The Association

Introductions were repeated.

"Let's go inside before we melt," Liz said. "I've made some Red Zinger iced tea. Or there's wine if anyone is so inclined." She paused. "I'm a little off wine myself at the moment."

Maureen's surprise must have shown on her face.

"I'll tell you all about it when we get inside."

The interior of the house looked exactly the same as it always had.

Maureen wasn't sure what she'd expected, but ordinarily after the death of a spouse mementos were hidden or highlighted, objects and photos with special meaning either put away so as not to cause pain or moved to places of respect in order to honor the deceased. There'd been no need for that here.

Liz poured iced tea for all of them, and she did indeed tell them why she was not drinking wine these days. She described the hell into which she'd descended, dealing with the anguish of her husband's unexpected death and then with the escalating harassment of the homeowners' association that kept her from working through her grief in any sort of natural way. She'd get drunk to numb the pain, to shut out not only the memories of Ray's gruesome demise but the voices and noises she heard at night, and it was only in the past few days that she'd been able to pull herself out of despair.

The rest of them were silent after that, and Maureen reached over and grabbed her friend's hand, squeezing tightly.

Liz looked from Tina to Maureen. "You two have been great. Audrey and Moira, too. I know I didn't act like it, but it meant a lot to me each time you stopped by or called, and knowing you were there for me helped give me the strength to climb out of that hole I'd dug myself into."

Danna looked embarrassed, but Lupe was smiling sympathetically.

Liz wiped her tearing eyes. "Enough of this self-pity," she said.

"Catch me up on gossip and current events. I want to know what's going on out there."

Tina was full of news about which neighbor was feuding with whom, about men and women who'd lost or changed jobs, about a new house that was being built over on Fir Street, but as it always did, the talk naturally shifted back again to the association, and it was Tina who brought up Bonita Vista's ever-deteriorating relationship with the town of Corban . Maureen was surprised when the other woman placed the blame squarely on the board, and she couldn't help recalling Tina at the annual meeting, her hand enthusiastically shooting into the air to support Jasper Calhoun's edicts and approve the revised C, C, and Rs .

Actions spoke louder than words, as the saying went, and while Tina might speak out against the association with them here in private, she was not divorced from it, not separate from it, she was a part of it.

And she supported its actions.

Maybe this was all part of some plot, Maureen reasoned, maybe the only reason Tina was here was to spy, to listen to what they said and report back on it. Hell, maybe she was even wearing a wire.

Or maybe the association's hidden cameras were recording all this for posterity.

Maureen knew she was being as paranoid as she'd accused Barry and Ray of being, but she knew also that her feelings were totally justified.

Liz grimaced. "Pretty soon, we'll be cut off from the town entirely.

What then? Is the association planning to open its own grocery store and gas station, build a power plant?"

"They're ambitious," Tina said. "I'll give them that. But I don't think they'd go that far."

"But what do they hope to gain by angering the town?"

It was a question Maureen had been wondering herself, and it was one for which none of them seemed to have an answer.

There was a significant pause in the conversation.

Maureen broke the silence. "Speaking of the association," she said, "wasn't there a gay couple at one of your parties? I think one of the guys was named Pat?"

Liz nodded soberly. "Wayne and Pat. They're gone."

"That's what I was wondering about. We were going through the C, C, and Rs last night and saw an anti gay rule and an anti-living-together rule."

"Yes."

"Gone?" Maureen said, the word finally sinking in.

"They disappeared. I'm sure their house is untouched and all of their clothes are in the closets, but... they're gone." Her voice dropped, as though she were afraid of being overheard. "It happens around here."

Maureen thought of all the empty houses in Bonita Vista, the ones she'd assumed were vacation homes with absentee owners. In her mind, she saw fully stocked refrigerators filled with rotting food, place settings at dining room tables covered with dust, and suddenly their calm, quiet neighborhood no longer seemed so benign.

"As for not allowing couples to live together, that's resulted in more than one enforced marriage."

"You're kidding."

Both Liz and Tina shook their heads.

"It's true," Tina said. "Jeannie and Skylar Wells moved here from Phoenix where they'd been living together forever. They got a little nudge from the association, and the next day--the next day--they went down to the justice of the peace and got hitched."

"A 'nudge'?" Maureen said.

Liz looked at her. "They won't talk about it."

Lupe cleared her throat. "I want to know about this anti minority rule. How strictly is that enforced? I'm Hispanic." She smiled. "As I'm sure you can tell. Say I wanted to retire up here."

"You want the truth?" Liz asked.

"Of course."

"There's no way I would buy a home in Bonita Vista if I were you.

Discrimination is illegal and, who knows, maybe if someone took them to court over that provision, it'd be struck down." She leaned forward in her chair. "But no one has."

The statement had an ominous ring to it, and Maureen felt an unwanted shiver tickle her spine. Her mouth felt dry, and she sipped her iced tea. "You mean this place wasn't always all white? There've been minority homeowners in the past?"

"There was a single man, white man, had a place up here, over on Blue Spruce Circle. A vacation home. He came maybe every other summer, stayed for two weeks or so. Usually to paint his house, clear brush, comply with whatever warning the association sent to him. One year he showed up with his new wife, a Vietnamese woman. Two days later, he'd cleared out, and a week after that, the house went up for sale. We never saw him again."

"What do you think they did?" Lupe asked. "Threaten him with a fine or something?"

"More than that, I'm sure. But what it was specifically I can't say."

"And that's it?" Maureen asked. "There's never been another nonwhite person up here?"

"That rule keeps them out. They don't buy here. And in case you haven't noticed, Utah is not exactly a hotbed of diversity to begin with."

Everyone laughed, everyone except Liz, who grew even more serious. "The thing is," she said, addressing Lupe, "they've used that rule on guests as well as residents. I don't want to scare you or anything--"

"I don't scare easily," Lupe insisted.

"--but apparently in their minds, this provision applies to visitors.

Some friends of ours—the Marottas ," she said to Maureen. "I think you met them at one of our parties--had a brother or cousin or something who'd married a black woman. They all came up for Thanksgiving a couple of years ago, and the wife was found naked and crying the next morning in the ditch in front of the Marottas ' house, half frozen in the snow. I don't know exactly what happened, but Tony and Julia still won't talk about it. They refuse. And they've never had Thanksgiving here again."

"They try anything with me and Jeremy, they're going to be sorry they were ever born." Lupe's voice was firm, her expression set.

"That's a good attitude," Liz said, nodding. "But I'm not sure attitude is enough. Not with the association."

Twenty minutes later, Maureen, Lupe, and Danna were walking back home.

Though they had a lot to talk about, the mood was considerably more somber than it had been on the way over, and the optimism Maureen had felt knowing that Liz had stood up to Jasper Calhoun and was once again her normal, feisty self had completely dissipated, replaced with a demoralized resignation that left her feeling empty and cold.

Liz stood next to Tina in the darkened community center feeling guilty and deeply ashamed. On the monitor facing Jasper Calhoun and the board ran a replay of their afternoon meeting with Maureen and her California friends.

"You did good," Calhoun commended them. "You are assets to Bonita Vista, both of you."

"Thank you," Tina said, obviously pleased.

Liz said nothing.

"Elizabeth?" Calhoun prompted.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She was glad that the room was dark and the board could not see the tears rolling down her cheeks.

And she was glad that Ray was dead and had never lived to see this day.

Barry had been looking through the revised C, C, and Rs , following Jeremy's lead. He'd perused them before, of course. Several times since the meeting. Looking for loopholes.

But now they were different.

He'd been trying to reconcile that for over an hour. He pored over regulations he didn't remember, unsuccessfully attempting to convince himself that his memory was going, or that he had too much on his mind, or that a person could not remember every single paragraph in a document this size, but he knew that those excuses were just that--excuses.

The C, C, and Rs had changed.

That was impossible, though. It meant that either someone had been sneaking into his house and replacing his old book with revisions, or that the pages were revising themselves, new rules magically appearing on formerly blank space.

Neither option was believable, neither was possible.

But, tellingly, he did not reject either one.

The ELP record they'd been listening to ended, and Chuck hurried outside to his car. "Hold on a minute," he said. He'd brought along a cache of new CDs, among them a Tom Waits album that Barry had read about but not yet heard, and he returned a few moments later, tossing a dark jewel case into Barry's lap.

"All right."

"There was a guy out front," Chuck reported. "Tall, skinny, wimp-looking sucker with a clipboard, writing notes. He walked away when he saw me, pretended he wasn't spying on us."

"Neil Campbell," Barry said, picking up the CD. "Association lackey."

"They know we're here," Jeremy said dryly.

Dylan grinned. "Good." He opened the door, stuck out his head. "We're kicking ass and taking names, motherfuckers !"

"That was mature," Barry told him, but secretly he was pleased. It felt good to have allies, people from the outside world who could say and do whatever they wanted with impunity.

They'd already watched Chuck's video of the neighborhood twice, looking for anything that appeared to be a gross violation of the association rules, but in his examination of the C, C, and Rs , he'd found nothing, and he shut off the television as he walked over to the stereo.

Switching the tuner from Phono to CD, he popped in the Tom Waits and cranked up the volume, smiling as he heard the singer's familiar baritone growl.

He turned back toward the others. "Why are we sitting in the house?"

he asked. "Let's go upstairs, sit out on the deck and plan our strategy there. Mo and I bought this place for the view, why don't we take advantage of it?"

"Yeah. Right. Sounds like a party." Dylan yawned, stretched. "So where's this bridle trail where the freak hangs out?"

"Stumpy?"

"Yeah."

"Follow me." Barry led the way up the steps and across the open space adjacent to the dining room. He opened the sliding glass door and walked onto the deck. "Around that area," he said, pointing. "You take the road to the first street on the right, then walk down a bit. The trailhead's on the right. It's pretty well marked."

Dylan nodded, grinned. "I think I'll go for a walk."

Barry hesitated, not sure how to articulate what he was thinking. "It's not... fun," he said. "Stumpy--uh, Kenny-is..." He sighed. "Well, he's spooky, to be honest with you."

"You think I'm a pussy?"

Barry had to smile. "Always."

Dylan laughed. "Don't worry, bud."

"I'm serious, Dyl . It may sound interesting and neat while you're up here, but when you're down there by yourself in the woods, all alone, and you hear Stumpy-Kenny--coming toward you through the bushes, it's creepy."

"Cool."

"Take Jeremy with you. Or Chuck."

"Hell no. And you can't come either." He patted Barry's shoulder.

"Don't worry. I brought a change of underwear in case I brown my shorts."

Dylan walked back inside to put on his hiking shoes, and Barry leaned on the rail, looking out over the trees, listening to the music. The glass door slid open, and Chuck and Jeremy came onto the deck.

"Good CD," Barry said.

Chuck nodded.

Downstairs, the front door slammed. A moment later, they saw Dylan on the road, heading down the hill. They each yelled obscenities at him and received the finger in return.

