and they weren't looking back. They'd burned, killed, done it all. Not content to sit back and watch, they'd fed off their own violence. They were raw, unfocused, but they had power to spare.

Not like us. The eight of us, who had only watched, never participating.

We weren't a match for them. Not now. Maybe we never had been.

The announcer introduced the Bonegrinder. His corner men slipped off his white satin robe and he stepped to the center of the ring, head down, looking lost in that heavily muscled body, a body that didn't seem to fit him anymore.

Before the Grinder looked into Sweetmeat's eyes, I left the box.

I spent the evening in an alley watching a couple of big tomcats go at it. I tried to get excited about all that hissing, I really did. But it just wasn't the same, and in the end it made me feel a little sick. The effort reminded me of one of those gory movies that Lester liked to watch, the one where the crazy vampire tried to go cold turkey by drinking cockroaches (which he whipped up in an electric blender) instead of human blood.

It was silly, what we'd been doing. Nothing but shortsighted. Playing with the Bonegrinder had been like playing with cats and cockroaches when all along we could have been playing with mayors, presidents.

Cities. Countries.

Sweetmeat's boys were raw, but they were powerful. We were weak, but we were focused.

At sunrise, I went to a donut shop where you could read the dailies for free. I drank coffee and read about the fight. The new champion felt real bad. He hadn't meant to kill the Bonegrinder; the Grinder had always been his idol.

Next to the article was a picture of Sweetmeat with his arm around Chynagirl. She wore sunglasses and a wispy veil, playing the role of bereaved widow to the hilt, but locked between the fingers of her right hand was a tattered copy of The Art of War. StiltMilt stood on the other side of the new champ, one hand on the big kid's shoulder. Behind the three of them, a bunch of kids stood guard, all wearing Sweetmeat T-shirts.

And of course there was a sidebar to the article; a suspect named Lester Barnes was being held for questioning concerning three dead bodies found after the fight in a luxury box rented by the deceased champion. Barnes wasn't being held at city jail; detectives were questioning him at a psychiatric evaluation unit.

I crossed the river for the first time in years. Walked around a fire-gutted neighborhood that I used to call home. Then I got tired of walking and smashed a few windows with a charred table leg that I found in a deserted apartment I'd slept in as a child. That made me feel a little better.

When the afternoon papers came out, I noted the name of the funeral home where the Bonegrinder's body rested in state. It wasn't far away.

Sweetmeat was scheduled to pay his respects in a few hours.

If I hurried, I just might make it.

I stopped at an uptown hotel, bought a disposable razor and a bottle of expensive aftershave at the gift shop, and cleaned up in the restroom.

I wanted to make a good first impression on the new champ.

Most of all, I wanted to shake his hand.

The Care and Feeding of First Novels

Making the transition from writing short stories to writing novels was not easy for me.

There, I said it. The words are up there on my computer screen. And now that I'm sitting here staring at them, I realize that they add up to a flat little sliver of understatement that just won't do.

So let me try again: writing my first novel was torture. It was a trip to the black hole of Calcutta, an exercise in misery of Poe-esque proportions. And it's something I'm very glad I'll never have to do again.

Yeah. That works a little better. And I promise I'm not exaggerating. After my first few attempts in the early nineties, I was nearly convinced that making the run from page one to "The End" of a novel was something I'd never be able to do. I must have started a good half-dozen novels before I ever managed to finish one. Piling up the pages as I worked on each of those books was like running a gauntlet—the more pages in my pile, the more beat-up I'd feel. My plot would become a tiger I couldn't hold by the tail; my characters wouldn't do what I wanted them to do; my confidence would wane,  I'd read through my manuscript time and time again, looking for a way to fix the problems I saw there, and those pages would keep clubbing at me.

Finally, I'd give in to frustration.

That pile of paper would go in a drawer, or in the wastebasket.

The above is not a recipe for happiness...or success. That was the worst part of the whole exercise. After all, I'd done all right as a writer up to that point. I'd managed to break into the short story markets. I'd graduated from the small press magazines. I'd cracked professional anthologies. I'd sold a collection that garnered a couple of award nominations, and managed to win one of them. I knew that the next logical career step was to get a novel out there.

To tell the truth it was the only logical career step, but I couldn't seem to get my foot up on it. My earliest novel attempts still make me cringe. Looking back I realize that I made a big mistake—I studied the horror market, which is exactly what every writing book you come across will tell you to do if you want to write a horror novel. Ordinarily, that would be very good advice. But in my case I studied the market too well...so well that my imagination was constrained (if not downright trapped) by the conventions I found there.

I read book after book set in a Middle American small town. Often the central characters were a nice young married couple who'd just moved into the area. Usually they—and the other nice folks in the town— would end up confronting some form of supernatural evil as the story progressed. Visit any local bookstore in the eighties or early nineties and you were bound to find a couple dozen novels like that. Some folks even had a shorthand name for the sub-genre—they called these horror novels featuring nice young couples vs. supernatural bugaboos "Betty & Bob" books.[45]

I figured I had to write one of those books if I wanted to break into the novel market.[46] God knows I tried. There was the ghost story set in the Napa Valley that featured the spirit of a dead juvenile delinquent who'd been gunned down by the local authorities. If I remember right, he possessed another young guy in order to take vengeance on those who'd wronged him years before. I even had a Ouija board in there (and a haunted car, too), along with the usual small-town stereotypes and a local sheriff and his wife standing in for Betty & Bob. I think I got about seventy-five pages of that one before I gave up.

I started another one. This time out I wrote about a folklore professor battling creatures from urban legend that were making the leap from myth to reality in a small university town. That one ended up in the wastebasket, too. Next I tried an idea about killer bats in the southwest. Less supernatural stuff there, and less Betty & Bob; that one was more of a monster book. The whole thing went well until I came across a novel called Nightwing by Martin Cruz Smith and realized my idea had been done up pretty thoroughly by an established writer.

I tried a few more ideas, hoping I could channel Robert McCammon or any of the other guys who could seemingly turn out this stuff effortlessly, but the ideas never got past the let's toss this out on the stoop and see if the cat licks it up stage. In this case, the cat in question was my imagination, and no way was it going to run its scratchy tongue across any of the stuff my brain was dishing up. Every idea seemed like a bad screenplay pitch. And while I kept telling myself that I could write just as well if not better than a lot of the guys who were publishing books that fit the templates I'd identified, there was just something about those ideas and those templates that kept my fingers off the keyboard.

What I eventually figured out was this—I wasn't going to be able to write a paint-by-the-numbers kind of novel. That approach wasn't going to work for me. The whole problem reminded me of a scene at the beginning of the movie Enter the Dragon, the one where Bruce Lee is trying to teach a kid how to kick. The kid is just going through the motions; his kicks are all mechanics and no heart. And then Lee whacks him on the head and says, "We need emotional content."

That's what I was lacking. When I reread my "Betty & Bob" fragments, I knew down deep in my gut that they were hollow as a carved-up pumpkin. There weren't any real people on those pages. While there might be some competent writing, there wasn't any emotional content.

So I gave up playing the game that way. I forgot all about Betty & Bob. I started over, this time determined to get more of myself on the page... along with some genuine blood, sweat, and tears.

Kiss of Death was my first attempt at doing that. It was going to be a horror novel, but I was going to write it my way. My story was going to revolve around three Korean War vets, who—through a shared experience in a horrible battle—came marching home with supernatural powers. I decided to set the story in the late fifties and populate it with the kind of characters found in hardboiled fiction. I wanted to write a horror novel with a dark crime sensibility that would tip its hat in the direction of several movies I loved—think Bad Day at Black Rock, or The Defiant Ones, or Dead Reckoning.

Or Night of the Living Dead. That was going to be in there, too, because the supernatural power my soldiers shared was the ability to raise the dead. One of those men was going to use his powers to raise a zombie army that would slaughter anything that stood in their master's way. it would be up to the other two to stop him, with the help of a man who had been held prisoner by their enemy and a woman caught up in the events for her own reasons.

The first chapter of Kiss of Death kicked the story into gear the way I'd hoped. For several months, the novel raced right along. I piled up chapter after chapter as I worked my way up to the blood-and-thunder climax I'd planned. When I hit that point, I had 271 manuscript pages.

The time had come for my villain to unleash his zombie army.

The time had come for my heroes to try to stop him.

I figured all that would maybe take another hundred pages. Then I'd hit those two words I was longing to type: "The End." The way I saw it, I should have been able to write the climax of Kiss of Death in my sleep. I knew exactly what was supposed to happen.

But I froze up. Completely. Solid as a goddamn glacier.

I couldn't write another word.

I realized, quite suddenly, that I didn't believe in the ending I'd constructed for my book.

And since I didn't believe it, I couldn't write it.

The problem wasn't the characters. This time I'd gotten them right. I could see those guys in my head, hear them when they talked. And neither was the problem with the setting, or the writing itself. I thought Kiss of Death was turning out to be a good little book.

The problem was the supernatural angle; i.e. my characters' ability to raise the dead. I could handle that fine when the supernatural elements weren't overt. I was comfortable when the shadows fell just out of sight, over there on the edge of the page. I could also handle my character talking about the powers they possessed and the reasons they were afraid of those powers. I could even handle writing about one character that was actually dead during most of the novel. But when it came time for me to turn the spotlight on the all-out zombie apocalypse I had planned for my ending, I just couldn't do it. As much as I wanted to, I could not make that army of dead guys embark upon the full-scale rampage I'd planned.

I'm still not sure exactly why. It's too easy to say that I didn't believe in my zombies (though, strangely enough, reading over those 271 pages now I'd have to say I did a good enough job to make the reader believe in them, even if I couldn't exactly make the trip myself). And it's not that I haven't successfully dealt with the supernatural in my fiction—I have, both in novels and short stories. All I can say is that I couldn't make it happen in Kiss of Death. Maybe it was the tonal mix of noir and supernatural horror. Maybe it was the cold, hard tack I took with the characters themselves. Whatever the cause, I know that the block still exists after all these years. Just typing the plot outline a few paragraphs above, I was fine until I got to that line about raising "a zombie army that would slaughter anything that stood in their master's way." I felt myself tighten up as soon as I typed those words. I didn't want to go any further...not even in a plot summary.

That's why my zombie army never went into apocalyptic overdrive.

And that's why Kiss of Death—all 271 pages of it—ended up in a box in my closet.

So I kissed off Kiss of Death. I gave up trying to write novels for awhile and concentrated on short stories. There were some good opportunities in professional anthologies at the time, and a few of the magazine markets paid better than average rates. I sold a few stories coming in through the slush pile. That was my only option when it came to getting my foot in the door with the better markets. I was still a newcomer—meaning I didn't receive solicitations from editors, but I was tuned in to the writer's grapevine and would hear about a lot of projects while editors were still reading for them. I found that if I queried those editors, most would at least give my work a look based on my resume.

Around this time, I heard about an erotic horror anthology Ellen Datlow was editing. She was calling it Blood & Roses, though I'm pretty sure the book was later published as Little Deaths. I had an idea for a piece about a guy closing in on thirty who was still obsessed by his first love, who was recently deceased. I had an opening scene in mind and not much else—my character had been a pitcher in high school, and as the story opened he'd be playing a game of his own invention called graveyard baseball in the local cemetery, throwing strikes at his dead love's tombstone with beer bottles he'd emptied while remembering the past.

The idea was pretty creepy and just past bent. I knew it was the kind of material I was built to work with, and I was excited about getting it down on paper. I figured I'd spend a couple weeks writing the story and send it to Ellen.

I worked on the opening section, ending up with five or six pages before calling it a night. Reading over my work the next morning, I discovered that the pages I'd kicked out sure didn't read like the beginning of a short story. What they read like was the first chapter of a novel. Given my track record, that made me very nervous.

I backed off, but I kept thinking about the story. I was very conscious of the problems I'd had with novels. I was afraid that I'd get out in the deep water and drown if I tried to turn this idea into a novel. But I thought I had something different this time out. My pitcher wasn't the kind of guy you'd find in a Betty & Bob book. Storywise, what I'd written was closer to the dark suspense stuff I'd been doing.

Those were the stories that had done me some good. If I was known at all, it was for my dark suspense work. So I decided to dance with the girl who brung me, as the old prizefighters used to say. I wasn't going to change my style to fit the marketplace. I'd see what I could do with the kind of idea that played to my strengths, and I'd worry about the marketplace later.

That only left one problem.

I had no idea how to turn my first chapter into a novel.

So I did what seemed like a logical thing at the time.

I looked for a way to trick myself into writing one.

First off, I decided to contain my plot. Though the story would hinge on the past. I'd keep the current events of the story in a tight time frame. The entire novel would take place in a 24-hour period. Working within such tight parameters, I figured I'd keep my plot on track because the clock would always be ticking in the back of my head.

Second, I'd tell the story using shifting third-person viewpoint. Each character would have his or her own story, and each story would intertwine. While this might seem to make things more complicated, it actually gave me a sense of security. I told myself that I was really writing four or five different stories, and each of those stories would amount to fifty or sixty pages. That relieved some of the pressure I was feeling. A fifty or sixty page story seemed do-able.

Third, I'd set the story in my hometown. The high school my cast had attended would be my high school. The viewpoint characters would be my age. While none of them was exactly like me, they would all share my frame of reference. I'd write about the class of 76, and how they'd spent the intervening years winding their way from the days of disco to the early nineties. In other words. I'd be on completely familiar turf.

Lastly, I told myself that I wouldn't cross the line that had put Kiss of Death in that cardboard box. There'd be no zombies. No monsters. I was going hard-boiled with this one. I was going noir. I might nod my head toward the supernatural, but I wasn't going there.

It was only halfway through the writing that I realized my decision on that score didn't matter. Supernatural or not, the book I was writing was really a ghost story.

By the time I figured that out, it was okay with me.

Because this story I believed.

I called my novel Slippin' into Darkness. It took me awhile to finish it. My short work had gained notice during the writing, and I began to receive invitations to contribute to anthologies. I didn't pass up many of them, as I figured every professional credit I could notch would be another reason for an agent to look at Slippin' when I finished it.

When that day rolled around, I figured I was ready. I'd made enough contacts in the business that I didn't have to hit agents cold. I could get an introduction from another client, or from a reviewer or an editor who was a mutual friend.

So I came up with a list of agents I wanted to work with.[47] I hit them with query letters or called them. Several were interested in looking at Slippin', and the manuscript started making the rounds. The only problem was that it kept coming back to me. It took me awhile to figure out exactly why that was happening. Most of the replies I received from agents praised my writing, Several were almost apologetic about not taking me on as a client.

The problem they had was with my novel itself. First off, it was dark. Pretty much everyone told me that it was "too dark to sell to New York." A few agents had a problem with the characters, too—they didn't know who they were supposed to "like" in the book."[48] Most of all, they didn't know what kind of a book it was—it wasn't any kind of horror, or mystery, or suspense they recognized. Elements of all those genres were contained in the book, but it didn't fall solidly in any of those camps.

Reading those letters from agents, I knew that they were right. I'd look over at the books on my shelf by established writers who'd built careers, and I'd realize that I hadn't followed their advice. I hadn't written to market. I hadn't written a Betty & Bob book.

I'd written a Norm Partridge book. As it turned out, that was something different. And something different didn't fit into a slot too easily...or a paperback rack designed to hold the latest book out of the great NYC fiction mill.

I took a break and tried to regroup. I did a rewrite on Slippin' from beginning to end. I didn't do this in an attempt to make it more palatable to the marketplace. The story remained dark. But the earlier version did have some plot problems, not to mention a few too many tangents that were overly complicated. I eliminated those detours, tightened up the novel, and then mercilessly carved what was left down to the bone. The version I ended up with after the rewrite was a meaner little machine than the original.

I was happy with the revised version. It did what I set out to do, and I knew that it was as good a book as I could write at the time. Still, I wasn't really convinced that the new version of Slippin' into Darkness would be received by agents—or publishers—any differently than the first version.

So it sat there in the manuscript box on my desk, and I got back to writing short stories.

One day Rich Chizmar called me. By this time Cemetery Dance was gaining a lot of attention as a magazine, and Rich had decided to branch out into publishing books. He'd done an Ed Gorman collection and a limited edition of an early Joe Lansdale novel (Act of Love), and he was looking to publish an original novel.

Rich and I had worked together since the beginning. Cemetery Dance had become known for dark suspense stories, and so had I. Thinking it over, I knew that Slippin' into Darkness was right up Rich's alley. If it fit any template at all, it fit his. In a way, it was the perfect novel for his new book line.

I sent a copy of the manuscript to Rich, and we discussed the possibilities of publishing it under the CD imprint. I knew that he was looking at manuscripts from other "new" writers, too—guys who were coming up through the small press ranks the same way I was—but Rich didn't make it a secret that he was very interested in mine. Soon he was ready to make an offer on the book.

Now, I might have just picked up my pen and signed on the dotted line. I didn't do that. With an offer from a publisher in hand, I took one last crack at getting an agent. This time, I connected. My first agent mostly worked with science fiction and fantasy writers, but she knew a lot of the players in the horror market, too.

Before we signed on the line with Rich, my agent spent about a month shopping Slippin' into Darkness around New York. Guess what. Nobody bit. People were still telling me that my novel was too dark to publish in a mainstream market.[49] So I went with Rich, who did a limited run of 500 copies in hardcover. The cover price of the book was $35.00. I sat back and held my breath, hoping someone besides my mother would actually buy a copy.

Slippin' was published in February of 1994. It received good reviews in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, and Locus (among others). Rich received a lot of orders for the book based on those reviews.

Three weeks after publication Slippin' into Darkness was sold out from the publisher.

Rich had taken a chance on me. If he had been able to snag an original novel by a more established writer—say Ray Garton or F. Paul Wilson—I would never have had a chance. But Rich might have had trouble meeting their terms at that time, and they might have been hesitant to entrust an original novel to a new press. So Rich lowered his sights a little, looked at the next generation of writers coming up, and chose me.

Of course, I was taking a chance too. If I could have gotten a New York deal, I probably wouldn't have signed with Rich. After all, I would have gotten a lot more copies of Slippin' out there if it had been published by New York. And I had no guarantees that my novel would sell as well as it did. Rich's press was still brand new—he certainly didn't have the kind of built-in audience and selling power that is attached to the CD imprint today.

So there was no sure way to know whether we could sell my novel at all...but we had a hunch. As publisher of Cemetery Dance, Rich had built a core audience of magazine readers who enjoyed dark suspense. Those readers had followed my work since I published my first story in CD #2, and many of them were ready to pony up their thirty-five bucks to see what I could do at novel length.

One other thing: Rich and I were driving outside the lines. We were on a different road than those guys in New York. But the funny thing was that we pretty much had that road to ourselves. There weren't a lot of small presses (horror or otherwise) publishing original novels by new writers in the mid-nineties. And there weren't dozens upon dozens of new writers competing for those small press market dollars on message boards, or websites, or in chatrooms.

Nope, that road was open in those days.

For us, the timing was exactly right.

For us, the timing was perfect.

So the good news was that I'd published my first novel, and it had done well. But the bad news was that Slippin’  into Darkness had come and gone in three weeks; now no one could find it.

My agent and I were planning to take another crack at getting a mass-market deal for Slippin' in New York, but we decided to wait a little while. Our plan was to submit the manuscript with a few promo blurbs from established writers, along with the best of the reviews the book had garnered. Putting together a package like that made me feel more confident. If anyone else in New York shot me the thumbs down, at least they'd know that they were taking a pass on a book a lot of people thought was pretty damn good.

I kept busy in the meantime. I was editing an anthology with Marty Greenberg called It Came from the Drive-In, which you may remember me mentioning in an earlier essay. For those who don't, Drive-In was an anthology of stories that played off B-movie themes; I was looking for stories that might have been drive-in movies back in the fifties and sixties.

Many writers were naturals for the project. I sent out invitations to those I could track down. This was all pre e-mail, of course. Over the next few weeks most of the writers I'd contacted RSVP'd by snail mail, letting me know whether or not they'd have time to do a piece for the book.

A few called me. I remember one in particular. I was sitting in my office, working on a short story, when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Is this Norm?" It was a woman's voice, bright and cheery.

"Yeah. This is Norm."

"Hi. This is Stephen King's secretary. Will you hold for Steve?"

"Sure," I said, because what else are you going to say when you're hit upside the head by a question like that? I spent the next couple of seconds trying to decide which of my friends was playing a practical joke on me. Then I heard a little click, and a voice came on the line. It was... well, it was obviously Stephen King.

Steve told me that he didn't think he'd have time to write a story for It Come from the Drive-In, even though he thought that it was a fun idea for a book. We got to talking about some of those old movies that had inspired the concept, and then about Cemetery Dance. I was surprised that King knew anything about Rich's magazine, but his comments made it obvious that he'd read CD... and some of my work.

"I've got Slippin' into Darkness on tape," he said. "Next time I go on a trip. I'm going to listen to it."

"What?" I said, surprised. See, I hadn't sold Slippin' into Darkness as an audio-book. I couldn't understand how King had gotten a copy.

He laughed when I asked him about that. "My son and I had a bet on the basketball finals," he said. "The deal was that if he lost he had to read your book onto tape for me."

Now I was laughing, too. A couple minutes later I was off the phone, back working on my short story, feeling just a little dazed. A couple weeks passed as I finished that up and got busier with the Drive-In project. Every once in awhile I'd stop and think about Stephen King sitting in some hotel room listening to Slippin' into Darkness on a Walkman. The whole idea was kind of surreal.

My agent called to talk about putting together our promo package for Slippin'. Thinking about it, I figured I was crazy if I didn't ask King for a quote. I also figured that he was probably up to his elbows in such requests, so I might be just as crazy if I did ask. Finally, I mailed King a note. There were probably a lot of if's in it. As in: if you had a chance to listen to Slippin’, and if you enjoyed it, I'd love to have your endorsement for the book.

Less than a week later, I walked out to my mailbox and found a letter with a Maine postmark. It included the following quote:

Slippin' into Darkness is easily the most auspicious genre debut of the year. Part horror, part mystery, part blood-tipped satire, it signals the arrival of a major new talent. The generation that remembers The Six Million Dollar Man, The Brady Bunch, and songs like "Billy, Don't Be a Hero," will never be the same after they sample Slippin’ into Darkness. This is, quite simply, a five-star book.

That, ladies and gentlemen, was a sweet moment. When my agent submitted Slippin' to another New York publisher, that quote from Stephen King was at the top of our list of promotional blurbs.

Now, I'm not saying that quote from King is what finally got me a paperback sale on my novel.

But I'm sure it didn't hurt.

Thanks, Steve.

KISS OF DEATH

(an excerpt)

Day One: October 28, 1955

Chapter One

The freak gripped the neck of the Coke bottle between two toes and shook it. Inside, the spider — balled up and black and dead — bounced against the glass.

The room was so quiet that Reno could hear the damn thing ticking off the glass like a bony finger worrying the windowpane of an empty house. The sound was driving him nuts, had been driving him nuts for the last ten minutes. Just as he was about to say something—for chrissakes, will ya give it a rest already? — the freak put the bottle on the table.

The spider teetered one last time, then rolled against the glass. It was a big one. Reno thought it looked like a nigger's severed toe, though he'd never seen a nigger's toe, severed or otherwise. He didn't want to think about niggers, though, so he thought about toes instead, wriggling his own inside his boots and kind of laughing to himself: This little piggy went to market... this little piggy went to town.. .and this little piggie went wee wee wee, all the way -

Inside the bottle, eight long furry legs snapped out from the spider's round black body. The dead bug started moving. It scuttled across the floor of the bottle, legs scraping glass, body twisting in a crazy circle.

Reno nearly gasped, instantly hating himself for reacting at all. Christ, it wasn't like he hadn't seen this happen before. But he'd been sure, sure that the bug was dead for good this time. After all, the damn thing hadn't moved in a week, no matter how many times the freak picked up the damn bottle, no matter how many times the scarred-up bastard stared through the glass with his one gleaming eye trained on the dead thing and —

No. Reno didn't want to think about the freak's eye...mostly because he didn't want to find that eye staring at him.

So he ignored the sound of the dead spider's legs ticking against the walls of the bottle, and he ignored the delighted little giggle that spilled over the freak's lips, and he grabbed the new issue of Life Magazine off the table and opened it up.

He flipped past a couple ads, stared down at Roger Maris. Flipped the page. Stared at a platinum blonde movie star. Flipped again. Tried to read about President Eisenhower.

But he couldn't read.

He was too busy listening to the dead spider scuttling around inside the bottle, too busy hearing the freak's slobbery little giggle.

Reno tried thinking of other sounds. Sounds he'd hear in a place he'd like to be. Ice cubes rattling in hurricane glasses. Quiet music on a juke box — a good Julie London ballad. Yeah. And add a woman's laughter to that, because a woman's laughter would fit right in with those sounds.

Reno pictured a place he liked to visit whenever he hit Vegas, a friendly club where he could get himself an ice-cold beer and sit in a corner booth and look at people who had the requisite number of arms, legs, and eyes. That was where he should be right now. In that club. Not here, babysitting the freak. Coley and Hector should be stuck here. That was the way it should be, because Reno was supposed to be the boss of this outfit. But there was no way he could give orders to those two jackasses. Coley was just plain stupid and Hector always screwed up on purpose, just to get out of doing any work at all.

Hector's attitude wasn't surprising, seeing as how he'd been such a big shot in Korea with his sniper rifle and the special privileges that he was always bragging about. Reno didn't mind Hector's bragging, really. He didn't mind the former G.I.'s war stories, either, except for the fact that Hector could never finish a story without getting in a dig at Reno.

Reno didn't like that. It wasn't his fault that he couldn't get into the army. He'd tried. He had two strong arms and two good legs, and he hated the gooks almost as much as he hated niggers and Mexicans. And he didn't buy all that stuff the army docs told him about his heart. After all, the army took Cash, and Cash was Reno's twin brother, wasn't he? So the two of them had to have the same heart, didn't they?

The docs claimed that it didn't always work that way. Reno figured that they had to be wrong. Hector agreed with him, though Reno couldn't figure out why Hector held it against him when it was so obviously the fault of the army doctors.

So Hector was a smart ass when it came to work, but Coley was even worse. He was big and stupid with tiny black eyes and oily black hair that looked like it had been cut by a drunken sailor. He got everything balled up mostly because getting things balled up was his fate.

Like the time Reno sent Coley to the Vegas Public Library with a list of books that the freak wanted. Christ, imagine an Indian —a full-blooded Navajo, for chrissakes — who liked to read Westerns, and Reno was expected to get him everything he wanted anytime the screwed up headcase asked. That's how it was with the freak.

Anyway, Coley complained that he didn't know anything about libraries, and Reno told him, "Listen, you big dope, all you have to do is hand the list to a librarian and follow her around while she finds the books." With that, Coley agreed that the mission sounded simple enough.

Right. Several hours later Coley returned to the adobe empty-handed, muttering something about forgetting Reno's library card. When Reno asked the big dope why he didn't just get a card of his own, Coley went all red and explained that he couldn't fill out the application because he couldn't write anything besides his name, and he didn't know the address for the middle of nowhere, anyway.

Even Reno could forgive that last mistake. The big adobe was in the middle of nowhere. Its thick, cool walls stood a good hundred miles outside of Vegas with nothing nearby but sand and dirt and scrub brush that no one even noticed because it was much nicer to look up at the blue sky instead. Not that the sky was always blue — sometimes the evening light would filter in an odd way and the horizon would turn purple, or orange, or as yellow as a cartoon canary. Sometimes clouds would roll in like big fists and sand and mountains and sky would turn as dark as slate, as black as....

Reno shook his head. If the guys could hear him thinking like this, all poetic and soft. Hector would crack wise and Coley would start up with that doggy laughter of his. Like this morning, when they'd played the last hand.

Hector had spread his blackjack on the table and Coley had set his sixteen next to it, Reno all the while staring down at the four he was showing as dealer and wishing that the face-down king of hearts would transform itself into a seven of any suit before he took a hit.

"C'mon," Coley said. "You know the rules...you got to hit it."

Reno told him to shut up. His fingers found the first card. His brain told him that he still had a chance of beating Coley out for the shotgun seat in the Jeep. He flipped the card onto the table and his gaze froze upon the Jack of clubs.

That's when Coley's doggy laughter started up. "You're the farmer! You get to tend the vegetable!"

Reno slapped the table. "If I've told you once. I've told you a million times: he's not a vegetable, you idiot. Vegetables don't think. They don't walk around, and they don't read goddamn Louis L'Amour books."

Hector grabbed Reno's arm. "Yeah, but they listen pretty good, don't they?"

Their eyes met. Reno backed down, embarrassed by his outburst. He hated to make mistakes — and mouthing off with the freak in the next room was certainly a mistake — but most of all he hated to make mistakes in front of Hector.

After a long moment. Hector let go of Reno's arm and grinned at fat Coley. "Looks like we two boys mosey into Vegas, don't it?"

