It took less than thirty minutes to finish filling the Coke bottles with gasoline. Dale had brought the rags.

"What about the gauge on the pump?" said Mike. "Doesn't your dad keep track of the gallons used?"

Kevin nodded. "But since I do most of the fueling for him, I keep the log. He won't notice these few gallons." Kevin did not look happy at the deception.

"All right," said Mike. He crouched to draw in the dirt behind the Grumbacher shed as Dale and Lawrence carefully set the Coke bottles in a partitioned milk crate Kev had provided. "Here's the deal," said Mike. He drew Main Street, then Broad going south past the park. He used the twig he was holding to sketch in the circular drive of the old Ashley-Montague place. "You're sure the truck was back there?" he asked Lawrence. "And that it was the Rendering Truck?"

Lawrence looked indignant. "Sure I'm sure."

"It's in the trees there? The old orchard behind the ruins?"

"Yeah, and it's all covered over with twigs and a net and junk. Like the whatchamacallit the soldiers use."

"Camouflage," supplied Dale.

Lawrence nodded vigorously.

"OK," said Mike. "Now we know where it's been. It makes sense, too, in a weird sort of way. The question is, are we all agreed that we do something about it today?"

"We already voted," snapped Harlen.

"Yes," said Mike, "but you know how risky it is."

Kevin squatted and picked up a handful of gravel and dirt, letting the dust filter through his fingers. "I think it'd be riskier to leave the truck alone until Sunday. If we go ahead with our plans, the truck can always intervene."

"So can the underground things," said Mike. "Whatever they are."

Kevin looked thoughtful. "Yeah, but we can't do anything about them. If the truck's gone, that's an important variable eliminated.''

"Besides," whispered Dale, his voice as flat as flint on steel, "Van Syke and that goddamn truck tried to kill Duane. It probably was there when he died."

Mike used the drawing twig to scratch his forehead. "All right, we voted. We agreed. Now we do it. The question is where and who. Where the rest of us wait and who are the decoys."

The four boys leaned closer to look at the crude map of the town that Mike had drawn.

Harlen's good hand came down on the spot representing the Ashley-Montague mansion. "What about just getting it where it is? The house there's already burned to shit."

Mike used the twig to deepen the hole in the dust. "Yeah, that's OK if the truck's empty. What about if it does what we think it might?"

"We can take it there," said Harlen. "Can we?" Mike's gray eyes locked with his friend's. "There are trees in the front and the orchard in back, but could we get set in time? How do we get in ... down the tracks? We've got a lot of junk to carry. Plus, the ruins are right on the edge of town, just a block or so from the firehouse. There're always a couple of volunteers out front, chewing the fat."

"Well, then, where?" said Dale. "We've got to think of the decoys."

Mike chewed on his thumbnail a moment. "Yeah. It's got to be a private enough place that Van Syke will make his move. But close enough to town that we can get back easy if things go wrong."

"The Black Tree?" said Kevin.

Dale and Mike emphatically shook their heads at the same second.

"Too far," said Mike. The memory of the previous morning's close call was obviously still sharp and clear to him.

Lawrence used his finger to extend the line of First Avenue north. He sketched in a lump on the west side of the street just where Jubilee County Road came in. "What about the water tower?" he said. "We could go out across the ballfield and move up through this line of trees here. It'd be easy to get back."

Mike nodded, thought a minute, then shook his head. "Not enough cover," he said. "We'd have to cross the open playing field to get back and the truck could cross it easily . . . and a lot faster."

The boys frowned and studied the squiggles in the dirt. The clouds were low above them, the humidity worse than ever.

"What about out west of town," said Harlen. "Toward the Grange Hall?"

"Uh-uh," said Mike. "The decoys'd have to go out the Hard Road to get there and it doesn't have a shoulder or anything. The truck'd get them for sure. Plus we couldn't get back on our bikes, we'd have to cut across fields behind the Protestant Cemetery."

"I don't want to have anything to do with cemeteries," said Dale.

Harlen sighed and mopped his face. "Well, hell, that leaves my idea of doing it right at the mansion. It seems to be the only place."

"Wait," said Mike. He drew Broad Avenue north all the way to Catton Road, then sketched that road west two blocks, did some crosshatching to show the railroad tracks. "What about the grain elevator? It's out of sight. . . but close enough that the decoys might make it."

"It's theirs," said Dale, horrified at the thought of going back there.

Mike nodded. His gray eyes were almost luminous now, the way they often looked when he had an idea he liked. "Yeah, but that'll just help them be more confident about going for us ... going for the decoys. Plus, we've got a couple of ways to retreat..." He sketched quickly with the short stick. "The dirt road along the east side of the tracks here . . . Catton Road here . . . the old dump road here . . . even the woods or the railroad tracks if we have to leave the bikes."

"The truck can come down the railroad line," Kevin said flatly. "Its wheels are far enough apart that it can straddle the rails ..."

"The ties would make that a bumpy ride," said Harlen.

Kevin shrugged. "It chased Duane right through a fence and into a cornfield."

Mike stared at the map as if sheer intensity could force a better plan. "Anybody got any better ideas?"

Nobody did.

Mike brushed out the map. "OK, four of us get set there . while one person is the decoy. That's me."

Lawrence shook his head. "Uh-uh," the eight-year-old said defiantly. "I found 'em. I get to be decoy."

"Don't be stupid," snapped Mike. "You've got that little seventeen-inch bike. You couldn't outrun a guy in a wheelchair. ''

Lawrence balled his hands into fists. "I could outrun that old rusty junker of yours any day of the week, O'Rourke. I can do wheelies."

Mike sighed and shook his head. "He's right," Dale said, amazing himself even as he spoke. "Your bike's not fast enough, Mike. Only it shouldn't be him . . ."He poked his brother with a finger. "It should be me. My bike's the newest, plus we need you to be waiting there. Your throwing arm's a thousand times better than mine." Mike thought a long moment. "All right," he said at last.

"But if there's nobody there when you get to the mansion, just tell us over the walkie-talkie and we come there. Got it? We'll do it there and not worry about the fire department being so close."

Harlen held up his hand as if he were in class. "I think I should do it." His voice was almost but not quite steady, his lips pale. "You guys have two arms to throw. Decoying may be what I could do best here."

Kevin made a derisive noise. "Whoever's decoy needs two hands," he said. "You're better off waiting with the rest of us."

Mike looked amused. "Don't you want to volunteer to be the hero, Kev?"

Kevin Grumbacher shook his head without smiling. "I'll be doing enough on Sunday."

"If we ever get to Sunday," muttered Dale.

"Wait," said Harlen. "Do we bring the guns?"

Mike thought. "Yes. But we don't use them unless we have to. The elevator's not that far from town. Somebody might hear and call Barney."

"People along Fifth or Catton Road'd just think it was somebody shooting rats at the dump," suggested Dale.

"Which is about right," said Mike. He looked around at them. "Shall we do it?"