"You think Pussy Boy's hiding in the bushes and writing this down on his clipboard?" Chuck asked, grinning.

Barry laughed, nodded. "I'm sure I'll get a full report and a recommendation to attend a language etiquette course."

"Recommendation?" Jeremy said, eyebrow raised.

"Order," Barry amended. "Hell, I already got a warning about my music being too loud." He snorted. "And I was listening to Joni Mitchell."

"Joni Mitchell?" Chuck laughed. "They're going to love Tom Waits."

"Don't worry. I'll hear about it."

The women returned soon after--Barry could tell because the music was suddenly turned off--and he, Jeremy, and Chuck went back inside, where Maureen filled him in on what she'd learned from Liz and Tina. "They're like a law unto themselves here," she said. "They're judge, jury, and executioner."

Jeremy nodded solemnly. "They seem to think they're a mini government and that they have all the rights and powers that entails. I don't care how many courts have upheld homeowners' associations'

restrictions, that does not allow them to assault and harass people."

"Or kill people," Barry said.

"That goes without saying. What I'm thinking we should do is put together a chronology of events, lodge a criminal complaint with the local authorities--"

"A lot of good that will do."

"Let me finish. Then we go up the chain all the way to federal law enforcement. Justice Department. File discrimination complaints.

Simultaneously, we hit them with a civil suit, a class action on behalf of all current and former homeowners who have been psychologically intimidated or physically threatened."

Lupe was nodding, and Barry had to admit that it made a kind of sense.

"We'll attack these assholes from all sides, and I'll be throwing so many briefs at them they won't know what hit them." He held up the copy of the C, C, and Rs that he'd brought in with him. "But we need to map out a specific sequence and strategy. This Kenny Tolkin who got his arms and legs chopped off. You think we could get him out of here, show the FBI or whatever law enforcement agency we approach what's been done to him?"

Barry nodded grimly. "If worse came to worst, the four of us could track him down, pick him up, and put him in a car."

"He wouldn't come voluntarily?"

"I don't think he'd understand. His ... something's happened to his mind as well. Shock I suppose. And he can't communicate because he has no tongue. It's ... I don't know of any other way to do it."

"We can't just kidnap him."

"I have my palmcorder Chuck said. "We'll tape him."

Jeremy nodded. "Not a bad idea. And this is exactly what we have to do over the next few days. Figure out everything the association's done and find a concrete way to document it, plan out both our criminal and civil cases against them."

Barry looked over at Maureen and saw in her face the same hope he felt himself. In addition to being more than a little paranoid, Jeremy was obsessive and thorough; good qualities in both a lawyer and an adversary.

Lupe headed toward the bathroom. "A lot of iced tea," she explained.

"Yes it was," Danna agreed. She went downstairs to the other bathroom.

"Can we use your computer?" Barry asked Maureen.

"Go right ahead." She smiled. "Anything for the cause."

"Jeremy," Barry said. "Why don't you put together an outline of what we need? I'll tell you what I can, and we'll fill in the blanks later."

The three men headed down to Maureen's office, while she waited upstairs for Lupe to get out of the bathroom. "It was a lot of iced tea," she said.

Barry's directions were easy enough to follow, and Dylan soon found himself heading down a narrow footpath between tall trees and high bushes.

What was this? A hollow? A gulch? He wasn't up on his nature lingo, but the trail wound down between two close and heavily wooded hills, and whatever it was, it was pretty damn cool. Ahead, an obnoxious bird cawed in one of the trees and at his approach flew noisily into the air. A blue jay.

He had no idea where this path went or how far into the woods it extended, but it seemed to be heading away from Barry's hill and the roads where the houses were, into uncharted territory.

Where was the freak?

He should have asked Barry how far in he needed to go. He'd been walking--what?--five or six minutes. Was he supposed to go ten?

Twenty? Thirty? The trail dipped again, passed over what looked like a dry creek bed, then followed the bottom edge of a dark rock bluff. In a section of forest where the pine trees grew between huge standing boulders, the path forked.

Dylan stopped. He was getting tired. And bored.

"Stumpy!" he yelled.

A bird called out, but otherwise the woods were silent.

"Anybody out here?"

Nothing.

"I got a big dick!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

He studied the diverging paths. The one to the right seemed to head up a hillside and into the hot sunlight. The one to the left sloped down into another hollow or gulch or whatever. He considered turning back, but he wanted to see the freak and he figured he should give it another ten minutes. Besides, he didn't exactly feel like spending the entire afternoon listening to Barry and Jeremy try to pick apart obscure rules and regulations.

He started down the left trail and was rewarded with an immediate drop in temperature as the trees and bushes closed in around him, blocking out nearly all of the afternoon sun and throwing the area ahead of him into shadow. He began jogging over the hard-packed dirt, hoping to cover more territory, yelling "Hello!" every few seconds in order to flush out Stumpy or Kenny or whatever his name was.

Ahead, he thought he saw a building through the trees, and Dylan slowed down. He was out of breath already--not used to this high altitude--and he stopped for a moment, inhaling and exhaling deeply.

It was a building, he could see now, a long low structure made of wood and rock that corresponded to that of the forest and effectively camouflaged the place from anyone who wasn't almost on top of it.

Something about that didn't sit well with him. He thought of everything Barry had told them, and it suddenly seemed mighty suspicious that there was a secret hideout here in the middle of the woods where Stumpy was supposed to be.

Maybe it was where he lived.

Maybe it was where he was made.

His first gut reaction had been to turn tail and run, but as Dylan peered through the dark foliage at the equally dark building, his adrenaline started pumping. This was why he'd come out here, this was what he'd come to see.

He approached slowly, keeping a watchful eye out for any signs of life. He had stopped shouting, having determined that the best course of action would be not to announce his presence but to sneak in and out with no one I wiser. Leaving the trail, he crept through the bushes toward the building, trying not to step on twigs or leaves, trying no to make any noise. The wall ahead of him appeared to windowless, so he swung around, making a wide arc, was gratified to see that on the side of the building was , open doorway.

He pushed his way through a series of interlocke bushes, managing not to cry out when a stray broken brand dug into his ankle, and then he was standing in the clear space next to the building. This close, the similarity between the structure and the surrounding forest seemed even!

creepier. There was something organic about it, and Dylan! was suddenly aware of the fact that there was no noise here.1 The distant sound of bird cry and the underbrush scuttling | of lizards that had accompanied his trek down the path had | disappeared, replaced by silence.

He stepped forward carefully, intensely aware of the too loud sound his shoes made on the gravelly ground.

It looked like a bunkhouse, he thought, seeing it this;] close. He half-expected Stumpy--or Kenny—to come lurching out of the darkened doorway, shrieking at him, but the place seemed to be abandoned, and he appeared to be the only one here. He was grateful for that, and his reaction made him wonder what he was doing here in the first place, why he didn't just turn around and head back up the path to Barry's. He didn't know. But he did know that he needed to look inside that building, that even if he didn't see the freak, he still had to find out what was inside there.

He walked up to the doorway. The building obviously had no windows, but at the far end of what appeared to be a single large room that took up the entire interior of the structure, he saw the dim yellowish glow of an old kerosene lantern.

He squinted into the darkness but was unable to make out any specific features, so he stepped inside, stopping just past the entrance to let his eyes adjust.

It was a bunkhouse, and he could see that the small cots lining both sides of the long room were occupied. He whirled around, intending to flee, but strong hands grabbed his right arm. He swiveled to see a tall elderly gentleman staring blankly at him, The man had no ears.

Other hands grabbed his left arm, clamped around his neck, and then the people in the cots were rising, standing, walking toward him.

Or some of them were walking. Others were limping, and while they were not Stumpy, Dylan could see in the far off light from the lantern and the dim illumination from outside that they all appeared to be handicapped, missing arms or hands or legs or feet.

He tried to free himself from the grip of those who held him, but his captors held him tight.

Captors?

He struggled mightily, lashed out with his feet, tried a backward head butt, attempted to jerk his right arm free and throw a roundhouse punch at the tall man before him. No one had yet spoken, the only sounds in the bunkhouse were his own grunts and exhalations and the shuffling clopping of feet on wooden floor, and he was starting to get seriously scared.

The grip on his left arm weakened for a moment as the man holding onto it was bumped by a fingerless figure approaching from the side, and Dylan took advantage of the opportunity, yanking his arm away and using it to claw the face of the tall man. For a brief second, he was almost free, then the hands on his neck tightened, and he slipped, almost fell. "Fuck!" he managed to get out.

And then they were beating him.

When Dylan came to, he was gagged and restrained, strapped down with chains and bands of leather to what felt like a metal table. He was no longer in the bunkhouse, he knew that, but exactly where he'd been taken was not yet clear. He was able to move his head, and he turned it first to the left and then to the right, seeing only dark blurriness from between his puffy eyelids. Gradually, his brain adjusted to this altered vision, deciphering the scrambled signals and reformulating them into a more coherent picture. He saw a grimy stone wall, although his brain must have been having trouble judging distances because it looked as though it were several yards from where he lay. Next to him, on the table, was an old and obviously well-used machete, a hammer and a pack of nails, and a portable band saw with a rusted blade. Above, high and far away, was a black ceiling.

A woman walked up, dressed in dirty jeans and a torn, bloody T-shirt, a pair of yellowed plastic goggles hanging around her neck.

"One of the guests?" she asked.

An old man appeared next to her, a strange-looking individual with dry, crinkly skin and a face that owed more to the makeup wizardry of horror films than the biology of real life. "Yes," he said, his voice deep and filled with the offhanded authoritarianism of someone in power.

"What's the plan?" the woman asked.

The old man looked at Dylan dismissively. "Do the hands and feet first," he told the woman. "We'll figure out where to go after that."

"Rogerwilco ." The woman lowered her goggles.

Behind his gag, Dylan screamed as the band saw started to buzz.

When an hour had passed and Dylan wasn't back, Barry felt a slight twinge of unease.

When two hours had passed and Dylan still hadn't returned, he was filled with fear and a horribly familiar sense of panic. He gathered together Jeremy and Chuck, and the three of them headed out to the bridle trail to search for their friend.

They walked up and down the trail, following each fork, encountering only a pair of yuppie joggers and an old woman.

No Dylan.

It was nearly dark when they finally returned to the house, tired, angry, discouraged, and worried. The wives met them on the porch, and one look at their faces told Barry that Dylan had still not come back.

They went into the house, closing and locking the door behind them.

Maureen hurried upstairs to get drinks.

"You think the association got to him?" Jeremy asked, voicing the thought that was on all of their minds.

Danna turned toward Barry. "He was off to see that armless, legless guy, right?"

But Barry was already shaking his head. "Stumpy-Kenny--couldn't've done this. He's scary, but when you get down to it, all he could do is gum someone to death. He certainly couldn't take down a big guy like Dylan."

