The water tower was clearly visible. Another quarter of a mile south, he could see the dark trees of Elm Haven. The road was empty. There was no sound. Only a slowly settling cloud of dust and the ravaged fence far across the field told Duane that he hadn't dreamt it all.

He crouched next to Witt and petted his side. The collie did not stir. His eyes were glassy. Duane lowered his cheek to Witt's ribs, held his own breath so his mad breathing would not drown out sound.

There was no heartbeat. Witt's heart had probably stopped on him even before they'd crossed the first fence. Only the old collie's urge to stay by his master had kept him breathing and struggling as long as he had.

Duane touched his old friend's narrow head, patted the thin fur there, and tried to close Witt's eyes. The eyelids would not come down.

Duane knelt there. There was a great pain in his chest and throat which had nothing to do with cuts or bruises. The pain became a terrible swelling, almost an explosion of emotion, but he could not swallow it or bring it up as tears. It threatened to choke him as he gasped for air, raising his face to the now blue sky.

Kneeling there, pounding his bleeding hands against the soil, Duane promised Witt and the God he didn't believe in that someone would pay for this.

Mike O'Rourke and Kevin Grumbacher were the only ones who showed for the Bike Patrol meeting that Mike had called. Kevin was nervous, pacing the length of the chickenhouse and fiddling with a rubber band, but Mike just shrugged. He realized that Dale and the others had better things to do than come to a silly meetings on a summer morning.

"We'll skip it, Kev," he said from where he lay sprawled on the sprung couch. "I'll talk to the guys sometime when we're together."

Kevin paused in his pacing, started to say something, and then stayed silent as Dale and Lawrence burst through the small door.

It was obvious that something had excited Dale: his eyes were wild, his short hair in disarray. Lawrence was also agitated.

"What?" said Mike.

Dale gripped the doorframe and gasped for breath. "Duane just called . . . Van Syke tried to kill him."

Mike and Kevin stared.

"It's true," gasped Dale. "He called me just when the cops were getting there. He had to call Carl's Tavern to get his dad to come home, and then he called Barney, and he thought maybe Van Syke would come while he was waiting at home, but he didn't, so his dad got home but doesn't really believe him, but his dog is dead. . . . Van Syke didn't exactly kill him, but in a way he did, because ..." "Hold it," said Mike.

Dale stopped.

Mike stood up. "Start at the beginning. The way you tell stories when we go camping. First things first. Is Duane OK and how did Van Syke try to kill him?"

Dale threw himself on the couch that Mike had just vacated. Lawrence found a cushion on the floor. Kevin stood where he had stopped pacing, motionless except for the movement of his hands as he unconsciously formed intricate patterns with the rubber band.

"OK," said Dale and took another few seconds. "Duane just called. About half an hour ago, Van Syke ... he thinks it was Van Syke but didn't really see him . . . somebody in Van Syke's Rendering Truck tried to run over him on Jubilee College Road. Not too far from the water tower."

"Jesus," Kevin said softly. Mike shot him a glance that silenced him.

Dale nodded, eyes slightly unfocused as he concentrated on what he was saying and as the real significance of it hit home. "Duane says that the truck tried to hit him on the road and then tore down the fence chasing him into the field. He says his dog died then . . . sort of scared to death."

"Witt?" said Lawrence. There was pain in the younger boy's voice. Every time he and Dale went out to Duane's place to visit, Lawrence would play for hours with the old collie.

Dale nodded again. "Duane had to cut across the Johnsons' fields and Corpse Creek and the woods there to get to his own place. And the weird thing is ..."

"What?" Mike said softly.

"The weird thing is, Duane said he carried his dog all the way home. He didn't leave him there in the field where he died to go back for him later."

Lawrence nodded as if he understood perfectly.

"Is that all he said?" urged Mike. "Did he say why Van Syke might have gone after him?"

Dale shook his head. "He said he wasn't doing anything except walking in here. I called him to tell him about the meeting. He said that the truck wasn't fooling around ... it wasn't like when J. P. Congden or one of those assho-" Dale glanced at his younger brother. "It wasn't like when one of those other old jerks sort of pretends to swerve his pickup to scare you. Duane said that whoever was driving the Rendering Truck was really trying to kill him and Witt." Mike nodded, apparently lost in thought. Dale combed his cowlick down with his fingers. "He had to hang up because Barney was just getting there."

Kevin collapsed the cat's cradle between his fingers. "And he was calling you from his home?"

"Yeah."

Kevin looked at Mike. "Does this have anything to do with what you wanted us to talk about?"

The tallest boy snapped out of his reverie. "Maybe." He glanced toward the yard where their bikes were lying everywhere. "Let's get going."

"Where?" asked Lawrence. He'd been chewing on the bill of his wool baseball cap-a common habit of his when nervous or distracted.

Mike smiled slightly. "Where do you think Duane's going to take Barney and his dad? If the truck chased him into the field, there's going to be a lot of wheel tracks and stuff." AH four boys ran for their bikes.

Barney was there. His green Pontiac with the faded gilt letters spelling cons able on the door was parked by the side of the road, as were Duane's dad's pickup and J.P. Congden's black Chevy. Duane and his dad were standing in the gap where the fence had been torn down, Duane speaking softly and occasionally pointing to the deep ruts in the field. Barney was j nodding and taking notes in a small spiral notebook. J.P. was ' smoking a cigar and glowering as if Duane were the suspect in all this.

Dale and the other kids spun their bikes to a stop thirty feet from the group in the field. Congden turned away from Duane's explanation, spat into the weeds, and shouted at the boys to go away. Mike and the others nodded and stayed where they were.

Duane's father was talking. "... and I want you to get out there and arrest him, Howard." Barney's real name was Howard Sills. "Goddamned idiot tried to kill my boy."

Barney nodded and made a note. "Actually, Martin, we don't have any evidence that it was Karl Van Syke ..."

Mike glanced at Dale, Kevin, and Lawrence, and they returned the look. They'd never heard Van Syke's first name before.

"... and your son said that he didn't get a clear look," Barney finished quickly, rushing to finish before Mr. McBride exploded again.

Duane's dad was getting red in the face, nearing that instant of explosion, when J.P. Congden shifted his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and said, "Wasn't Karl."

Barney shifted his cap and raised an eyebrow in the justice of the peace's direction. From thirty feet away, Dale thought, Barney doesn't really look like Barney on the show. Sheriff Howard Sills was short and balding, and had a hint of Don Knotts' poor posture and wide-eyed stare, but really he didn't resemble the deputy on The Andy Griffith Show. But everyone called him Barney.

"How do you know it wasn't Karl?" Barney asked the fat man.

Congden shifted the cigar again and squinted at Duane and his dad as if the two were the kind of white trash with whom a justice of the peace shouldn't waste his time. "I know 'cause I was with Karl all morning," he said. He removed the cigar, spat again, and grinned. His teeth were approximately the color of the stogie. "Karl and me was down at Spoon River, doin' a little fishin' below the highway bridge."