"Sure does." Coley laughed. "And Reno stays put, 'cause Reno is the farmer."

Reno shook with rage, and Hector gave him a concerned glance. "God, the boy's gone all peaked," Hector said. "I do believe he's a tad jumpy about tending the veg all by his lonesome."

"Yeah, he's a-scared! Just like when he took his army physical and his heart went all wild." Coley drummed his fists on his big chest. “Pitty-pat! Pitty-pat!"

Reno tossed the cards at Coley's laughing face. "I'll talk to my father about you, you big ape. The old man will bury you when he hears about the things you just said."

"Now, now." Hector's voice was smooth, conciliatory. "Coley was just joking. Don't get yourself all worked up, Reno. You know what the docs said about getting yourself all worked up."

There it was, and that was it. They'd left him sitting there, alone. By that time, Reno was just as happy to see them go.

Reno wasn't happy about it now, though. To tell the truth, he didn't much like being alone with the freak. It wasn't that he was a coward, but he had to admit that his uneasiness did have something to do with fear, though not the kind of fear that Hector talked about. And now, with the dead spider scrambling around again, it was ten times worse than usual, because it made Reno remember all those crazy things his father said about the freak, and Cash, and that other guy who had been with them in Korea.

When Coley and Hector were in the adobe, the freak blended into the woodwork. But it was different when Reno was alone with the scarred-up bastard. On those occasions the freak had a way of filling up a room, and Reno couldn't help noticing how screwed up the guy was. He couldn't help but remember the stories that Hector and Coley told about him, either. They said that the freak had been just another regular guy —even though he was an Injun —before he got his ass blown up in Korea.

Reno stared at the armless thing. He couldn't think of "it" as a man because he knew that the freak didn't have any balls.

The freak didn't notice Reno, just stared at the spider, tapping the bottle every now and then with the big toe of its right foot. The freak's left foot was plastic, as was its left leg from the knee down. Reno made himself look at the freak's lone eye, the one "normal" thing in its hideous face. Gold as the eye of a cat or a lizard, the eye nestled in a patch of dark tissue below the peculiar fishhook-shaped scar that rimmed the freak's caved-in brow.

Reno felt his breath coming faster. He stared at the empty eye socket jammed with cotton on the other side of the prim little mound of flesh that passed for the freak's nose; the wisps of jet-black hair on a scalp once tanned but now scarred and pasty, as ugly and unnatural as hair growing on an eggshell.

Finally, Reno looked away, but looking away didn't help much. Reno couldn't escape the sound of the freak's toe-tapping, or the empty whisper of sucking inhalations and exhalations passing through the freak's sagging mouth.

Reno stood up too quickly, nearly tripping over his chair. He dropped the Life Magazine on the floor. He needed something. A beer. Some noise. In the kitchen, he helped himself to a cold brew and downed half of it while he fiddled with Hector's radio. It was one of those transistorized portable jobs that the Japs were making. He gave up soon enough — nigger jump music that hissed from the tiny speaker made him long for the music of the Dorsey Brothers and Benny Goodman.

Reno sipped his beer. He listened to it fizz.

He listened to the freak breathing, the spider scrabbling.

He wondered if the spider was thirsty. Christ, he didn't want to think about that.

He didn't want to think.

There was always the television. His old man had bought it after Reno complained of boredom. It was only a crummy RCA knockoff, but if you got the rabbit ears just right it worked pretty well.

It was Friday night. That meant Life of Riley and Our Miss Brooks.

Reno figured he could use a good laugh.

But the television was in the living room, along with the freak.

Reno grinned. Living room, that was a laugh, with that half-dead thing in there. God, he was sick of this. The freak. The desert. Coley and Hector. It was just like his father to saddle him with all this, and just like Cash to go along with the old man even though he knew that Reno hated the idea of being so far from home.

Reno downed his beer, tossed the tin can in the sink, and got another. He thought about the TV, sitting right across from the table where the freak sat. There were leaves for that table, and they could provide some distance from the freak. But those leaves were buried under Hector's guns and helmet and other army junk in a closet down the hall, and the table was so short now that a big slob like Coley could barely fit his fat bulk between its legs.

Reno downed the second beer. Silly, that's how he felt, like he used to feel when he was a kid and went to those pictures with Boris Karloff doing Frankenstein. He didn't like those pictures much, because they made him squirm so that he couldn't even eat his popcorn. The Mexican kids — the ones who could actually afford to go to the movies, anyway —had always teased him about that. He'd called them the usual names, but he'd known all along that they were right, because usually he ended up carrying the bucket home with him and eating the popcorn cold, soggy with butter.

The second beer can rang hollowly against the bottom of the sink. It rolled back and forth and then settled. Reno listened to the toe tapping, the labored breathing.

A chill capered over his spine.

Oh, brother. If Hector and Coley could see me now.

Reno sucked down the beginnings of another beer and almost tasted cold popcorn soggy with butter. Jesus. He wasn't a kid. Sure, he hadn't been to Korea, but that didn't mean he was scared. He was as much of a man as Cash or Coley or Hector. Just because some weird gimp was making him remember that he used to be a little punk who had nightmares about Boris Karloff stomping around in elevator boots, that didn't mean he was scared.

Reno checked out the fridge. There was salami and cheese and mustard and a loaf of rye. He fixed himself a big Dagwood sandwich. It wasn't what he wanted, wasn't really what he needed to prove to himself that he wasn't a kid anymore, but there wasn't any popcorn in the adobe.

He walked into the living room and stopped short of the table.

The freak looked up at him. Its head lolled to the side.

Reno shivered. The bastard’s inviting me to sit down!

Jesus! Reno was sweating now. Slowly, he walked down the hall, back to Hector's room, as if that's where he had intended to go all along. He sat down on Hector's bed and gulped beer.

His heart was pounding.

He heard Coley's voice: “Pitty-pat! Pitty-pat!"

"Calm down," he whispered to himself. "You're not scared of any damned freak Injun, and you don't have a bad heart." He closed his eyes. That was the way things were. They had to be that way. Because if he was truly scared, and if he did have a bad heart, maybe being scared could kill him. And if he died here and now, alone with the freak, then his fate would be sealed. He'd be just another —

Reno sprang from the bed and opened Hector's closet. He pawed beneath a stack of army manuals on demolition work, snatched up a .45 and headed back to the living room. He set the .45 and the beer and the sandwich on the table, but the freak didn't look up. Reno clicked on the TV and turned the sound way up. He heard the tubes fizz warm and watched the black screen brighten. By the time he pulled a chair up to the table, the screen was bright and the little speaker was vibrating with some raspy pitch for safety-razor blades.

Reno took a big bite of sandwich and chased it with beer. The commercial was set to some silly jingle designed to stay in people's heads, but it wasn't quite loud enough to eclipse the sound of the freak's breathing. Reno almost complained, but the freak didn't seem aware of his presence.

Reno decided that, on the whole, that was a good thing.

A bell sounded. Reno turned to the TV. A big white guy came out of a corner, dodged, double-hooked, and drove an equally big black guy against the ropes.

"All right!" Reno said around a mouthful of salami and cheese and rye. "Get him! Get him!"

The white guy was doing just that. It was a fierce fight, but it struck Reno as funny, because the announcers kept talking about the guy in the black trunks, and that was the white guy, and the guy in the white trunks, and that was the black guy. Reno thought that was so damn funny that he could hardly contain himself. He'd been watching the news and reading the papers lately — mostly out of boredom—and all this stuff about civil rights was strictly for the birds as far as he was concerned. In fact, he thought that it would be a pretty good idea to fill a boat with every mouthy nigger —

The punch came out of nowhere. The white guy went down, and a sharp little gasp sounded from the other side of the table.

Reno turned. The freak's golden eye was glued to the tube like there was nothing else in the world, glued to the white guy on the canvas with a look of pure excitement.

And then the freak did something very strange. His twisted facial muscles and managed to pull back his slack lips, and he grinned.

Reno shivered. Then, just as suddenly, he was filled with rage, because this was as twisted as it got as far as Reno was concerned. This freak Injun was so screwed in the head that he could smile at a white guy lying on the canvas with blood leaking out of his mouth and a big nigger standing over him.

It was pure stone-cold sick, was what it was.

The freak looked away from the TV and stared at the Coke bottle, but it wasn't like he saw anything. Not the dead spider or anything else. In fact, he looked like he was far away, somewhere else.

The spider dashed an inch or two, as far away from the freak as it could get.

Reno slammed his fist down on the table. The bottle fell over. Playing cards jumped, and so did the plate and the sandwich and the beer and Hector's pistol.

The freak's foot jumped, too.

The golden eye stared up at Reno, blinking, cringing.

Reno grabbed the Coke bottle, ready to break it open, ready to gut the freak with the jagged neck. But the TV announcers were barking the winner's name, and the freak was breathing faster now, and the spider was scuttling over the glass, just above his fingers.

Reno glanced at the screen and saw that the white guy was still lying on the canvas. It didn't matter to him anymore —what mattered now was the freak.

Behind him, the freak had fallen silent.

Reno turned off the television and set the bottle on top of it.

He watched as the spider curled up and died.

Again.

Then and there, Reno decided to kill the freak.

That had been the answer all along. Reno smiled for the first time in months. Once the freak was dead, he could go back home. He wouldn't have to live with Hector and Coley anymore. He could move back into the big house at Citrus Cove and live with his father and Cash and he wouldn't have to put up with Hector's shit ever again.

Reno snatched up the bottle. This was going to be fun.

He heard a sharp click behind him. The sound of a pistol being cocked.

Reno whirled and saw the pistol. The freak had it propped against his plastic foot, and he had the middle toe of his right foot curled around the trigger.

"Surprise," said the freak.

Reno's heart pounded. He looked from the gun to the freak's golden eye, and a sharp pain ran up his arm and exploded in his chest.

"Damn doctors," he gasped, really hurting, grabbing for his heart.

And then the first bullet took him hard in the chest, and the pain went away.

But not forever.

Chapter Two

Joe Ryan smashed an elbow against the Cadillac's passenger-door window. The glass shattered and collapsed in one big hunk onto the driver's seat, the shards held together with strips of the same gummy tape that Joe's trainer used to wrap his hands.

Joe stared down at the glass. Just like me, he thought. Busted up good but still in one piece.

Joe brushed a few stray slivers of glass away from the sill of the door. After the beating he'd taken tonight in the ring, he was through with boxing. He felt good about his decision. No more left hooks hitting his jaw. Not ever. No more five-mile runs before the sun came up, and no more evenings spent sweating off extra weight in a sauna and no more missing an offered beer. And definitely no more getting busted up for short money.

There were easier ways to make a living, even thought they might involve a certain element of risk different than the risks associated with stepping into a boxing ring. Those kinds of risks went hand in hand with shattered glass. Joe knew that, but he also knew that there was no future in lying flat on his back in a boxing ring, knocked out as cold as cold could be.

The weird part of it was that he couldn't even remember the fight at all. The reporters had said that he'd been winning until the other guy caught him with a lucky left hook. Joe had stood up to that; he didn't have the chin of a Marciano, but his chin was pretty good. The problem was that the hook had been followed by a stream of combinations that Joe's trainer had described in a voice that was both awed and reverential. "Jesus, the kid was faster than Robinson. It was like you wasn't quite human, taking a beating like you took in there tonight. You got hit with everything. The kid was even throwing right leads. And then he trapped you on the ropes and started throwing double-right leads, every punch hittin' the mark...."

Joe felt his jaw and tried to think of it as the portion of his anatomy that allowed him to masticate a good steak and not as "the mark." It was good to think that way, because it proved that he still had his head screwed on straight, even though he couldn't remember the fight or where his head had been while his body had been taking a hellacious beating. But he wasn't too brave for his own good, that was for sure. He wasn't like those guys who didn't know when it was time to hang up the gloves. He wasn't going to take any unnecessary chances.

Joe Ryan had already taken enough chances for one lifetime. Maybe two. Unlocking the Caddy, he hoped that the man upstairs wouldn't mind him taking one more.

A glance over his shoulder told him that none of the casino patrons were paying him the slightest bit of attention, and there wasn't a parking attendant or security man in sight. Joe scooped the broken glass off the seat and slipped behind the wheel.

His head throbbed. His teeth felt like little rocks that had been hammered into his jaw. He wrapped his fingers around the wheel, barely able to feel the cool, smooth surface. His fingers were swollen and purple, like raw sausages. Christ, he must have hit the kid plenty to end up with hands that looked like that. But he couldn't remember any of it, and that scared him.

But what scared him even more was the one thing that he did remember.

He remembered the Darkroom.

Joe's first trainer, the old pug who launched him as a pro before Joe marched off to Korea, had told him about the Darkroom. "You take a good wallop someday, and it's like that punch didn't hit you at all. It's like your opponent reached out and opened a door and then shoved you inside a room that's all full up with shadows. And you stagger around in there, still throwin' punches even though you're in the black, black dark, because you know that there's stuff in that room that's tryin' to get you. And you don't really want to see that stuff. Take my word on that, because what's in that Darkroom is just about everything that you've ever been scared of in your whole life. So you just keep punching, but you can't keep all those things off a you forever, and it's almost a relief when you start to wake up. That's when those things climb all over you, puttin' you out of your misery, and roll you out of that room and back into the ring."

Joe shivered at the memory, knowing that he didn't have time for it now. His aching fingers groped beneath the dashboard and found the ignition wires. He tried to keep his mind on the task at hand, but he was still woozy, and his thoughts kept drifting.

It was nice lying on the seat of the car. Comfy, even. Maybe he could just put his head down, rest for a minute....

Joe closed his eyes. He hadn't thought about the Darkroom since Korea, since the hell he'd faced on Hill 29. He remembered the explosive concussion of Chinese mortars and the feel of frozen Korean earth blasting up in his face.

The shell had opened a hole between Bearchild and Cash that swallowed the two soldiers. The force of the blast had sent Joe flying straight up into the air, where he tumbled for too many seconds, flopping and flailing like a wounded bird. Then he descended through the smoke and dropped into the hole, landing between his buddies. Joe had looked at those guys and then he'd wished that he hadn't, because they looked like bloody lumps. Cash's nose had been blown clean off and he was grinning like a drunk. Bearchild was much worse, and Joe had reached out to take his friend's hand, only to find that neither the hand nor the arm was attached to Bearchild anymore. Bearchild's mouth was open in a scream that Joe couldn't hear because his ears were full of empty sounds, like big, angry combers hitting a beach. He'd looked away then, up at the sky, and watched a cloud of iron-gray smoke descend over the hole.

Lying in that hole, he had remembered his trainer's words, and he'd imagined that the thick smoke was the door of the Darkroom. Then he'd heard the screams of the medics, and they'd actually trampled him in their rush to get at Bearchild.

He couldn't remember the rest of it. Not now. He didn't want to remember the rest of it, because somehow the memory was fresher, starker and riper than it had been before.

The creak of a car door opening brought Joe around. Someone climbed into a Buick that was parked against the Caddy's nose. The door slammed. Joe sat up, startled, suddenly wondering where he was. He was happy when the Buick's owner keyed the ignition and turned on the headlights. The piercing bright lights cleaned the images of the bomb hole and the iron-gray cloud from his mind.

The Buick just sat there and idled. Joe squinted into the lights. He didn't have to squint too much because one of his eyes was already swollen shut. He imagined the other driver lighting a cig and looking up, then coughing the smoke right out of his mouth when he saw the battered face behind the Caddy's spotless windshield.

The Buick's engine revved a few times. The driver hadn't noticed a thing. Joe got back to work, thankful for the glowing headlights. They made his job easier. He fumbled open the penknife that he'd borrowed from his cut man, stripped the ignition wires, twisted them as best he could, and started the Caddy.

The engine coughed and rumbled.

Joe grinned, his lips numb, his gums aching.

He flipped on the headlights and looked at the glowing dashboard.

The gas gauge needle hung a rat's whisker above empty.

Joe slammed the steering wheel and pain jolted through his bruised hand.

Just my luck, he thought.

That's what it was. That's the way things had been going for years. Just his luck to lose a sure thing fight against a kid who wasn't even supposed to have a punch, a fight on which he'd bet his entire purse because he hadn't known that it was going to be the fight that he finished in the Darkroom. And then, flat broke, he'd picked a Caddy to steal, because everyone knew that high rollers drove Caddies, and everyone knew that high rollers could afford to live free and easy. They were the guys who told waiters to "bring the whole bottle." They told desk clerks to "make it a suite," and they told gas monkeys to "fill her up."

Joe watched the gas gauge, but it didn't budge.

Just my luck. A mortar blows up in my face, and I don't get much more than a scratch, minus the bruises from a gangly medic’s size fourteens. But that was the end of my luck. That was my share. And now only the bad stuff is left. Trips to the Darkroom. Empty gas tanks. Busted up hands....

Nothing to be done about it now. There were other cars, and Joe still had half a roll of tape, and he still wanted out of this town. And if the next car blew a tire or busted down on him, as he figured it would, why then he always had his thumb. With the way his eye looked, he figured he could claim that he'd been in an accident and get a hitch on the strength of some tourist's pity. That might be better, anyway, because Joe still felt woozy from the beating and wasn't sure that he should be driving at all.

Maybe he could get a lift with the guy in the Buick. It was worth a try.

Joe licked his teeth, tasting the blood from a dozen tiny cuts inside his mouth. He worked up a good one and spit at the gas gauge, then looked up from the dash.

The Buick was gone. In its place hung an iron-gray cloud of exhaust fumes.

Joe stared at the cloud.

He saw the bomb crater in Korea.

He saw the door to the Darkroom.

He shrank back against the seat.

Get a grip, Ryan, he told himself. Jesus Christ, get a grip.

He'd gone all sweaty. His foot was pressing hard on the clutch and his calf muscle was starting to cramp. He let out the clutch and the Caddy jumped forward and died. Joe bit his lip, hard, because the jerking motion made him feel like he'd taken another punch.

He knew it was just crazy fear. Punch-drunk looniness. But he also knew — deep down knew — that he was looking at the door to the Darkroom, and he didn't want that door to open for him, not again, because he knew very suddenly where that room was located. It was somewhere under a bomb crater in Korea, and there was always mortar fire above it and fresh dirt sluicing into it as if it were a grave for him and Cash McGrath and the guy they just called Bearchild.

On this very night a young kid's fist had hammered him through space and time and sent him to that hunk of dark Korean countryside.

He didn't want to make a second trip.

Joe's swollen fingers found the door release.

He opened the door and stepped out of the car and into the hot, dry darkness.

Before him, hinges made of smoke whispered his name.

Just ahead, weightless iron swirled and parted.

The door opened, and Joe Ryan recognized the man who stepped out of the Darkroom.

Chapter Three

The beat-up guy said, "For a second, I thought that you were Cash."

"Yeah. We're identical twins, you know." Reno shifted from third to second and pulled up short at a stoplight. "Well, we were identical, at least until Cash got his face blown to hell over there in Korea. We don't look much alike anymore."

The boxer looked shocked. Reno had to grin at that. It felt good to get a rise out of a tough guy, even better to get in a dig at the brother he'd never dared to criticize before tonight. Suddenly, Reno felt like a new man, like a guy who had nothing to lose. Maybe the freak was right. Maybe things would be different now, because a guy who had nothing to lose didn't have to be afraid. He could say anything that he wanted and never worry about the consequences.

The desert breeze toyed with the hanging stoplight. Reno watched it swing back and forth on the wire, as smooth and even a movement as that of a pendulum.

It was stupid, putting a stoplight in the middle of all this neon and expecting people to notice it. Reno shook his head. It was almost as stupid as being the way he was and still paying attention to stoplights. The last thing he had to worry about now was getting killed in a smash-up.

"It's not that I hate my brother," Reno said, watching the red light. "But he did get all the breaks. He was the firstborn son, if only by a handful of minutes. And then he became the big war hero and everything. Our daddy —Big Jake everybody calls him—just loved that war hero stuff. Cash practically got the old man reelected, single-handedly."

The boxer didn't say anything.

Reno tapped his chest. "It wasn't my fault that I missed out on Korea. Bad ticker. It doesn't make much sense to me, though. I mean, Cash and I are twins, right? And Cash's heart is okay, right? So it just doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense."

"That's tough," the boxer said, then added, "Light's green."

Reno hit the gas, hard. "Jeez, I wouldn't think you could see it. That black bastard had one hell of a right hook, didn't he? He swelled up your eye real good. Fact is, you look almost as squinty as a gook." He stepped on the clutch and shifted, feeling good, not the least bit worried that the big bum would cuff him for his smart remark.

A couple of days ago, Reno would have cringed if a guy like Joe Ryan had even raised a hand to smooth his hair. He certainly wouldn't have given a pro boxer any lip, no matter how torn up the guy was. But now things were different. Really different. He wasn't sure exactly how different, but the part that he could understand felt good in his gut. The rest, the questions, he'd have to save for later.

There were many questions, some more pressing than others. For instance, Reno wondered if he could still feel pain. The freak hadn't said anything about that. Maybe he didn't know. He couldn't know as much as Cash did, because no way could the freak have had as much practice at this game as Reno's own brother.

Then Reno realized that the gunshot wound in his chest wasn't hurting him at all.

One answer down, boyo.

Reno grinned. There were other questions, but he'd worry about them later. Right now he felt like talking, and this Joe Ryan character — beat up as he was — couldn't do much besides listen.

"Anyway, Cash got all the breaks," Reno said. "After the plastic surgeons got done with his face. Big Jake put him in charge of the farm. They set up a pretty nice operation, made big plans. Then they got hold of the freak —your old buddy, Bearchild. Cash said that Bearchild had figured out a thing or two — I guess he's a little smarter than you are — and that we had to keep a tight rein on him so he wouldn't go pissin' in our pot, so to speak. Anyway, I got stuck with the job. They shipped us out to the desert—Cash said he wanted us to be somewhere where we couldn't get into trouble. He definitely wanted the freak off in the boonies, away from other people, knowing the stuff that he could do." He sighed. "Believe me, babysitting a freak isn't my idea of fun. I'm glad that we saw you on the TV tonight, because the freak is really hot for a reunion. That's fine with me. I don't like being around that thing alone, even now, even after—"

"Look," the boxer said softly, "Bearchild saved my ass a couple of times. I really wish that you wouldn't talk about him like that."

"Huh?"

"Calling him a freak and all. He's no freak. He's a man."

Reno smirked. What a feeb, this guy, all polite and nice. About as tough as a baby's butt. Not tough like Cash, and not tough like the freak.

No, Ryan wasn't tough like that. He was a loser. Reno had seen that as plain as plain could be, in black and white, on television. The guy lying flat on his back, not even moving, blood trickling out of his nose. Like he was dead or something. Knocked out by a nigger. A nigger. A guy who'd killed all those gooks for Uncle Sam, and he comes home and starts getting all soft about freaks and niggers and everything else, and the next things he knows he gets knocked flat on his back because he's stopped looking out for himself and started in on the worry beads with prayers for stray kitties and gimpy orphans and all manner of happy horseshit.

Reno edged the next light, hitting the gas just as it turned from yellow to red. This guy Ryan was starting to bug him. But Ryan didn't say a word. The guy was quiet as a martyr who'd had his tongue carved out of his head. The Jeep sped onto the highway, and soon the dry wind was whipping through the cab and they couldn't have talked anymore without shouting, anyway.

Reno switched to brights and headed for the adobe. This deal wasn't going to be so bad, after all. Sure, he'd have to follow the freak's orders, but hadn't he spent his entire life following orders in a vain attempt to please his father? At least things would be different with the freak. At least now he could speak his mind. No one could keep him from doing that, ever again. Not even the freak.

The warm wind gusted through the cab, spitting grains of sand into Reno's eyes, but the sand didn't even make him blink. He held the wheel steady with one knee while he zipped up his coat. He didn't want it to blow open and expose his wound.

He didn't want Joe Ryan to see the bloodstains on his shirt or the big hole in his chest.

Not yet. The freak had told him to save the surprise, and that was just what he'd do.

Reno glanced over at Ryan. The big boxer hugged himself, shivering despite the warm evening breeze, cringing every time the Jeep hit a bump. He looked bad, all bruised and swollen, and Reno couldn't understand why people looked up to bums like this guy just because they laced on gloves and climbed into a boxing ring. They got beat up, just like anyone else. They felt pain, and they paid for that pain, too.

They weren't supermen.

"You know, you look a lot bigger on television," Reno yelled, and then he laughed.

Joe Ryan shivered again, not even bothering to look up. Reno kept on laughing, running his hand over his coat so he could feel the big bullet wound in his chest. He fingered red fabric into the hole and wiggled his busted ribs back and forth, all without a whimper. Then his fingers dug deeper, found the ruined hunk of flesh that had once been his biggest liability.

Pitty-pat! Pitty-pat! he thought, squeezing hard.

There wasn't any pain. Not a whisper.

If Hector and Coley could see him now....

Reno glanced at the boxer. Ryan was rocking back and forth, fighting an army of aches and pains. The guy was pathetic. A weakling, crying over a few bumps and bruises.

Not like Reno, who didn't whimper even though he had a hole in his chest that had been dug by a .45 slug.

Yes, indeed. This had to be the way a superman felt.

Reno hit the gas and passed three cars, and then he stuck to the left lane just for grins. Bright lights hung heavy before him from a long way off, but he didn't budge. Not when he heard the blast of an air-horn. Not when he saw the grille of the truck.

Not until he heard the scream of airbrakes, the whine of a downshifting engine.

He veered back into the proper lane just as the big rig jackknifed before him. It went over in the dirt at the side of the road and Reno didn't even look back. His hands didn't shake, and his gut didn't squirm, and he didn't sweat a drop.

Reno sucked a breath of night air, heard it hiss out of the hole in his left lung.

It wasn't going to be so bad after all, this being dead stuff.

A Few Recommendations

Not much commentary on this one, since it's not a story. This piece is a chapter I contributed for an HWA book on writing horror, entitled (surprisingly enough) Writing Horror, which was edited by Mort Castle.

There are several good essays in that book, and I'd heartily recommend it to any writer looking to get a start in the horror genre. While I'm at it, I'll mention a few other books that are definitely worth a look: Stephen King's On Writing and David Morrell's Lessons from a Lifetime of Writing: a Novelist Looks at his Craft. Also worth your time (but of a little older vintage) are How to Write Tales of Horror, Fantasy and Science Fiction edited by J. N. Williamson, and How to Write Horror Fiction by William F. Nolan. And if you'd like to get some opinions from a talented writer who's definitely served his time in the trenches, seek out Tom Piccirilli's Welcome to Hell: a Working Guide for the Beginning Writer. Piccirilli's book is short and concise, and it will give you a no-bullshit approach to getting started in the business.

You might also want to check out the work of Stanley Wiater, who has edited several books that focus on horror writers and the genre itself. Stan's especially noted for his fine interviews, and I've learned quite a bit reading them over the years.

Now I'll upset all the folks I just mentioned by suggesting that you try borrowing these books from your local public library before you run out and buy them. As far as I'm concerned, a library card is every aspiring writer's best friend...and the friend of his checkbook, too.

DR. FRANKENSTEIN’S SECRETS OF STYLE

Okay. Since you're a prospective horror writer, I'm sure you're familiar with our old buddy Dr. Frankenstein. You've read Mary Shelley's classic novel, maybe a few anthologies chock full of Frankensteinian stories, and you've seen those old movies, too.

There's a scene in most of those movies. One that I love. Where the good doctor's son, or grandson, or granddaughter, or (better yet) some conniving interloper invades the doc's dusty old castle and finds a big thick book entitled Dr. Victor Frankenstein's Secrets of Life and Death, which naturally spares the prospective mad scientist a whole bunch of hair-tearing, grief, and anguish when it comes to learning the fine art of monster-making.

When it comes to developing a writing style, I doubt that I can be as helpful as the good doc was with his dusty tome. But I'll try.

First off, let's make like Victor Frankenstein and conduct an experiment. Here's what you do: get yourself down to the local book emporium. Ignore the cappuccino bar and the dessert counter and all those celebrity "autobiographies" penned by ghostwriters. What you're looking for is the horror section. You've been there before, haven't you? Sure...I'll bet a big wad of green money that you have. Otherwise you wouldn't be reading this book.

Okay. Mission accomplished. You're standing in front of several rows of books with black spines dripping bloody red lettering. I know you've read many of these titles already, so here's what I want you to do: select several you've missed, but make sure they're written by authors you've read before. Some of those "big names" we're all familiar with.

Buy those books. Take them home.

Lock the doors. Close the drapes. Just like Dr. Frankenstein getting down to the business of serious experimentation, you don't want anyone to know what you're about to do.

Place the books on a table in front of you. Now comes the hard part. But remember —you're doing it the way Dr. Frankenstein did. In the name of science and knowledge. Remember, too, that if nothing else the good doctor was certainly adept at dissection.

One by one, snatch up those books. Rip off the covers.