Jeremy nodded. "So it was someone else. Or several someone elses "Whatever it was, we're not going to find out by guessing about it in the living room." Barry looked at him. "You want to call Sheriff Hitman or do you want me to?"

"I'll talk to that bastard." Jeremy picked up the phone from the table, dialed 911, and waited.

And waited.

He hung up, dialed again, and this time someone answered. He asked to speak with the sheriff, and when the person on the other end of the line began asking questions about the nature of the emergency, Jeremy turned on the legalese and in his most serious and officious voice began berating and intimidating the person into transferring the call to the sheriff.

Barry had to smile. An angry and belligerent Jeremy was something to behold, and not for the first time he was glad the man was on his side.

But Jeremy's verbal pyrotechnics did not work on Hitman . Even listening to only one side of the conversation, Barry could tell where it was going. He'd been there before himself: Hitman was not empowered to intervene in association business, this was clearly an association dispute, and if he had any problems, Jeremy should address them to the board.

"God damn}" Jeremy said, clicking off the phone and slamming it down on the coffee table. "What do they have on this sheriff? Video of him in bed with a pig? Jesus Christ! How can a law enforcement officer totally ignore his responsibilities like that? He's not doing his fucking job! And he's not even embarrassed or sorry about it!"

"That's what we've been wondering," Maureen said.

"I'm definitely going to other agencies with this. Hitman's either completely corrupt or grossly incompetent, and if I have to sue his ass for malfeasance and dereliction of duty, then, goddamn it, that's what I'll do. There's no way he's getting away with this."

Barry was silent, his faint hopes dimming. Jeremy was a resourceful opponent, but the association was a juggernaut, willing and able to flatten any obstacle in its path.

"What next, then?" Chuck asked.

Barry took a deep breath. "I guess we wait for morning."

He stood by the window, looking out at the road as if expecting Dylan to return any second, while a BMW filled with teenagers sped by, the driver honking his horn and yelling, "Your mama sucks cocks in hell!"

Barry awoke at six, before Maureen and, from what his ears told him, before anyone else. He'd slept through the night as usual, but there'd been dreams, bad dreams, and he was glad to wake up. He slipped out of bed slowly, carefully, one foot at a time so as not to disturb Maureen, and put on his robe and slippers before opening the bedroom door and padding upstairs.

He was quiet. He intended to sneak silently up to the kitchen so as not to disturb Chuck and Danna, but he could see by the early morning light seeping through the mini blinds that the sofa bed had been folded up. The living room looked unused, the linens and pillows untouched.

He turned on a lamp, frowning, and made a quick tour of the house. The door to the guest bedroom was closed and locked, Jeremy and Lupe obviously inside, but both the upstairs and downstairs bathrooms were empty, doors open. No dishes had been used in the kitchen, not even a water glass, and through the windows there was no sign of anyone in the yard.

Chuck and Danna had disappeared.

They've probably gone for a walk, he told himself. They'd made the sofa bed, refolded the linen, and sneaked outside for an early morning constitutional. But there was a gnawing doubt in his gut, and part of him wanted to wake up everyone else in the house, rush outside, and start an immediate search.

He pushed those thoughts aside, did not allow his mind to proceed in that direction. To acknowledge that something bad had befallen them would be to acknowledge that someone something --had broken into their house and that he could not do. The possibilities were just too far-reaching, the implications too terrifyingly intimidating. Especially after yesterday.

It was an ostrich attitude, with its irrationally rational appeal, but something seemed to have shut down inside him, some sense of justice or outrage or responsibility, and he found that he could believe nothing untoward had occurred. He could honestly say that he thought it likely his friends had simply awoken early and gone out for a stroll around the neighborhood.

One by one, the others awoke, and Barry, who'd been sitting silently in the living room, stood, went upstairs, and busied himself in the kitchen making coffee. Maureen came up first, then Jeremy, then Lupe.

All of them asked about Chuck and Danna, and Barry shrugged off the questions, saying that he didn't know where they were, they'd been gone when he awoke, but that they were probably just taking a morning walk to clear their heads after yesterday's drama.

"Oh yeah," Maureen said sarcastically. "They're probably out looking for Dylan."

He did not bother to respond.

They ate breakfast in silence, the only noise in the house the false cheer of a morning news show on TV and the chomping of cereal.

"Who are we fooling?" Jeremy said, setting down his spoon. "How long are we going to pretend that they're coming back?"

"We don't know that they're not," Barry stressed. "We can't just go jumping to conclusions."

"After Dylan, it's not such a big jump," Maureen told him.

"They wouldn't just go without telling us," Jeremy insisted.

"Something's happened to them."

Lupe stood, looked over the railing into the living room. "Their luggage is gone," she pointed out.

Barry moved next to her. She was right. Chuck's overnight bag was missing and Danna's two small suitcases were nowhere to be seen. How could he have missed something so obvious?

"Then I guess they took off," Barry said without conviction, "headed home."

"How could they leave without their car? And why would they? If they wanted to leave, they would've told us, and we all would've driven out together. They wouldn't... what? Hike back to California? Call a cab?"

He looked over the railing at the untouched sofa bed.

First Dylan.

Now Chuck and Danna.

They were picking off his friends one by one.

"Maybe we should get out of here," Lupe suggested.

Barry nodded in agreement, though he felt torn up inside. Three days.

It had only taken three days for Bonita Vista to break down and decimate his best and strongest line of defense.

Still, there remained a core of iron within him, a resolute unwillingness to concede defeat that, if anything, was growing stronger. He was reminded of the tag line for a movie: This time it's personal.

But it had always been personal. He thought of their cat Barney, thought of the murder of the man who had harassed Maureen, thought of Ray. His opposition to the homeowners'

association had never been anything but personal.

Jeremy shook his head. "I'm not leaving until we find out what happened to them. If I have to stay here a fucking year, I will, but there's no way I'm going to abandon my friends."

"Let's head out," Barry said, "take a look around Bonita Vista, see if we can find something."

Jeremy nodded grimly. "We'll start with the president's house."

"Do you want to go with them?" Maureen asked Lupe. The other woman looked over at her husband, then shook her head and started digging into her cereal. "I'll stay with her," Maureen told Barry.

He nodded, came back to the table to quickly finish off his coffee, then went down to the bedroom and put on his shoes. Jeremy was ready to go by the time he came up to the living room, and Barry unlocked, unbolted, and opened the front door.

And saw a pink sheet of paper affixed to the outside of the screen.

Jeremy pushed open the screen door, reached around the metal frame, and grabbed the paper.

"It's a form," he said, and his voice was flat. "Or your 'recipient's copy' of a form. A Regulation Compliance form, to be exact. And there's a "Violation' box checked. "Unauthorized Presence of Minority.""

"Shit," Barry said. He thought of the sealed letter they'd found in the closet that first week.

They're doing it. They're keeping track of it. Don't think they aren 't.

They'd been talking quietly, but the quiet must have carried its own weight because he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up to see Maureen and Lupe standing on the edge of the stairs gazing down on them, both of their faces registering the same expression.

Jeremy looked up at his wife, reading aloud. " "Hispanic female and husband staying at residence. If violation continues, offending couple will be removed.""

"Removed," Barry repeated.

"What do you think they mean by that?"

Barry looked at him. "What do you think?"

"My God," Lupe said, and her voice was shaking. He thought she was about to cry, but when he looked up at her he saw lines of anger hardening her face. It was rage that was making her voice quiver, not fear. "Someone has to teach those racists a lesson."

"I have the will and the way," Jeremy said. He looked at Barry, the form crumpled in his fist. He dropped the paper on the floor. "Let's go. Let's pay a little visit to Mr. Jasper Calhoun."

Calhoun's house looked even more fortresslike than it had before, its intimidating size and dark gray walls contrasting sharply with a green expanse of sloping lawn--an artificial imposition on the natural landscape that the C, C, and Rs should have prohibited. As before, a cold breeze blew here, ruffling his hair, and if he had not known that it was impossible, he'd have sworn it originated from the windowless residence.

They stood for a moment on the road.

"God, that's a monstrous house," Jeremy said.

"In more ways than one."

"That, too. But I'm just shocked it's so big. If I recall correctly, there are size limitations on structures in Bonita Vista. Although maybe this thing was grandfathered in."

"Mike Stewart said that Calhoun lives alone. He has no family."

"Why does he need all that space, then? What could he possibly use it for?"

Barry didn't answer. It was a question he didn't want to think about.

They walked down the perfectly maintained path past an apple tree, past a plum tree, past a birdbath. The silver Lexus was not in the carport, so there was a good chance the president wasn't home, but they continued on anyway, | up the wooden steps of the wraparound porch to the door.: Jeremy rang the bell, and a muffled gong sounded from I somewhere deep in the house.

Barry turned his head slowly, looking around. The yard was silent, empty.

Jeremy rang the bell again, but after another minute it seemed obvious that no one was home.

The slits to either side of the door were narrow windows, and Barry cupped his hands to shield the glare, pressing his face against the one on the right, but the smoked glass was so dark he could barely see the outline of the closed mini blinds inside.

What did Calhoun need all that space for?

They walked back up the path to the street, and Barry sensed the weight of the house behind him. It felt as though he was being watched, as though the house were some sort of giant sentient creature all hunkered down and waiting to pounce, and he had to fight the urge to run back up the lawn to the street.

He did not notice until they reached the pavement that neither of them had spoken since stepping onto Calhoun's property, and he wondered if Jeremy had been as anxious as he himself had been. He felt better now that they'd reached the street, but he was sweating, as though he'd just had a particularly close encounter with some sort of predator.

They started walking back toward Barry's. Jeremy was the first to speak. "You know me," he said. "I'm not one of these touchy-feely guys. But I'm telling you that place gave me the creeps."

Barry nodded.

"You think they could be in there? Dylan? Chuck and Danna?"

"I don't think they are," Barry said, and he found that it was true.

He could easily imagine his Mends chained to the wall in some dungeon like room within that monstrosity, but it didn't feel right to him. He had no doubt that there were things within that building that were equally horrific, that he would prefer not to know about or see, but he didn't think Chuck and Danna were there, and for that he was grateful.

Where did he think they were, then?

His gut instinct was that they were gone, that they had left Bonita Vista, either on their own or via some forced evacuation, and though he had no evidence to back him up, he told Jeremy his feeling.

"I've been thinking that, too," his friend admitted. "They drove Dylan off, and they might've done the same to Chuck and Danna; although what could have happened between bedtime and morning that would make them just pack their things and go, without telling any of us, is a mystery.

I personally think it's more likely that they were kidnapped or dragged off or somehow forced to leave. But you're right. The association probably wouldn't want to keep them here. Their goal would be to get rid of them." He paused. "Get rid of us." "Maybe Lupe's right,"

Barry said. "Maybe you two should go back to California. Before something bad happens to you."

"I hate the idea of letting them run me off." Jeremy looked over at him. "Besides, we came out here to help you."

