It was Lawrence who spoke. "Yeah, but I am going to be decoy. Dale can come along if he wants, but I found it and I'm going to check it out. No argument."

Harlen sneered. "Whaddya going to do, halfpint? Tell your mommy if we don't let you do it? Hold your breath until you turn blue?"

Lawrence crossed his arms over his chest, squinted at all of them, and smiled a slow and lazy smile.

THIRTY-THREE

Dale and Lawrence pedaled across Main and skidded to a stop in the gravel of the parking strip along the west side of the park. Dale pulled the walkie-talkie strap over his head and keyed the transmit button; they'd given Mike and Kev and Harlen fifteen minutes to get in position.

"Red Rover to Dresden Base. We're at the park. Over." It had been Kev's idea to name the other team Dresden Base-Kev's dad had served as a navigator in the Army Air Forces in World War II.

"Roger, Red Rover." Mike's voice was faint and static-lashed. "We're all set here,"

Lawrence was all ready to go, leaning over his handlebars and grinning like a dope, but Dale didn't want to move just yet. "Mike," he said, already abandoning the radio codes, "they're going to see the radio."

"Yeah, but we can't do anything about that. Just don't let Chuck Sperling or Digger see it."

Dale looked over his shoulder before he realized that Mike was making a joke. Ha ha.

"Red Rover?"

"Yeah?"

"Try to talk into the radio when you're out of sight of the truck. The rest of the time, keep it strung over your back. They probably won't notice it."

"Roger," said Dale. He wished he had one of the pistols. They'd decided to leave Dale's Savage over-and-under behind, but Dresden Base had brought Harlen's .38, Kev's dad's big .45, and Mike's grandmother's squirrel gun with them in a canvas duffel bag. Dale and Lawrence had the radio and their bikes.

"Moving out," said Dale. He reslung the radio and pedaled south down Broad, Lawrence right at his side on the smaller bike. Approaching the intersection with the street where Sperling lived, Dale looked at Lawrence. "Would you really have told Mom?"

Lawrence grinned. "Sure ... I found it. It's my truck, in a way. No way I was gonna be left behind."

"You're going to end up in the back of the Rendering Truck with all the other carcasses if you don't do exactly as I say. Got it?"

His brother shrugged.

They paused at the entrance to the circular drive at the old Ashley place. "You can't see it from here," whispered Lawrence. "You've got to get around by the house."

"Just a second." Dale pulled the walkie-talkie around. His bladder was sending urgent signals and he wished he'd gone into the house before leaving. "Dresden Base, come in. Over." Three calls and Mike responded.

"We're heading down the drive." They pedaled slowly, moving in the center of the driveway to keep the branches and brambles off them. Suddenly Dale stopped and pulled behind a tree, Lawrence following. "Dresden Base, Dresden Base . . . Red Rover here."

"Go ahead, Red Rover."

"I see it. It's right where punko said it'd be."

Lawrence bashed his older brother on the upper arm.

"Leave the transmit button open," said Mike. "Let the thing dangle. Let me see if I can hear you."

Dale let the radio hang. "Testing," he said, feeling how dry his mouth was and how full his bladder felt. "One, two, three . . ."He lifted the gray plastic case.

"Yeah, Red Rover, I can hear you. Just talk loud when you want us to hear. We're ready here, Dale. You guys set?"

"Yeah." Dale felt the tension in his body as he straddled the center bar of the bike, left hand clenching and unclenching on the handlebar.

"Remember," came Mike's raspy voice, "no chances. I don't think they'll do anything in town, in broad daylight. He cuts you off, just go into a store or something. Got it?"

"Yeah."

"Don't go right up to the truck even if it doesn't respond," said Mike. They'd gone over all this already. "We'll meet at the park. Don't hang around there."

"Roger," said Dale. He lowered the radio. "We're going," he said loudly.

Lawrence was slightly ahead as they pedaled up the last part of the drive to the house, took the narrower lane along the north side of the ruins. The Rendering Truck was almost invisible, covered as it was with what looked like an old net and cut branches. It was tucked in behind a long rusted shed and the greenhouse with its broken panes and rusted metal lattice. A casual passerby would think the truck was just another abandoned relic of the Ashley estate.

Dale sincerely hoped it was.

They stopped just beyond the carbon-smirched tower of bricks that had been the fireplace. The mansion itself was almost lost to weeds and brambles, charred rafters poking from the dark space of the basement. An ornate pump stood on what had once been a back patio: local kid-myth had it that people drowned dogs in the well here.

The Rendering Truck looked hot and dead in the flat, gray glare of day. The windows reflected gray sky.

Lawrence dismounted, stood by his bike, and looked at his brother. Dale glanced over his shoulder, made sure the way down the driveway was clear, and said, "Do it."

There were plenty of loose rocks here; the lane had once been paved with cobblestones. Lawrence's first throw was accurate enough to bounce a fist-sized rock off the hood of the truck forty feet away. The second throw caught a fender.

"Nothing yet," Dale said loudly enough for the radio to hear. His first throw missed. The second rock landed on the camouflage net and branches. The smell of decomposing animals was very strong now.

Lawrence's third throw hit the metal strip between the panes of windshield glass. His fourth was flat and hard and broke the right headlight. The truck was silent and nothing around it stirred.

Dale was winding up and Lawrence was saying "I don't think there's anyone ..." when the Rendering Truck's starter ground, the engine roared, a differential whined, and the whole thing came rattling and bouncing out of the space between buildings, the net and branches flying aside as the boards of the trailer section tore through the flimsy camouflage.

"Go!" screamed Dale, dropping his rock and leaping onto his bike. His left foot missed the pedal and he almost fell onto the crossbar-the type of ball-breaking drop that made you just want to curl up on the grass for an hour-but he caught himself, almost tipped the bike over, got his head down and his ass high, and was pedaling furiously, Lawrence three yards ahead and not looking back, both boys barreling down the long drive between the arching brambles and the Rendering Truck less than fifty feet behind them, its roar and its stench curling like a tidal wave at their heels.

"Give me the lighters," Mike said to Harlen. They were lying prone behind the faded co-op sign on the tin roof of the grain elevator, about fifteen feet above the loading dock. Kevin was across the narrow drive, lying flat on the warehouse roof. It had been Harlen's job to bring the cigarette lighters, and he had checked his pocket and said he had them before they rendezvoused on Catton Road.

Now Harlen patted his pockets and looked wide-eyed. "I guess I forgot them ..."

Mike grabbed Harlen's shirt and half-lifted him from the hot tin roof. "Don't fuck around, Jim."

Harlen produced five lighters, all topped off with fluid. Harlen's dad had collected the things and they'd been lying in the bottom of a drawer for three years.

Mike tossed two across to Kevin, put one in his pocket, and dropped back down behind the sign. Suddenly the radio squawked and Dale's voice shouted, "It's coming after us!"

The Rendering Truck was faster than they thought it would be, grinding gears as it roared out of the driveway after them. Even with their half-block lead, the thing was going to catch them before they got to Main Street. Wide yards led to nothing but the railroad embankment and cornfields on their left; the street to Sperling's house on their right was a cul-de-sac.