Title pages too. Peel the spine. Then find a thick black felt-tip pen (I recommend Marks-A-Lot). Cross out any further mention of the author's name —page headers, bio section, whatever.

Now...sit down and start reading. Maybe the first chapter of each book, maybe less. Again, I'll pull out my wad of green money, and I'll bet that you can tell the Stephen King books from those written by Dean R. Koontz just as easily as you can identify an Anne Rice or Peter Straub novel.

You want to know why?

King, Koontz, Rice, and Straub all have discernible styles, that's why.

Of course, the aforementioned quartet of bestselling authors has been at this game a little longer than you have. They developed their respective styles through countless hours of hard work.

Work on short stories and novels, that is. Telling story after story, getting each one down on paper, typing "The End" time and time again. Learning what works and what doesn't by trial and error. Even learning unconsciously. Because, let's face it, no beginning writer sits down at the good ol' word processor and says, "Forget all that story and plot junk...today I'm going to develop a style."

Well, maybe someone has tried that. Actually, I wouldn't doubt it. But I'm still holding that green money, and I'll bet that any misguided boob who attempted such an endeavor failed miserably.

Because your writing style comes from within. In fact, you've probably already got it, or at least a good chunk of it. You just don't know about it yet. But maybe I can help you find it...or at least show you where to look.

All you'll need is a shovel and a stout heart.

Now, follow me to the cemetery...

Here we are. Cool fog raising gooseflesh on your arms. The full moon shining up above. Gnarled branches scratching the night sky. A forest of marble monuments and granite headstones looming before you.

You recognize the scene, don't you? Sure you do. Any horror writer worth his salt recognizes Dr. Frankenstein's favorite bone garden. Just as you remember why the good doctor invariably makes the cemetery his first stop.

It's the mad scientist's very first rule — if you’re gonna make a monster, you're gonna need parts.

Creating a writing style isn't much different. Just as the Frankenstein Monster is a crazy quilt of dear-departed humanity, your writing style is an amalgam of influences. Which is why you must read —and read widely— if you want to write.

Mad scientists open graves. Writers open books.

I knew this from the start, long before I ever became serious about publishing my fiction. I worked for several years in the local public library, during which time I read the very best the horror genre had to offer. From Poe to Bradbury, from Matheson to King and on through Lansdale and Schow, I absorbed the lessons of those who labored in Dr. Frankenstein's cemetery long before I ever picked up my shovel.

But I also learned a great deal from writers in completely unrelated genres. For me, crime writers were a big influence in developing every element of my work. I learned a great deal about, mood from writers who specialize in crime noir. And when it comes to pace and plot, I found my best teachers in writers such as Elmore Leonard, John D. MacDonald, and Dan J. Marlowe.

I didn't confine my reading to novels, either. I found anthologies especially valuable. In the space of a single anthology. I'd invariably be exposed to as many styles as there were stories. Not all of them were successful or effective, of course. But sometimes it's just as important to learn what doesn't work as what does work...and why.

Now, please don't get the impression that I'm telling you to imitate other writers, especially when it comes to style. I certainly wouldn't advise you to do that.

But I'd be less than honest if I didn't tell you that a certain amount of imitation is unavoidable. Especially for a writer who's just starting out. H. P. Lovecraft's early work strongly echoes Poe. Other Lovecraft stories strongly recall the tales of Lord Dunsany. Robert Bloch began his career as a student of H. P. Lovecraft, only to evolve into one of the finest psychological suspense writers of his generation. Ramsey Campbell also followed in Lovecraft's footsteps, publishing Cthulhu mythos-inspired fiction as a teenager. But Campbell didn't stop there. He continued to grow and evolve, and today he is one of the most original stylists in horror fiction. While Campbell is still more than capable of putting a twist on Lovecraftian themes, his style of writing is now thoroughly his own. In fact, these days more than a few young writers have begun their careers by imitating Ramsey Campbell.

So, consciously or unconsciously, every beginning writer imitates. Including me. Looking back, some of my early stories reflect stylistic influences that didn't quite pan out. Like "Body Bags," the Vietnam war horror story written as a first person account that dripped with passages of lush, Poe-like description which was completely inappropriate to the story's timeframe. Or the overblown fantasy-epic fight scenes which read like something written by Robert E. Howard on steroids. Or the "surprise ending" stories which certainly didn't make anyone forget the nasty punch-to-the-gut climaxes patented by Robert Bloch in his prime.

So I had my share of misfires, but the truth is that some of those imitative stories actually did work out. While compiling my short story collection, Bad Intentions, I was surprised to rediscover early tales written while I was obviously under the sway of writers as disparate as Dennis Etchison and Joe R. Lansdale. But reading those stories today is kind of like looking at a ten-year-old photograph of yourself. Sure, you recognize the guy in the picture, but the clothes he's wearing may surprise you!

So while a certain amount of imitation is necessary, in the final analysis it's just another way of developing your own creative filter, of learning what works and what doesn't. But it's certainly not the end of the process, and I'll tell you why.

No matter how high you aim, no matter how talented or successful or popular the writer you choose to emulate, you'll find that imitation is not only a dead end, it's also a trap.

Let me give you an example. In the early eighties, the horror field was booming. Stephen King enjoyed a huge popularity. Naturally, many writers set out to be "the next Stephen King." They wrote knockoffs of 'Salem's Lot, replacing King's vampires with zombies or werewolves. They wrote limpid apocalyptic "thrillers" which paled when compared to The Stand. Neighborhoods of haunted houses populated with Jack Torrance wannabe's sprang up, and it seemed that every high school class (in fiction, anyway) contained at least one telekinetic teenager meant to rival Carrie White.

Publishers jumped on these books, each one eager to create "another Stephen King." Because of this, some of the King clones had a pretty good run in the eighties, publishing one book after another while pulling down some pretty healthy paychecks.

Then the bottom fell out. The public caught on. "Why buy a King clone," they asked, "when the real thing is still going strong?" The clones stopped selling. Publishers lost money.

Many houses stopped buying horror novels entirely or cut their horror lines dramatically. The King clones, some of whom had become accustomed to healthy advances, suddenly couldn't sell their new novels. To this day, the horror novel market has not quite recovered from the glut of unoriginal fiction which appeared in the eighties.

Okay. You've been warned, and you're still determined to make a go of this mad scientist business. You're stitching your monster together, working every day.

You're reading. You're writing. You're putting in the time.

But you don't want to overdo it, especially when it comes to style. You're walking a fine line. A dash too much mood, an extra dollop of flowery description, and your horror stories will read like parodies. They'll invoke laughter rather than fright.

It's the "hey, Ma, look at me write" syndrome, and it's usually the result of over-polishing your prose.

One of the hardest things to learn as a writer is when to quit. Some beginners become so obsessed with making each story "perfect," each line of prose "deathless," that they sabotage their own fiction by revising it to death. And sabotage is not too strong a word. Because overblown description, multiple metaphors, and overused similes can wreak explosive destruction upon your tales of terror.

Too much of a good thing is indeed too much of a good thing. Remember that.

But also remember that even Dr. Frankenstein had his failures. That nasty bit of business with Igor and the abnormal brain, for example. But the good doc wasn't a quitter. When things didn't work out the way he'd planned, Victor Frankenstein always got out his shovel and headed back to the cemetery.

So don't give up. Put in the time. Write those stories. Read those books. Stitch that monster together.

One day he'll be stretched out on that slab before you, just like in the movies. You put him together — an experiment here, an influence there —but I think you'll find that he doesn't quite look like any of those things you made him from. He's no sum total of his parts, this guy. He's an original.

And just when you're ready to throw the switch and juice him with electricity he'll probably surprise you by sitting up and stalking off completely on his own. See, you've already done that—all the work you put in, that was the juice your monster needed. Your creative spark gave him life.

Just look at him.

You can even holler "It's alive! It's alive!" if you want to.

Because this monster's lookin' good, isn't he?

That's because he's got style.

A Word From the Editor[s]

So far you've heard a lot from me about the days when I was jump-starting a career in writing. I've told you how I approached the work itself, and how I set out to market it. Of course, everything I've said comes from my perspective.

I thought it might be interesting to check in with a few of the editors and publishers I've worked with over the years to see how things looked from their side of the fence. My purpose is not to present my own testimonial, but to give you an idea of how editorial priorities and preferences can match up with a writer's own creative sensibilities. Read these comments carefully and you'll see that editors and writers definitely match up that way—not to mention through similar attitudes about working itself (which is another way of saying that you'll sometimes find connecting with an editor is a matter of personalities, too).

Let's start off with Bill Schafer, overlord of Subterranean Press, and the fellow who published the book you're now holding in your hands. To tell the truth, I've lost track of exactly how many Sub Press projects I've worked on, so let's just say there have been many. Bill had this to say:

What kept me coming back to the Partridge well? I'll tell you....It starts with "Apotropaics," which I think is one of the most underrated stories of the '90s. In it, you've got a couple levels of horror going on, the deepest, subtlest, revealed at the end. It's not a trick story, but I remember rereading it immediately, to see if you'd played fair, and if I'd interpreted the horrors correctly. You did, I had, and I've been a Partridge junkie ever since.

The lesson there? Take care of your readers, folks. You never know which one of them might turn out to be your next publisher!

Next up is World Fantasy Award-winner Stephen Jones, a well-known writer and anthologist who's also been heavily involved in film and television over the years. Jones edits the annual series, The Best New Horror, and, like Ed Bryant, noticed my work early on. One reason we connected was a shared love of pulp fiction and pop culture, as you'll see in the following comments:

I guess it was probably my co-editor David Sutton who first brought your story "Return of the Shroud" to my attention. Dark Voices: The Pan Book of Horror was an entirely open paperback anthology series, and your elegant prose already had the power to lift the story out of the slush-pile, while the pulp-ish subject matter immediately appealed to my own love of that kind of storytelling... That same year (1992), Ramsey Campbell and I also selected your tale "Guignoir" for the third volume of our Best New Horror series. Once again, I loved the concept of the haunted car, the carnival background and the sly references to popular music and movies. The sparse writing style also gave the story a style all of its own that led with scalpel-like precision to the final, chilling, payoff.

Talking of haunted cars, I think I was the one who first picked "Spyder" for Dark Voices 6 (1994), the final volume in the series. By then I had read the original edition of your Bram Stoker Award-winning collection Mr Fox and Other Feral Tales and I was very aware of how assured you were becoming as a writer. For me, “Spyder" was very much a diptych with "Guignoir," especially with its show-business background. However, if anything, the writing had grown leaner and the telling had grown darker.

I have continued to read, and hugely enjoy, your short stories and novels, which have ranged from gonzo horrors to lounge-lizard detective mysteries. What attracts me to your work—besides such obvious concerns as the superior writing—is that I think we share so many common interests; drive-in "B"movies, pulp literature, Mexican mythology and late-night television (I still have that tape of 1960s Green Hornet episodes you kindly put together for me).

So Stephen Jones and I connected through similar sensibilities. The same can be said about my relationship with Rick Klaw, another editor possessed of a wicked eye for pop culture (who has written some pretty interesting commentary on same). I worked with Rick on several comic book projects under the MOJO Press banner, and he has some fun memories of those days:

Chicken pox. Whenever I think about working with Norm Partridge that's what comes to mind. Then my mind wanders to gun-totin' gorillas, talking severed heads, and other strange things.

Norm was one of the first writers that Joe Lansdale and I approached for the hardback comics anthology Weird Business, a 425 page anthology with some 23 stories and 56 creators, published in 1995. When we contacted Norm, he was just coming off winning his first Stoker award. Luckily for us, he hadn't gotten a swelled head and readily agreed to produce an original comic book script.

When Joe and I got the story, we were floored. A western with a gorilla gunslinger versus clowns and creationists, all with Norm Partridge's trademark wit and sense of adventure. "Gorilla Gunslinger" is the lead story in Weird Business and one of the most popular tales in the book. So popular that I contracted Norm to pen an original Gorilla Gunslinger graphic novel....

Sadly, due to no fault of Norm's, the graphic novel was never finished. (Hopefully, some day it will see print.)

Oh, the chicken pox. After Norm turned in the initial Gorilla Gunslinger story, Joe and I learned he wrote the entire thing while he had chicken pox. Every day, he was crawling out of bed, covered in calamine lotion, so he wouldn't miss his deadline. Hot damn. Might have been the pox or the lotion fumes, but Norm produced one of my all-time favorite comic book short stories. Is it any wonder I love working with this man?

Ed Gorman is a fine writer of mysteries, westerns, and what I simply think of as "good dark stuff." Saying that Ed's prolific doesn't cover it—I've always thought of him as a "writer's writer" as well as a talented editor. He has also been a mentor/advisor for a good many of the writers I know. I sold Ed stories for several Gorman/Greenberg projects when I was first beginning to crack pro anthologies, and he had this to say about my work (and his own modus operandi as an editor):

To me there are two ways to evaluate a story. One is voice. A unique or especially powerful voice can sometimes carry a weak story. So if the voice grabs me I try hard to come up with ideas for the writer to make the story stronger so I can buy the piece. And sometimes a story is so strong I'm willing to forgive a whole lot of infelicities in the writing. I'll noodle on those, too, but even if the writer isn't ever going to be Richard Yates or John Cheever, if the story just won't let go of me, I'll buy it anyway

What I remember about you is that the voice was as strong as the story and that both were, from the git-go, all your own. I remember saying to Marty that this kid is going to be huge. I still think that.

Lastly, let's check in with Rich Chizmar. As mentioned earlier. Rich has become one of the premiere publishers in the horror genre as the driving force behind CD Publications. Rich published my first short story and my first novel, and I've been involved in many other projects under the CD banner over the years. Rich calls 'em like he sees 'em, as you'll see here:

The one thing that really stands out for me is that you approached everything with a really strong blend of professional preparation and organization and knowledge...and mixed it with genuine in-your-face enthusiasm. Genuine being the key word. You loved this stuff and weren't afraid to show it. I think that's part of the reason we clicked so well. We both grew up with the dark stuff—first and foremost, we respected and cherished it. We were amused by the bad stuff, loved the good stuff, treasured the great stuff. You were never afraid to sound and act excited...but at the same time, you were a "pro" from day one. We actually looked for stuff to enjoy and appreciate in the genre, as opposed to most of the writers/editors/publishers, who were so busy and so vocal about all the stuff that was wrong with the genre. It felt like you and I and a handful of others were the only ones really having fun...

The same goes for today, but even more so...

Also:

You had a quiet confidence that is the exact opposite of so many of today's up-and-coming authors.

You demonstrated a healthy knowledge and respect for the genre's roots...you knew your shit but didn't strut around preaching and teaching. You seemed to understand that you— even after lots of story sales and a novel sale—were the one still being taught. You were still hungry to grow and experiment. The hell with traveling to every genre convention you find and slapping that WRITER badge on your chest and heading to the bar and the panels...you were more concerned with sticking your ass in a chair and doing the work.

Yep. Doing the work. If you want to be a writer, that's your job, first and foremost.

But writing isn't the only work you'll need to do if you want to sell your fiction successfully. Read between the lines in the above commentary and you'll realize that you need to understand editors, too. I've got a couple of tips to offer you in that regard.

First, you must become familiar with an editor's product before you submit your work. Read his magazines or previous anthologies. Study his editorial guidelines. Understand the kinds of fiction he's bought in the past and you'll understand what kinds of stories he is likely to buy in the future. I'm not saying that you necessarily need to write to market...but you definitely need to market what you write. If you've written a splattery horror story, you have to realize that a magazine predisposed to traditional ghost stories in the style of M. R. James is probably not the market for you. You'll have to learn to develop an impartial eye when judging your own fiction in order to market it successfully.

If you're lucky enough to sell a story to an editor, you'll also need to become familiar with his working preferences. Be professional. Pay attention to the editor's requests. Do your job, and let the editor do his. After you've made the trip from sale to final publication, you can step back, weigh the positives and negatives of the experience, and decide if you'd want to work with that editor again. He'll probably go through a similar process when he thinks about working with you.

Most of all—never waste an editor's time. Most editors don't have much of that particular commodity. If you want to do business as a writer, show editors that you know what being a pro is all about. Follow guidelines. Submit polished manuscripts. If you have a question to ask, ask it. If you have a project to propose, do it in a businesslike manner. But don't expect an editor to drop everything each time you call or e-mail, and don't expect that you're going to be best buddies with everyone in the business. Sometimes you'll get lucky and strike up a genuine friendship through your writing, but most times....

Well, most times business is just business.

Many writers don't understand that. They're needy. They look to editors for validation. They offer up their work like an apple for the teacher. If that work is rejected, they take it personally. They act hurt. They play the I thought we were friends game and waste a lot of time feeling sorry for themselves. And hey...we're all human. I understand that. But I also understand that it's best to keep those feelings to yourself in a working relationship.

Remember, writing is a business.

In business, it's best to stick to business.

That's a talent apart from writing, but it's a talent all the same.

TREATS

Monsters stalked the supermarket aisles.

Maddie pushed the squeaky-wheeled cart past a pack of werewolves, smiling when they growled at her because that was the polite thing to do. She couldn't help staring at the bright eyes inside the plastic masks. Brown eyes, blue and green eyes. Human eyes. Not the eyes that she couldn't see. Not the black eyes that stared at her from Jimmy's face, so cold, ordering her here and there without a glint of compassion or love.

"Jimmy, get away from that candy!"

Maddie covered her mouth, fearful that she'd spoken. No, she hadn't said anything. Besides, Jimmy was at home with them. He'd said that they were preparing for Operation Trojan Horse and he had to speak to them before —

"Jimmy, I'm telling you for the last time...."

A little ghoul clutching a trick-or-treat bag scampered down the aisle. He tore at the wrapping of a Snickers bar and gobbled a big bite before his mother caught his tattered collar.

"I warned you, young man," she said, snatching away the bright-orange treat sack. "You're not going to eat this candy all at once and make yourself sick. You're allowed one piece a day, remember? That way your treats will last for a long, long time."

Maddie saw the little boy's shoulders slump. Her Jimmy had done the same thing last Halloween when Maddie had given him a similar speech, except her Jimmy had been a sad-faced clown, not a ghoul.

And not a general. Not their general.

Maddie raised her hand, as if she could wave off the boy's mother before she made the same mistake Maddie had made a year earlier. She saw lipstick smears on her fingers and imagined what her face must look like. It had been so long since they'd allowed her to wear cosmetics that she'd made a mess of herself without realizing it. The boy's mother would see that, and she wouldn't listen. She'd rush away with her son before Maddie could warn her.

Defeated, the boy stared down at his ghoul-face mirrored in the freshly waxed floor. His mother crumpled his trick-or-treat bag closed, and the moment slowed. Maddie saw herself reaching into her shopping cart, watched her lipstick-smeared fingers tear open a bag of Milk Duds and fling the little yellow boxes down the aisle in a slow, scattering arc. She saw the other Jimmy's mother yelling at her, the boxes bouncing, the big store windows behind the little ghoul and the iron-gray clouds boiling outside. Wind-driven leaves the color of old skin crackling against the glass.

And then Maddie was screaming at the little ghoul. "Eat your candy! Eat it now! Don't let them come after it!"

She paid for the Milk Duds, of course, and for all the other candy that she had heaped into the shopping cart. The manager didn't complain. Maddie knew that the ignorant man only wanted her out of his store.

He thought that she was crazy.

Papery leaves clawed at her ankles as she loaded the candy into the back of the station wagon. She smiled, remembering the other Jimmy, the ghoul Jimmy, gobbling Milk Duds. Other monsters had joined in the feast. Werewolves, Frankensteins, zombies. Maddie prayed that they'd all have awful stomachaches. Then they'd stay home, snuggled in front of their television sets. They wouldn't come knocking at her door tonight. They'd be safe from her Jimmy and his army.

Maddie climbed into the station wagon and slammed the door. She pretended not to notice Jimmy's friends in the back seat. It was easy, because she couldn't see them, couldn't see their black eyes. But she could feel their presence nonetheless.

Slowly, Maddie drove home. Little monsters stood on front porches and watched the gray sky, waiting intently for true darkness, when they would descend on the neighborhood in search of what Jimmy wanted to give them. Maddie glanced in the rearview mirror at the grocery bags in the back of the station wagon. Even in brown paper, even wrapped in plastic, she could smell the sugar. It was the only smell she knew anymore, and she tasted it in the back of her throat.

God, she'd been tasting it for a year now.

"Mommy," Jimmy had cried, "you said my candy would last. Now look at it. Look at them. They ruined it. I want new candy. I want it now!"

But Jimmy's whining had been a lie. Maddie knew that now. Jimmy hadn't wanted the candy. They had wanted it, and they'd coaxed Jimmy into getting it for them. And they scared her, even if they didn't scare her son. They'd always scared her.

Because they were everywhere. In the cupboards. Under the floor. In the garden and under the rim of the toilet seat. Maddie's house swelled with them. And when she went to work, they were there, too, watching her through the windows. Black eyes she couldn't see, staring. Through the winter cold, through the summer heat, they were always there. Studying her. Never resting.

They had her son, too. He had a million fathers now, all who cared for him more than the man who'd given him his face and his last name before disappearing beneath a wave of unpaid bills. They nested in Jimmy's room and traveled in his lunch box. Jimmy took them places and showed them things. He taught them about the town, and they told him how smart he was. They made him a general and swore to obey his commands.

Maddie pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. She sat in the quiet car, dreading the house. Inside, Jimmy's legions waited. Jimmy waited, too. But Jimmy wasn't a sad-faced clown anymore. Now he was a great leader, and he was about to attack.

The sky rumbled.

Heavy raindrops splattered the windshield.

Maddie almost smiled but caught herself just in time. She glanced in the rearview mirror and pretended to wipe at her smeared lipstick, but really she was looking for Jimmy's spies.

She wished that she could see their eyes.

Jimmy was in the basement, telling the story of the Trojan horse. They stood at attention in orderly black battalions, listening to every word. Maddie didn't know how they tolerated it. Jimmy had told them the story at least a hundred times.

"The candy's upstairs, Jimmy. I left it on the kitchen table."

Jimmy thumbed the brim of a military cap that was much too large for his head. He'd made Maddie buy the cap at an army surplus store, and it was the smallest size available. "I'll grow into it." That's what he'd said, smiling, but he wasn't smiling now.

Maddie managed a grin. "The candy, Jimmy. You remember — "

"Of course I remember! I only wish that you'd remember to call me the right thing!"

"I'm sorry. General." Maddie straightened. "The candy — the supplies—are upstairs in the mess hall."

Jimmy seemed pleased. "Very good. Bring the supplies down here, and we'll begin Operation Trojan Horse."

Maddie stared at the black sea on the cement floor, imagining a million eyes focused on her. She wouldn't walk among them. Not when she could see them clearly, not when she could feel them scuttling over her feet.

"I don't want to do that," she said.

The boy's lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Maybe you'd rather have me send a few squads to your bedroom tonight, like the last time you disobeyed a direct order. You won't get much sleep with a jillion little feet crawling all over you...."

"Jimmy!" She stared at him, revolted by his black insect eyes, and then turned away.

She got the candy.

Jimmy used a penknife to make tiny holes in the packages. His troops climbed inside, listening to their leader talk of conquest and the Trojan Horse and the birth of a new order. He told them the best places to hide in a house and reminded the scouts that he must be kept informed at all times concerning the progress of their mission.

And when they were all in place, why then....

Silently, Maddie climbed the stairs. Rainwater ran down the front window, drooling from the rusty gutters above. The street outside was slick and black. The sidewalks were empty, gray; a flotilla of fallen leaves swam in the cement gutters. Maddie watched the leaves and imagined hundreds of little monsters washed into their homes by a great wave.

She looked down and saw her son's face mirrored in the window. His reflection was smeared with rain, sad, his straight lips twisted into a dripping frown, his black eyes deep pools overflowing high cheekbones. He exhaled sharply and the image fogged over.

"They just told me," he whispered. "It took them a long time to get out of the car. I guess you think that was pretty smart, closing the vents and all."

Maddie said nothing. She stared at the foggy spot on the window. Just a glimpse, she thought. Just a glimpse, but it was a clown’s face I saw.

"I never thought about this." Jimmy stared out at the rain. "They aren't coming, are they?"

"Not tonight."

Jimmy whispered, "Not tonight, troops. Operation Trojan Horse is scrubbed."

Maddie took a deep breath, hating the air, hating the stink of sugar. She thought about the little clown she'd seen mirrored in the rain-washed window, and she thought about the other Jimmy, the little ghoul, safe and dry in front of a TV set.

Tiny antennae probed Maddie's heel. Tiny feet, sticky with chocolate, marched over her toes.

The rain came harder now, in sheets. Jimmy brushed his troops away from his mother's feet. He rose and took her hand. Mirrored in the window, his lips were straight, his jaw firm.

God, it's been so long since he touched me, she thought, but she said, "Jimmy, let's watch television."

He nodded, studying the rain, not really listening.

His eyes narrowed until Maddie couldn't see them anymore.

"Next year," he said, his grip tightening.

Writing For Them & Writing For You

I wrote "Velvet Fangs" in hopes of cracking an anthology of young adult vampire fiction[50] edited by Jane Yolen, but she was closed to submissions by the time I submitted the manuscript. The story ended up in a small press magazine called Haunts back in 1993, and it's one of a handful of pieces that has never been reprinted until its appearance in this book.

The reason for that is simple: I really didn't think of "Velvet Fangs" as a Norm Partridge story. It appeared in Haunts under my byline, but I'm pretty sure that I originally submitted it to Ms. Yolen with a pseudonym firmly attached (mostly because of the YA slant).

Early on I tried to do some work in that market. I wrote this story, outlined a few others, and started a couple YA horror novels. My plan was to invent a pseudonym, crank out some slam-bang stories that would be fun to write, and maybe make a little money while I was at it.

I know a few writers who've managed to do that kind of work successfully. They accept work-for-hire projects (say, a book that's part of a young adult or western series, or maybe a stand-alone movie novelization). Often, they write those books under another name, or—in the case of some series work—a house name provided by the publisher.

Many writers have a different set of standards for that kind of work. Sometimes they'll even talk about their pseudonym as if he (or she) is another person. Either way, work-for-hire can be a real grind. Usually writers won't earn much beyond the original advance they receive from the publisher. The lion's share of the money (if the book is successful, which isn't always the case) goes to the publisher and whomever licensed the rights to the publisher—a movie company, or a comic book publisher, or the creator/owner of the series.

Anyway, writers who take on work-for-hire projects might make a little money at it—if they can write fast enough. As I already mentioned in a previous essay, the income from such work might even make the difference between working a joe job and being able to write full time. For some, that makes it worthwhile.

It wasn't that way for me. The last thing I needed to do was to carve out a separate career as a young adult writer. Work-for-hire projects didn't usually find their way to the top of my list, either. I've already discussed the pitfall of that kind of work, so I won't belabor the point here. I'll just say that in my case, experience has taught me to be very careful about accepting such projects.

Take for example the Crow novel I wrote for HarperPrism. They were looking for original novels that took place in the movie series' universe, and they asked me to do one. The way I saw it, a Crow novel might bring some new readers to my own books. The series was a notch above most others in quality, and some fine writers had already contributed (Poppy Z. Brite, Chet Williamson, and David Bischoff). Lastly, the money was good.

I figured I could write the book fast, bank the check, and get back to my own novel projects. Boy, was I wrong. The way it turned out. The Crow: Wicked Prayer took me longer to write than any other novel I've done...and for a few very simple reasons.

Mostly, the book was just plain, old-fashioned hard work. My twists on the Crow mythos were complicated, and I was constantly trying to reduce the expository writing they required so I could keep the story moving. Apart from that the book was written as sort of a road trip, and as a result there were several set pieces that were pretty involved. Lots of action, lots of setups.

When I finally finished Wicked Prayer I felt like I'd burned rubber and paid the price. My creative engine was down to fumes, and it took me awhile to refill the gas tank. But by the time I got my energy up, I found out that I really wasn't finished with Wicked Prayer at all. Those who oversaw the Crow universe were asking for revisions to square things up with their vision of same.

If I remember correctly, Wicked Prayer went through three rounds of revisions. That took a few months off the calendar that I hadn't counted on. Plus, I'll be the first to admit that I wasn't used to doing revisions. In fact, the total editorial input on my previous four published novels consisted of a request to drop one paragraph from The Ten-Ounce Siesta... and, yes, I'll admit that I argued with my editor about that.

Still, I made the changes as requested. As far as I was concerned I'd been hired to do a job and I wanted to do it to the satisfaction of those who were paying me. The way I saw it, the Crow was their bird... not mine.[51]

So I finished the book. I got paid. Wicked Prayer saw publication. Then a funny thing happened: it turned out that the people at Pressman Films were impressed with the final product, so much so that they adapted it for the fourth film in the series. Wicked Prayer filmed last summer down in Utah with a cast that included Edward Furlong, David Boreanz, Tara Reid, and Dennis Hopper.