But he didn't rule out the possibility.

They walked the rest of the way home in silence, each lost in private thoughts, "I still think the best way to attack them is with lawsuits," Jeremy said as they reached the driveway. "Because even if they win, it's a nuisance. They have to hire a lawyer, have to make the effort to fight the allegations. It takes time and money and resources, and maybe it takes the pressure off the people here a little bit."

"It might also give us other ideas and help us find some chinks in the armor."

"That, too."

They were halfway to the house when Mike pulled up in his pickup. He got out of the truck, leaving the engine running, and handed Barry a large manila envelope. "I was told to give this to you." He held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I'm just the messenger here. I

don't know what's in it."

"Told by whom?" Jeremy asked.

"I'm just the messenger." He shrugged, gave Barry an apologetic look, and retreated back to his pickup. Maureen and Lupe were coming out of the house, walking down the porch steps, and before anyone could say anything more, Mike drove off without another word.

"What's that?" Maureen asked, walking up.

"I don't know."

Barry spread open the clasp and opened the envelope's flap, pulling out an eight-by-ten sheet. It was a photograph. A photograph of a dark-skinned man being tortured by unseen assailants. The picture had clearly been taken in Bonita Vista--the sweep of pines leading south to the canyon lands could be seen in the background--and had been taken fairly recently: there was the hood and front end of a new Honda Accord visible on the left half of the photo.

The man was being flayed alive.

Barry stared at the picture in horror. A section of the mans shoulder had been peeled away, and the deep flowing crimson beneath a perfectly square flap of exposed musculature contrasted horribly with the dull darkness of his skin. The man's eyes were wide and crazed, his mouth open in a twisted, agonized scream, and there was blood dripping from his lips.

All of his teeth had been knocked out.

The only signs of the individuals performing this atrocity were two pairs of gloved hands holding the victim's bare arms and the blurrily silhouetted head and shoulders of another man facing away from the camera and holding up an exceptionally long pair of shears.

Barry's salivary glands had stopped working, his mouth was cotton dry.

Both Jeremy and Lupe looked sick.

He turned the picture over. Stamped on the back in red ink was a description of the photo: "Punishment Administered for Violation of Article IV, Section 8, Paragraph D."

Lupe started crying.

Jeremy rushed to put his arms around her.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "It's just... I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Maureen reassured her. "We understand."

"I guess I'm not as tough as I thought."

"It's okay," Jeremy told her. "Don't worry." He glanced over at Barry. "Sorry, dude. The war's won. We're leaving, we're out of here, we're gone. And if you're smart, you'll do the same."

The Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions Article IV, General Provisions, Section 8, Paragraph D:

Non-Caucasian individuals, due to their propensity for engaging in crimes against both person and property, are not allowed to reside or stay within the boundaries of Bonita Vista.

Jeremy was good.

He and Lupe had left midmorning, and by early afternoon, he was calling Barry from his cell phone on his way back to California, telling Barry to expect a visit from the FBI. While Lupe drove, he'd been making constant calls, cashing in favors, exploiting contacts, all the time filled with the white-hot rage that had become Barry's second nature and that only the homeowners' association seemed able to elicit. He'd convinced the FBI to investigate not only Dylan's, Chuck's, and Danna's disappearance but also local law enforcement's unwillingness to even look into the situation.

"Now for our ace in the hole."

Unreasonably, Barry felt a surge of hope and optimism. "What?" he asked.

"Your boy Kenny Tolkin . He wasn't talking out of his ass, he really was a player. I've learned that there was an article in the Times this morning about how he was A.W.O.L. and quite a few big-name celebrities were worried. He was apparently supposed to meet with Madonna last week but he never showed, something that was totally unlike him. Tom Cruise was stood up on Monday, and there's a quote from Tolkin's L.A.

office where they admit that they haven't heard from him and can't seem to get in touch with him. You have to read this."

"We get the Times. We still subscribe. It just comes in the mail two days late."

"Too long to wait. I'll fax it to you as soon as we get back. Suffice it to say that when someone of this stature is missing, no effort is spared to find him. The bigguns'll be coming down on Bonita Vista.

Hard."

"Good."

"I'm also going to fax you a questionnaire that I want you to fill out and, if possible, get notarized. What I'm going to do is use it as part of a packet for the law enforcement agencies working onTolkin's case. With your testimony as to probable cause, they should be able to obtain a search warrant for the open lands in Bonita Vista."

It was not like Jeremy to be so explicit over the phone. His enthusiasm was overriding his usually overcautious phone habits, and this time it was Barry who had to shoulder the paranoia. "You know this is not a secure line," he said.

"Shit! You're right, dude. I'm sorry. I just got carried away. I'll fax you the rest of my ideas along with the article. Any news at your end?"

"No."

"All right then. Expect to hear back from me in a couple of hours."

There was a pause.

"What is it?" Barry asked.

"It may be nothing, and I don't really want to worry you--"

"Not a secure line, remember."

"I know, I know. But a car almost hit us back in St. George. Maybe it was nothing, maybe coincidence, but it came right at us. An Infiniti." There was a second of silence. "We were passing a new subdivision, a gated community It sped out of the driveway, headed right for us, then sped off when Lupe slammed on the brakes."

"Oh my God."

"Draw your own conclusions. We shouldn't say more. I'll call when we get back home."

Barry turned off the phone, sat down hard on the couch. Jeremy was right, it could be a coincidence. But his mind was already racing.

What scared him the most was the idea that the association could reach all the way to other cities, maybe all the way to California in order to impose its will, to carry out its plans. In his mind, Bonita Vista had always been an isolated community, and he'd assumed that once they got away from here they'd be free from the tyranny of these local yokels. But now he imagined a network of homeowners' associations spread across the country, each doing the others' dirty work, tracking and punishing individuals who crossed them or their brethren. He hoped to God that this was all a gross overreaction and that Jeremy and Lupe's close call with the car was perfectly innocent and understandable.

But he didn't think that was the case.

And neither, he knew, did Jeremy.

"So what's he say?" Maureen asked.

Barry took a deep breath, and told her.

The FBI agent, Thorn Geddes, arrived the next morning after calling ahead an hour, then a half hour, and then fifteen minutes before. Both Barry and Maureen were pacing nervously, awaiting his arrival, and as soon as he pulled into the driveway they were unlocking the front door.

Introductions were short, formal, businesslike. The agent clearly wanted to get started on his investigation and to complete it as soon as possible. He seemed capable, competent, and above all, a legitimate representative of the United States' premier law enforcement agency, with un limited power and resources at his disposal--which gave Barry a feeling of relief and renewed hope.

Geddes looked down at the electronic notebook in his hand. "As I

understand it, Dylan Andrews, Chuck Carlin, and Danna Carlin were guests of yours. Two days ago, Mr. Andrews went missing, and Mr. and Mrs. Carlin disappeared sometime between that night and the following morning. Because of various incidents and confrontations that you have had with the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association, you suspect that this organization is behind the disappearances. Is this correct?"

Barry looked at Maureen, then nodded. "Yes, it is."

"Good. I will pay a visit to--" He looked at his notebook. "--Jasper Calhoun, and interview Mr. Calhoun about these disappearances."

Barry didn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't this immediate and straightforward course of action, and the blunt honesty of the agent threw him for a moment. "Can I... come with you?" he asked.

"No!" Maureen said.

"If you wish," Geddes replied, turning off his notebook.

Barry looked over at Maureen. "I need to be there."

"Like hell!"

He put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes. "They're not going to kill or kidnap an FBI agent. I'll be perfectly safe. This is my opportunity to confront that bastard."

"I just--"

"I know."

Geddes pretended to ignore them.

"I need to hear what he says," Barry told her. "I need to see his face. These are our friends. I can't just... abandon them. I have to be there."

Maureen took a deep breath, nodded. "Okay."

The agent cleared his throat. "I will be conducting the interview.

You--" He looked at Barry. "--may observe."

"Gotcha."

Maureen kissed him. "Find out where they are," she said.

He let her go, moved away, motioned toward the door. "I know where Calhoun lives," he told the agent. "I can take you there."

"I'll drive," Geddes said in a flat voice. "And we'll take my car. You can direct me to the house."

The phone rang, and Maureen answered it. Barry and the FBI agent were just about to walk outside when she shoved the phone at him. Her hand was trembling, her face pale. "It's for you," she said. "It's him"

Barry stopped, put the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Barry." He recognized the stentorian tones of Jasper Calhoun. "Our man at the gate told me that a federal law enforcement agent has come to visit you. I assume this is in regard to your missing friends."

No one had told Calhoun about his missing friends. How had he--?

Hitman.

"Yes," he said, keeping his voice calm. "That is correct."

"Well, the homeowners' association would like to cooperate in any way possible. I'm at the community center right now. If the agent would like to speak with me for any reason, I will be at this location for the next hour or so."

For any reason? Calhoun knew damn well why they wanted to talk to him, and Barry thought of those comic book villains who tried to play mind games with the men who were trying to capture them, who considered life some sort of elaborate chess game.

"We're on our way," Barry said shortly, and hung up. He looked from Maureen to Geddes. "He's at the community center at the bottom of the hill."

The agent nodded. "Let's go."

Calhoun was indeed at the community center, seated in front of the hall at the same table he had occupied during the annual meeting, looking as though he had never left. The room was empty and dark, all of the chairs gone, a pasty gray light filtering in through a small square of skylight in the middle of the ceiling. The president faced the deserted clubhouse, and Barry could not for the life of him figure out why the man was here or what he could possibly be doing all alone in the building.

The lights switched on before they were halfway across the floor, and Calhoun was standing, moving out from in back of the table, stepping off the platform. He was smiling broadly, an expression of false cheer on his face, and he led with an outstretched hand. "I'm Jasper Calhoun, president of the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association."

He and Geddes shook, and once again Barry was struck by the man's odd, almost inhuman, appearance. He hoped that the agent had taken note of it as well.

As before, Geddes was all business. There was no small talk, only a few introductory remarks, and then his electronic notebook was open and he was asking questions.

Calhoun had come prepared. Barry had to give him that. After denying knowledge of everything the FBI agent asked, after accounting for his whereabouts and the whereabouts of the other board members during the disputed time periods and offering to provide surveillance videotapes to back up his claims, after effectively blunting all possible suspicions, the president picked up a series of charts and graphs from the table at which he'd been sitting and started quoting the remarkably low crime rates consistently posted by Bonita Vista.

"I'm as anxious as you are to have this situation resolved," Calhoun said earnestly. "Any crime, especially an unsolved crime, reflects badly on Bonita Vista and is a blot on our sterling record. To be perfectly frank, one of my duties as a board member is damage control, public relations, and this is a nightmare for us. As I'm sure Mr.

