He nodded to Tyler and the other man cued up the first cartoon and switched on the projector lamp. There was a smattering of halfhearted applause from the few people on their benches and blankets. Tom and Jerry began chasing each other around a primary-colored house while Mr. Ashley-

Montague smoked another cigarette and watched the skies south of town.

"Tornado, do you think?" said Dale as they stood on the porch of his house and looked down Second Avenue. Few cars passed on the Hard Road and those that did had their lights on and were going slowly.

"I don't know," said Mike. They'd all seen tornado weather before-it was the bane of the Midwest and the one form of weather most of their parents feared-but those bruise-black clouds to the south had seemed to be building for days now. The sky there seemed like a negative emulsion of daytime, the trees and rooftops illuminated by the last of a yellow light while the sky was like the opening to a black abyss. A faint ripple of greenish light along the horizon of cornstalks suggested lightning, but there were no actual flashes as such, no visible lightning strokes, only an occasional surge of green-white phosphoresence that got the old-timers at the store talking about chain lightning and ball lightning and other phenomena that they knew nothing about.

Mike lifted the walkie-talkie and keyed transmit. Two clicks came back, showing that Kevin was listening.

"Can you talk?" Mike said softly into the radio, not playing around with codes or call signs.

"Yeah," responded Kevin's voice. Even though the other boy was less than a hundred feet away in the ranch house next door, the transmission was broken up by static and hissing. It was as if the atmosphere was boiling on some plane they couldn't see.

"We're going to go inside and turn in," said Mike. "Unless you guys want to go down to the Free Show."

"Ha ha," came Harlen's voice. Mike could just imagine the smaller boy grabbing the radio.

"You guys all tucked in over there?" asked Dale, leaning close to Mike's walkie-talkie.

"Very funny," said Harlen. "We're watching Grum-belly's TV in the basement. The bad guys just kidnapped Miss Kitty."

Dale grinned. "They kidnap Miss Kitty every week. I think Matt should just let them have her.''

Kevin's voice came back, low and tense. "I have the key for the morning."

Mike sighed. "Roger that. You guys have pleasant dreams tonight . . . but make sure you've got fresh batteries and leave the line open."

"Roger" was Kev's laconic reply. The static crackled and popped.

The three boys went upstairs to Dale and Lawrence's bedroom. Mrs. Stewart had set up an extra cot under the south window; she had been very understanding that Mike was upset after the previous day's terrible accident with Father Cavanaugh. She didn't mind a bit if Mike slept over. Mr. Stewart was going to be home early Sunday afternoon and perhaps all of them could go on a picnic down along the Spoon or Illinois rivers.

They got into their pajamas. They would have preferred staying dressed this night, but Dale's mom would surely check in on them and they didn't want any problems. They kept their clothes laid out, and Dale set the small alarm clock for four forty-five. He noticed that his hand was shaking slightly as he wound the clock.

They lay on their beds, Mike on his cot, reading comics and talking about everything except what they were thinking about.

"I wish we could've gone to the Free Show," Lawrence said during a lull in the talk about the Chicago Cubs. "That new Vincent Price movie's playing-The House ofUsser."

"House of Usher,''' said Dale. "It's from an Edgar Allan Poe story. Remember when I read you the 'Masque of the Red Death' last Halloween?" Dale felt a strange pang of sorrow and it took him a moment to realize that it had been Duane who had told him about the wonderful Poe stories and poems. He looked at his nightstand, where Duane's notebooks were carefully banded together. Downstairs, the phone rang twice. They could hear the muffled tones of Dale's mom answering it.

"Whatever," said Lawrence, putting his hands behind his head on the pillow. His pajamas showed little cowboys on rearing Palominos. "I just wish we could see the movie." Mike set down his Batman comic. He was wearing nondescript blue pajama bottoms with his t-shirt. "You don't want to walk home in the dark, do you? Your mom didn't want to go because of the storm, and I don't think it's a great night to be wandering the streets."

There came the sound of footsteps on the stairs and Mike glanced toward his duffel bag, but Dale said, "It's mom."

She stood in the doorway, attractive in her soft white summer dress.''That was Aunt Lena. Uncle Henry's hurt his back again . . . trying to move some stumps out of that back pasture . . . and now he can't unbend at all. Dr. Viskes has prescribed some painkillers, but you know how Lena hates to drive. She wonders if I could bring the pills out."

Dale sat up in bed. "The pharmacy's closed."

"I called Mr. Aikins. He'll go down and open it up to fill the prescription." She glanced out the window at the ripple of lightning still outlining trees and homes to the south. "I'm not sure I want to leave you guys here with a storm coming. Do you want to come along?"

Dale started to speak, then looked at Mike, who nodded at the walkie-talkie on the floor next to him. Dale understood: if they went out to Uncle Henry's, they'd be out of touch with Kevin and Harlen. They'd promised.

"Uh-uh," said Dale. "We'll be OK here."

His mother looked out at the storm-tinged darkness. "You're sure?"

Dale grinned and waved a comic. "Sure . . . we've got snacks and pop and comics . . . what more could we want?"

She smiled. "All right. I'll just be gone twenty minutes or so. Call the farm if you need me." She glanced at her watch. "It's almost eleven. Be thinking about putting out the lights in a few minutes."

They listened to her bustle around downstairs, the back door slamming, and the old car starting up. Dale stood at the window to watch it go down Second toward the downtown.

"I don't like this too much," said Mike.

Dale shrugged. "You think the bell or whatever it is disguised itself as a stump to hurt Uncle Henry's back? You think it's all part of a plan?"

"I just don't like it." Mike stood and got into his sneakers. "I think we'd better lock the doors downstairs."

Dale paused. It was an odd thought-they only locked the doors when they were going away on vacation or something. "Yeah," he said at last. "I'll go down and do it."

"You stay here," said Mike, nodding toward Lawrence, who was too engrossed in his comic book to notice. "I'll be right back." He lifted his duffel bag and padded across the landing and down the stairs. Dale strained to hear the frontdoor bolt being slid shut, the footsteps down the hall to the kitchen. They'd have to watch for their mom's return so they could get downstairs to unlock everything before she got to the back door.

Dale lay back in bed, seeing the silent lightning out the south window and the shadows of leaves in the big elm out the north window to his right.

"Hey, look at this!" laughed Lawrence. He was reading the Uncle Scrooge comic-his favorite reading matter in all the world-and something in the tale of Viking gold had tickled him. He held the page out toward Dale.

Dale was actually sleepy; he reached for the comic and missed. It fluttered to the floor.

"I've got it," said Lawrence, reaching down between the beds.

The white hand and arm shot from beneath the bed and grabbed Lawrence's wrist.

"Hey!" said Lawrence and was instantly jerked off the bed, bedclothes flying. He landed on the floor with a thump. The white arm began dragging him under the bed.

Dale didn't have time to shout. He grabbed his brother's legs and tried to hold on. The pull was inexorable; Dale was coming off his own bed, sheets and spread bunching around his knees.