As far as I know, what happened with Wicked Prayer was a first. No one I've talked to can think of another time a series novel has been adapted for the screen. So maybe my extra work paid off in the creative department. It certainly paid off financially. I walked away from the novel with a nice check, and I walked away from the movie deal with a nicer one... and my first Hollywood credit.

VELVET FANGS

I couldn't look at that last photograph of Rob. Not for another second. I took it off my bedroom wall and asked Mom to give me a ride out to the cemetery so I could leave it at his grave.

"Janice, why do you want to do that?" she wanted to know. "It's such a gruesome shot. Rob looks so strange wearing that cape, with his hair slicked back like Bela Lugosi or Vincent Carfax. I don't think...."

I turned down my hearing aid and her words trailed off. She knew then that I didn't want to debate the issue, and she shook her head and wiped tears from her eyes. We walked to the car in silence. Once again I felt awful, but I just couldn't bear another discussion about Rob.

I tried to focus on a People magazine that I'd brought along, but the country road that led to the cemetery was bumpy and the words swam across the glossy pages. Or maybe the problem was my new glasses. I smiled in spite of myself, suddenly understanding why Gramma always complained about her bifocals.

Glasses. Hearing aids. You're falling apart, kiddo, I told myself. Sweet sixteen and already a senior citizen. Next comes the wheelchair, then the hospital bed, then....

We drove through the cemetery gate. I imagined the sound of tires crunching over gravel as the car left the blacktop, anything to drive the morbid thoughts out of my head. Mom down-shifted then, but I couldn't hear the old Toyota complain even though I knew it always screamed when you shifted from third gear to second. An awful silence closed in on me and pounded in my ears, so empty that it made me think of Aaron Vincent.

My hands trembled and I dropped the magazine. Fighting the silence was useless. I didn't want to remember Mr. Vincent, but I had to somehow. He was a part of me now. Forgetting him was impossible.

Memories washed over me, and in a few moments the echoing silence was replaced by a cascade of sound. More than sound, really, because at the end sounds had become complex sensations when Aaron Vincent was near, somehow leeching into my other senses. (At least that's the way Mr. Vincent affected me; I can't speak for Rob.) I remembered the ticking clock in his apartment that made the slow passage of time smell of rosemary. I recalled the bloody scent of a velvet cape's whisper, and the memory made me shudder.

I turned on my hearing aid. Mom asked if I were okay and I nodded, thankful for the sound of her perfectly average voice. We were parked in the shadow of a monument, a pair of marble hands clasped in prayer. I got out of the car before Mom could volunteer her help and shuffled across the freshly mown lawn toward Rob's grave.

Mom shouted, "Jan, don't you want your coat?"

"No!" I shivered, but not because of the winter wind. Just the idea of heavy cloth draped over my body was enough to make my stomach lurch.

I hadn't attended Rob's funeral — my doctors advised against it— but I'd read in the newspaper that he was buried next to his dad, whose grave was near an old oak. Rob had always visited his dad's grave whenever we walked near the cemetery, and as I got closer I could almost imagine him standing in the shadow of the oak, looking down in peaceful silence as he remembered the good times.

Maybe that was what I wanted to do now.

Somebody was crying. I prodded my new glasses high on my nose and squinted into the amber sunlight. A chill capered up my spine. Someone was standing at Rob's grave, someone I recognized.

Maggie was upon me in a second, her green eyes full of fire. "You get away from here!" she shouted. "You've got no right to be here!"

I wanted to run more than anything. But my feet wouldn't work right. And the grass was damp, so I was fearful of slipping. And then Maggie stepped ahead of me and blocked my path. I wanted to tell her that I was leaving, but then I realized that wasn't what she wanted me to do, not really.

She snatched Rob's photograph out of my hands and stared at it. Tears spilled down her pale cheeks. "Is this another one of your spells?" she asked. "Haven't you done enough to him?"

"Maggie, it's the last thing I have of him. It was Rob's dream, and he should have it back. I want him to know that I'm sorry for what happened."

Slowly, I reached for the picture.

She jumped away, clutching the brass frame. "No. You're not sorry. You're trying to steal him away from me again." She shook the photo in front of my face. "It's witchcraft!"

A car door slammed. I heard Mom's voice in the distance. Maggie glanced in the direction of the Toyota and then rushed past me, bumping my shoulder.

I slipped on the wet grass and tripped backward.

Maggie screamed.

Then my head hit the trunk of the old oak, and I smelled the musky odor of rosemary and blood, and everything went black.

Fangs glistening, the Vampyre sprang at the gray-haired man. They struggled, their arms locked in battle, and together they tripped over the stone parapet. The gray-haired man plunged into the crashing surf, but the Vampyre rose, a huge bat flapping toward us.

Maggie screamed.

Rob and I laughed, and then the credits rolled. VAMPYRE III. THE END.

We left the theatre, munching handfuls of leftover popcorn. "You sure called that one right, Jan," Rob said. "I'll never understand how you figure out the plots of these sequels before we even see them."

Maggie shook her head. "It's only because she's memorized every horror movie known to man, Robert. You've seen her video collection. Karloff, Lugosi, Chaney Junior, Chaney Senior...she's got them all. She even has footage of Vincent Carfax when he still wore training wings!"

"I know, I know.” Rob said. "And she's got Carfax's first pacifier, too, complete with baby fang marks."

"Okay, guys," I broke in. "Enough's enough. We all know the real reason is that I'm a creative genius. Remember, I'm going to write these movies someday, when I'm not busy knocking Stevie King off the best-seller list, that is. Maybe by the time they get around to making Vampyre IV they'll call me to do the script."

"Just remember to write a part for moi!" Maggie punched my shoulder and ran ahead, imitating the histrionics of the gray-haired vampire hunter and his leading lady. Then she rearranged her imaginary cast and became the Vampyre, creeping around a hedge of oleanders and springing out at us as we passed by.

"You'd better watch out," Rob cautioned. "There might be a werewolf in there with you."

Maggie uncoiled her long black hair and tossed it seductively. "My deeeear yunk man," she whispered, "'tis not a full moon tonigggght...."

We ignored Maggie, but she didn't seem to mind. She went on entertaining herself while Rob explained the special effects we'd seen. He called them F/X, and you'd have thought that he worked for Industrial Light and Magic the way he talked. But if you said so Rob would have blushed stoplight red, for that was his not-so-secret dream. At least it was not-so-secret to me.

A cold wind came up just as we reached my house, rattling the branches of our old maple and freeing a bushel of dead leaves for their final dance. Though the air was sweet with the aroma of October, it wasn't a night for chatting beneath the stars. Besides, it was Friday, and I already felt like I was horning in on my best friends' date, and I had promised to do a favor for Mom before it got too late.

The house was shrouded in tangled shadows. Really —I'm not exaggerating or being dramatic — three years had passed since the maple's last trimming, and the shadows cast by its bony branches looked pretty creepy. My parents' bedroom light shone through the upstairs window, and a dim light glowed in the garage apartment that we rented out.

Dad had done the construction on the apartment —that's what had kept him from other chores like trimming the maple tree. The rent money was earmarked for my college fund, and our first tenant had moved in earlier in the day. Even though I didn't want to, I decided to cut the evening short, telling myself that a promise was a promise and I really did owe Mom a favor. "I hereby declare this meeting of the Hogan High Horror Society closed," I said. "Does the membership agree?"

The membership — both of them—tried to look upset. Especially Maggie, but deep down I could tell that she was eager to be alone with Rob.

"C’mon, Jan," Rob said. "Why don't you come up to the house? My folks are out tonight, and we can make some popcorn...."

I shook my head and let the offer slide away. "I promised to do a favor for Mom. An old guy moved into the apartment today, and she offered me up for chauffeur duty since he doesn't have a car. I'm already in hot water for putting it off until after the movie. Luckily the guy's an insomniac or something. He said he didn't care if we went shopping at midnight."

"Maybe he vants to go at miiidnight," Maggie said, pouring on the Transylvanian accent. "Maybe he's vun of the undead!"

"You're incredible," Rob said, but he wasn't looking at Maggie.

Maggie kissed him then.

I looked away, but then Rob's hands settled on my shoulders. I stared into his eyes, so bright and blue, so focused, shining into mine. I almost stopped breathing because I thought he might kiss me, and as he pulled me close and hugged me tight I could smell his sweet dark hair and feel my heart pounding against his chest. And over his shoulder I could see Maggie, her suddenly expressionless face so creamy white in the moonlight and her wild hair so black, her eyes gleaming with an emotion that I couldn't decipher.

We came out of the embrace. Rob stepped back, but my eyes were still locked on Maggie's.

"G'night, Jan," Rob said.

I knew that I couldn't look into his eyes again. I forced out a too-cheery see you later, and then I ran up the walk before they could see how rattled I was.

They walked up the hill. Maggie whispered something. Rob laughed and shook his head. The wind picked up again and he turned and waved goodbye, and then they broke into a run, dancing through the swirling leaves, disappearing into the night.

Maggie was wrong. About our new tenant, that is. I was positive that Mr. Vincent wasn't a vampire. No self-respecting creature of the night would stock up on oat bran, decaffeinated coffee, and denture cream.

Of course, that's not to say that he didn't look like a vampire. He certainly did. If you could imagine a vampire getting very old. His face wasn't anything like Christopher Lee's, and he didn't sound like Bela Lugosi (or Maggie imitating Bela Lugosi), but he did carry himself with the regal air of a Hollywood bloodsucker. In fact, if he reminded me of anyone, it was Vincent Carfax.

Driving home from the market, I made the mistake of telling him so.

He chuckled. "I never thought I'd hear that name from anyone under the age of sixty."

"You'd be surprised," I said, a bit insulted. "Why, some of us youngsters even know about a guy named William Shakespeare. He wrote plays, I think."

I down-shifted from third gear to second and the Toyota complained. That only made the old man laugh louder.

"Look," I said, "I'm sorry I mentioned the resemblance... I guess I meant it as a compliment."

He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. "No need to apologize. There was a time when I would have taken your remark as base flattery. You see, years ago I worked in Hollywood...before color film and cinemascope and music videos, of course." He smiled. "I was Vincent Carfax's stand-in."

"Oh, c'mon. You're joking."

He straightened indignantly, puffing out his chest. "You seem to know quite a bit about Mr. Carfax. Go ahead, ask me anything."

I did. I asked Mr. Vincent at least a dozen questions, all of which he answered with polished ease, as if he'd answered them at least a million times. He knew that Carfax's first movie had been a British film called The Blood Bat. He knew that Carfax had been great friends with Boris Karloff, and that he'd loathed Bela Lugosi. And when I asked him about the actor's marriages, the names of Carfax's many wives spilled off Mr. Vincent's tongue faster than he could count them on his twisted, arthritic fingers.

But more than that, he claimed to know the details of Vincent Carfax's death, one of the great mysteries of Hollywood. Carfax had died of an undisclosed ailment shortly after completing a movie called Count Orlak, Vampire. His leading lady, an Irish beauty named Erin McCague who had costarred in three previous Carfax films, had followed him in death, and Count Orlak had become a national sensation when a well-known gossip columnist spread rumors about the "cursed" vampire film.

Mr. Vincent was tight-lipped concerning the details, promising to tell all only if I'd help him arrange his apartment. There was no way that I could resist that kind of bait. "Okay," I said. "But if I find out that you sleep in a coffin, the deal's off."

Mom and Dad didn't mind my spending so much time with Mr. Vincent. I'd never had many friends, and they were always after me to meet new people. I always argued that "old friends are best friends," but Mom claimed that Maggie and I were practically attached at the hip, and even I had to admit that Rob knew the contents of our refrigerator as well as I did.

Not that I'd seen much of my two best friends lately. Maggie had been avoiding me for weeks. We shared two classes, biology and algebra, but she didn't even want to get together to do homework. She'd been as quiet as a rock ever since the night we'd seen Vampyre III.

That's a lie. Well, maybe not a lie, but certainly it's a diplomatic description of the way things were. The truth was that Maggie had been freezing me ever since the night Rob looked deep into my eyes and almost kissed me right in front of her.

I'd replayed that scene a million times, and I'd come to the conclusion that kissing me was exactly what Rob had wanted to do. And I don't think that his mind had changed since. He'd been trying to catch up with me for weeks, and I'd made as many excuses to him as Maggie had made to me. Not that he'd cornered me or anything. Rob was subtler than that. He kept dropping notes into my locker, writing that he had to talk to me, and I kept ripping them into bits. I didn't know how things were with him, or with Maggie, or with the both of them, and I didn't want to know. I prayed that everything would stay the same, and at the same time I yearned for everything to change. I told myself that I had so much in common with Rob. I told myself that in a few years Maggie would probably marry a movie star and break Rob's heart, anyway. But no matter what I told myself, I still felt guilty, like somehow the whole thing was my fault even though I hadn't done anything.

Home became my refuge, and Mr. Vincent became my new best friend. I told him all about my troubles with Maggie and Rob, and I was surprised that he was so understanding.

"Creative people always have horrible love lives —I suppose these days you'd call them relationships." he said. "Just look at how many marriages Vincent Carfax destroyed, and not all of them were his own, mind you. Artists are more emotional than other people. Some say that's a myth, but I believe it. We feel things more deeply, and we suffer for our feelings. And worst of all, we're most attracted to other creative people. That's why you're attracted to Rob. It's a strange magnetism. It brings us together, and we feed off our shared creativity. But it can be dangerous. I've seen talented actors collapse on the stage, sucked dry by the sheer power of a great star. I've seen painters curse and weep when they beheld a friend's masterpiece."

Winter was hard upon us, and we spent the evenings watching old movies on Mr. Vincent's VCR while drinking hot cocoa to fight off the chill that penetrated the garage apartment. I complained to Dad about the cold, but Mr. Vincent said that it didn't bother him. He claimed that too much heat made him sleepy.

Mr. Vincent always sat in a big wingback chair, his eyes fixed on the tiny TV screen, the remote control held firmly in one gnarled hand. He didn't watch movies as much as preside over them, telling stories about the actors, running the tape backward to show me an example of a certain camera setup, explaining lighting techniques — that kind of thing. I drank in the information. Mr. Vincent came alive in the gray glow of that tiny TV, and learning from him was so much easier than learning from a book. Sometimes he tripped over words, rushing to get them out. I'd look at him sitting in his old leather chair and think that indeed he was regal, the last king of Hollywood come to pass the scepter on to me.

It was easy to think like that, because Mr. Vincent dressed the part of a king when I visited. He always wore a faded black tuxedo jacket that matched Vincent Carfax's, the one with velvet lapels that everyone remembers from Count Orlak, Vampire.

One night we watched Carfax's last film. Mr. Vincent still hadn't explained the actor's death, and I saw this as an opportunity to broach the subject. Mr. Vincent grinned at my innocent questions, knowing full well what I was up to. "All right, Janice, I'll confess everything," he said. "Heaven knows that you've told me all your secrets. But what you believe and what you don't believe is up to you." He winked. "I know you've read all the Carfax biographies, but those silly scribblers were in diapers when the whole awful business occurred. They don't know the truth and wouldn't believe it if they did."

I nodded, begging him to go on.

"The studio judged the entire episode too morbid for public consumption. The truth is that during filming, Vincent Carfax fell ill. The producer was in desperate straits at the time —the Great Depression was still upon us —and he was counting on Count Orlak to be a big hit. To put it plainly, the studio needed the money. Fortunately, when Carfax dropped out, the interior shots and close-ups had already been completed."

"Let me guess. They needed a stand-in for the exterior scenes."

Mr. Vincent smiled. "They called on me, of course. I believed that it was my big break, as we used to say, and each day when I slipped into Carfax's cape I felt his talent surging through me. Just by wearing his costume I felt as If I'd taken on the mantle of Vincent Carfax, King of the Hollywood Vampires. Everyone on the set complimented my performance, and the director predicted that I would become a star in my own right. And then, on the last day of filming, we learned that Vincent Carfax had died. The entire crew was shocked. Vincent had been hospitalized with a serious illness, but we all thought that he'd beat it somehow."

"You finished the picture?"

"Barely. Soon after the awful news hit the set, Erin McCague collapsed. Her affair with Vincent Carfax was common knowledge, and she took the news of his death very badly. She was rushed to a hospital, of course. The director replaced her with a script girl who happened to have long red hair and an hourglass figure that matched Erin's. We only had one setup left, and we managed to complete it. The special effects man doubled the dry-ice fog to mask the script girl's identity." Mr. Vincent shook his head. "News of Erin's death came the following day during the wrap party."

"The studio kept all this quiet?"

He nodded. "The head of the studio was deathly afraid that I'd blab to the press about my involvement in the film. He was certain that if word got out the critics would claim that Count Orlak, Vampire wasn't really a Vincent Carfax film at all, but rather an Aaron Vincent film, and he was just as certain that the public had no interest in Aaron Vincent. He paid a great deal of money for my silence. And after that, I was blacklisted. Couldn't get a job anywhere. It was frustrating —I felt that my talent as an actor had reached its peak, and I had no way to share it."

I nodded, thinking of all the exterior shots in the film. Most of them were fog-shrouded scenes. It would have been hard to tell under the best of circumstances who portrayed Count Orlak or his female lead in the those scenes, let alone decide by watching a blurry VCR print on a tiny TV screen.

"You doubt my story," Mr. Vincent whispered, rising from his chair.

"No, I believe you," I said, much too quickly.

He opened the closet and took out a large black box. "I've wanted to show this to you since we first met. I'm still not sure that you should see it, but now I realize that you must."

Smiling, Mr. Vincent removed the lid. At first I thought the box held a small black animal with gleaming red eyes and fur as shiny as a seal's. Then the smell hit me, a bittersweet aroma that reminded me of marinated meat. The apartment seemed to grow colder then, and all at once a hundred different scents filled the air, a cloak of musty perfumes that had my head throbbing in an Instant.

Mr. Vincent's gnarled fingers dipped under the thing, and he scooped it out of the box as carefully as a mime might scoop up a shadow. The red eyes twinkled as he threw the thing over his shoulders.

"We only had one of these," he said, flaring the cape to show off its dead-white lining. "The story was that it once belonged to a genuine Prussian count. The lining is of the finest silk, and these are genuine rubies set in the collar. Carfax complained that the silly things scraped his neck and gave him a rash, but that was charitable compared to Erin McCague's opinion of the cape. She claimed that it smelled worse than a beggar's boot."

I was hardly listening. The odor of mud and rain drifted from my hot chocolate. I set the cup on its saucer and massaged my temples, fighting off a headache.

"I believe you," I whispered.

"Janice dear, you're shivering." He slipped the cape over me and tucked it in like a blanket.

I closed my eyes. The clock ticked too loudly, too slowly. A hundred scents swirled through the room: rosemary and mud and rain and others that I couldn't identify. Then came the raw odor of blood, strong and heavy, and I fought against the stench and the feel of smooth silk and sharp jewels and the icy breath that whispered against my neck.

I was sick the next day. My muscles ached and I had a fever — the sure signs of a flu bug coming on, according to Mom. Dad was out on a construction job and Mom couldn't afford to miss work, so I was on my own. At least I would have been if Mom hadn't asked Mr. Vincent to look in on me.

He brought me tea and toast and blackberry jam, which he claimed was the perfect cure for practically everything. I couldn't eat much, and the tea didn't even warm me.

"I've got just the thing," he said, taking away the toast and jam. "Don't worry, Janice. We'll get you warm."

I must have drifted off then, because the bright blue sky outside my window had turned steely gray by the time that I awoke, coughing and hardly able to breathe. I felt as if a great weight lay on my chest, and I fought through a drowsy haze, certain that something awful would happen if I didn't wake up. I wanted to throw off my heavy blankets but couldn't move my arms. A scream froze in my windpipe and wouldn't go any further. Suddenly the horrid stench of blood and rainwater and mud washed over me, and I glanced down and saw my sheets and blankets laying in a tangled pile on the floor.

But something was covering me, something warm and silky-smooth. Something that whispered a sickening lullaby, trying to push me back into sleep. My eyes widened and the thing rippled like a black wave, inching over my chin, covering my mouth.

The cape!

A ruby scraped my nose as the cape crawled past my forehead, and in the blackvelvet darkness I could see a dozen red glowing eyes. Then the cape — the thing — pressed down hard. A held breath whuffed out of me and I started to lose consciousness. My fingers curled into fists, but my hands couldn't move. The black velvet wrapped around them like tight gloves and trapped them against the bed.

Suddenly, the thing didn't feel like velvet or silk anymore. I remembered the time that Maggie and Rob and I visited an aquarium on the coast, the way Rob had teased us until we touched a bat ray in one of the petting tanks. In bright flashes I remembered the cool, rippling water, and then the cold, leathery feel of the animal as it silently glided beneath my fingertips.

And just as the bat ray of memory glided away, the cape-thing in my bedroom did the same. It swirled through the gray light and wrapped itself around Mr. Vincent's shoulders.

He looked fifty years younger. His nose was straight and his jaw strong, his hair slicked back and jet-black. But his skin was the color of a raw oyster, a sickening blue-white.

He smiled down at me. "Warm enough now, Janice dear?" he asked.

I gasped. "You're...it's impossible!"

"It's not what you think, Janice." He laughed and bared his false teeth. "No fangs. I'm afraid."

He took my hand, bent the fist-fingers straight and wiped them across his cheek. His skin was cold and slippery. My fingers came away smeared with greasepaint, leaving behind four pink lines on his cheek.

Makeup. Maybe it was all a trick.

But his fingers were straight and strong. And his features had changed.

"It takes time," he said. "Especially after I kept it hidden away all these years, avoiding every kind of temptation—theatres and museums and art galleries, anyplace creative people might congregate, I thought I could just let it die in that box. I thought I could outlive it. And then I met you, and I realized how empty my life had become without the passions I once enjoyed. I knew that you could give me another chance at stardom.

"I told you how creative people attract their own kind. Like magnets, remember?" He stroked the cape as if it were a treasured pet. "My dear, you are one of the strongest magnets that we've ever met. You're almost as powerful as Vincent Carfax." He rubbed the greasepaint across his cheek, whitening the flesh. "Unfortunately, you're not quite strong enough."

Mr. Vincent turned to the door, the cape whipping at his heels. "Robert," he called, his voice icy and commanding. "You can come up now."

"No!" The word came out of my mouth in a weak whisper.

Mr. Vincent glared at me, his eyes gleaming ruby red.

Instantly, my throat tightened. I could barely breathe.

Rob stepped through the door.

His face was oyster-white, and his hair was slicked back. He wore a tuxedo and a pair of fangs. "You've been holding out on me, Jan," he said. "You never told me that you had a movie star living in your garage."

Mr. Vincent grinned. "I hope you don't mind, Janice," he said. "I phoned Robert earlier in the day and offered to give him a few pointers concerning makeup. And I did think that it was about time that you two got together again." Mr. Vincent winked at Rob. "She's told me quite a lot about you, young man."

Rob smiled. "Would you mind taking that picture now?"

Mr. Vincent nodded and took Rob's camera. "One moment...I almost forgot the most important accessory," he said.

I wanted to scream a warning, but my jaws were locked tight. Mr. Vincent slipped the cape over Rob's shoulders. Rob sagged under the weight, and then he straightened and bared his fangs.

The camera flashed.

"One more?" Mr. Vincent asked. "Of both of you?"

Rob came around the bed. "Don't worry," he whispered, bending over me as if he were about to bite my neck. "Maggie will understand. It'll be okay, you'll see."

The cape glided over my shoulder. Rob kissed me, and at that moment I felt the warmth drain out of his lips.

The camera flashed again.

"Jan," Rob whispered. "Jan, I don't feel right...."

Rob slipped to the floor. My windpipe opened and I gasped a deep breath. The cape glided across the room and poured itself over Aaron Vincent's shoulders. He took a handful of Kleenex from my nightstand and removed his makeup. His skin was now firm and unwrinkled.

"I'm sorry, Janice," he said, straightening the cape. "Really I am, but we were so empty.''

It must have been weird for the ambulance driver. I'll bet that he'd never made an emergency run to a cemetery before.

It's been two weeks since Maggie and I had our little confrontation, and the doctor says that my head is mending pretty well. In another week I should be able to go home, if there aren't any complications. Mom thinks that's great. She says the house is much too empty without me and Mr. Vincent. Dad agrees with half of that — he says that we're lucky Mr. Vincent didn't steal the family silver, disappearing into the night the way he did. He can't understand what kind of guy would run out on a couple of sick teenagers.

I can't explain it to him.

I haven't minded the hospital. Seeing other people with problems makes mine seem as if it's not so important or unusual. Cancer, AIDS, heart attacks — they're all awful things. What happened to me is just a little weirder. Not that I've told anyone what really happened. I'm content to let the doctors think that I've got a rare disease that makes people age prematurely. That's what they've decided, anyway. They think Rob had it too, of course, even though the odds of two cases turning up in close proximity are more than a billion to one. But that's the kind of thing that excites doctors. Believe me, it brings the specialists out of the woodwork. Just yesterday I had a visit from a contagious disease expert who asked a lot of questions about my "relationship" with Rob, and I'm sure that my answers disappointed her. Anyway, she told me to keep fighting, and that's exactly what I'm going to do.

But just because I haven't said much doesn't mean that I have any answers myself. Personally, I think that I was attacked by a vampire; I just can't decide if the vampire was Mr. Vincent or his cape. Maybe it was both. Maybe it's like the old question about the chicken and the egg.

I've reread all the Vincent Carfax biographies, and I can't find a mention of an Aaron Vincent anywhere. I can't find any stories about a cape that once belonged to a Prussian count, either. I have found some mention of a Vincent Carfax stand-in named Rudolph Schatten, a name that sounds like it might have belonged to a Prussian, but who knows if that's important information or just an interesting coincidence.

One thing is for sure. I've had strange feelings while looking at the old photos in those books. I feel Vincent Carfax's strength when I stare into his eyes. I think it's the magnetic attraction that Aaron Vincent talked about. And there's one publicity picture of Carfax and Erin McCague that really chills me. He's holding her, wrapping the cape around her body. She looks terrified. I can feel her terror.

Erin McCague never had a chance to say what frightened her. For her, the end came too quickly. I can only wonder what Vincent Carfax said while he was dying in that Hollywood hospital. Maybe he realized the truth. Maybe that's why the details of his death never came out.

I know it sounds weird, but it's really not as strange as all that stuff about garlic and native soil and stakes through the heart. And it isn't like one minute I was a healthy teenager and the next minute I was a prematurely little old lady. Weeks passed between the day of the attack and the first day that I missed school.

They were wonderful weeks for Rob and me. We enjoyed each other as never before, just being together. We didn't worry about what other people said. We didn't even have a chance to notice that every drop of creativity had drained out of us.

And then, one day, Rob didn't come to school. He never came to school again. Pretty soon I wasn't going, either. But we still talked on the phone, right up until the end.

We never talked about Aaron Vincent, but I think that Rob knew.

Today Mom brought me the new People magazine. I didn't want to open it, because it smelled of mud and rain and blood. Finally I did. I flipped the pages, and then they seemed to flip themselves, and finally I was staring at a picture of a vampire wearing a velvet cape dotted with rubies. The caption identified the man as an unknown actor who was starring in Vampyre IV.

Instantly, I knew that it was him.

More than fifty years ago, he killed a woman named Erin McCague and a man named Vincent Carfax. He stole their souls and he stole their names, becoming Aaron Vincent.

Today he looks like a very young Vincent Carfax, but that isn't the name listed in the caption. The name isn't Aaron Vincent, either.

It's Robert Janus.

I guess Mr. Vincent thinks that's funny.

The 3” x 5” Secret to Good Outlines

“¡Cuidado!" is the first weird western I published. It was written for an anthology edited by Bob Garcia called Chilled to the Bone. That book was produced by a gaming company as a tie-in with one of their products, and the editorial guidelines went like this:

[Chilled to the Bone] is being published by Mayfair Games to heighten awareness of their role-playing game...This book is intended to be a stand-alone anthology of short horror fiction. The only connection with the game series is that it takes for granted a secret society is trying to save humanity from supernatural evil. This society, named the Societas Argenti Viae Eternitata (The Eternal Society of the Silver Way, a.k.a. S.A.V.E.), is spread too thinly across the globe to act directly against evil and can only warn people about occult dangers.

The single unifying aspect of the stories in [Chilled to the Bone] will be the society's oral or written warning to the protagonist that something evil is about to happen. Sometimes, the warnings appear by messenger, others arrive by post, some show up in electronic mail, and every now and then, the danger is so great that a message is delivered by more arcane means. It's up to each protagonist to succeed or fail by his/her own wits. In all cases, people are told only to...Beware!