Welch will confirm, we are very concerned about our image and take extraordinary measures to make sure that our community is not only safe but perceived as safe by both residents and nonresidents. In fact, I believe Mr. Welch and his wife had some personal experience with the efficient way in which we deal with lawbreakers and troublemakers. Mrs. Welch was harassed by a disgruntled ex-employee, and two members of our security committee detained him until the sheriff could arrive to arrest him. The association was willing to press charges and to make sure that Mrs. Welch never had to testify in court or see the man again." He spread his hands. "This is an example of the service we provide for our residents and the extent to which we will go in order to preserve and protect our reputation."

He sounded good, Barry admitted. Hell, if he didn't know better, he'd probably believe the story.

"It wasn't just one lone criminal. We have also been harassed by the association," Barry said. He pointed at Calhoun "You and your cronies have fined us and intimidated us and repainted our house and re landscaped our property."

The president smiled sympathetically.

"Do you deny citing us for violating a rule that bans minorities from staying in Bonita Vista?"

"Homeowners' associations do necessarily have rules and regulations that all of its residents must follow."

"Illegal, discriminatory rules?"

Calhoun looked at Geddes. "Life is a little different within a gated community, particularly one that is located in an unincorporated area, where the homeowners' association must furnish the sort of services and protection ordinarily provided by government agencies. Are you familiar with homeowners' associations at all, Agent Geddes?"

"I live in a gated community," Geddes admitted.

"And do you like it?"

"I wouldn't live anywhere else."

Calhoun nodded. "Then you know what I'm talking about." He gave Barry a tolerant smile. "I'll be the first one to admit that they're not for everyone. Some individuals don't respond well to the stringent requirements for membership. But associations maintain standards that are necessary for the good of the community. That is what we do here. But to extrapolate from that that we are involved in kidnapping or other illegal activities is frankly ludicrous."

There was a lot more that Barry wanted to say, but Geddes was already closing his notebook. He raised a silencing hand as Barry started to speak, then thanked Calhoun for the interview and started toward the door, indicating that Barry was to follow.

The lights went off as they reached the exit, and he turned to see Calhoun seated at the table in exactly the same position as when they'd arrived.

He shivered.

"So?" Barry prodded as the door closed behind them. He knew the answer already but felt obligated to ask.

"I'm sorry," Geddes said as they walked back out to the car, "but I'll be recommending that we concentrate our efforts on searching for an outside suspect, a person or persons with a specific grudge against your friends. I do not believe that Mr. Calhoun is in any way involved in these disappearances--if they are disappearances--and I

don't think that your homeowners' association is responsible for or complicitous in whatever crime may have occurred."

"They--"

The agent held up a hand. "I understand your antipathy toward the organization, but I think you have allowed it to cloud your judgment.

The idea that your homeowners' association is behind the kidnapping of your friends makes no logical sense and there is absolutely no evidence to support it. As Mr. Calhoun said, the proposition is ludicrous.

This doesn't mean that we won't make every effort to locate your friends. Of course we will. The majority of our cases are missing persons, and it's very rare that we do not close our cases. This branch of the Bureau in particular has a stellar record in this area."

He stopped walking. "We know our job, Mr. Welch. And we're good at what we do. We'll also keep you apprised of any and all developments in the case. But I have to be honest, and I'm telling you right here and now that you're barking up the wrong tree."

/ wouldn't live anywhere else.

Barry looked at the agent, then nodded and started toward the car. "I

understand," he said.

And then it was all over.

Or at least it seemed to be. No progress was made in finding their friends, but a week went by with no fines or charges or intrusive action. And then another. And another. It was as though things had gone back to the way they were that first month, and Maureen found it easy to pretend that all was well. She helped Barry repaint the house brown with forest green trim, and they went into town and cleaned out his office, where, miraculously, everything was as he had left it. She also picked up a few clients from her E accountant web page.

And she was pregnant.

She was not positive at first. Her period always varied a day or two, and once it had even been a week late. But when two weeks had gone by and there were not even any signs of imminent menstruation--no bloating, no oily skin, no PMS--she knew that she was pregnant.

She'd had a feeling from the beginning that this time it was the real deal, but she didn't want to jinx it so she'd said nothing to Barry.

She was still not certain what his reaction would be. Irrespective of the chaos around them, she was not sure he was ready to be a father, not sure, despite his protestations to the contrary, that he ever wanted to be a father.

But she told him in bed on the night of the fourteenth day.

"I have news."

"Good or bad?"

"Under the circumstances, I'm not sure." She looked at him. "I'm pregnant."

"Are you positive?"

She nodded. "My period's two weeks late."

"That's great!"

He hugged her tightly. She hadn't realized how anxious she'd been, wondering and worrying about his reaction, and she was filled with a deep grateful joy at his obvious excitement. They ended up talking far into the night and, afterward, making love.

Corban had only one doctor, a general practitioner, and even if there hadn't been animosity between Bonita Vista and the town, neither of them would have been willing to entrust the health of their baby to him. So the next morning Maureen got on the Internet, did some research, and found the name of a respected obstetrician over in Cedar City. It was a long drive, but it was worth it, and they made an appointment to see Dr. Holm two days later.

Everything went well. Because of her age, she was technically in the high-risk group, but the doctor said she was healthy, practiced good nutrition, and had been taking the proper vitamins even before conceiving. She would have to have ultrasounds and anamnio , but he didn't foresee any problems. The only worry he had was that she was not immunized for rubella. German measles was known to cause serious birth defects, and he advised her to stay away from crowds, to not fly in airplanes, to not attend movie theaters or amusement parks, and to steer clear of recent immigrants who might carry the virus.

She called all her friends from California, then dragged Barry up to see Liz.

When she answered the door, their friend looked old and tired. She'd seemed fine when Maureen had gone up to the house with Lupe and Danna, but now all of the life seemed to be drained out of her. With Barry's arm around her midsection, Maureen put on a cheerful front and gave the glad tidings. She'd hoped Liz would be happy for them, excited by the news, but the dour expression that seemed to have been permanently etched on the old woman's face did not change. "What are you going to do about it?" she asked shortly.

Maureen frowned, uncomprehending. "What?"

Liz gestured around the hillside. "Couples are not allowed to have children in Bonita Vista."

"That's not true. The Williamses have kids. And I've seen teenagers at the tennis courts."

"The no-children rule is fairly new and those people were grandfathered in. But everyone who moved here within the past three years is forbidden to either procreate or adopt."

"I never saw that rule in there," Barry said, his arm tightening around her.

Maureen hadn't either, but the case of the ever-changing document had never been solved, and they still hadn't had time to go through the massive volume that housed the revised G, C, and Rs . She had no doubt that Liz was telling the truth.

"There was a man here a couple years back," the old woman said, her voice flat and unemotional. "Dent Rolsheim . He had two kids by his first wife back in Phoenix but she had full custody. He'd remarried and moved here and was fighting it, pouring every cent he had into trying to get his kids back. Finally, the case went to court and he was granted joint custody, with the wife taking them for the school year and Dent taking them for summers and holidays. The day after he picked up the kids and brought them back here, they disappeared. All of them. Dent, the kids, the second wife. Gone. No one ever heard from them again."

Maureen felt the grip of panic around her heart. "What if the association tries something like that when our little guy's born?"

Barry's jaw tightened. "Don't worry," he said. "We won't let them."

"Them?" Liz said, raising an eyebrow. "Us."

She slammed the door in their faces.

The Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions Article VI, Membership Rights, Section 3, Paragraph D:

Children are not permitted to live within the boundaries of Bonita Vista or on any of the Properties herein, the sole exception being those persons under age eighteen who were already living with their families prior to the institution of this restriction. Should any couple decline to take suitable steps to resolve the conflict between an unapproved adoption or pregnancy and this Declaration, the Board has the authority to void the adoption or terminate the pregnancy in the manner it deems most appropriate.

They were awakened in the middle of the night by the phone ringing, and Barry grabbed it angrily, sure it was someone from the association attempting to harass them.

But it wasn't.

The voice on the other end of the line belonged to his brother-in-law, Brian, who was calling because Sheri had been in a serious accident and was in Intensive Care. Barry's sister and her husband lived in Philadelphia, where both of them worked the night shift at the post office's distribution center. Less than an hour ago, Sheri had gone out to get some sandwiches at an all-night deli and had been struck by a car while walking across the street. The driver had neither slowed nor stopped, and it was only the fact that the deli cashier had seen the accident and called 911 that she was alive at all. As it stood, she was in critical condition and her prognosis was not good.

"Get over here," Brian sobbed. "She needs you, man."

"I'll be there as quick as I can."

He clicked off the phone and looked over at Maureen, stunned. "Sheri was in an accident. Hit and run. Brian says it's bad. There might be brain damage. She also might need a kidney and I'm the only family member with matching blood type. They want me to fly over for tests."

It hadn't hit him until he spelled everything out for Maureen, and he suddenly felt as though he couldn't breathe. Tears welled in his eyes, and he concentrated hard so as not to cry, knowing that if he started he would not be able to stop.

He wiped his eyes. "Pack enough for a week," he said. "I don't know how long we'll be there, but it's better to be prepared. We'll drive up to Salt Lake and see what's available, wait for standby if we have to."

Maureen was already shaking her head. "You heard what the doctor said.

I have no immunization for rubella. I can't fly on a plane with all that recycled air. Who knows what kind of passengers will be on there?

I'm not going to jeopardize the baby."

He nodded in acknowledgment, though the meaning of her words was only now filtering through. It was as if everything was on delay, as though words had to travel great distances to reach his brain.

In the back of his mind was the idea that the association was responsible, that they were behind the accident and had planned this all out in order to separate him from Maureen, but he knew that was not possible.

Was it?

"You're going to stay here?" he said.

"Yes. But don't worry about it. Get ready and go. Sheri needs you."

"I don't think--"

"I'll be fine. Nothing'll happen to me."

"At least stay inside," he told her. "Don't even go out in the yard.

Keep everything locked up and barricade the doors until I get back. Put a towel over-your lap when you go to the bathroom in case they've installed new cameras and make sure you sleep in pajamas. Change and take your showers in the dark and do it quick in case they have infrared."

"I thought they stopped taping us after you took out the camera."

"Maybe they did and maybe they didn't. But just to be on the safe side, act as though your every move is being watched." He took a deep breath, looked at her. "Maybe we should drive. Then we could both go."

"To Philadelphia?" Her voice softened. "She might not make it, Bare.

I don't want to upset you, but you need to get out there now."

"You're right," he said numbly. "You're right." He thought for a moment. "Why don't you come with me up to Salt Lake? You can stay in a hotel until I get back. That way you won't have to be here alone."

"I'll be fine."

"Maybe not. You said--"

"I'll be fine," she repeated. She kissed him. "Get ready. Go."

He called her from the airport and then from the hospital when he got there. Things were looking up a little, he said. Not much, but a little. There'd be no need for a kidney, and it appeared likely that she'd pull through--the crucial period had passed--but the doctors were still uncertain as to whether or not she had suffered brain damage.

