pasture and while away the hours eating candy bars and drinking hot Cokes.
And Becky lay in her bed and dreamed:
Shadows moved from behind the pines. Faces burst into the glow of the moon—
goblin faces.
Laughter.
" I wanta ram it all the way up her ass."
More darkness.
Moonlight.
Darkness.
Alternating slats of each.
A body, dangling, upside down; a woman, her feet attached to something . . .
something Becky could not define.
The shoulder-length hair was dark and undulated with the breeze. Blood dripped from the face, congealed in the hair, splattered the ground. The face . . . she couldn't see the face, but it seemed to be turning, like the earth orbiting the sun, turning, so slow, but turning, half-profile . . . the face was a mess. Hair was plastered to it with blood. There was a deep, dark crack in the skull. The face was turning even more . . . looking like . . .
NO!
Becky awoke. Sat upright in bed. The face had looked like . . . Oh God, could it have been?
Monty was awake. He turned to her. "What's wrong, hon?"
"What's always wrong? The dreams . . . the premonitions."
"Just nightmares—"
"Fuck you!"
She pulled away from him, rolled over on her side and closed her eyes. But she did not try to sleep. She did not want to sleep. Did not want to see the rest of that face, for she feared whose face it might be.
Monty called to her once, softly.
She did not answer.
He sighed, rolled over and tugged at the bedclothes. Soon she could hear the sound of regular breathing. He was asleep.
Good, that was what she wanted, to be left alone.
Or was it?
Oh God, she did and she didn't. She wanted to be alone and she never wanted to be alone.
One moment it was comfortable, the next it was if she were on the face of the moon looking out at earth, thousands of lonely miles away.
Today when Monty held her on the dock after the premonition, it had been wonderful.
The love and concern he felt for her had radiated from him as warmly as the sun, so why now, when he was merely expressing his concern, should she be so angry with him?
What if things were reversed? It was him telling her that he was having premonitions.
Would she believe him? She wondered.
And who says the dreams are premonitions? she asked herself. What dream have you had that has come true other than the first?
Perhaps the doctor was right, it's all in your head and the first dream was nothing more than a coincidence, wishful thinking. It was possible. Even likely.
After a while, Becky rolled over gently and looked at Monty. He slept clutching the pillow to his cheek. She reached out and stroked his hair. Why can't we touch? Really touch? Why can't we?
No answers came to her. She rolled away from him and stared into the darkness, willing away sleep.
But it came anyway, this time without dreams.
Until just before morning, then she had a very ugly one.
TWELVE
October 31, 12:02 A.M.
The blond kid driving the '66 Chevy through the velvet night was named Brian Blackwood. He had the Chevy vent glass cranked all the way open and the wind was blasting his hair back. His eyes were watered with tears, but they were not tears of remorse, sadness or pain; they were fostered by the cool October wind and the rapid movement of the car. There was no room left inside Brian for idle tears, not anymore.
From here on out he was a rock,. and a rock felt no pain.
The waiting had gotten to him. He wanted to push on, get to the task at hand.
But he knew that wasn't wise. If he could lay low one more night, the law would pretty much be through with the area and things would be safe.
Yet, the waiting was eating at him, and the voice in his head was persistent. He had decided to change locations, find a place a little closer to their destination. Camp there.
Just being closer would help ease the pain in his head.
He mentally visualized the map he had made Dean Beaumont draw; it was clearly outlined in his head, and he no longer needed to look at it, even if he
And Becky lay in her bed and dreamed:
Shadows moved from behind the pines. Faces burst into the glow of the moon—
goblin faces.
Laughter.
" I wanta ram it all the way up her ass."
More darkness.
Moonlight.
Darkness.
Alternating slats of each.
A body, dangling, upside down; a woman, her feet attached to something . . .
something Becky could not define.
The shoulder-length hair was dark and undulated with the breeze. Blood dripped from the face, congealed in the hair, splattered the ground. The face . . . she couldn't see the face, but it seemed to be turning, like the earth orbiting the sun, turning, so slow, but turning, half-profile . . . the face was a mess. Hair was plastered to it with blood. There was a deep, dark crack in the skull. The face was turning even more . . . looking like . . .
NO!
Becky awoke. Sat upright in bed. The face had looked like . . . Oh God, could it have been?
Monty was awake. He turned to her. "What's wrong, hon?"
"What's always wrong? The dreams . . . the premonitions."
"Just nightmares—"
"Fuck you!"
She pulled away from him, rolled over on her side and closed her eyes. But she did not try to sleep. She did not want to sleep. Did not want to see the rest of that face, for she feared whose face it might be.
Monty called to her once, softly.
She did not answer.
He sighed, rolled over and tugged at the bedclothes. Soon she could hear the sound of regular breathing. He was asleep.
Good, that was what she wanted, to be left alone.
Or was it?
Oh God, she did and she didn't. She wanted to be alone and she never wanted to be alone.
One moment it was comfortable, the next it was if she were on the face of the moon looking out at earth, thousands of lonely miles away.
Today when Monty held her on the dock after the premonition, it had been wonderful.
The love and concern he felt for her had radiated from him as warmly as the sun, so why now, when he was merely expressing his concern, should she be so angry with him?
What if things were reversed? It was him telling her that he was having premonitions.
Would she believe him? She wondered.
And who says the dreams are premonitions? she asked herself. What dream have you had that has come true other than the first?
Perhaps the doctor was right, it's all in your head and the first dream was nothing more than a coincidence, wishful thinking. It was possible. Even likely.
After a while, Becky rolled over gently and looked at Monty. He slept clutching the pillow to his cheek. She reached out and stroked his hair. Why can't we touch? Really touch? Why can't we?
No answers came to her. She rolled away from him and stared into the darkness, willing away sleep.
But it came anyway, this time without dreams.
Until just before morning, then she had a very ugly one.
TWELVE
October 31, 12:02 A.M.
The blond kid driving the '66 Chevy through the velvet night was named Brian Blackwood. He had the Chevy vent glass cranked all the way open and the wind was blasting his hair back. His eyes were watered with tears, but they were not tears of remorse, sadness or pain; they were fostered by the cool October wind and the rapid movement of the car. There was no room left inside Brian for idle tears, not anymore.
From here on out he was a rock,. and a rock felt no pain.
The waiting had gotten to him. He wanted to push on, get to the task at hand.
But he knew that wasn't wise. If he could lay low one more night, the law would pretty much be through with the area and things would be safe.
Yet, the waiting was eating at him, and the voice in his head was persistent. He had decided to change locations, find a place a little closer to their destination. Camp there.
Just being closer would help ease the pain in his head.
He mentally visualized the map he had made Dean Beaumont draw; it was clearly outlined in his head, and he no longer needed to look at it, even if he
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