My twist on that conceit was pretty simple—I translated the warning into another language. I decided to do "¡Cuidado!" as a weird western, and my story would revolve around the passengers of a stagecoach that had broken down in the middle of nowhere (an old chestnut of a setup for westerns). Anyway, I figured Bob wouldn't be seeing any other stories like that, but I was wrong. When I sat down and read Chilled to the Bone I discovered that not only did the book include two weird westerns, both stories were stagecoach tales![52] Which is a pretty amazing coincidence, if you ask me.

The plot of "¡Cuidado!" ended up a little bit different than I first intended. Originally, I'd planned to pit my characters against a horde of rampaging undead.[53]  I don't remember too much about that version, only that I envisioned it as a riff off the old circle the wagons siege stories I'd been exposed to in dozens of books and movies. I wrote a draft of the story with that plot in mind, shifting viewpoints between three or four central characters as the action ratcheted up. When I hit 6,000 words and the end was nowhere in sight, I realized that I was writing a novelette instead of a short story. And since I didn't figure there'd be much hope of selling one of those to Bob's anthology, I decided to take another tack.

So I tried again, scaling down my idea. I remembered a tale by Mark Twain that involved a casket with unexpected contents, and I tried to do something with that. Pretty soon a strong mystery angle entered my story, and I was off and running. While "¡Cuidado!" didn't quite become a whodunit, it definitely became a whatdunit.

The puzzle itself wasn't overly complicated, but it did require outlining. Managing my cast of characters required some careful attention, too. But I've never been the kind of writer who's comfortable thoroughly mapping things out from A—Z. I don't write an outline laying out plot and characters before I sit down to write—the simple fact is I can't do that. It's only through the process of writing that I find out who my characters really are and what they're going to do. Most of the time it's the act of writing itself that reveals the tale I'm telling; I don't know the whole story going in.

As such, most of my stories are fairly open-ended when I first sit down to work on them. Sometimes I start with a basic idea, sometimes just a character or an image. Whatever my initial inspiration, I need to get in there and bat it around on the page before I can tell if it will add up to anything, which means I'll probably spend more time writing and revising the opening of a story than any other part. I'll work on my beginning until I'm sure I have it right. For me, that sets the tone and the direction of the piece.

Once I get a start I like, I tend to work on a story (or novel) in chunks, planning scenes and set-pieces as I go along, fleshing out characters the same way. In short stories I tend to use section breaks a lot, and I work with those sections the same way I work with chapters in a novel. The process can be thought of as either constructive or reductive. Sometimes, I think of those story chunks the same way workers think about building a house—step by step, layer by layer. First comes the foundation, then the frame, and finally the roof. Other times I see the process as reductive, each story section peeling back to reveal the one beneath, the same way you peel back the layers of an onion until you get to the heart. Using the latter method, the story and the character are revealed to the reader bit by bit, and all the elements of the story (hopefully) reach the proper frission as it finds its conclusion.

While I may have a firm idea about the beginning and end of a story when I sit down to write it, I rarely have a solid idea of the progression of the piece (i.e. What the hell's going to happen in the middle, Norm?). For me that's sometimes the fun, and often the torture, of writing. Of course, I do make notes on my stories as I go along. I usually have the next few sections of a story (or a few chapters of a novel) firmly in mind as I work my way through. But as I said, I don't outline strictly from A—Z. I use another method—one that came to me in an unexpected way.

The first library I worked at used due-date cards designed to work with a primitive circulation computer. Each card had a preprinted due date and eight or ten punched holes that could be "read" by the computer to clear the item from the patron's record when the book was returned. Due dates changed once a week, and we had to order enough cards so that we wouldn't run out. That meant we always had a surplus of a couple hundred cards at the end of the week. When we changed to the new due date, those surplus cards from the previous week were useless. We'd ashcan them (yep, computers were primitive, and the idea of recycling paper was nonexistent).

So there I was, an aspiring writer with a day job. I also was on a budget. One week as I was about to toss out the old due-date cards I decided they'd make pretty good note cards. Hey, they might even save me some money buying the notebooks I usually picked up. From then on, I kept a pile of cards on my desk both at work and home. When I'd get an idea about a story I was working on, I'd jot it down on a card. I'd clip or rubber band all the cards for each story in separate stacks.

Sometimes I'd write down an idea for a scene, sometimes a snatch of dialogue. Sometimes it'd be a little note about a character or a character's motivation. And sometimes the whole endeavor could be a little challenging, writing around those little computer hole-punches and all.

But most of the time, using those old due-date cards was the perfect way to organize my ideas. For one thing, the limited amount of space made me keep my ideas concise. Another advantage was that the notes I made were on separate cards which I could put in any order I wanted. One of the problems I always had with writing my notes/outlines in notebooks was that a story would get spread out all over the place. Ideas for the beginning, middle, and end of a story would bejumbled up instead of sequential, as I'd written them down when they occurred to me. And if I stopped working on one project and went to work on another...well, I might end up with notes on a single story spread throughout a notebook, and I'd have to spend a lot of time flipping through pages trying to find all the places I'd written ideas about a single project before I could get that project organized.

The due-date cards were a huge improvement on that front. I began organizing my cards into sections, the same way I did my stories. For example, when working on a novel I'd end up with a pile of cards for each chapter, with all the notes on plot, character, dialogue, and description that I planned to use in that chapter. Same with the sections of a short story. As I wrote the chapter or section. I'd flip through the cards to make sure I included everything I intended to. And if in the course of writing I decided that something I'd planned to include in one section might actually fit better in another, I could shuffle that note card into another pile pretty easily.

It worked for me. Of course, things changed. The library stopped using those hole-punched due-date cards. Fortunately we retired the old card catalog about the same time, and I took a few boxes of those old cards home. They've lasted me about ten years. But I'm down to my last couple inches of those now. Pretty soon I'll have to actually start buying 3"x 5"cards, and that will be a blow.

I'm not much on signs or portents, but (like most writers) I'm superstitious about my work habits. I'll admit that writing notes for my stories on the backs of catalog cards for Ray Bradbury books gave me a little extra creative juice...and maybe made me try a little harder, too. Of course, that sort of thing can just as easily go the other way, too. I mean, if you find yourself writing notes for a bleak noir story on the backs of Danielle Steele or Barbara Cartland catalog cards, you just can't help but laugh.

¡CUIDADO!

TODOS DAN SU DESPEDIDA PERO COMO ESTA NINGUNA…

-          LAS AMARILLAS, TRADITIONAL FOLK SONG

Spartacus Jackson knew the makings of a bad day when he saw them. The Concord coach was bucking over every rut in the road, his backbone felt like someone had taken a hammer to it, and the beans he'd had for breakfast weren't sitting well. On top of that, the lone woman on the stage was complaining constantly in a voice that was sharp enough to peel the hide off a Gila monster.

But those were minor irritations compared to the stink that rose from the sharp-tongued woman's crate. It smelled worse than the stage driver or the horses, and that took some doing. The horses had been working hard all day, and the driver, Ben Rose, didn't smell a bit like his surname.

A month's time separated Ben from his last bath. Jackson was sure of that, because thirty days had passed since he'd shoved the old man into a horse trough. "Ben," he'd said, "as long as I'm riding shotgun on your rig, you're going to bathe right proper now and again."

"Christ, but you coloreds have put on airs since you got yourself emancipated," came Ben's soggy reply.

Jackson chuckled over the memory. He had a true affection for Ben Rose, and he appreciated the free and easy friendship that the old driver returned. Ben was a man born for the life of a jehu. Jackson figured that Ben's wild, nearly reckless way with a team would have been admired by Jehu himself, the hard-driving son of Minshi in the Old Testament.

Jackson lowered the bandanna from around his face. The dry desert air held more than a hint of dusty grit, but Jackson hoped that a little dirt in his gullet would help to mask the incredible stink that rose from Mrs. Sloane's big crate.

He looked to the horizon, and suddenly his day went from bad to worse.

The darkness hung low to the ground, muffling the desert floor. Jackson sensed a sudden stillness in the air, a foreboding silence that made every noise that much louder and somehow strange. Each creak of the coach became a little scream, and the pounding rhythm of the horses' hooves suddenly sounded as ominous as cannon fire.

The darkness rolled forward, advancing with incredible swiftness and ferocity. Waves of sand washed across the desert, accompanied by heavy clouds that cut off the sunlight and painted everything in view the color of dried blood.

The coach bucked against heavy gusts. Ben pulled at the ribbons and brought the horses into line.

"Looks like a bad one," Spartacus shouted.

Though they sat at elbow's length, Jackson had a hard time hearing the jehu's reply. "Miserable...good-for-nothing...wind. Damn crate...making us top-heavy as a pregnant...We'll just have to sit it out," Ben complained, and Jackson simply nodded in agreement. He'd heard enough tales of stage wrecks to prevent him from being overly brave in the face of a storm.

Stage travel was rough. More and more people were choosing to ride in relative comfort on the railroads, and the ribbon of steel that now linked the East to the West was slowly killing off the old stage lines. It was only a matter of time before the rails reached south, because that was the only place left for them to go. As it was, new towns were springing up everywhere, things were getting civilized, and Jackson was beginning to wonder if there was going to be a place for him in what the newspaper scribes called "the New West."

Spartacus Jackson had come west after the war, only to be greeted by a woeful lack of opportunity. It wasn't just that his skin was black, though that was definitely a mark against him in most quarters, it was the additional fact that his left arm ended in a stump at his elbow. He'd mostly worked in saloons and whorehouses, keeping the peace with a sawed-off shotgun. He'd only come by his job as an express messenger after rescuing the owner of the stage company from a tussle in a Tucson whorehouse without skinning the old lecher's purse or pride.

At the time, Spartacus Jackson had figured it for a lucky break.

At present, in the face of a raging wind storm, he wondered.

There wasn't any cover, so the two men did the best they could in preparation for the worst that nature had to offer. Ben hobbled the horses' legs so the animals couldn't wander, and Jackson fastened leather flaps over the coach windows.

The baggage in the rear boot was covered, but the big crate up top was something else to consider. Jackson knew that if he covered it with a tarp, the stink would be trapped in the cab like a fart in a bottle. But if he left the crate uncovered, the wind would take care of the gamy smell and the heavy box would most likely be just as safe as the strongbox that was stored in the front boot beneath the driver's seat.

It was sound thinking, but Jackson didn't get very far with it. The owner of the crate, Mrs. Amelia Sloane of Washington, D. C., caught on to his scheme and complained about her cargo's sitting unprotected in such a blower. Her ice-blue eyes froze Ben as she explained for the umpteenth time that the crate contained the remains of her poor husband, Mr. Howard Sloane, who had met his demise in Godforsaken Mexico while securing artifacts for the betterment of mankind and whose corpse, furthermore, was going to be interred in view of his nation's Capitol, befitting the sacrifice he'd made.

Spartacus listened, amazed at the way the woman's voice rose above the storm. It was as if the winds were afraid to tear at her righteous complaints. He looked at the oversized crate and figured that Mr. Howard Sloane had been one big sonofabitch, indeed. His choice of lifelong companion probably necessitated his size. It was most likely the only advantage the man had held over a hellion like his tiny wife.

Ben ducked his head into the cab, out of the wind. "You're right crazy, ma'am, if you don't mind my saying. Your fella's already dead. Fact is, a little blowin' might just freshin' him up a tad."

Suddenly, the barrel of a silver gun pressed against Ben's forehead. "I think you misheard, grandpa," said a man with gray clothes and very white hands. "Maybe you want me to clean out your ears with this little gadget."

Ben backed off and shouted over the wind, "We can tie it. It'll be as safe as..."

Mrs. Sloane nodded. "Very well. But you men will have to stay with it and make certain that it meets no harm."

Ben hollered, "Lady...there ain't one godda...chance in...of us losin'...."

The man cocked his pistol. "Do like the lady says. Besides, the likes of you ain't tentin' out with us." Sneering, he turned the gun on Spartacus. "Especially not the likes of him."

Spartacus eyed the man and remembered that Mrs. Sloane had called him "Carolina" at the swing station. And this fellow was still wearing the Gray, clean and starchy as a dress uniform, though certainly too well-tailored to be regulation. Spartacus felt a phantom pain below the stump of his left elbow, the place where he'd had a forearm and hand before his visit to the hell called Cold Harbor.

Ben was ready to tussle. The other passenger, a well-dressed Mexican named Castro who had joined the coach at the swing station, seemed ready to take up the cause as well. But Spartacus just let it go. "C'mon, Ben," he said. "We'll do like the paying customers say."

Ben didn't like giving up. "Mouthy women...railroads...progress....I'm about ready to move south of the border, I swear to God."

The jehu and the express messenger wrapped themselves in canvas tarps, Ben stretching out up top next to the crate, Spartacus taking shelter under the coach. The storm deviled them through the night. It brought dreams of Cold Harbor to Jackson. He heard the screams of dying men in its whistling howls, and he pulled the canvas tighter, closer, until it rubbed at his face like sandpaper.

Then the wind was gone, and his dreams went with it. Hands were on him, shaking him, and he came quickly awake.

Castro bent over him, pity in his eyes. "The old driver...I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, senor. Your friend is dead."

Even with one arm, Spartacus Jackson could do most things just as well as men who had two. He could roll cigarettes without losing a bit of tobacco, and he had learned to light a Lucifer on just about any surface. He could reload a shotgun faster than any other man he'd ever known, and he could aim and fire the weapon with a deadly accuracy that wasn't associated with a scatter-gun.

But there were some things he couldn't do, and Carolina wanted him to do one of those things now. "Go ahead and shoot me," Jackson said. "But you're wasting a bullet, because there's no way in hell that a one-armed man can dig a grave."

Jackson tossed the shovel at Carolina's feet. He stared at the crate that had held the remains of Mr. Howard Sloane of Washington, D.C. It lay broken on the ground. Odd planks had blown about in the storm, forming a boardwalk that led to nowhere.

There was no sign of Mr. Sloane's corpse.

Ben Rose lay near his beloved horses, his head lolled to one side at an impossible angle, held to his neck by a thin rope of flesh. A dead dog, bloated and crawling with maggots, was stretched across his chest. Between his legs lay another head, a false one made of rough material that looked like it should be attached to a giant doll. It had a wooden nose, seashell eyes, and a painted red grin.

And it wore a feather headdress.

Castro crossed himself and removed the doll head. He rolled the dead dog into the sand and straightened Ben's head as best he could.

Carolina turned to the well-dressed Mexican. "You seem to have a knack for this, senor. I guess you're elected. Either that, or we can leave grandpa here for the buzzards."

Castro eyed him for a long moment. He waited until Carolina blinked, and then, as if satisfied with the small victory, he took up the shovel and began to dig.

Jackson nodded thanks and moved off to tend the horses. Mrs. Sloane was waiting for him. "I'm sorry about your friend," she said, and Spartacus could see that the hard edge was gone from her blue eyes, replaced by an emotion that he imagined was not often found there.

Fear.

"Just ain't any figuring it," he said. "Don't know how the crate got down there. Don't know what happened to your husband's corpse. Don't know who cut Ben's throat." He shook his head. "Either of those men leave the cab last night, Mrs. Sloane?"

"Both of them. I think they...uh...needed relief."

Jackson nodded. "You got any suspicions, ma'am?"

"Indians?" she offered, almost hopefully. "That strange head, with the feathers and all, it made me think."

"I don't know of any Indians in these parts who would make something like that, with seashell eyes and all." He studied her expression. "What I meant to ask is, do you have suspicions about Carolina or Senor Castro?"

"The Mexican, though cursed by his birthright, is a gentleman. The American is not."

Jackson nodded and turned his attention to the horses. Amelia Sloane was a tiny woman, but her eyes had once again turned hard when she'd spoken of the other passengers. Maybe the conversation had been a test, Jackson thought, her way of deciding if he'd been responsible for Ben's death and the disappearance of her husband's remains. If that was the case, her play at being fearful had been a way to get him to open up.

Jackson studied the scene. Castro had gone through a foot of earth, into dirt that was just as dry and chalky as the topsoil. Ben's corpse was stiff and going to purple. Someone, probably Castro, had weighted Ben's eyelids with two silver coins.

Jackson's gaze drifted over the flat landscape. There was no other corpse to be seen. He sniffed, drawing deep breaths. No other corpse to be scented, either. Only the dead dog smelled, and that smell was very familiar. In fact, it was the same stink that he'd been suffering for days.

Fat flies buzzed around the dog. Suddenly, Jackson was very curious about Mrs. Amelia Sloane and her missing husband.

"You about done with the horses, boy?" Carolina asked. He was sitting on the driver's box. Jackson's shotgun was in his hands, and the strongbox was on the seat beside him.

Unlocked.

"Time to get to work." He grinned. "Sorry about your buddy. No reason for it really. He died for nothing. That thing she had in the box....Whatever it was, it sure didn't have gold teeth. Wasn't worth dyin' over."

Jackson said nothing, trying to figure it.

"You know what this is, boy. Except this is one time I don't have to tell anyone to throw down the box. That's 'cause I'm takin' the whole damn stage." Carolina cocked the shotgun. "Boy, you free those horses' legs and move off, real slow." He turned the gun on Castro, who had stopped digging. "Senor, you just get comfortable in that grave and think about the fit of it."

Reluctantly, the Mexican did as ordered. Spartacus freed the horses. Mrs. Sloane came around the side of the stagecoach. "You can't leave us here," she said. "Don't you have any Christian decency?"

"That's a laugh!" Carolina said. "Lady, did you butcher that dog yourself? And that thing in the box, all bound up like Christmas time, where'd you dig it up, anyhow?"

"I can get money." She pointed to the strongbox. "More money than that. Just tell me what you did with my...with my husband."

"Husband? That's rich. You must have been married to Methuselah." Carolina laughed. "As for what happened to that thing, you best ask these two, 'cause I left it in the box along with the other old sourpuss."

Amelia Sloane's hand rose, a derringer looming large in her tiny grasp. She fired, and Carolina let go with a shotgun blast. Mrs. Sloane lurched backward, her white petticoats ruffling, her yellow dress stained with blood and gore and her eyes flat and vacant. Jackson dove away just as Carolina fired a second blast. Pellets missed him by inches, whizzing over his shoulder. A few caught Castro as he rose from the grave.

The Mexican fell back with a grunt. Carolina slapped the ribbons. The horses sprang forward, and so did Spartacus Jackson.

He was behind the stage in an instant. He got a grip, pulled himself onto the rear boot, and held tight.

“¡Cuidado! ¡Cuidado!"

Jackson glanced over his shoulder. Castro was chasing the coach, but he was too far away to catch up.

"Beware!" the Mexican shouted. "Beware!"

Jackson climbed on top of the stage, scrambling over the tarp that Ben had used as a bedroll during the storm. He rose on two feet, glancing down as he steadied himself.

Four brittle twigs extended from between the canvas folds.

Not twigs. Fingers. Hard and brown and —

Moving! They closed around his ankle, tight as a vise, and he nearly screamed. He fell backward and landed hard, kicking, trying to free his leg. Carolina turned, his silver Colt revolver in his very white hand. Jackson stared at the gun, then at the bony brown fingers that held him.

Then the thing rose between them, dry and dead and grinning.

Jackson caught Carolina's eye, just for an instant, and remembered the gunman's comment about a thing that was as old as Methuselah.

The grinning head swiveled on a scrawny neck. The thing's nose and eyes were gone, just empty holes, but its jagged teeth remained, along with lips that were as dry and black as dead worms. Swatches of dusky skin clung to its bones like cheap wallpaper hung by the devil himself, and Jackson prayed that the creature would fall apart if it moved again.

His prayers were not answered. The thing's bony fingers worked back and forth, sawing through his leather boot. Its mouth opened, papery lips shredding, and it reached out for Carolina, too.

The gunman's pistol thundered six times. Dust puffed from the thing's back and bullets screamed over Jackson's scalp.

Spartacus ducked low. Started to slide. Reached out with his one hand but only caught the canvas tarp. The wind wrapped it around him like a shroud.

He heard a dry popping sound as he fell against the rear boot. A broken bone. He was sure of it. Worry swam in his gut as he tumbled from the stage. He landed hard, rolling.

He rose and shook off the pain, steady on both feet.

Nothing was broken.

But that sound...

He looked down.

Clutching at his shredded boot, locked there, was the dead thing's left arm. Jackson shivered with revulsion. He couldn't look away. He couldn't even move.

Carolina's screams brought him around. Up ahead, the stage went over hard, sending up a cottony cloud of dust. Jackson kicked the dead arm loose and moved forward, unable to see much.

He heard horses whinnying. Some screamed in pain. But he didn't hear any human screams, and he didn't hear the report of a pistol.

The hazy cloud drifted toward him, slowly, clinging close to the earth as it advanced.

His shotgun was up there somewhere. Plenty of shells too, beneath the driver's box.

Unless the shells had been thrown clear. Unless his gun had been smashed beneath the wrecked stage.

Jackson stopped, eyeing the cloud.

Something rose in the middle of it.

The thing had suffered in the wreck. Dust spilled through its naked ribs and poured down its spine like sand rushing through some strange hourglass. Its face was skinned clean off; its naked jaws clacked as if it were trying to speak.

Jackson backed off, glancing over his shoulder. Castro was miles away. He couldn't even see the other man.

It's slow, he told himself, so damn slow. I can get around it. I can get to the stage, find a gun...

He remembered Carolina's bullets whizzing through the thing, not even hurting it, and he stopped cold. In his youth he'd fought Johnny Reb. In his prime he'd battled hard cases of every stripe. But lately he'd only fought with barkeepers who refused to serve him. And a surly barkeep didn't hold a candle to a walking skeleton, that was for damn sure.

He turned to run, but saw the thing's arm lying there in the dirt, still papered with dry flesh. He bent low and snapped it into two sections, got out his makings, and filled the withered palm with dry tobacco and cigarette papers.

The dead thing was close now, its single arm outstretched, reaching for him.

"We're even now." Jackson grinned, staring at the place where the thing's other arm should have been. "Even."

He got a match, his fingers shaking. Bracing a bone beneath his foot, he struck Lucifer against bone.

It flamed, and in a moment the hand was blazing.

He jammed it under the thing's ribs and prayed.

Jackson's shotgun was in fine shape.

Carolina wasn't. His neck was broken, twisted clean around so that his chest pointed toward heaven and his nose pointed toward hell.

Jackson didn't feel bad about it.

He did feel bad about shooting three injured horses, but that left three that were still fit and able. He transferred the contents of the strongbox into one of Mrs. Sloane's carpetbags, took a canteen from the driver's box, and started back toward Senor Castro. As he passed the dead thing, he emptied the shotgun into it, just to be sure.

The charred black bones flew apart like a cheap pinata.

Castro was tamping earth over Ben Rose's grave when Jackson dismounted. "You doing okay?" Jackson asked.

Castro nodded. There were a few red splotches on his right shoulder, but it appeared that he'd escaped the brunt of Carolina's shotgun blast. Jackson turned his gun on the Mexican, hoping to remind him of the damage it could do. "Right now I'm not too sure what just happened. I figure you might be able to help me out."

"I can try." Castro eyed the canteen, and Jackson tossed it. The Mexican drank. "I've been after Catherine Flint, our Mrs. Amelia Sloane, since she left Mexico City. My employers have a museum there. Senorita Flint stole something from us."

"That thing?"

"Yes. It was a momia, a mummy, from Peru. The remains of a very powerful man who died a long time ago. It had certain powers, powers so dangerous that we kept it hidden from those who might exploit it. That is what we do: we control evil, we battle it."

"Go on. I'm listening."

Castro smiled. "She was very ingenious, Senorita Flint. She gained the confidence of my superiors and managed to steal the momia. And the ruse she employed to escape —the bereaved widow traveling with her husband's remains—was one we hadn't expected. The dead dog was another brilliant stroke, adding, if you'll pardon the pun, a certain odor of authenticity. At any rate, it took me quite some time to catch up with her. I was looking for a way to take back the mummy when our troubles began.

"I don't know what she wanted," Castro continued. "Perhaps she recognized the thing's power, but I hope that is not the case. Perhaps she only wanted money. Many museums in your country are unconcerned about the sources that supply their antiquities, and they pay extravagant sums to those who plunder the riches of other lands." He pointed to the doll head. "And the momia, wrapped carefully many years ago and crowned with a false head, would have brought a pretty penny."

"Until Carolina decided to check it for gold teeth."

"I think that is what brought the creature back to life. But I may be wrong. There are many forces in the world which we do not understand."

Jackson lowered his shotgun. "Maybe the old boy just didn't appreciate being disturbed after all those years spent bundled up neat and tidy."

"That is a distinct possibility."

"Well, let's go," Jackson said.

"Where?"

"Tucson's closest. The stage company will be waiting for me. I've got their money and a bunch of dead passengers and a whole lot of explaining to do." He shook his head. "Damn. They'll never believe any of this."

"There will be many questions," Castro said. "They will not like your answers, amigo. This I can assure you."

Jackson knelt and pressed his hand against Ben's grave. He was quiet for a long moment, and then he said, "These folks you work for, you say they fight the good fight?"

"Yes. They most assuredly do."

"Are they hiring?"

Castro laughed. "Senor Jackson, I'm certain that a man of your talents can always be of use."

Spartacus Jackson patted the grave one last time, remembering Ben's words about moving south.

"I've always wanted to see Mexico," he said.

The Macbeth School of Horror

"When the Fruit Comes Ripe" is about a crooked sheriff's moldering corpse returning from the dead to wreak vengeance upon his enemies. Not surprisingly, the story veers into nasty EC Comics territory pretty quickly, and it's a quick drag race from there to the finish line.

You'll notice that's not exactly the kind of neighborhood where you'd expect to find ol' Will Shakespeare hanging out. So what's the deal with the allusion to Macbeth in the title of this essay, you ask? What in the world can a zombified lawman have to do with the Bard's signature Scottish king?

My answer: it's all in the attitude.

I was about twelve when I saw Macbeth for the first time. This would have been sometime in the early seventies, when my older brother was a student at Southern Oregon College in Ashland. Of course, Ashland was (and is) home to one of the premiere Shakespeare festivals in the world, so I was starting at the top.

I can still remember my brother dropping me off at the outdoor theater the night of the performance. I was nervous—a kid going to a play for the very first time, and going alone[54] —but excited at the same time. An usher helped me find my seat. I was right up front, in the third row. The place was far from packed, and everyone in the audience looked older than my parents. Naturally I began to worry that I was in for three of the most boring hours of my life.

Then a trio of witches took the stage and stirred a boiling cauldron. Warriors followed them with hefty swords strapped to their sides. Those swords came out as the play progressed, and so did murderous little knives. Schemes were hatched and blood was spilled across a dark landscape, and a madwoman endeavored to wash invisible blood from her hands. Believe me, it was a heady brew of violence and fury for an imaginative kid like me.

Macbeth fascinated me then; he still does today. It isn't easy to corral his motivations, or size up his character. The witches' prophecy drives him, but so does his wife's own simmering ambition, and so does his own. Watching Macbeth that night, it seemed to me that he was a man strapped in an invisible harness, yanked through the events of the play by his own merciless demons. And what fascinated me most of all about Macbeth's battle with destiny was the way he faced his doom when the caveats of the witches' prophesies that had once seemed to assure his victory turned against him. Knowing well that death awaited, Macbeth drew his sword, went straight at it, and took his cuts at eternity with words that I have never forgotten;

I will not yield,

To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet.

And to be baited with the rabble's curse.

Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane

And though opposed being by no woman born

Yet will I try the last. Before my body

I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Macduff,

And damned be he who first cries "Hold, enough."

For the burgeoning writer inside me, watching Macbeth that night hardcast part of my creative component. It was a defining moment. The character and his story captivated me as few other characters or stories ever had. It colored the way I would come to see fiction and the world in a way I couldn't fully perceive at the time.

As I saw more plays (and movies) and read more books, I developed a love of strong characters and strong characterization. Toss in a scenario that notched high on the virtually insurmountable scale or a doomed hero who faced up to his fate knowing full-well that he didn't stand a chance and you had a story that would punch me hard in the head, heart, and gut.

I discovered a lot of characters that fit that bill—or parts of it—over the years. The first one (long before Macbeth) was probably Lon Chaney, Jr.'s Wolfman/Lawrence Talbot character in those old Universal monster rallies. Others that stuck with me were Robert Neville in Matheson's The Last Man on Earth, John Russell in Elmore Leonard's Hombre, and Taylor in the film version of Planet of the Apes. There were darker characters, too, like Sheriff Lou Ford in Jim Thompson's The Killer Inside Me.[55]

And that last bit presented an interesting paradox once I recognized it. Both heroes and villains could be cut from the same creative cloth when it came to characterization. Strong heroes and strong villains were often driven by the belief that they saw the world in its true light. Their actions were directed by a personal code, and that code was molded by their experience, cemented into a worldview. In other words, they'd go to the mat to validate their sense of reality.

It was an interesting way to approach the idea of good and evil. Ultimately, I came to think of heroes and villains like flip sides of the same coin. A balance existed between the two, a grudging connection. For me, the more interesting heroes and villains butted heads not only with their enemies, but with fate or the world itself. And if the world got the better of them in the end...well, they went down swinging.