For Maureen, the day was long. She recalculated an estimated tax schedule for a client in California whose used record store income was below the initial projection, but that was it for real work. She spent the rest of the morning and the afternoon listening to music and rereading an old Philip Roth novel, waiting for another call from Barry. He phoned again that night. Sheri's condition was unchanged.

They talked for nearly an hour before Maureen gently told him he should go to bed, it was ten o'clock on the east coast and he needed the rest.

He hung up, after promising to call again in the morning after he visited the hospital.

She hadn't done much today, but she was tired, and Maureen went to bed after checking all of the locks and placing a chair under the knob of the front door. Despite what she'd told Barry, she did not feel comfortable remaining here alone, and she wished now that she had agreed to go to Salt Lake City.

Why had she stayed? What had made her do such a stupid thing?

Made her?

Now she was thinking like him.

Made her.

The thought was impossible to dislodge once it had crept into her brain. It really had been a stupid decision, and she could not for the life of her recall the logic or reasoning behind her choice.

Barry was the one who liked noise, who needed to fall asleep with the television on. By herself, she would have ordinarily gone to bed in a silent house. But tonight she was grateful for the voices and the light, and she fell asleep listening to the canned laughter of an unfunny TV show.

She was awakened after midnight by noises. The timer had long since turned off the television, but the house was not silent. From upstairs came loud taps and creaks and a subtle, persistent rattling. She wanted to pretend she didn't hear them, to pull the covers over her head, plug her ears, and force herself back to sleep. But she couldn't feign ignorance knowing that someone might be creeping through her house. She was responsible for two now, and it was her job to protect her home and child.

She reached over, flipped on the lamp atop the night stand.

A man stood in the doorway holding a coat hanger.

The scream that tore from her lips seared her throat with its intensity and she could not suck in enough air to sustain it, but she continued screaming nonetheless.

In three quick strides, he was next to the bed.

And he was smiling.

Still screaming, Maureen shoved off the covers and scrambled to the other side of the mattress. She intended to throw open the window and jump out through the screen, but a strong hand grabbed her left ankle before she had even made it off the bed. She kicked out with both legs, trying to hurt him, trying to connect, but her feet hit only open air, and then she was flipped onto her back.

The man was wearing a business suit. He was not someone she recognized or had ever seen before, and the impersonality of the attack made it that much more frightening. She knew why he was here and who had sent him, and she also knew who had informed on her.

Liz.

She tried to sit up, ready to scratch his face and claw out his eyes, but he punched her in the stomach, and as she gasped for air and clutched at her midsection, he straightened out the coat hanger.

"Article six," he said. "Section three, paragraph D."

"No-o-o-o!" she screamed.

Grinning, he shoved her legs apart.

And a crimson blotch exploded on his chest.

His eyes widened, and he straightened up, twisting around as he tried to clutch at his back, making a sickening gurgling noise deep in his throat. He'd dropped his coat hanger, but he made no attempt to retrieve it. Instead, he lurched to the side as a high, keening whine escaped from his mouth.

Liz stood behind him. She pulled out the knife she'd plunged into his back and shoved it in again, higher. No blood bloomed on his shirt this time, but Maureen could see it spraying behind him, coating Liz's arms, soaking the dresser and carpet. He fell on the bed next to her, jerking spasmodically. Maureen pushed herself over the foot of the bed, rolling onto the floor, and when she looked up again he was still.

Liz remained in place, covered with blood, hands at her side. "I'm sorry," she said, and she started to cry. "It's my fault. I'm sorry."

Maureen stood and hugged her friend.

"I was weak. I couldn't help it. I went to them." By now she was sobbing. "I just wanted it to stop."

Maureen looked at the body on the bed, Liz's knife still protruding from the back of his suit jacket.

"I didn't tell them," Liz said, wiping her eyes and smearing the blood on her face. "Honest. You have to believe me. I knew they knew, but I wasn't the one who told them."

The knowledge filled Maureen with relief. "I believe you."

"I should've done something, though. I should've ..." She trailed off, then took a deep breath. "I knew they'd send someone, and I

waited outside your house and followed him in when he showed up."

"Thank God you did." Maureen could not seem to take her eyes off the would-be abortionist's body. "But they'll be after both of us now."

"Not me," Liz said. "I went to them."

Maureen knew that was supposed to mean something to her, knew she was supposed to understand its implications, but she did not.

Liz seemed to straighten, to find some untapped reserve of strength within her. "But they'll be doubly anxious to get to you now. You'd better get out of here. Where's Barry?"

"At his sister's in Pennsylvania."

"Then go to a hotel somewhere, in some other town." She held up a hand. "Don't tell me where."

"But..." Maureen gestured toward the body. "... but you killed him.

And he's one of theirs. They won't let you get away with that."

"Don't worry about it."

"I can't just leave you."

"Get out of here," Liz ordered.

"But--"

"I'll take care of this. Just grab what you need and go. Now."

The Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions Article VI, Membership Rights, Section 8, Paragraph G:

A homeowner may justifiably use deadly force on any of the Properties whenever he or she deems it appropriate.

Maureen called him from a hotel in Cedar City.

Barry had just come back to his sister's house from the hospital and was bone tired, but he was wide awake as Maureen described the attack on her and Liz's last-minute rescue. At the old woman's behest, she'd packed what she thought she'd need into the Toyota and took off, ending up in Cedar City at dawn. She'd been trying to get a hold of him ever since, calling every five minutes for the last hour.

"They were trying to stop us from having a baby," she whispered, and the words sent a shiver down his spine. "They were trying to abort it."

There was nothing more he could do for Sheri--and Brian had his own sister, Margot, and her family there for support--so Barry caught the next plane west, an AA flight to St. Louis. He waited only an hour at the St. Louis terminal for a standby coach seat on a plane flying to Salt Lake City, and by late afternoon, Utah time, he and Maureen were hugging in her room at the Holiday Inn.

She told him again what happened, this time in more detail. After she finished, he tried to call Liz, but twenty rings later there was no answer and he finally hung up. He made a quick call to Brian at the hospital in Philadelphia to see if Sheri's condition had improved--it was unchanged then turned toward Maureen, sitting next to him on the bed.

"We'll both stay here tonight," he said. "But tomorrow I'm going back home. I want you to stay here for a few days while I... straighten things out."

"No!" she said, clutching his arm. "Don't go back there! We're through with that place. Just sell it, sell the house, sell everything."

"We can't, remember? There's a lien."

"Fuck it. Write it off then. We'll survive. We'll find a little tract home. We'll rent an apartment if we have to."

"Like you said, it would follow us around. We can't just walk away and pretend it didn't happen. There's a record. It'd be financial suicide--"

"Don't give me that. Since when have you given a damn about finances?"

He met her eyes. "You're right," he said. "I just... can't let them win. I can't do it. I can't walk away from this."

She squinted suspiciously. "What did you mean, 'straighten things out'?"

"I don't expect you to understand--"

"Oh, it's a guy thing, huh?"

"No, not that."

"A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do?"

He grabbed her shoulders, held them tight. "Someone has to take a stand." She pulled away from him, stood. "What does that mean? What does any of this mean? You're talking like someone in a bad western movie. They tried to abort our baby!"

"That's why I'm going back."

"Goddamn it, Barry!"

"I'm going back."

"I won't let you!"

"You have no choice." He looked at her. "/ have no choice."

* * *

By the time he reached Bonita Vista it was nearly noon. At the gate, the guard smirked at him, forced him to show his driver's license, and took an inordinately long time looking up his name on the list of residents. Finally, his admission approved, the gate swung open. Barry threw the melted ice from his Subway cup out the window and into the face of the guard as he drove past. "Asshole!" he said.

He stepped on the gas and sped up the hill.

Their home had been desecrated. The property had been re landscaped yet again, this time with a rolling green lawn that defied the natural aesthetics of the hillside and looked as though it had been transplanted from a golf course. One lone tree remained, but all shrubs and bushes were gone, the irregular ground smoothed over and planted with bright green grass.

The house looked like something out of Dr. Seuss.

Their shingled roof had been redecorated with black and white zigzag stripes. The side of the house facing the street was bright yellow, the upstairs window red, the two bottom windows blue. The door was not only pink but had been padded with some sort of fuzzy material.

Inside, much of the furniture had been removed and the walls were blank, all of Maureen's artwork and groupings taken down. There was only one couch, the coffee table, and his stereo system in the living room; only the bed, dresser, and television set in the still-bloodstained bedroom. He had no idea where the rest of their stuff had gone, but he had the feeling that it was not safely packed away in storage.

The mailbox was crammed with dozens of fines and notices from the homeowners' association.

First things first. He walked back into the house, got a book of matches from the junk drawer in the kitchen, and strode down to the end of the driveway, where he very oh Obviously and dramatically dumped everything out of the mailbox onto the asphalt. He lit a match, touched it to the corner of one envelope, then to the corner of a pink form. In seconds, the entire pile of papers was burning.

As he'd suspected, as he'd hoped, Neil Campbell appeared from up the street, walking briskly, clipboard in hand. The prissy little man looked positively apoplectic. "You can't do that!" he shouted, turning in at die driveway.

"Can't do what?"

"Those are official notices from the Bonita Vista Homeowners'

Association, and you are required to respond to them! You cannot--" He pointed with his clipboard, his arm shaking in disbelief. "--burn them!"

"Get off of my property," Barry said.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"There is a clause allowing board members and committee --"

"If you're not off my property in one minute, I'll throw you off myself." Barry pushed up his sleeve. "Do you understand?"

Campbell backed up a step. "You're making a big mistake. I am here as a representative of the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association."

"Thirty seconds."

He started writing furiously. "I am reporting all of this."

"That's it." Barry grabbed the toady's arm. "Get out of here. Now."

"Don't you touch me!" Campbell jerked away.

Barry punched him. Hard. His fist connected with the man's stomach, and by God it felt good. Campbell doubled over, let out a surprised gasp, then scrambled backward to get out of the driveway.

"Don't you ever set foot on my property again!" Barry kicked the pile of burning papers, sending a half-blackened piece of envelope skittering out into the road.

Campbell ran off.

"And tell your friends, too," Barry shouted after him. He smiled as he watched the forms and notices burn themselves out.

In the morning, an expensive embossed envelope waited for him in the mailbox. There was nothing on the front, no return address, not even his name. It was blank.

Inside was an invitation for dinner at Jasper Calhoun's house.

His first instinct was to throw the invitation away and not go, but he realized that was only because he was afraid. He recalled the ominous dread he felt when he and Jeremy had walked up to the president's home.

It would be simpler and safer to stay at home tonight, watch TV, listen to his stereo, read a book. But he had returned to Bonita Vista for a confrontation, and while he would prefer that confrontation to happen at his house, on his own turf, he was not about to run from it no matter where it occurred.