These were the kind of characters that fascinated me as a reader/viewer, so it's no surprise that they were the same kind of characters I'd write about when I began to craft my own stories. Many writers' manuals will advise you to concentrate on character motivation, but when it comes to characterization motivation has always seemed too weak a word for me. Sure, I want to understand each player's particular moral compass and know what forces direct it, but I'm equally interested in a character's visceral response to the world. I want to understand how the things locked up inside drive him. I want to know not only what makes him tick, but what propels him through life...whether he's a hero, a villain, or something in between.

WHEN THE FRUIT COMES RIPE

Everyone in town used to say that Sheriff Willie Martin was Fiddler, and one night Willie rose from the grave to prove that it was still true.

Ten years. A long time to lie underground in a leaky box. A long time to suffer the worms twisting in your guts. Not enough time to figure out if you were alive or dead, or decide if you believed in God or the Devil, but just enough time to teach yourself how to move again, and plenty of time to store up a whole lot of hate.

Willie lumbered past the rusty FIDDLER CEMETERY sign. In the distance, headlights cut through the fog on Highway 63. One corner of Willie's upper lip rose in a leathery sneer, a feeble mockery of the self-satisfied grin that had stopped tough men cold in the old days. But now the sneer would have to do —the rest of Willie's upper lip was glued to his teeth like a dry, lifeless worm, and his lower lip had rotted away long ago.

Thirteen miles to Fiddler. Thirteen miles home. Commanding his fingers to bend in ways they didn't want to, Willie untied his silk necktie. Ten years ago the undertaker had knotted it especially tight, taking care to make Willie's eternal rest as uncomfortable as possible. But that was okay. In fact, Willie admired the man for it. After all, during his reign as sheriff he had collected fifty bucks from the undertaker for every stiff planted in Fiddler soil, not to mention a whole jarful of gold fillings.

Willie's bony fingers clacked together as he tugged at the ends of the tie. I hope the old bastard hasn't gone and died on me, he thought. I'd like to see if I can still cinch up a perfect full-Windsor.

Again, Willie tried for the self-satisfied grin. Again, he settled for the leathery sneer. Tonight he planned to show every person who'd ever crossed him that his memory was very long, indeed. Every union organizer, every newspaper writer, every clean cop, every damn one of them.

Stiff-legged, Willie made his way along the muddy drainage ditch that ran parallel to the highway. He kicked at beer bottles and aluminum cans, and then his foot struck something soft and fleshy.

A dead dog.

Willie laughed. Plenty of strays had disappeared beneath the bumper of his patrol car in the old days, crawling off to die in a ditch just like this stupid mutt had. He stepped gingerly over the decaying animal. "Hell," he said, staring down at what remained of his hands. "I seen worse."

Grin. Sneer.

Slowly, careful of his footing, Willie climbed the embankment. The wind whipped across Highway 63 and tore a window in the fog. Willie froze. A huge oak stood on the other side of the road, its branches reaching into the night, reaching for him.

The same tree that those crazy bastards tied me to. The same tree....

Willie lurched out of the way as a car sped by. His withered heart throbbed and wheezed, pumping musty air instead of blood.

"No," Willie begged, but his dead brain dredged up the memory. The fog, the warm whiskey swimming in his belly...a big dog in front of him and he hit the gas...a whispered oh Christ when he saw that the dog was really a little girl carrying a burlap sack and his feet got tangled up, missed the brake pedal...the sack flying through the fog, disappearing, and the sound of deposit bottles shattering against the blacktop...yellow lights slicing through the fog-shrouded migrant camp...Willie panicking...the smell of ripe oranges and gunpowder and then his bullets were gone and the migrants were all over him, punching and cutting...cutting him everywhere as the thick rope tightened, pulling him against rough bark...the orange shoved into his mouth...his teeth clamping down, summer-sweet juice squirting in his mouth as the sharp blade ripped across his throat....

Willie dropped to his knees. High beams blazed in the fog, but he couldn't even blink anymore let alone get out of the way and a truck plowed into him, breaking his brittle body into a dozen pieces.

Willie's head landed in an orange grove on the other side of the highway. The truck roared away, toward Fiddler, fog and exhaust swirling in its wake like a monstrous, crashing wave.

At sunrise, a skinny dog came sniffing down the drainage ditch. Tentatively, the animal nudged Willie's left leg, then took the withered limb between its teeth and trotted toward Willie's head.

No! Willie begged silently. Stay away!

The dog growled, showing yellow teeth. It sniffed Willie's head, decided that the leg was the better bargain, and continued into the orange grove.

Around noon, a flock of sparrows appeared. The birds tore tufts of hair from Willie's pitted scalp and flew off toward Fiddler to build their nests. A chattering crow landed in the ditch and pecked at Willie's skeletal fingers, and a squirrel stole his silk necktie.

Willie watched the squirrel scamper away. He prayed, not knowing who to pray to. He knew nothing about magic or witchcraft, but he'd sure enough seen his share of weird shit transpire around these parts.

Somewhere out there, there was something to believe in. Willie was certain of that. He promised anything and everything if only someone, something, would help him. He pledged eternal servitude. He swore that he'd burn in hell without complaint. And when he ran out of earnest promises, he simply waited, satisfied that he'd done all he could.

Two Mexican boys came down the ditch late in the afternoon, shouting and laughing while they collected bottles and aluminum cans. The shorter boy found Willie's badge and pinned it to his faded flannel shirt, but it was the taller boy who discovered the real prize — Willie's head.

Willie sneered at the tall boy. Unimpressed, the boy speared Willie's cheek with a stick.

After an hour of merciless poking and prodding, the boys broke the stick over Willie's head. The tall boy said, "Hey, let's go get Juan and Paulo," and the boys raced away, bottles and cans rattling in half-filled garbage bags.

Willie waited, praying that the gods would come soon.

Then he realized what a numbskull he'd been. The gods were creatures of the dark. That was it. They'd come at night. And they'd bring him a new body, because gods could do things like that. Sure. They were busy right now, choosing one that was strong and handsome. And when Willie had his new body, when he was ready to make his first visit, he'd be sure to ask the gods where his two little buddies lived.

A cutting breeze blew a candy wrapper against Willie's face. He licked the chocolate-coated plastic, happier now, occupying himself with thoughts of sharp sticks and startled, innocent faces.

But when darkness fell, it wasn't the gods who came at all.

Twigs snapped underfoot as the men crept through the orange grove.

"Where is the filthy thing?" a man whispered. "Tell us and you won't be punished."

"Over there." The tall boy sniffled. "El diablo is over there."

The man pushed the boy aside. "You ninos, not even smart enough to be afraid. Maybe now you'll believe the stories I tell you, eh?"

The migrants collected the remains of Willie Martin. One of the men dug a hole at the base of an orange tree, complaining in Spanish that he always had to work harder than everyone else. Someone found Willie's head and shoved a juicy orange into his mouth.

A flick of the wrist, and Willie's head tumbled into the hole.

Willie heard the slosh of a half-full bottle. Whiskey scorched his unblinking eyes.

One of the men tossed a dog-gnawed femur into the hole.

Someone said, "Willie Martin es Fiddler."

The men screamed laughter. Willie watched a lit match drop toward him. As flames crackled over his face he fought through the pain and heard other sounds, other voices (voices that he had never imagined), far in the distance. Squealing tires. A rusty cemetery gate squeaking closed.

A little girl crying.

Her whispered curse, earnest and eternal.

Someone spat whiskey into the hole and blue flames danced across Willie's charred upper lip. Trapped in Willie's mouth, the orange sizzled, dripping juice. Everything was slipping away. Slipping away to nothing. Burning away like dry, crackling skin.

Oily smoke billowed from the hole. The tall boy yelled, “Willie Martin! Willie Martin!"

It’s the Steak, Not the Sizzle

Since the following is a tale of paranoia, this is as good a time as any to explain why a little bit of that particular commodity might be a good thing for a writer who wants to sell his work.

First off, let me construct a scenario for you. Imagine every editor had a crystal ball that told him everything he wanted to know about a writer who'd submitted a manuscript. All he'd have to do is wave his hands over the ball in the prescribed manner, whisper the writer's name, and stare into the crystal while the writer's entire personal history was revealed to him.

Did I say "personal?" Uh-uh. Scratch that. I'm talking PERSONAL. The stuff most people keep close to the vest...if not hidden up in the cerebral attic.

One wave of his hands...one little whisper...and an editor could know all that.

Frightening, huh? Not really. Stick with me. The truly frightening part is yet to come.

Now imagine that it's your name the editor whispers.

Your life that flashes before him in the smoky crystal.

Your embarrassing moments on display.

Now stop imagining. The reality is that editors may already have this power over you, and here's the moment of stone cold irony you've all been waiting for: if they've got it, you're the one who gave it to them.

I'm sure most of you can already see where I'm going with this essay. You've guessed that the crystal ball I'm talking about is that wonderful modern miracle, the computer, which in truth requires no hand-waving or incantations to invoke the above operation. All you need is Internet access, a working knowledge of the search engine of your choice, and the ability to type the name of the person you'd like to investigate.

Or as a publisher friend of mine says, "If I want to check someone out, I Google 'em."

Try that with a few names from any small press table of contents page and you'll likely discover some stuff that'll make your jaw drop. You'll find online journals, blogs, and message boards where new writers discuss all kinds of things, and I'm not just talking about their forthcoming novels or short stories. No. I'm talking about the kind of stuff that would make most folks cringe...or at least blush.

I'm talking about aspiring writers (and others who've been around long enough to know better) who seem to think it's a good career move to discuss—in full view of any editor, publisher, or regular Joe who can click a mouse—such topics as: their legal and financial problems, their divorce(s), why their ex-wife/boss/neighbor/landlord (pick one) would be better off dead, why Editor A is a no-talent jerk, why Publisher B deserves to have his tonsils removed with a pair of pliers, why Writer C is a know-nothing moron, why—

Well, you get the idea. And I promise you, I'm not making this up. In fact, I'm restraining myself, in part because I don't want to embarrass folks who might recognize themselves if I provided more details. I'm not going to do that. That's not my purpose here.

My purpose is to offer you a warning: this kind of thing can be a very bad idea for any writer with professional aspirations. Remember, writing is a business. If you want to do business as a writer, your reputation is something that should concern you. And if you get yourself a reputation as a whackjob, or a lunatic-in-training, or a whining crybaby, or a simple everyday garden-variety asshole—

Well, do that and you're not going to do much business...no matter what you put down on the page.

And, yes, I can hear you now. C’mon, Norm. Wake up and smell the new millennium. Things have changed since you broke into those dot-matrix magazines back in the nineties. Everyone's on the web now. These days, it's the best way to get your name out there. Besides, it's not as bad as you make it sound! And, anyway, I don't write about personal stuff when I post. I just use the web to promote my work!

Huh?

You know. I'm trying to break in, like you did when you were selling stuff to Cemetery Dance and Grue and Roadkill Press. A friend published a couple of my stories in his webzine, and I'm trying to get a deal with a small press to do a collection. I use the message boards and my website to get the word out and let people know who I am. It's the only way to get noticed when you're starting out!

Uh-oh. Hold on there, hoss. You just punched a button. A big red one.

Now sit back and fasten your safety belts, because I've got one little word I'd like to share with you.

That word is: bullshit.

The way to get noticed is to write good stories and novels.

The way to stay noticed is to keep on writing them.

Don't ever forget that. It's the best career advice I can give you.

See, it's the writing that counts. That's the simple truth, and that's what you need to worry about whether you're just starting out or you've been around ten years and have a bookcase jam-packed with published work. Not coming out on top in a flame war, or designing a cool website, or being the life of the party at a convention, or winning a Stoker. All that's just a song and dance routine.

Promotion becomes an important tool as you climb the career ladder,[56] but it's the last thing you need to worry about when you're starting out. You need to worry about the writing. You need to worry about turning out quality stories that will rise above the slush pile and get your work into magazines and anthologies that can advance your career. You need to worry about typing "The End" on the last page of a novel that'll allow you to interest an agent who can cut a deal with a publisher who'll actually try to sell the damn thing. That's where your focus belongs. All the rest of it might be fun, and it might provide a few entertaining distractions or give you a little ego boost as you try to get your foot on the first or second or third rung of the ladder, but it can suck away your time (the time you should spend writing) before you even know it's gone.

I'm going to be blunt, here—promotion on that level won't get you much, anyway. Oh, it might get you noticed by a core group of folks who attend horror conventions, and it might get you published in a bunch of small magazines and print-on-demand anthologies that really aren't read by anyone outside that very small circle. If that'll give you the validation you're looking for as a writer, that's fine. But don't fool yourself. You've still got a long way to go if you want to make it as a pro.

Another thing: self-promotion can easily backfire on an inexperienced writer, especially one who overplays his hand. Go that route and you'll be putting yourself in a real put-up-or-shut-up situation. If you tell readers that your stories are new and original and daring...well, they'd better be just that. They'd better not read like retreads of stories that barely made the cut in small press magazines back in the early nineties. If they do, you're engaged in what I like to call "budget ape"[57] promotion, and you'll probably end up with more than a little egg on your face. Worst case scenario, you'll wake up one morning with the nagging suspicion that your writing career is nothing more than the punchline to a joke you didn't quite get until it was too late.

Believe me, you don't want that to happen.

Myself, I'm a writer. That's what I set out to be, and that's what I'm here to talk about. If you're looking for shortcuts, if what you really want to do is become a personality or a celebrity, you're reading the wrong book. I can't help you.

But I can offer you a friendly piece of advice.

Promotion is a tool; it ain't the job.

Writing is the job.

You can learn that now, or you can learn that later...but you will learn it.

I'll lay money on that.

So you've read my warnings, but you're new to the game. You don't know any other writers, and you've got a lot of questions you can't answer. You'd like to give the Internet a try, maybe get to know some like-minded beginners over the web who are going through the same thing you are, maybe even get to know a pro or two who won't mind giving you some advice. Here are seven basic tips to help you out if you decide to go online:

1. There's nothing wrong with message boards—I've seen some boards frequented by established pros where beginning writers could learn quite a bit. But please remember this if you're going to participate: you are not on the telephone with your best friend. You are not involved in a private conversation. Almost anyone—editors, publishers, other writers—can look at this stuff, and they probably will.

2. If you post, don't whine. It will endear you to no             one.

3. Didn't like that rejection letter Editor A sent you? It's your opinion that Anthology B (which also rejected a story) is a shameless piece of dreck? Think twice before posting your complaints, because blowing off steam can cost you. So can crossing potential markets or editors off your list.

4. Never...ever...EVER...discuss business online before you have nailed down a deal, and I mean nailed it solidly. If a potential deal goes up in smoke after you've announced it—especially if it's a big one—you'll look like an idiot. And consider the fact that negotiation is a two-way street—if the person with whom you're negotiating finds out that you've been discussing your business in public, you may discover that those negotiations are quite suddenly over.

5. I have heard that some naive souls out there actually believe that "Members Only" message boards are "private." It's my advice that you guess again, then refer to #1 above. If you just fell off the turnip truck and actually trust every member of an online group to keep his or her mouth shut about things said in "private," or if you actually believe that a username and password can prevent a determined outsider from "peeking," let me disabuse you of these silly notions and refer you to numbers #2 through #4 above.

6. Have a problem with an editor or publisher that you can't handle? Need to vent about Editor A or Anthology B? Don't conduct your business in a public forum. Don't post your problem on a message board. Don't bitch on your blog. Privately e-mail or phone a friend in the business—or a couple of friends—whom you trust. Be selective... after all, do you really want the advice of anyone who can click a mouse (and do you really want all of them to know about your problems)?

7.  If you spend more time online than you do writing, it might be time to rethink your career choice. Being a writer is all about typing "The End" over and over and over again. No one is going to buy a collection of your greatest message board posts. Remind yourself of that, and get back to work.

WALKERS

The General was gone in a flash.

Kim sat down and tried to remember him.

Sharp nose.

Blue eyes. Or were they gray?

Tight smile. Chapped lips.

Or maybe that had been the bus driver, the one who had looked at her with a familiarity bred of recognition. The one who'd watched her when he should have been watching the potholes that pitted the ruined streets.

The one who'd smiled when she asked for directions to the apartment building.

Don’t think about the bus driver. Think about the General.

Blue eyes. Gray eyes. Blue eyes flecked with gray.

Sharp nose.

Lips. Don't think about his lips.

Hard fingers. Gripping her trembling hand. Pressing the key into her sweaty palm.

Tight smile. Parting words and last minute instructions that she hadn't really heard.

And then he was gone, in a flash.

Her search was thorough. She checked every closet in the apartment, every bookshelf, every drawer. But she couldn't find a picture of the General anywhere.

Kim told herself that it didn't matter. A picture might make him seem human, and that could be dangerous. She might be tempted to lower her defenses. She might stare into his eyes and forget why she was here.

She didn't care what he looked like, only what he knew.

But she worried. She couldn't help it. If she was losing her memory, that could mean that the doctors had been right.

And the General was dangerous. She was sure of that. He was not like the others she had investigated. He wore a uniform. He probably carried a weapon. And she no longer had her service revolver.

They had taken it when she entered the hospital.

Maybe the man from the mayor's office had tricked her.

If he had, it was too late.

Here she was. Alone.

In the home of the General.

In the home of a man who left no face behind.

The refrigerator was well stocked. German beer, good cheese, lots of expensive fruit that had been purchased the day before. Kim knew that because she found a cash-register receipt in the bottom of the CRISPER drawer.

She sniffed a golden papaya. Sweet. Like honey and oranges and watermelon mixed together.

Was this the General's private joke? A last meal for the condemned prisoner?

Kim halved the fruit, then cleaned out the slick, black seeds and sent them whirling down the garbage disposal with a blast of tap water. She set the fruit on an elegant Nambe dish, added a slice of lime, and chose a silver spoon from the utensil drawer.

In the living room, Kim cleared a space on the brass coffee table. Books were everywhere. She stashed them on the floor beneath the table and turned on the large screen television. She flipped stations until she found a morning news program.

The anchorman was talking about her again.

At first the media had focused quite a bit of attention on her story. Ordinarily, people with inoperable brain tumors didn't disappear from hospitals. They just didn't get up and walk out.

They were sick.

They were supposed to rest easy.

They were supposed to die.

Kim knew that. She had been in a hospital bed, without her service revolver. She had been there, feeling just fine, really, until the Walkers spoke to her.

The anchorman finished talking.

The weatherman talked next. Then the sports guy talked.

They didn't talk about Kim.

She ate the papaya. In the hospital, she had been eating ice cream when she first heard the voices of the Walkers.

They weren't ghostly voices. They were tinny, itchy with interruptions of static. They came out of the little speakerphone that was clipped to the bed rail, the one she used to communicate with the nurse's station.

The voices said:

"Get up! Run! We shouldn't even be talking to you. But they're going to kill you!"

"They're going to do it tonight. Tonight!"

"You're not really sick. They've been drugging your food for weeks. You're marked for execution."

"That's right. We're taking a risk. But he says that you're important to us. He studied your record with the police department. You're brave and you're honest, and we need you as much as you need us. He needs you."

"But you have to believe us when we say that they're going to kill you. Tonight! And we need you!"

"Get up! Run! Before it's too late!"

And she did. Get up. She couldn't run because her body was heavy with medication, but she could walk. She unplugged the speakerphone and took it with her, because now the voices were telling her what to do, where to go, how to get away. They directed her escape from the hospital and calmed her as she wandered the deserted streets.

"Hide in plain sight," the voices said. "Join us. Be a Walker. Hide among our enemies and be our spy. And then, when it is time, he will lead us away. We will walk away together, and they will never find us."

"Now go to the Gibson Arms. It's a condo complex, uptown. You're to say you're from an employment agency...."

Kim finished the papaya. She took the hospital speakerphone from her purse and listened for a message from the Walkers, but no words came. No words had come since that first night.

But they would come. Soon.

She hoped.

Maybe it was her fault. Maybe she had done something wrong. She'd thought about this before, at the other places. She thought about it now.

Or maybe it wasn't a question of right or wrong. Maybe it was a question of intelligence. Maybe she had to be smart.

There was a jack below the volume control on the television, but it was too large to accommodate the speakerphone plug. There were several jacks in the stereo, all too small.

Too large. Too small.

There was a jack in the telephone answering machine.

Just right.

Kim plugged in the speakerphone. She listened.

Nothing.

The morning was gone. Kim was hungry again. She sliced cheese. Different kinds. Smooth and buttery; chunky and tart. The chunky kind stuck to the knife and she licked it off, thinking that that was a stupid thing to do because she might cut her tongue.

She found crackers in the cupboard. Remembering a magazine article that she'd read, she stared at the crackers in hopes of finding secret messages stamped amid the flakes of sea salt.

Nothing there.

She ate the crackers.

The morning was gone. The afternoon was here.

There would be more news.

Kim turned on the television, saw a different anchorman.

He wasn't talking about her.

He was talking about others.

People were furious. The morning newspapers hadn't been delivered. The newsboys had apparently taken the day off. The anchorman thought it was all very funny. He made a joke about pimply-faced labor organizers. The sports guy chimed in with a jibe about wildcat strikes. The weatherman said that it was a nice day to play hooky and go fishing.

The anchorman read the morning funnies aloud, and all the reporters had a good laugh.

Kim thought. Maybe it's happening now.

Newsboys get up early. They all have radios. Those little portable things with earphones. They all listen. Maybe they heard the Walkers.

"Run! We shouldn't even be talking to you. But they're going to kill you! Run!"

They were going to kill. It was going to happen soon.

The government. The men in uniforms.

The General.

Kim searched the apartment. This time she didn't look for pictures. She looked for clues.

She found none. She rifled the General's desk and checked his garbage. She flipped through the books she'd stacked beneath the coffee table, but there were no papers hidden inside. No government reports. And no secret tapes hidden in the pockets of the uniforms that hung like executed men in the General's closet, either.

Kim continued her search. In the other places it had been so easy.

She had learned a lot in those other places.

House-sitting. It was a good way to hide, and a good cover.

In the first house, she cut her hair. And then the owner of that house, who was a lawyer, recommended her to a friend who worked at city hall. And then that woman recommended her to a man in the mayor's office. And then that man recommended her to the General.

At each stop, she reported what she found through the speakerphone, but she didn't know if the Walkers heard her.

In the house of the lawyer, she found thirty Polaroid pictures of naked women. Twenty-four had black X's drawn over their faces; six had red smiles felt-penned over their lips.

In the house of the woman from city hall, Kim discovered detailed maps of the city. Entire neighborhoods were outlined in red. She found other maps, too, maps that featured mansions where row houses now stood. Maps where tenements were labeled "Slave Quarters."

In the house of the man from the mayor's office, taped behind the refrigerator, Kim found a thick list of registered voters. Most names were crossed out.

Including her name.

But there was a single word after her name, and a question mark after the word.

WALKER?

She was here for a reason. She couldn't give up.

Kim checked the speakerphone. Nothing.

Clothes were strewn about the General's bedroom. Drawers hung open. File cabinets had been emptied. Ransacked.

Nothing.

Kim was sweating. She felt defeated. Out of her depth. She didn't know where else to look. In college, she'd read spy novels by the dozen —Deighton, Ludlum, Le Carre, Forsyth—and she knew that generals could hide things in ways she couldn't begin to imagine.

Microfilm. Computer disks encoded with secret programs. Good old-fashioned invisible writing.

There had to be something here. The General had to be involved, or the Walkers would have directed her elsewhere.

Kim trembled.

The Walkers had sent her, hadn't they?

They had sent her to the lawyer, to the woman from city hall, to the man from the mayor's office. Without a word, they'd sent her.

Kim's chest knotted.

The lawyer sent her to the woman from city hall. And the woman from city hall sent her to the man from the mayor's office. And the man from the mayor's office sent her here.

To the General.

No!

Kim's heart thundered, banged, threatened to explode.

Not her heart.

Someone was pounding on the door.

Kim squinted through the peephole.

Two men. In military uniform.

Neither man had blue eyes, or gray eyes, or blue eyes flecked with gray. Neither man had a pointy nose.

They had brown eyes. They had squashed noses, like large mushrooms.

One of the men tried a key. He swore when it didn't work, and then he took a small wallet from his breast pocket. From the wallet he extracted a thin metal strip the width of a nail file.

Kim opened the door.

Two sets of startled brown eyes stared at her.

The shorter man asked her about the General, and Kim said that he'd gone on vacation. The taller man peeked over her shoulder and saw the mess in the living room.

"More books," he said. "More mumbo-jumbo. Just like his office."

Kim said that she'd found the apartment a mess when she arrived. She said the General gave her the key a week before, when he'd arranged for her to house-sit, but no way was she going to provide him with free maid service. No way.

The tall man whispered something to the short man. "The General is a rabbit." Kim wanted to laugh —at the silly comment, at the man's grave expression when he'd uttered it—but she pretended that she hadn't overheard.

The tall man shouldered past her and hurried down the narrow hallway and into the living room. He turned on the television. Five o'clock news.

The short man asked Kim what her name was.

She gave the name of her fifth grade teacher, the same name she'd given to the lawyer and all the others.

The short man keyed the name into a little machine that looked like a calculator but wasn't.

The tall man returned. He was holding several books. The same ones that Kim had checked for hidden documents. He thrust the books at the short man, and the short man shook his head.

The tall man said, "The General isn't just any rabbit, he's a cwazy wabbit."

The men laughed.

The short man looked at his little machine, then at Kim. He smiled and said that sometimes his machine was very slow.

The tall man had returned to the living room, and now he called for the short man to come and look at the television. The short man shrugged and put his machine away.

The anchorman looked nervous. He reported that the day's mail had gone undelivered, and no one joked about a wildcat strike. The sports guy reported that none of the players on the local big league baseball team had reported for the evening game at the downtown stadium, and no one mentioned playing hooky.

The anchorman's brow creased and he pressed his earpiece with two fingers. A moment later he rose and walked away from the anchor desk.

The tall man pulled a pistol and aimed it at Kim.

The short man said that they couldn't afford to make a mistake.

Kim stared at the gun. She didn't have her service revolver, and the knife was in the kitchen sink, sticky with chunky cheese.

The tall man put away his weapon and glared at Kim. He said he was sorry that his partner's machine was so slow.

The short man winked at Kim as he followed the tall man out of the apartment.

The sports guy was trying to do the news.

"Bus drivers throughout the city have apparently walked off the job. Union leaders are unavailable for comment...."

Kim's gaze drifted to the coffee table. The tall man had gone off without the General's books. She picked up a worn red volume. The Empty Battlefield: the Story of Hill 60.

"City jail is empty. Evening staff discovered vacant cells when they reported for work. No prisoners. No guards...."

Another book, this one red with gold lettering on the spine. Vanished: the Men of the Eilean Mor Lighthouse. A black paperback. The Mystery of the Mary Celeste.

"In the city park, zoo cages stand locked but empty...."

The Bermuda Triangle. Kim fingered the title of an oversized volume. The Lost Colony of Roanoke Island.

Quiet.

She turned to the television.

The sports guy was gone. The weatherman was gone, too.

The phone rang.

Kim didn't pick up the receiver. She picked up the hospital speakerphone, and a steady voice responded to her whispered greeting. "Tell him that it's working. We're on the move."

Kim swallowed. "Who? Who should I tell?"

"Him...the General. Tell him that tomorrow morning the greedy bastards are going to wake up to a ghost town."

Kim remembered. Him.

The Walkers had told her.

He says that you're important to us.

He studied your record with the police department.

He will lead us away.

The General.

Someone took the speakerphone out of Kim's hand.

A sharp nose. Blue eyes flecked with gray.

A tight smile.

"We've got to hurry," said the General. "We've got a long way to go."

When Opportunity Knocks…

...like my old man used to say: answer the goddamned door.

That's the long and short of it, and the story behind this story is a case in point.

It's 1992. October in California. A buddy who's getting a start in the construction business is remodeling my house. It's short about three rooms, one of them being the kitchen, which means I've gained about ten pounds in the last few months eating fast-food breakfasts. There's a temporary water heater that holds about three gallons hooked up in a closet, so the current definition of "taking a shower" is that the pipes will get warm but you won't. Most of the time there's one toilet that works (one day the plumber gets something wrong and said working toilet saps the limited supply of hot water, which makes for a nice steamy experience). There are holes in the bedroom wall that allow three very upset cats easy access and egress...the latter pretty much occurs every morning at six a.m., when my friend and his crew show up for work.

They're all good guys. I grew up with most of them. We drink coffee and talk about what they'll be doing that day, at which point the cats retreat to the storm drain out by the driveway, where they'll hide out until the clock hits quitting time in the afternoon.

My wife goes to work. I head over to Jack-in-the-Box and grab a Sourdough Breakfast Sandwich (I don't have a kitchen, remember?). Then I drive to my mom's house, where the Mac with the scorched side waits for me on the desk where I used to do my homework as a kid. Blissfully ignorant of the advice I have laid out for you in a previous chapter, I have quit my day job and am writing full time. Most of the summer has been spent locked up in my childhood bedroom working on Slippin' into Darkness (which, as it turns out, is a great place to be when you're writing a novel that draws upon your high school experience).

So, there I am, typing away on an October morning, coffee and that greasy Jack-in-the-Box breakfast gurgling around in my stomach. The phone rings. It's Rich Chizmar, and Rich has a problem. Awhile back he received an invitation for an anthology of Christmas mystery stories that Marty Greenberg and Ed Gorman are putting together, but he's been so busy with Cemetery Dance and his new book line that he hasn't had a chance to finish a piece. He wants to know if I'd be interested in collaborating so he won't have to pull out of the project.

Oh, yeah. I'm interested. By this time I'm selling stories to pro markets, but I've yet to get a chance at a Greenberg anthology. Marty does a lot of anthos, but they're pretty much invitation only affairs. I'm eager to get into one of his books, and maybe earn a chance to contribute to others. I'm also eager to work with Ed Gorman, a writer (and sometimes editor) I've admired for quite awhile, but have yet to work with or meet.

The way I see it, I don't have much to lose. Sure it's October, and it's still hot in California, and I'm not even in the mood for Halloween yet...let alone Christmas. My house is a wreck, my diet is lousy, and writing my first novel has me feeling like I'm going a little nuts. But I figure I can put all that aside for a week or so, finish up Rich's Christmas mystery story, and get back to my book before it goes cold on me. So I ask Mr. Chizmar the pertinent question: "How long would I have to get it done?"

"I'd need it back by Thursday."

That little sentence stops me short. 'Today's Monday, Rich," I say. "You mean this Thursday?"

"Yeah. I can FedEx the story to you today. You'll get it tomorrow by noon. If you FedEx it to me on Wednesday afternoon. I'll have it back by Thursday."[58]

"How much have you written?"

"Well...the opening section is finished, and the rest of the story is pretty much outlined."

Rich keeps talking, going into more detail about the story. It sounds like a solid idea, and definitely something I could run with—a tale of child abuse out of the noir school, but with a hopeful edge in the home-stretch. The juxtaposition of tragedy and hope is something I've admired in much of Rich's work, and I'm interested to see if I can make that work in a story. The only thing I'm really worried about is the emotionally wrenching subject matter, but there's no real way around that. In fact, it's the only thing about the piece that might make the short timeframe a plus. I wouldn't want to linger in this territory.

But that's the only upside I can see to doing the piece so fast. If there's going to be a problem, it's the calendar. In truth it's not even that, because we're not talking about days. The problem is the clock...because what we're really talking about is a 24-hour window of opportunity to finish the piece.

But 24-hours or not, I know it's a window of opportunity...and one I'd like to get through without having to bust the glass.

With that thought firmly in mind, there isn't much else to say.

Except: "Send it over. I'll do it."

I do some work on Slippin' that afternoon, then head home. I get to bed early and get a good night's sleep...well, as good as you can get in a bedroom with a hole in the wall and three cats periodically crawling over your head to enter or exit.

I'm up the next morning by 5:30. I climb into the shower. The pipes get warm, I don't. I shiver and dry off, shave and get dressed, and grab a Sourdough Breakfast Sandwich on my way out of town. I'm over at Mom's by 7:00. I drink some coffee, read the paper, and wait for noon to roll around...thinking, of course, about the hunk of story winging its way from Maryland to California, and what Rich has told me about it, and what direction I'm likely to go with it.

Of course, it's not easy to formulate a game plan without Rich's manuscript in my hands. But what can I do? I feel like a sprinter poised in the blocks, waiting for a starting gun that doesn't go bang. Noon rolls around. No FedEx man appears. I wait another thirty minutes. Still no show. Then I call Rich, tell him the manuscript hasn't made it. He calls FedEx, checks his tracking number...and right about then there's a knock on the door.

BANG! I'm finally out of the starting blocks. I head upstairs and read Rich's manuscript. The first section of "The Season of Giving" works really nicely, amounting to a couple thousand words, but there's a lot of ground to cover after that. I look at Rich's notes on the direction he planned to take the story, and start working it over in my head.

The thing is, the opening is a long one. Rich had planned to do the piece in three extended sections, all occurring in a tight time frame. The main character is a man tipped to a troubling situation through a chance encounter with a child. He investigates that situation as an observer, comes to terms with his own past in the course of his investigation, and decides to step out of the "observer" role in a dramatic closing piece.

Good stuff. But if I stick with that structure, I have a feeling we'll end up with a novella, which isn't an option. The other problem I see is that observation is definitely a trickier way to go with the story, as everything will need to come through the main character's filter. I need dialogue, action, and reaction if I'm going to write the piece quickly. I know I can get that if I create more interaction between the characters before we reach the climax, face-to-face stuff that will help build a sense of immediacy and urgency. That approach will gear up the tension and allow me to define each character more easily (and charge those definitions with greater emotion) than if I relied completely on the narrator's observations to do the job.

I get some fresh air and let the plot bang around in my head. For about an hour, I walk around my old neighborhood and think about "The Season of Giving." By the time I get back to the house I have three or four tight scenes in mind that will give the story the sense of momentum I'm looking for and bring it to a conclusion that jibes with what Rich has already set up. I think it'll work really well...and, most of all. I'm excited that the focus of the story will be that bittersweet balance between tragedy and hope that I've always admired in Rich's fiction.

I go to work. Fortunately, Rich's style and mine aren't that far apart. I get into our guy's voice right away, and that makes the going easy. I work through the first section doing some minor revision, then start fresh on the second. It's basically an observational scene, but very necessary. Takes a while to write, but I get through it. Then I move on to the next section, which is mostly dialogue and goes very quickly.

Somewhere in there I eat something that passes for both lunch and dinner. Later still, I catch a quick nap. By the time I hit the last section of the story I'm solidly in character, and the writing goes fast. It's late when I type "The End" and crawl into bed, but early the next morning I'm back in the saddle doing revisions. I can't remember exactly what the afternoon cutoff time for FedEx was back in those days if you wanted to get a package from one coast to the other, but I made it.

Actually, I made it with a couple hours to spare.

I'm here to tell you: that was a really good feeling.

I think 'The Season of Giving" ended up to be a really good story, too.

I wasn't the only one who felt that way. Ed Gorman was of the opinion that our story was one of the best in the book (Santa Clues, DAW, 1993). Rich and I both thought that was great.

We felt pretty good.

Hey, we'd cracked a Greenberg anthology.

We'd sold a story to a paperback original out of New York.

On top of that, Ed Gorman had given our story his personal seal of approval.

If I remember correctly, we ended up getting a nickel a word for the story (and of course we had to split that!). But it wasn't about the money at all. It was all about that window of opportunity, and the doors that opened for us because we got through it. That was the thing. Writing and selling "The Season of Giving" gave both of us a sale to a pro market at a time when we needed another notch on our resumes. We knew that building our resumes was important. The more pro sales we had, the easier it'd be to get prospective editors (or agents) to look at our fiction.

As it happened, we both ended up doing more work with Marty Greenberg over the next few years. Both Rich and I eventually co-edited books with Marty (Rich's was Scream Plays, and mine was It Came from the Drive-In). But for me, the best thing that came from writing "The Season of Giving" was the opportunity to get to know Ed Gorman. I'd always admired Ed's work (still do), and his work ethic. He's a pro's pro, and a helluva nice guy.

I wrote several other stories for Ed over the next few years, and got to know him better. His advice to me during that time was as invaluable as it was generous. When I finished up Slippin' into Darkness and began my search for an agent to handle my work, Ed was a great sounding board. He knows the business, and (sometimes) it seems like he knows everyone in it.

Having him in my corner made me feel like I had the real goods.

Thanks, Ed.

THE SEASON OF GIVING

with Richard Chizmar

I was still thinking about the deuce of hearts when the little girl with the face of an angel yanked on my coat sleeve.

It was the first weekend of December, six inches of new snow blanketed the city, and we were already pulling double shifts at Parker's Department Store. Management had settled on the usual pre-holiday security setup — four guards spread out over each of the three floors; one man per floor in a regulation United Security uniform, the other three working plainclothes.

Only one of us had to wear the suit.

Earlier, as per our new daily routine, we'd cut a deck of cards in the guard lounge. I'd felt pretty confident when Eddie Schwartz, who had worn the suit three days running, pulled the black three. And I'd gone on feeling pretty confident until I turned up the stinkin' deuce of hearts.

Eddie ho-ho-hoed like Santa when he saw it—something he hadn't done once during his tenure in the suit. The others had a good time with it, too. Cracking wise, speculating about my relationship with the reindeer as they watched me dress. Giving me a standing ovation as I left the lounge, my middle finger extended as stiff and proud as the candy-striped pole in front of Santa's workshop way up north.

I wasn't laughing, though. I'd avoided wearing the suit since the season started, and after hearing the complaints from my coworkers— "God, that thing’s hot. It smells like an old closet. Christ, it's embarrassing." — I'd been hoping my luck would hold.

Well, I'd never had much luck. But now, a few hours into my shift, I could almost see that the whole thing was pretty funny. Almost. Me, of all people, dressed up as Santa Claus. Me, a bearer of gifts, when my usual commodity was misery. Mr. Sunshine in a bright red suit and cap. Shiny black boots. Pillow stuffing for a belly. Fluffy white beard. Everything but the red nose, which I'd lost for good when I stopped drinking.

On top of all that, the guys were right. The suit did smell like an old closet, and it was hot and heavy as hell. But it also had its advantages. Working the front of the store was a relatively easy job. Not much to do, actually. Stand behind an old Red Cross kettle, smack dab in the middle of the mail's main intersection, just south of a North Pole display featuring jungle gyms disguised as Victorian houses, slides, and plenty of not-so-inconspicuous toy advertisements. Ring a rusty old cowbell every few minutes; but mainly keep an eye out for trouble on the North Pole, because Parker's didn't want to handle any personal injury suits involving kids at Christmas. Still, compared to chasing shoplifters and pickpockets up and down the clothes aisles and arguing with irate holiday shoppers, the Santa gig was a cakewalk.

Anyway, that was the setup. Back to the little girl.

I'd noticed her as soon as I returned from my break. A little angel moving slowly through the crowd, head down, getting bumped and nudged with every step. She looked about seven or eight, a tiny thing wearing a faded winter jacket at least two sizes too big for her. The frayed collar was flipped up, and you could just see the top half of her pale face as she bobbed and weaved, eyes telling anyone who bothered to look that she was on her own.

The crowd swept her along like a strong wind pushing a tiny leaf, and I feared that she might be trampled. Instead, as if sensing my concern, she looked in my direction and our eyes locked momentarily.

Thinking for an instant that I was wearing my security uniform instead of the Santa suit, I mistook the look of glee in her eyes for desperate relief. I could play the rest of the scene out in my head. She was going to tell me that she was lost; could I please help her find her parents or her brother or sister.

That happened all the time, but sometimes the scene took a scarier turn. Plenty of parents these days used the mall as a free babysitter — dropping off their underage kids for a few hours while they ran errands. In these tough times, too many people thought it was cheaper and easier to give a kid a five spot for pizza and video games than to spring for a sitter. They were the kind of parents who thought everything would always be okay. With them, with their kids, with their spouses.

I used to think that way, but now I know better. We all do a hundred little things every day, without even thinking about them. But one thing I've learned — little things have a way of becoming big things before you even have a chance to notice.

As the girl approached me, I decided she was a definite candidate for a drop-off. Reason Number One: her eyes told me that she was alone. Reason Number Two: she looked scared. Reason Number Three: her appearance — clothes that were hand-me-downs or garage sale bargains; the pale, unhealthy cast of her otherwise beautiful face —spoke of a family that couldn't afford a babysitter, let alone three squares a day.

The girl stopped in front of me, her eyes lonely but somehow still as blue and bright as a summer sky. She smiled suddenly, and my own mouth twitched into a grin.

I was unused to that particular expression.

"You have to sit down," she said, very seriously.

"Huh?"

"You have to sit down so I can sit on your lap."

The Santa suit. Of course. I crouched down to her level. "Sorry, sweetie," I said. "You're looking for the real Santa. He's over on the second floor, sitting next to the carousel."

"I know you're not the real Santa." She rolled those lonely eyes, branding me a first-class dope. "And neither is the other one. But you work for Santa, right?"

The only thing I could do was nod.

"Then you can tell Santa what my wish is."

I had to laugh then, and the thick elastic band on the fake beard knifed into my cheeks. It didn't matter though. I didn't care. I mean, it wasn't a raucous ho-ho-ho worthy of good old Eddie Schwartz, but it came from a part of me I thought I'd forgotten about. There was something special about that, just as there was something special about this serious, sad-eyed little girl.

Change rattled into the kettle, and I waved my thanks to a shopper, but the little girl didn't have patience for my manners. "Well?" she asked. "Are you going to sit down, or what?"

"Here's the deal." My voice was low, conspiratorial. "You're right about me being on Santa's payroll. But I still think you'd better talk to the other Santa." I crossed my white-gloved fingers. "He and the big guy are just like this."

I expected a smile out of her, but what I got was a frown. Her blue eyes puddled up, and the brightness had leeched from them. "You don't understand. I can't wait. The line for the other Santa is way too long." She pointed over her shoulder, and her tiny finger was actually shaking. "M-my mom will be done shopping any second. And then we gotta go home."

Okay. I thought, now we're getting somewhere. "Your mother is in this store? Does she know where you are?"

"Yes.... Well, kinda. I told her I was going to the bathroom and that I'd meet her by the North Pole." She pointed over to the playground where other kids were sliding and charging around and having a good time.

"Sure about that, sweetheart? You know, it isn't nice to fib to one of Santa's stand-ins."

She nodded furiously. "Can't I please tell you now? Can't I, please?" Her eyes were beyond desperate. “Pleeaazzze...."

God, she was a cutie. Fragile as the expensive dolls in Parker's toy department, and with the same porcelain complexion. I watched her tiny lips move as she talked. Noticed the patch of freckles on her nose, the perfect shape of her ears, the way her hair was tied back with a long red ribbon.

Realized with a sudden jolt why the girl had captivated me so.

Realized exactly who she reminded me of.

I hadn't seen my daughter in almost seven years. Not since she was eight years old. Not since that rainy December morning Sheila had chosen to make their break for freedom. Talk about your basic holiday hell. Divorce papers had followed a week later. Merry Christmas. Not that I noticed at the time.

It was an easy decision for the judge. I was a drunk then, didn't care that I had a wife who needed me, a daughter who needed me even more. Didn't care that the alcohol was killing my spirit and turning me into a man my family genuinely hated. And then when I finally did realize what I had lost, and what I had become, it was much too late.

I spent a full year in a stupor, trying to forget the look on my daughter's face when she summed the whole thing up so beautifully; "You're not my daddy anymore,” she said the last time I saw her, "because you're a bad man."

I emptied hundreds of bottles in her memory after she spoke those words, savoring the simple truth of that baldly elegant statement. And when I finally got tired of emptying bottles, I broke one and carved up my wrists with a sliver of glass. Pathetic, if you want to sum it up bald and elegant.

The little girl tugged my sleeve again, and I jerked away, imagining her fingers brushing across the scar tissue on my wrists, imagining that the red material of the Santa suit was stained with my blood.

"Please let me tell you my wish."

"Okay." I pushed away my memories, feeling a strange combination of sorrow and glee. "But you have to tell me something first. Have you been a good girl this year?"

Her forehead wrinkled in deep thought — and my heart melted a little bit more because I'd forgotten all the perfectly genuine expressions that kids have — and then she gave me a very serious nod. "I think so. Mommy says that I'm a good girl all the time."

"I'm sure your mom wouldn't lie," I said. "Now, you give me the word, and I'll give it to the big guy at the North Pole."

She moved closer, and her voice became a whisper. "I don't want any toys." She paused and looked around, as if someone might be listening to her little secret, as if an eavesdropper could render the wish null and void in Santa's eyes. "I just want Santa to bring me a brand new daddy for Christmas. And I want him to make my real daddy go away."

My heart skittered, then started beating faster. I looked at the little girl and suddenly saw my daughter, and a hot sheen of sweat dampened my face.

You’re not my daddy.

My mouth was running before I knew what to say. "Now, sweetie. I'm not so sure that Santa Claus can bring you that type of present. Wouldn't you rather have a pretty new dress?" Or a coat that fits? I thought, looking again at the tattered thing she was wearing.

She didn't say anything, but that didn't keep me from hearing the other voice in my head. You’re not my daddy, because you're a bad man.

And then I was apologizing, alibying for a man I didn't even know. "Look," I continued, "I'll bet your dad will get you something nice. I'll bet he already has a great big present for you right under the tree. I'll bet — "

"No!" A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away before anyone else could see it. "I don't like my daddy's presents. I want a new daddy, someone to make me and mommy happy. I just have to get one. You gotta help me."

Suddenly the Santa costume felt as heavy as a suit of armor; all the weight centered on my chest and stomach. And for the first time since going straight three years before, I thought of just how lucky my little girl was to have a real father now, someone to watch over her and protect her and love her. Someone who wasn't a bad man...even if he was a damn chiropractor.

My eyes misted over, and I closed them. I didn't know what to say. I sent my own wish to Santa, FedEx. All I wanted for Christmas was the right answer for this little girl.

"Julie, what in the world have you done to Santa?"

I opened my eyes. The girl's mother was younger than I would have guessed, late-twenties probably. A mirror image of her daughter, another waif in faded jeans and a worn jacket, carrying a single Parker's shopping bag.

I grinned. This time it was reflex. I really didn't know what to do.

"I sure hope Julie hasn't been bothering you," the woman said. "I got held up in line and — "

I waved her off. "She was no trouble at all. We had ourselves a nice time talking."

The woman smiled and tousled Julie's hair. She was every bit as beautiful as her daughter, and every bit as tragic. Her eyes held the same sadness, but they never flashed bright the way her child's sometimes did. They were the eyes of a woman who had faced too much pain in her time and had given up the fight. Someone who was merely existing, not living.

Someone just like me.

"Well, I'll apologize anyway," the woman said. "Julie's a good girl" — Julie nudged my leg, as if to say I told you so —"but she can be a bit headstrong." The woman made a polite show of checking her watch. "Julie, honey, we really have to get going. We're already an hour late, you know how your father gets when his dinner isn't waiting for him."

"Okay. In a minute. Mom."

I smiled at the friendly mother-daughter battle waging before me, recalling the occasions when my wife and daughter had done the same.

But those days were gone.

You’re not my daddy....

"Well, thanks again for being so nice to Julie," the woman said. "And have a Merry Christmas." She took Julie's hand. "Let's go, honey."

They were swallowed by the crowd and, just like that, the incident was over. Or so I thought.

A few seconds later, the little angel reappeared. "I almost forgot," she said, panting. "Please tell Santa this is where I live."

She handed me a piece of paper. The lines kind you tear from a small tablet. Three short lines in careful block print. A street address that wasn't far from the mall.

Her hand drifted away slowly. Brushed my big black belt. Brushed the front of my red pants.

Her fingers lingered for just a second against my crotch.

She looked at me with those lonely eyes. "I'll do anything," she said. "Tell Santa I'll do anything if he gives me what I want."

Then her hand was gone, and she was gone, and everything was very clear.

I just want Santa to bring me a brand new daddy for Christmas. And I want him to make my real daddy go away...

You know how your father gets when his dinner is late...

I don't like my daddy’s presents...

Tell Santa I'll do anything if he gives me what I want....

I stared at the slip of paper with Julie's address on it, thinking about the fierce determination on the little angel's face and the sad quiet beauty of her mother, knowing with complete clarity how life had molded them.

Understanding, for the first time, how life had molded me.

I called in sick more than I should have, made use of my days off, didn't sleep much. You can always find time to do things if you really want to, and I found that I wanted to do something for the first time in years. Besides, it wasn't like I had a ton of unfinished Christmas shopping or invitations demanding my presence at holiday parties hither and yon. No airplane ride to visit the relatives out west. No drive in the country to visit friends. No Christmas in Connecticut for me.

No, my social schedule was clear. I spent my time with Julie and her family, though they never knew that I was around.

The rusted mailbox in front of the house said COOPER. The house itself looked like any other in the neighborhood, just another old ranch-style thing that needed work —new gutters, energy-efficient windows, some paint. There were no Christmas lights hanging from the eves, no tree in the window. That wasn't unusual —more than a few of the Coopers' neighbors seemed to be getting along without the prescribed signs of seasonal cheer. The neighborhood was definitely not upwardly mobile, more like we’re-holding-on-by-the-skin- of-our-teeth. But Julie's was the only house on the block where the snow mounded unshoveled on the walk, the only house where a television antenna stood in for a cable hookup.

None of that really surprised me, not at first. I'd seen the way Julie and Tina —that was her mom's name — dressed. I'd followed them to enough discount markets and cheap gas stations to know that things were tight with them.

I wasn't really surprised until I saw Julie's father for the first time. He glided past my parked car late one evening, lounging behind the wheel of a black Cadillac Seville that shone like a new eight ball. He parked next to the rattletrap Datsun that Tina drove, a hunk of Japanese metal that looked like Godzilla had had his way with it.

A couple days passed before our schedules meshed. Then I followed Mr. Cooper instead of Julie and Tina.

I hated him instantly. For one thing, he worked for the phone company. He was a big enough fish to warrant his own parking space, and he made a habit of taking the bigger fish to lunch and picking up the tab. I followed him into places where I could barely afford the price of a Diet Coke and a bowl of soup. I watched as he left generous tips for the waiters, and I don't think I'll ever forget the satisfied little smirk that crossed his lips when he gave his boss a pen-and-pencil set from Parker's, a shoplifter's favorite that would have set me back several days' pay. After work. Cooper stopped off for drinks at a bar near the highway, a dive called the High Hat Club. Dropped more tip money, though he kept to himself. Didn't spare the booze, either. He was always pretty-well tanked by the time he headed home.

All this while his wife and daughter lived like paupers.

That wasn't the only reason I disliked Julie's dad, though.

His first name was Adrian. That went right along with the little smirk.

And Adrian Cooper liked to rape his daughter.

It happened on weekends as far as I could tell. Tina actually had a job on Saturday and Sunday at a run-down florist shop over by the mall, but I knew the job was just a ploy to get her out of the house.

I wondered if Tina even knew what was going on. I figured she would have to be blind not to see it somehow, but, then again. I'd specialized in being blind for several years myself.

I sat in my car on two consecutive weekends, trying not to be noticed on that gray little street. Four days, and every one of them was the same. Tina would leave for work. Shortly thereafter, the drapes would whisper closed, and the lights would be extinguished. The last drape to close and the last light to dim were always in Julie's bedroom.

Several hours passed, each time. Then the lights came on and the drapes were opened, after which Adrian packed the sullen little girl with the porcelain complexion into his big black car and treated her to an ice-cream sundae at the mall. I'm sure that in his sick little mind that trip to the mall made everything okay with him. The son of a bitch couldn't even see it. Slurping up his ice cream, fingers drumming so innocently on his pale daughter's knee.

Four days of that, and I saw everything as if I had X-ray vision. I sat there in my old car, watching the minutes tick by on the dashboard clock. It was all I could do to stay behind the wheel while it happened.

And then the last Sunday came, the Sunday before Christmas, and suddenly I realized I was done sitting.

The Caddy pulled out and headed for the mall. I made a U-turn and parked in front of the rusted mailbox that said COOPER. I got out and walked up the drive, and I didn't even bother to knock because no one who lived on the gray little street was paying attention.

I kicked in the door. Like I said, there wasn't a Christmas tree, but there were a few presents. It didn't surprise me that most of them were addressed to "Adrian" or "Daddy." I collected a stack, took them out to the car, and dumped them in the back seat, just to make it look good. I waited to hear the sirens, but there was no sound at all.

I returned to the house, and this time I closed the door behind me. Adrian and Tina had separate bedrooms. Adrian, of course, occupied the largest in the house.

It was a fairly boring room. Dull —if tasteful — furniture, stupid little Sharper Image gadgets, uninspiring prints on the wall, and a bed with a very hard mattress.

A stout, masculine dresser stood to the right of the bed. I searched the drawers and found stiff pin-striped shirts and argyle socks and other clothes that seemed designed especially for a phone company fast-track kind of guy. Other drawers housed Ralph Lauren clothes for fast-track kind of guy weekends.

In the bottom drawer, beneath Adrian's Polo sweaters, I found a pistol.

So, the bastard was smart enough to be a little paranoid.

I figured the pistol was a sign that I was getting close. I pulled up the lining paper glued to the bottom of the drawer. A large envelope was hidden underneath, along with a few kiddie porn magazines.

I dumped the pictures on the hard bed and saw the little girl with the face of an angel doing the things her daddy made her do.

But I only looked at her eyes.

After I left the house, I drove over to the florist shop and parked next to the battle-scarred Datsun with four balding tires.

Tina was inside, busily misting some ferns that hung near the cash register. I thought that she looked good in the cheap pink blouse with her name stitched over the pocket, and then our eyes met and I found myself remembering Julie's eyes in Cooper's secret pictures.

"Can I help you?" she asked, and it sounded like she'd break apart if I refused the offer.

"I hope you can." I tried to make it light, but I was a bundle of nerves. "I guess I'm just not a white Christmas kind of guy. I want something green. You know, something nice. Not a fern or anything. Something with flowers."

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't mean to sound weird or anything," she said. "But your voice — it sounds really familiar. Have we met?"

"Picture me with a long white beard."

"What?"

"Santa Claus." I smiled and found the expression was becoming a little more comfortable. "Parker's Department Store version, at your service."

She laughed, and it was a good sound. "I thought we'd met."

"Yeah. I guess there's something about a man in red that makes a lasting impression."

We stood there for a moment, staring at each other, and then she went into florist shop mode. "So," she said, looking around. "We've established that you're not a fern kind of guy. Is this for a gift?"

"No. It's for me. I just want a little something to, y'know, brighten things up."

"If you want bright, maybe you should get another string of lights for your tree."

I shrugged. "I don't have a tree. I live alone." The statement sounded too blunt, so I tried to lighten it. "It's a really small apartment. I need all the oxygen for myself."

That fell flat.

"Sorry," Tina said. The word slipped out as a sigh, and she left it at that. I recognized the ploy. She didn't ask any questions because she didn't want to be asked any questions.

"So?" I said.

"How about this." She was smiling now, holding a little pot with some kind of miniature bush in it.

"I don't know," I said. "I'm looking for something with flowers. And this looks like one of those Japanese bonsai things — "

"No." Her voice brightened. "It blooms. It's a miniature rose."

"What color?"

"White."

I nodded, and we moved over to the cash register. The top button of her blouse was undone, and I could still see the porcelain skin of her neck...and the bruise that began at her collarbone and ran God knows where.

She cringed a little, raising her arm, working the register buttons. I didn't say anything, even though the picture of her husband's little smirk was locked up tight in my head without possibility of parole. Fair trade, that smirk said, a little pain for a late dinner.

She took my money, and I started for the door. Then something inside me switched gears, and I stopped short. "I've got a question for you," I said.

"Shoot."

"Miniature roses — if you treat them right, do they grow up to be regular roses?"

She shrugged. "I really don't know."

I stood there a moment, just to let a beat pass, and then I shrugged. "Well, I guess I'll just have to wait and find out for myself."

"You'll let me know?" Tina asked.

"I'll let you know," I said.

I didn't realize it then, but it was the first promise I'd made in years.

The black Caddy with the billiard ball shine pulled away from the parking spot marked A. COOPER, and I followed it into the night.

Adrian had worked late — three hours overtime by my estimation—but that didn't matter to me. Now that his day was over, everything was going to go smoothly. Adrian was going to hit the High Hat Club. I was going to join him. Belly up with Mr. Fast-Track and strike up a conversation, if that was possible. Order a beer, my first in three years, and hold myself to just one, if that was possible (and I prayed that it was). Maybe we'd talk about the kinds of magazines that came in brown paper wrappers, or trade tips about how to find camera shops that were willing to print pictures of naked children if you were willing to shell out some of the cash your wife and kid never saw. In short, I wanted to watch old Adrian sweat a little bit, just so I would know what that looked like. I wanted to see him loosen his expensive tie, and I wanted to sniff the air and learn just how effective his expensive deodorant was.

But if he was all chatted out after a tough day schilling 800 numbers, that was okay too. I could wait. I could bide my time. Either way, when Adrian left the High Hat, I planned to be right behind him, closer than he could imagine. Closer even than his own shadow.

The Caddy eased onto the freeway and dipped into traffic. I followed. I was signaling for the exit near the High Hat when Adrian changed lanes and headed south. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and a hole seemed to open up in my guts. This wasn't right. This wasn't supposed to happen.