There was no RSVP on the invitation, and he assumed that was intentional. Calhoun wanted him to worry about this, wanted him to fret over it until the very last minute.

He did spend the afternoon worrying, but it was not over whether he should accept the invitation. It was over what he should bring with him. He had no gun, but he considered hiding a knife in his boot or sticking an array of screwdrivers in his belt buckle or even walking in wielding a nail-studded two-by-four. He was pretty sure this was a trap, and he would be a fool not to protect himself.

In the end, however, he decided not to bring a weapon. There would doubtless be others present at the dinner-henchmen, board members, friends, supporters, followers-and it would be impossible for him to fight them all no matter what he was carrying. Besides, there'd probably be some sort of frisk or body search or metal detector. The best idea was to go in clean.

He debated whether to tell Maureen, and eventually decided he would not. He did not want to worry her, but he did call, and they talked about trivial things, innocuous things. Without saying so specifically, he led her to believe that he was merely cleaning up the house and yard while poring through the revised C, C, and Rs looking for ways to attack the association by using its own rules and regulations.

"When are you coming back?" she asked.

"Soon, I hope."

There was a pause.

"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what's really going on there?"

He should have known she was too smart to be fooled by his crude attempts at misdirection. "No," he admitted. "I'm not."

"It's not just me anymore," she told him. "There are two of us who need you."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm sure Dylan, Chuck, and Danna thought the same thing. I don't know what you're doing, and maybe I don't want to know, but be careful. This isn't a game. Those people are dangerous. I don't want to send out a private investigator a year from now and find out that my new baby's father has been turned into a Stumpy."

Barry didn't respond, but the idea was one that had already occurred to him, and he felt cold.

"Come home to us," Maureen said. "Nothing is worth your life."

"I know that. Don't worry. I won't do anything stupid."

The dinner was scheduled for eight, and though he could have walked, Barry decided to drive. He might need to make a quick getaway. And if... something ... happened to him, at least the disposal of his Suburban would cause them trouble and inconvenience.

He parked on the street rather than in the driveway so other people could see his vehicle. Walking up the path, he was filled with the same sense of trepidation he had experienced before, magnified by the fact that it was night. Calhoun had strong lights illuminating his grassy lawn, but they only served to make the surrounding woods seem darker.

A servant met him at the door. No, not a servant. A volunteer. Barry recognized the man. Ralph Hieberg . He'd been introduced to him at one of Ray's parties.

"Come in, Mr. Welch. You are expected."

Barry stepped into the vestibule. "Ralph," he said. "What are you doing here?"

The man's eyes darted furtively to the left and then the right. Barry thought he was actually going to answer, but he said, "Just come with me. Please. I only have a month to go. I don't want to get in trouble."

Barry nodded, understanding, and allowed himself to be led through another doorway into what appeared to be the living room.

He'd been expecting a building of dank dark corridors, a maze of passageways that led to some horrible inner sanctum, but instead the interior of the house was bright and airy. The room into which they walked was decorated in a Japanese motif, with bamboo-framed paper walls, low tables, and mats and cushions on the floor. There were no lights or lamps but illumination seeped through the translucent paper from all sides, ensuring that there were no shadows.

Ralph walked around the tables to the opposite wall and pulled aside a section, which slid open to reveal another room beyond. He stood to the left and motioned for Barry to enter.

There was writing on the walls, Barry noticed as he followed the volunteer. He looked carefully at the wall as he passed into the next room and shivered as he realized that the bamboo frames held not traditional blank rice paper but blown-up pages from Bonita Vista's Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions.

They went from this room to another... and then another and another.

Each looked exactly like the one before it. He saw no couches, no television, no bookcase, no kitchen, no bathroom, only an endless series of living rooms with low tables and mats and cushions and C, C, and R walls. Until finally they were in a room with no furniture, only an empty wooden floor and walls that did not glow with that sourceless illumination but were dim and dull. Ahead, the translucent paper was red and there was no writing on it. From behind the red wall he heard moaning and occasional sharp yelps. Barry found it hard to swallow; it felt as though his heart was in his throat.

"This way, Mr. Welch." The volunteer pushed aside a section of the red wall and the two of them walked into the chamber beyond.

This was what he had expected.

The room was massive, bigger than the entire bottom floor of his own house, with a high black ceiling from which hung dirty irregularly spaced lightbulbs . The walls were stone, the floor worn, unpainted wood that was stained with drops and splotches of what could only be old blood. There was a large pit in the center of the chamber, its sides made of burnished steel, its bottom covered with straw. Rusted metal tables stuck out at odd angles around the edge of the pit, like broken wheel spokes.

On the tables were blades and saws and what looked like medical instruments.

In the pit were Stumpies .

They were moaning and wailing, although whether in pain or some desperate effort to communicate, he had no idea. There were six men and one woman, and thankfully Barry didn't know any of them. He'd expected in that first second of comprehension to see Dylan and Chuck and Danna with their limbs cut off, but the poor pathetic wretches who flopped around in the sawdust were not people he had ever seen before.

It was the armless, legless woman who was most disturbing, her bruised and battered nudity reminding him uncomfortably of Maureen. The others were squirming through the straw, jerking their bodies into and over each other. But she lay alone against the rounded steel wall, the wild matted hair of her private parts glistening with wet blood, her swollen mouth open silently, her eyes fixed on one of the dim bare bulbs overhead.

"This way, Mr. Welch."

Numbly, he walked around one of the rusted tables, this one containing a ball peen hammer covered with flecks of flesh and bone, an assortment of filthy screwdrivers, and a long serrated knife. As he followed Ralph past the pit, he could not help looking down. In the straw surrounding the Stumpies , he saw feces and what looked like rotted fish.

The volunteer stopped before a narrow metal door recessed into the stone wall. He did not look at Barry, did not look at the door, but stared down at his feet and seemed to be gathering his strength as he took a deep breath. Quickly, he reached out, grabbed the oversized handle, and pulled the door open. He looked scared as he motioned Barry in.

They stepped through the narrow entryway.

"Mr. Welch!" Ralph announced.

This room was even darker. There were no electric lights here, only smoky, foul-smelling candles held in wrought iron stands placed in the four corners of the chamber. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did he saw a dusty display case containing the stuffed bodies of cats and dogs, parrots, and hamsters--the pets outlawed by the association. Other damaged, discarded remnants of normal life that were not permitted in Bonita Vista were arranged haphazardly around the room: dead house plants in broken pots lying atop a cracked and listing knickknack shelf, split birdhouses hanging from a battered clothesline pole that leaned against a child's playhouse.

At the opposite end of the chamber,las per Calhoun was seated at the center of a long oak table, flanked by the other five members of the board. Goblets of dark red liquid and plates of strange, unappetizing meat sat on the table in front of them. The tableaux reminded Barry of the Last Supper, with the transubstantiation made horribly literal.

"Welcome to our boardroom," Calhoun said. To the sides of him, the others nodded. The strangeness of their oddly shaped, too-white faces did not seem out of place here, Barry thought. This was the environment in which they belonged, this was their home.

Underneath the table, he could see naked women chained to the floor, servicing the six men.

Calhoun saw the direction of his gaze and smiled. "Our female volunteers," he said. He nodded down at his lap. "That's Ralph's wife. Right, Ralph?"

The volunteer nodded stoically.

"You could have had Maureen work off your debts this way."

Barry pretended to be thinking thoughtfully. "I read your sexual harassment pamphlet, and as I understand it, this would be classified as harassment under association rules. Am I correct?"

Calhoun stood, his face flushing. Underneath the table, Ralph's wife scurried to the side. "I will not have the rules quoted to me in my own house!"

"I take it that's a yes?"

The president took a deep breath, and forced himself to smile. "Too bad about your friends," he said. "I wonder whatever happened to them." He looked down at the slab of strange meat on his plate and very deliberately peeled off a stringy section, eating it.

He was bluffing. He had to be. This was all show, a performance put on for his benefit, but Barry had to admit that the technique was effective. He was way out of his depth, and fear had overtaken anger as the dominant emotion within him.

"What do you want?" Barry said shortly. "Why did you invite me here?"

Calhoun sat down again, steepled his fingers. "We seem to have reached a stalemate. As far as the bylaws are concerned, you are a squatter.

You no longer hold any rights to your house or property, yet you continue to reside there and seemingly have no intention of moving out."

"What's your point?"

"You said at the annual meeting that you wanted a real election. I

take that to mean that you would like to have yourself or someone handpicked by you elected to the board."

"Yeah?"

"I think it's time to invoke Article Ninety." The wall behind the table was suddenly illuminated by a spotlight hidden in the ceiling, and Barry saw that there was writing on the stone. Elaborate calligraphic script, with red letters nearly a foot high, covered the space from floor to ceiling. He could read the words "Article Ninety"--there was no title, no section number, no paragraph designation--but that was it. The rest appeared to be gibberish.

"It is the one article that you will not find in your printed version of the C, C, and Rs ," the president said.

"Why is that?" Barry asked.

Calhoun leaned forward over the table, and there was an intensity in his expression that caused Barry to back up a step. "Because it cannot be captured or caught or frozen in time. It cannot be diminished by being limited to a single meaning. It is forever changing, adaptable to any circumstance that arises, and it is at the very heart of our homeowners' association. It is what grants us our authority and power, what allows you and everyone else to enjoy the perfection that is life in Bonita Vista."

Barry stood there, not knowing what to say or how to respond. He could not recall hearing the door behind him close, and he casually turned his head to the side, pretending as though he was surveying the room but actually checking to see if the doorway was clear and he could haul ass out of here.

No such luck. The metal door was securely shut.

He faced forward again, filled with a growing dread and feeling of claustrophobia. The chamber smelled to him of sweat and blood and bodily fluids. He had to suppress the very real urge to vomit.

"It is the responsibility of the minister of information to address Article Ninety," Calhoun said. He nodded toward the old man seated directly to his right. "Fenton?"

The other man shooed away the woman working on his lap and stood. If possible, he looked even more peculiar than the president, his too-perfect and off-center nose appearing to have been placed on his face in order to imitate an element of normalcy that simply was not there.

"Article Ninety," he intoned. "We ask thee for thy words of wisdom."

"Thy wisdom is infinite," the other board members chanted.

"Provide us with the knowledge to deal with this as with all matters."

"Thy rules and regulations are as blessings to us all."

Fenton closed his eyes, turned and bowed to the wall. "Article Ninety, Barry Welch wishes to mount a challenge to appear on the ballot for the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association board of directors. How is he to be accommodated and how are we to determine his eligibility?"

Abruptly, the gibberish disappeared. The words on the wall were still in that elaborate archaic calligraphy, but they were suddenly readable, understandable. The resulting declaration was not couched in the pseudo legalese that made up the rest of the C, C, and Rs but in a stilted quasi religious formality that sounded no less odd. Fenton straightened from his bow and read the words aloud: "Whosoever desires to place his name upon the ballot must first engage in battle with a current member of the board of directors. This must of necessity be a fight to the finish, the death of one ensuring the position of the other on the sacred ballot. Have mercy on the soul of this combatant for he knows not what he does."