And then Adrian's turn signal was flashing. He took the Briarwood exit, traveled a road I knew by heart, and made the same turn I'd made morning after morning for the last three years, ever since I'd gotten sober.

There weren't many empty parking spaces, it being the Monday before Christmas, so Adrian Cooper parked his Caddy in a handicapped spot near the big glass doors of the mall that housed Parker's Department Store.

I started to worry when closing time came and there was no sign of Mr. Adrian Cooper. Then I remembered what kind of guy he was. Cooper certainly thought he held a paramount spot in the universe. Such an important personage wouldn't think anything of holding up a few working stiffs so he could get what he wanted.

The thought got under my skin and stayed there. As if on cue, Adrian exited the mall's smoked glass doors. A slash of bright light knifed across my feet, and then the door whispered closed and the light was gone. I stood to one side of the door, just some nobody Adrian had to step around, and I welcomed the shadows and the soft green light that painted the snow-covered parking lot.

Adrian's expensive loafers crunched over the fresh snow. He balanced a stack of boxes which were wrapped in the signature silver foil-wrap of my employer.

The Caddy was one of two cars parked in the first row.

Adrian noticed what I'd left for him quicker than I'd expected.

"Shit," he muttered, setting the boxes on the hood of the Caddy and snatching something from under the windshield wiper.

It wasn't what he had expected. It wasn't a parking ticket.

His knees actually quivered. He nearly went down. I enjoyed seeing that.

I walked over and took the little picture of Julie out of his hand.

"This is what it feels like," I said.

He didn't seem to hear me. I took the keys out of his hands, opened the door before he could protest.

"We have to talk," I said, lowering a leather-gloved hand on his shoulder, pushing him into the car.

The first thing Adrian did was loosen his tie. Then he started to sweat, and the Caddy was choked with a scent both raw and spicy.

We were parked at the edge of the mall lot, next to a chain link fence that rimmed a Christmas tree lot. The hour was late and the lot was closed. All I could see was a sprinkling of dim white Christmas lights; a giant Santa inflatable, arms bobbing under the weight of fresh snowflakes; and the stark, spindly silhouettes of the cheap, dead trees.

"I bet Julie would like a tree," I said.

Adrian Cooper nodded.

I laughed, kicked at the silver paper around my feet, and shifted the boxes so my hands were free. "You know, she still believes in Santa Claus."

Adrian sputtered, "I —I didn't realize that."

"And you know what else?" He didn't reply, but our eyes met, and it killed me that even in this moment his blue eyes held more spark than either Tina's or Julie's. "No," I continued. "You don't know, so I'll tell you. Julie knows something most seven-year-olds don't know. She knows how to come on to Santa Claus. She's a little kid who had to learn how to whore, just to survive. And you taught her that. You're the one who twisted her."

Cooper's hands were tight on the steering wheel. He didn't say a word.

"Aren't you going to offer me money?" I asked.

"I... I don't think...you want money."

"You're right about that." I reached into my coat, and my fingers closed around the pistol I'd taken from Adrian's stout, masculine dresser. "You know, I had a wife and kid once. A little girl, just like Julie. A woman just as pretty as Tina. I blew it with them. Oh, not as bad as you. Not near as bad as you. But I blew it. See, I was a smash- up-the-family-car kind of guy, a come-get-me-out-of-jail kind of husband. A sorry-I-missed-Christmas kind of dad.

"With me it was the bottle. That's a sickness. But I woke up and saw it. I faced it down until I memorized every ugly scale on the monster's hide. And I learned how to control it. Things are better now."

Adrian's voice was very quiet. "Maybe I can...." He hesitated, searching for the right word.

I found it for him. "Change? Maybe you can. I'm not saying it's impossible. But I don't think that it's going to happen. And I don't think Julie and Tina can count on the odds you'd give them."

One hand stayed on the pistol. The other hand drifted over one of the boxes from Parker's Department Store. My gloved fingers brushed the wisps of red silk nestled in tissue paper. I hooked the spaghetti straps, lifted the teddy, and watched it dance in the shadows. It didn't seem any bigger than a handkerchief, really.

"Amazing," I said. "I didn't know that they made these things so small. What did you tell the salesgirl, anyway? You tell her that your wife was Vietnamese?"

"Look," Adrian said. "If you're going to do something—"

I slipped the gun from my pocket. I could hardly feel it with my hands sheathed in heavy gloves.

"Wait a minute." His blue eyes were focused on me instead of the gun. "I know this is going to happen. I know I can't stop you. But I think it would be easier on both of us if you give me the gun. I'd rather do this myself."

I thought it over. I really wanted to believe him.

But I couldn't, and that was sad. "I can't play those odds. Cooper," I said.

He closed his eyes. I stared down at the Christmas card which had been covered by the skimpy teddy. On the front, a cartoon man wearing a goofy grin, saying "You're invited to trim my tree." On the inside flap, same man, naked and grotesque. "All it takes is two red balls."

Under that, scrawled in expensive ink from a Parker's Department Store pen:

LOVE MY LITTLE GIRL,

DADDY

Adrian Cooper said, "Are you sure — "

He never finished the sentence.

When they lowered the coffin into the grave, I was thinking that it should have been wrapped with a big red bow.

Tina and Julie buried Adrian Cooper on Christmas morning. I interpreted that as a good sign, a sign that Tina wanted to lay the past to rest and move on. No one else attended the funeral but the minister, and he was in and out in a matter of minutes. Everyone's busy on Christmas.

Everyone but me.

I stayed in the shadows, standing over the grave of a man I didn't know with flowers in my hands. It looked like Adrian's death would be ruled a suicide. I had been pretty careful — I'd worn gloves when I pulled the trigger, and then, after Adrian was dead. I'd twisted his fingers around the weapon and fired a shot through the open window. And if there wasn't a suicide note, the ripped up greeting card, torn photos, and lingerie seemed to stand in pretty well in the minds of the homicide detectives.

Still, I wasn't willing to take any unnecessary chances by getting too close to the ceremony. Cops love to watch funerals. I'm told. So I viewed the proceedings from a distance, and I saw a little girl and her mother standing over a dirt grave rimmed by a meadow of snow, their faces showing nothing, but their fingers interlocked.

I guessed it was as good a start as any. God knows there have been worse. But the real start came a moment later, when the two of them turned and walked toward Tina's Datsun.

I had to stop myself from chasing after them, and it was probably the hardest thing I've ever done. I stood there in the cold, flowers gripped in my gloved hands, remembering the deuce of hearts I'd drawn on the day I met Julie. I thought of her father and his black heart, and I wondered what color my heart was after all I'd done.

The Datsun took off under a cloud of smoke. Four bald tires left black lines in the snow.

And everything was very quiet.

Snow dusted the gravestones, so very white. I thought about the white rose sitting all alone in my apartment, and the gray little neighborhood where Tina and Julie lived. All those houses that no one seemed to care about. Maybe one of them was waiting for someone to come along and give it some special attention.

I found, to my surprise, that I was making plans again, but this time they were the kinds of plans that were meant to be shared.

And, standing there in the snow, I began to wonder how soon my miniature rose would flower.

Afterword: Head, Heart & Guts

The best writers work with their head, their heart, and their guts. By that I mean they have the intelligence to create compelling stories, the compassion and understanding to bring the characters that populate those stories fully alive, and the gut-sense to know what to do with them. These writers see the bigger picture. They trust in who they are and what they believe. That's what comes through on the page, and that's what touches the reader.

See, when it comes to writing, it is all about you. It's about the way you see things, and the way you set those things down on the page. That's not as easy as it sounds, of course. Sometimes it's hard to be honest, especially with yourself. But it's the only way to go if you want your fiction to be real.

To borrow the words of an older, wiser writer: "You can't fake a worldview." That's true no matter what you're writing about. It's also a difficult concept to grasp when you're first starting out. You may think your writing isn't about you at all. You may convince yourself that you're simply telling a story about a haunted car, or a couple of guys fighting off a cult of devil worshippers, or a ghost on a tropical beach. And, sure, you are writing about those things, but you'd better get a little more than that down on the page if you want those creaky old conventions to come alive.

Get yourself down on that page. Give your words a pulse. Make your characters breathe. Do that and you may find that you're writing about a little bit more than a car, or a couple of guys battling a cult, or a ghost. You may find that you're really writing about secrets, or friendship, or the power of love.

In other words, you're writing about the way you see things.

You're writing about the way you feel.

That, friends and neighbors, is what it takes to make your fiction real.

You've already got all the tools you need to do the job. Your head, your heart, and your guts. Think of them as three compasses that can guide your work. Think of them as three scales that can weigh your decisions and decide your direction. Think of them as the three most important tools a writer can use...in writing, in business, and in life.

Individual Copyright Notices

"Foreword: The Passion of the Norm" © 2005 by Edward Bryant, appears here for the first time.

"Introduction; Learning the Trade" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Little Bookshop of Horrors" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Mr. Fox" © 1992 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Mr. Fox & Other Feral Tales, published by Roadkill Press.

"Hard-Boiled Horror" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"The Baddest Son of a Bitch in the House" © 1992 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Mr. Fox & Other Feral Tales, published by Roadkill Press.

"Rejection, Resolve, & Respect" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Black Leather Kites" © 1991 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Chills #5.

"The First Dance" © 2004 by Norman Partridge, previously appeared in a slightly different form in Cemetery Dance #50.

"Save the Last Dance for Me" © 1989 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Cemetery Dance #2.

"Building Your Sandcastle" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Sandprint" © 1992 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Mr. Fox & Other Feral Tales, published by Roadkill Press.

"Seeing the Wizard" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Vessels" © 1992 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Mr. Fox & Other Feral Tales, published by Roadkill Press.

"On Zombies...and Hunger" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"In Beauty, Like the Night" © 1992 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Mr. Fox & Other Feral Tales, published by Roadkill Press.

"A Keyboard Built for One" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Body Bags" © 1993 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Grue #15.

"You Can't Write with a Bowling Bali" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Cosmos" © 1990 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Noctulpa #4.

"An Oxblood Stetson Hat" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Stackalee" © 1990 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Cemetery Dance #5.

"A Couple of Wolves at the Door" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Tooth & Nail" © 1994 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Palace Corbie #5.

"Coming Soon: The Small Press Apocalypse" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"The Entourage" © 1994 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Thunder’s Shadow #4.

"The Care & Feeding of First Novels" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

Kiss of Death, Chapters One, Two, and Three © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appear here for the first time.

"A Few Recommendations" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Dr. Frankenstein's Secrets of Style" © 1997 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in The Horror Writer's Association: Writing Horror, edited by Mort Castle.

"A Word from the Editor(s)" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Treats" © 1990 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Blood Review #4.

"Writing for Them & Writing for You" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"Velvet Fangs" © 1993 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Haunts #25.

"The 3" X 5" Secret to Good Outlines" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"¡Cuidado!" © 1991 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Chilled to the Bone, edited by Robert T. Garcia.

"The Macbeth School of Horror" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"When the Fruit Comes Ripe" © 1995 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Grue #17.

"It's the Steak, Not the Sizzle" © 2004 by Norman Partridge, previously appeared in Cemetery Dance #50.

"Walkers" © 1991 by Norman Partridge, first appeared in Not One of Us #8.

"When Opportunity Knocks..." © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

"The Season of Giving" © 1994 by Richard T. Chizmar & Norman Partridge, first appeared in Santa Clues, edited by Martin H. Greenberg.

"Afterword: Head, Heart, & Guts" © 2005 by Norman Partridge, appears here for the first time.

[1]  In those days, you had to hunt for computer repair shops. They weren't easy to find. To tell the truth, It wasn't easy to find a place to buy a computer, either. You sure couldn't walk into Best Buy or Fry's and slap down a credit card—you had to find a computer store, and then you had to deal with a salesman... the kind who'd probably learned most of his tricks selling used cars.

[2] Now editor of a little magazine called Cemetery Dance. Small world, ain't it?

[3] I don't believe anyone had actually coined the phrase "desktop publishing" at that point.

[4] When The Horror Show went the way of The Twilight Zone a few months later, I knew I'd missed my chance. If might seem funny—because, in truth, The Horror Show didn't pay much—but the fact that I never got a story in Dave Silva's fine little magazine is cause for great regret to this day.

[5] A few years later, I finally got an Ink-jet printer and switched over to using Times New Roman. The first time I submitted a story to Rich Chizmar In that font, he called me up and told me: "I can't get used to this... it just doesn't look like a Norm Partridge story!"

[6] Biggest disaster: a summer morning. I'm finishing up my first novel,  Slippin' Into Darkness. I sit down at the computer to spellcheck the final manuscript and print it out. I pop in the disc. I try to open up the file for Chapter One... and files start disappearing from the disc directory. One after another after another.. .until the entire disc is blank.

I stare at the little black & white screen. I don't breathe for about a minute. I eject the disc, insert it and try again. Nothing...nada...zip...it's blank. Okay, I think. Don't panic. And I don't. I reboot my computer. The happy smiling Apple face appears. The desktop loads up. Everything will be okay, I tell myself. You were smart to make that backup disc.

I insert my backup in the drive. I click on the file for Chapter One.

And the files start disappearing. One after another, until the entire disc is blank. I sit there, staring. I try reinserting the discs...again, and again, and again. They're dead.! curse the gods. I curse my luck. I go to the computer store. I buy a box of brand new discs. I spend the afternoon creating documents, saving them, making sure they open when I eject and reinsert the disc.

Next morning, I start retyping a 367 page manuscript.

Yes, I had a hard copy.

I wasn't that stupid

[7] I bought lots of those from Doug. l hate to admit it, but I sure wish I still had my William J. Johnston rockabilly horror novels (how can you beat books with titles like Rockabilly Limbo and Rockabilly Hell?). And my Guy N. Smith giant crab novels. And my Swords against Darkness anthologies. Yeah. I especially miss those... they were actually good.

[8] “Perhaps the book's standout is Norman Partridge's 'Guignoir,' a novel's worth of tough, weird, hard edges crammed into a short story. This is a genuine noir about brothers working for a traveling carnival's monster show and the hostile California town in which they play. Partridge's tale is William Lindsay Greshsam (Nightmare Alley) for the '90s. Powerful stuff."

[9] Not that Tomi didn’t make such chores worth my while – there were lots of free haircuts involved!

[10] If you've got a copy of Cannibal Dwight's Special Purpose, look at the stapling job. That way me!

[11] I barbequed pork chops there. For breakfast. Poppy Brite took one look at them and turned green

[12]  Simple editorial equation: name recognition = Joe Reader reaching for his wallet. It may not seem fair, but that's the Law of the Jungle when it comes to selling short fiction. Get used to it.

[13]  I'm talking an extremely broad view and an extremely small werebat. (maybe one that flutters around in the margins or something). The way I see it now, I was off the mark with my submission any way you slice it.

[14] And a damn good one. He's written several fine dark suspense tales over the years. I wish he'd find time to write more of them.

[15] These days aspiring writers will want to check <ralan.com>. If horror's your game, it won't hurt to subscribe to Hellnotes <hellnotes.com> or The Gila Queen's Guide to Martlets <gllaqueen.us>, either.

[16]  Check this; in his editorial in CD #1, Rich was already looking ahead to a Richard Christian Matheson feature he had scheduled for CD #3; needless to say, this kind of planning was head and shoulders above the modus operandi of your average small press operator, and it wasn't just talk—Rich followed through, and the feature appeared as scheduled.

[17] Hell, I know how you feel. Logic doesn't always enter into a writer's decisions. Or to put it another way, sometimes you just have to scratch where it itches most. I've already mention how badly I wanted to sell one of my stories to The Horror Show when I was starting out, and it still bugs me that I never got to scratch that particular itch. If Dave Silva revived his magazine tomorrow and was paying a penny a word for fiction. I'd probably send in a submission.

[18]  And often you'll be paid on publication for your short stories, not on acceptance, so figure that a few of these checks may still be in your future rather than in your pocket.

[19] And even if you were to see that money this year—and manage to keep all of it in your pocket—just how long could you live on $20,000 when you figure in the day-to-day costs of housing, food, health care, etc.?

[20] My WFC estimates are based on the cost of this year's con ;travel is from my home to the convention site, based on the best price I could get online (planning well in advance).

[21] Convention restaurants and bars are notoriously overpriced.

[22]  This was a great surprise to me. Growing up, I figured there were plenty of writers who made a living writing short stories alone. Maybe I can be forgiven that naive impression—after all, I cut my teeth on all those paperback Ray Bradbury and Robert Bloch collections that were published in those days. Of course, as it turned out I was right about Bradbury, but he's probably the only fantasist who ever reached financial success based on the strength of his short work alone (his true novels have been few and far between). Bloch probably equaled Bradbury in short story production and definitely surpassed him in novel output, but I'm sure Bloch could never have made a living writing short stories alone, even though his work set the template for a certain kind of horror story for an entire generation of writers and readers, and in its own way was just as original and ground-breaking as Bradbury's.

So that's lesson number one. Following are couple of other instructive "writing career" snapshots I'll share with you. Early on, I became friends with a talented fantasy writer who was everywhere in the anthology/magazine market of the eighties and early nineties. This woman had stories in a great percentage of primetime books—theme anthologies, anthos featuring media characters, etc. Editors loved her stuff. I thought she had it made, and so did most of the young writers I knew. And she did have it made when it came to producing good stories, because she was at the top of her game and turned out engaging fiction even when she was playing in someone else's sandbox (i.e. writing for theme anthologies). But she reaped little financial reward for her efforts. One night she told me that in her best year she made ten grand writing short stuff. She wasn't necessarily in the business to make a potload of money—she had a good joe job—but ten grand. And she was everywhere.

Another writer—an award-winning science fiction novelist—saw his career hit a slump in the late nineties. He started doing a lot of work-for-hire projects to stay afloat, but the grind wore him down. Though he was intelligent and capable, he saw writing as his only option—even as his publishing opportunities (and his checks) began to shrink. While he continued to be extremely productive, the quality of his work suffered. When I suggested that he try to find a decent joe job to ride things out, he told me, "I can't do that. Norm. I've never had a regular job, and I'd be terrified to try and get one. To tell you the truth, I wouldn't even have the balls to put in an application at Wal Mart."

And this was a writer whose work had been optioned by Hollywood, whose books were plastered with quotes by the best names in the business, and who was a regular on award ballots. If you're a reader and I told you his name, you'd probably be cranking your jaw off the floor about now. But that's the way it is with most writers who have a good run with New York publishers. Readers take it for granted that they've got it made for life. Believe me, they don't. If you want proof flip through some old issues of Locus, Twilight Zone, or Cemetery Dance and jot down the names of writers who were hot ten or fifteen years ago. List the phenoms and Wunderkinds who'd published their first novels to critical acclaim. Google 'em. You'll find that a good percentage of those folks aren't even working today.. .and it's my bet that what stopped most of them was the cold, hard reality of writing fiction for money.

Personally, I think my writer friend could have sent queries to any number of small universities. Maybe he could have found a gig teaching creative writing. He was smart, funny, and engaging—he would have been a natural in the classroom. But he didn't have the confidence. He was afraid to try. So he stuck with what he knew, with no health plan, no benefits, no security. Ten years later, I'm sorry to say that things haven't changed much for him. He's still on the treadmill, but it isn't really getting him anywhere. I wish he'd realized that he had options beyond his computer keyboard.

[23] You'll do a lot a pitching if you go after work-for-hire, but you won't often be paid for the time and creative energy you invest in those proposals and outlines unless you're incredibly lucky. You'll only get a check if the editor bites and gives you the go-ahead on a project, and then it will come after you finish the job and the editor has approved your work. For me, that process spelled danger from Step #1.1 generally plot as I go along, so outlining without a word on the page isn't an easy way to go for me. By the time I've done an outline, I might as well have written a story (or comic script, or screenplay, or... etc.). As a result, producing an outline wasn't a quick or painless process for me, and neither was pitching an idea.

[24]  My example's a semi-swipe from the late Karl Edward Wagner. At the first World Fantasy Convention I attended back in 1991, I remember Karl saying that he wouldn't be surprised to receive an invitation for a "haunted woodstove" anthology. Needless to say, he was only half-kidding.

And here I must also plead guilty myself, because I once co-edited an anthology with Marty Greenberg called It Came from the Drive-In, composed of stories that might have been horror/sci-fi movies back in the fifties and sixties. Hey, the end result was a lot of fun judging by reader reaction, and, besides, the whole idea was supposed to be funny. (NOTE; I did get a story out of Karl Edward Wagner for the book, though it didn't include a haunted woodstove.)

[25] a.k.a. books so poorly conceived that they were automatically guaranteed a spot on remainder tables in fine bookstores everywhere, along with a heaping helping of everlasting shame for the writers who contributed to them.

[26] If you don't remember splatterpunk, it would take too long to explain it (and the controversy it caused) a long, long time ago. Let's just say that it was seen from various perspectives as A) a movement, B) a marketing ploy, C) a big mistake, or D) all of the above.

[27] Yeah. I know. Tom Hanks went to Sac State, too. I missed him by a couple of years.

[28] And on one memorable occasion, my first (and last) experience with Southern Comfort. We were listening to a Janis Joplin record. How else can I explain it?

[29] Another story from this period, "The Hollow Man," falls In the same company.

[30]  But who's going to tell me if my story doesn't work? you ask. How will I know if I haven't done the job? I've got a simple answer that'll take care of both of those questions: that's why God made editors... and that's why He gave them those rejection slips.

[31]  When I was first starting out, I heard tales of a falling out between two bestselling pros over comments made while workshopping a story in a writers' group. Apparently, the discussion got so nasty that they stopped speaking, and one of them quit the group. Fifteen years later (and counting), they still haven't buried the hatchet, though they often attend the same conventions and functions.

[32]  My wife sold her first story to George, too. Tia's story, "Number Five in Whiskey Dog," appeared back to back with a story of mine in Guignoir and Other Furies... and that's how we first got acquainted. Thanks, George!

[33] Besides "Cosmos," I sold two other stories to George."Tombstone Moon," appeared in Souls in Pawn, and"Guignoir,"appeared in Guignoir and Other Furies. The latter was the first piece to gain some attention beyond the small press horror pond.

[34] If you do any research, you'll discover there are many accepted spelling variations for the character's name: Stackalee, Stagger Lee, Stagolee, etc.

[35] He's not the "main" character in the story. 'The Bars on Satan's Jailhouse" is told in third person using three primary characters, all of whom weigh in equally. I did write a sequel where Stack was definitely the focus—"Dead Man's Hand, "which was published in my second collection, Bad Intentions (Subterranean Press, 1996).

[36] I still think ’57 Chevys are pretty cool, too. And Elvis.

[37] No mystery there. The Jones is pretty much a real-life cousin of mine. "Mayday! Mayday!" and "You knew the risk!" are two of his favorite lines.

[38] Rich was following in the footsteps of other established specialty presses. I'm thinking of outfits like Mark V. Ziesing, Donald Grant, and Dark Harvest, all of whom were producing books at the time.

[39] Checking in with a few publishers. I'm told that these days POD books cost about $6 per copy to produce. Of course, that's an average figure—it could vary depending on the size of the book, the number of copies produced, etc.

[40]  And remember what I said earlier about your works being marketable goods. Give them to the wrong publisher and you've really made a serious mistake. A bad publisher can screw up your novel overnight; it's for sure and for certain that you can't write another one that fast.

[41] If you want to see just how jam-packed the market is with small-press product, check out Matt Schwartz's bookselling site at <shocklines.com>. Count how many publishers are listed on Matt's site, and how many books they're producing per year. Check out the prices, and think about how those prices tally with your own book-buying budget. Read the Shocklines message boards while you're at it, where a lot of the promotion work for these books is done. Make a list of the books you might like to buy based on the comments you read, and the books you can actually afford. You'll begin to understand just how hard it is for a new writer to gain a foothold in the small press marketplace.

[42] If you're hoping to sell a mass-market edition of your book to a mainstream publisher, this is especially important.

[43] Many professionals rely on small press projects for a decent slice of their income; for some, it means the difference between working a joe job and writing full time.

[44] The latest misstep I've noticed: micro-editions, i.e. books with extremely high prices and print runs of TOO copies (or less). This might work in the case of a really fine collector's edition of a classic work that's also an impressive example of the bookmaker's art, but publishing an original work in a very small edition can be dangerous for a writer. Your readers might be upset that you've written a book they can't possibly afford. And even if they can afford the book, you'd better hope that it pays off as both a creative endeavor and a collectible. Otherwise, your not-so-gentle reader's going to end up feeling like he just got taken at a very expensive Tupperware party.

[45] I think it was Les Daniels who first coined that phrase in an interview with Stan Wiater.

[46]  There were other trends, too. One was to write a knock-off of one of Stephen King's most popular novels. I read countless variations on 'Salem's Lot, novels that substituted zombies or werewolves or teenage wendigos for King's vampires. Ditto other King novels, like The Stand or The Shining or It. There were a lot of "evil little kid" books, too, most of which took their inspiration from The Omen. Add to that the ubiquitous vampire novels—lots and lots of vampire novels. Not to mention books about creatures in the cellar, demons freed from desecrated Indian burial grounds, things from the sewer, toxified animals on a rampage, flies and spiders, and...well, I could go on and on.

[47] The main factors I took into consideration when choosing an agent were these: who were his clients and what had he sold for them, what genre did those clients work in, and what publishers did he regularly do business with.

[48] Which always made me want to ask: "Gee, who do you like in a Jim Thompson novel?"

[49] At one point, I figured that the only way I could sell Slippin' into Darkness to a New York publisher would be to offer a free bottle of Prozac with every copy.

[50] Entitled—surprise—Vampires!

[51] After all, I'm just a guy named Partridge. What the hell do I know about Crows?

[52] The other story was "Wrapped Up in White Linen and Cold as the Clay" by Gregory Nicoll and Patricia Ross.

[53] And, yes, I am ashamed to admit that said undead horde was to spring from the hoary locale found on every map of cliches—the old Indian burial ground.

[54] My brother had a night class to attend and didn't think twice about finding something for me to do on my own. I guess you wouldn't send a kid off alone to see a play today, but I'm thankful it wasn't that way back in the seventies.

[55] And sometimes, the opposite would hold true. I'd lose interest in a writer because his characters behaved in ways diametrically opposed to the Macbeth school. It's one reason I could never connect with Lovecraft (though I could certainly appreciate his particular talent and view of the world). I just couldn't take all those protagonists fainting dead away or settling into the darkness while fate (& the Old Ones) rolled over them like some eldritch steamroller.

[56] And online promotion can be very effective—check out a few online journals written by professionals in horror and fantasy. Try Neil Gaiman's, or Graham Joyce's. Both are thoughtful and fun, and they keep you apprised of the author's new projects in an entertaining manner. (Can't find 'em? Google 'em!)

[57] Remember the old Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine? it featured advertisements for high-end monster masks produced by Don Post Studios, pricey stuff that made any teenage monster fan drool. Of course, most of us couldn't afford those, so we settled for the "budget" versions which were also available. The most notorious was the "budget ape" mask. The picture in the magazine looked pretty scary, but the reality was something different, and most kids who ordered a "budget ape" ended up having their first lesson in hype vs. reality. Put on a "budget ape" and it'd just kind of hang there off your head. Lay it on a table, that thin hunk of painted rubber would collapse and end up looking something like a burnt waffle with fun fur.

[58] Yep...in those days you couldn't just log on to AOL and shoot someone a manuscript as an attachment. I'm not even sure you could easily send most folks a fax at that point. FedEx was the answer when you needed next-day-service. Even for a short story, it'd cost you ten or fifteen bucks to send something that way. Boy, does my wallet love e-mail.

Table of Contents

Foreword: The Passion of the Norm

Introduction: Learning The Trade

Little Bookshop of Horrors

MR. FOX

Hard-Boiled Horror

THE BADDEST SON OF A BITCH IN THE HOUSE

Rejection, Resolve and Respect

BLACK LEATHER KITES

The First Dance

SAVE THE LAST DANCE

Building Your Sandcastle

SANDPRINT

Seeing the Wizard

VESSELS

On Zombies … And Hunger

IN BEAUTY, LIKE THE NIGHT

A Keyboard Built For One

BODY BAGS

You Can’t Write With a Bowling Ball

COSMOS

An Oxblood Stetson Hat

STACKALEE

A Couple of Wolves At the Door

TOOTH AND NAIL

Coming Soon: The Small Press Apocalypse

THE ENTOURAGE

The Care and Feeding of First Novels

KISS OF DEATH

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

A Few Recommendations

DR. FRANKENSTEIN’S SECRETS OF STYLE

A Word From the Editor[s]

TREATS

Writing For Them & Writing For You

VELVET FANGS

The 3” x 5” Secret to Good Outlines

¡CUIDADO!

The Macbeth School of Horror

WHEN THE FRUIT COMES RIPE

It’s the Steak, Not the Sizzle

WALKERS

When Opportunity Knocks…

THE SEASON OF GIVING

Afterword: Head, Heart & Guts

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