The six old men turned to look at him. Barry was already shaking his head. "I don't know what's going on here, but I want no part of it."

"It's too late for that," Calhoun told him.

"I'm not fighting anybody." But at the same time, he was thinking that this was why he had come, this was the confrontation he had been seeking. He had not expected anything so simplistic or crudely literal, but he now had the opportunity he'd been seeking to combat the board. He thought of Barney the cat, thought of Ray, thought of Kenny Tolkin, thought of Dylan and Chuck and Danna, thought of Maureen and their baby, and he allowed the anger to seep in, allowed the rage to build, Calhoun grinned, and as before his smile seemed far too wide. "Barry Welch," he thundered. "I hereby challenge you to battle! In front of all and sundry neighbors! Hand-to hand combat to the death!"

A cheer went up from the other members of the board and from the volunteer women underneath the table. Behind them, the wall grew dark as the spotlight cut out, the room once again receiving only the dim illumination of sooty candles.

Yes, Barry thought. I could fight any of these assholes. I could kill all of these sons of bitches.

Calhoun's grin was positively feral. "Do you accept the challenge?"

"I accept!"

"Excellent," the president said. "Excellent." He sat down, his smile disappearing instantly. A cold stoniness hardened his features as he nodded imperiously at Ralph. "Now get this piece of shit prepared for battle."

Barry was led through a narrow doorway to the side of the taxidermy display case and then down a long corridor with rusted metal walls that looked and smelled like the inside of a disused sewer pipe. At the end was a filthy, low-ceilinged room filled with volunteers who grabbed him and stripped off his clothes. They made no sound, and that was the eerie thing. They simply yanked open his shirt, pulled at the sleeves, took off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, tugged down his pants, passing him from one to the other, the only noise in the claustrophobic chamber his own startled grunts and protestations.

He was left with only his underwear, smudged with mud and grease by dirty hands. The volunteers backed off, fanning around the edges of the room, looking at the floor, at the walls, at the ceiling, at each other, at anything except him. They seemed ashamed of what they'd done to him-of what they'd had to do to him--and he had the curious sensation that they were behind him on this, that they were on his side, that they would like to see him win.

Win what?

He didn't know. Was this supposed to be a fistfight? "Hand-to-hand combat" was a broad enough term to encompass a variety of fighting styles, and he had no idea what the rules of the bout would be. Just judging on appearances Calhoun was big and flabby and old. He should be able to kick the president's ass with no problem. But he thought of the odd, pale skin covering that strange musculature, and the aura of power that surrounded all of the board members, and he was not at all sure he would be able to beat the old man in any kind of fight.

He was not even sure Calhoun was human.

He didn't want to think about that.

Barry looked over at Ralph, who was standing impassively next to a square hole in the wall the size of a large television, a black opening that looked like the entrance to a crawlspace.

"Am I supposed to go through there?" he asked.

"When you are ready."

"Where does it go?"

He received no answer.

Barry looked around the room at the shuffling volunteers, then back at that ominous opening in the wall. He was nervous, sweating, filled with a dark dread. He'd been suppressing or avoiding the central truth of the coming fight, but now it was all he could think about. Someone was going to die. Whether it was himself or Jasper Calhoun, one of them would be dead within the next hour, killed by the other.

He didn't know if he would actually be able to murder the association president in cold blood. He hated him, yes. And he would probably be very happy if the man suddenly dropped dead. But could he do the killing? Most likely, if he won the fight, he would show mercy and let the president live. But if things progressed the way they did in novels and films, at that point Calhoun would turn the tables and attack, exploiting his weakness, and then he would be forced to kill the old man. And it would be righteous and justified because it was provoked and he was only acting in self-defense.

Someone was going to die.

That was a truth he could not seem to escape.

Taking a deep breath, he crouched down, looked into the dark hole, then got on his hands and knees. He expected some surreptitious sign of support, a nod, a smile, a whisper of "Good luck," but Ralph remained silent and stone faced as Barry crawled into the small passageway.

The floor was cold, hard concrete, and periodically, as he crawled, Barry's fingers and knees touched puddles of sticky unidentifiable liquid. There was only darkness at first, an inky black that seemed not merely the absence of light but an entity of its own, and several times he scraped his elbows or bumped his head on the hard walls and ceiling of the crawl way But gradually he began to discern grayish light up ahead, an upright rectangle that grew closer and closer, and just before he reached the tunnel's exit, the passage opened up and he was able to stand.

He stepped out into an arena.

It threw him for a moment, and for several disorienting seconds he did not know where he was or what he was looking at. Then everything sort of clicked into place. He saw the dirt floor strewn with bloody sawdust, the high surrounding walls, the circle of filled amphitheater seats above. The arena was nearly the size of a football stadium. As big as it was, there was no way Calhoun's house could accommodate something this large, yet here it stood, and as Barry looked up into the stands, he saw that all of his neighbors were here, all of the residents of Bonita Vista, dressed in suits and gowns and formal attire.

The ceiling was some sort of skylight, and through its translucent safety-wired glass Barry could see occasional flashes of far-off lightning. The lightning was accompanied by low rolling thunder. The only illumination within the arena itself came from a series of lanterns and torches lining the curved wall behind the last ring of seats. In the center of the sawdust-covered floor, hanging by a hook from a tall bamboo post, was one additional light, a lantern in the shape of a--human head.

His breath catching in his throat, Barry squinted into the dimness. It not only looked like a head, he was pretty sure it was a head. He saw flickering flames behind partially parted lips, through the empty sockets of missing eyes. He moved forward, not wanting his suspicions confirmed but needing to know.

It was Dylan.

He could see, as he drew closer, the specific features of his friend's face thrown into silhouette by the orange fire burning inside the hollowed-out skull.

He wanted to scream, wanted to lash out and hurt someone, wanted to blow up this whole fucking building and everyone in it. He looked up into the stands, saw expressions of excitement and anticipation on the faces of women he'd seen jogging by the house, couples he'd seen playing tennis. From a ringside seat off to the side, Mike waved, shouted: "We're all behind you, man." Next to him, Tina nodded.

They were not behind him, he knew. They were not here to show their support.

They wanted to see blood.

The Stewarts had already turned away, were talking to Frank and Audrey and another woman Barry did not recognize. All of them laughed.

He looked again at the lantern made from Dylan's head, remembered all the good times they'd had together, remembered when they'd first met in a junk course on the history of science-fiction films, remembered the nights they'd spent hanging out in Minderbinder's before he'd gotten married, remembered the time they'd double-dated two sisters who'd gotten into a screaming hair-pulling fight with one another in the middle of a Suzanne Vega concert.

"Dylan," he whispered.

There was movement in the darkness beyond, some sort of commotion at the opposite end of the arena. Frowning, Barry stepped past the lantern Dylan head --in order to see more clearly.

And beheld Jasper Calhoun, standing in front of the far wall.

Waiting.

As if on cue, the rumbling thunder intensified, the storm promised by the previously intermittent lightning now arrived.

Calhoun looked over at him, grinning. Sequential bursts of increasingly bright lightning exploded above the thick glass of the skylight ceiling, and during each flash the president's face seemed to ... change. Briefly. For an instant. Above Calhoun, in box seats lining the north edge of the arena, the other board members also appeared to be temporarily transformed, as though, during their brief seconds of existence, the lightning bolts were somehow able to reveal the true nature of those evil old men.

No, that's what would be happening in one of his novels. That's not what was happening here.

Calhoun's face shifted ... shifted back.

Barry had to fight the urge to run away. His desire must have been obvious because all of a sudden Mike and Frank and several other men in their section of the stands started chanting, "Article Ninety! Article Ninety!" It was clear that they were urging the combatants to begin the battle, demanding an immediate start to the match, and the cry was taken up around the amphitheater: "Article Ninety! Article Ninety!

Article Ninety!" The rounded concrete walls seemed to amplify random crowd conversations above, and beneath the chant he heard bets being made on the fight's outcome, heard hopeful expectations for gruesome bloodletting.

He continued to face the opposite end of the ring. Calhoun was wearing his ridiculous robes, and Barry was glad. The bulky garments would limit the old man's movements, he thought. The president would not be able to move freely either offensively or defensively.

Who was he kidding? Calhoun was a monster. There was no way in hell the two of them were evenly matched. This fight would not be happening if there was even the slightest possibility that Calhoun could lose. It was rigged, the outcome guaranteed. Barry knew that the deck was stacked against him, and if he were to come out of this in one piece, he needed to quickly figure a way out of here..

He turned around, saw volunteers standing in the doorway through which he'd come, blocking that exit. There didn't seem to be any doorway on Calhoun's side of the ring, and the wall surrounding them was too high to scale-assuming he could get through the well-dressed crowd if it wasn't.

For the first time, he wondered what would happen if he was killed, what they would do with his body. Would Maureen be informed? Would he appear to have been the victim of an accident, or would he just disappear, his whereabouts never to be known, leaving Maureen and his unborn son or daughter forever in the dark? Would a lantern made from his head decorate this hellish arena?

He should have told her about this, he thought. He should have at least written and mailed a letter so she would know the truth.

Suddenly Jasper Calhoun raised both of his hands, and the activity of the spectators halted, their chanting and myriad conversations stopping instantly. Even the thunder ceased, and though Barry knew that was a coincidence, it still made him feel uneasy. The president smiled at him from across the ring, then clapped his hands twice.

Paul Henri, dressed once again in livery, emerged from between the five board members and stepped to the edge of the wall. He blew on some sort of trumpet whose notes were lost to the air, but his voice, when he spoke, could be heard clearly. "Let the games begin!"

With a roar, Calhoun came at him, robes flapping like the wings of some crazed black bird. Barry felt an instinctive rush of primal fear. His first impulse was to run, to duck left or right, get out of the way, but he held his ground and punched into the oncoming figure, experiencing a grim satisfaction as his fist connected with what felt like the president's stomach.

He hadn't anticipated such an abrupt attack. He'd half expected to have the ground rules spelled out, to be told beforehand what was and was not acceptable, maybe even to shake hands and count off ten paces before turning to fight, but apparently all was fair in war and an association dispute, and he knew now that he'd better use whatever dirty tricks or underhanded techniques he could--because Calhoun certainly would.

He'd hit the old man with everything he had, putting weight and momentum behind his punch, but the president barely seemed to feel it.

He lurched sideways, then turned, lashing out with hands that looked more like claws. Barry was only just able to avoid their reach, and then Calhoun head-butted him hard in the face.

He felt his nose explode. Blood flooded into his throat and shards of bone seemed to shoot under the skin of his cheeks like needles.

He fell backward onto the sawdust and heard rather than felt his head hit the hard-packed dirt below: a sharp whip crack that cut off with a dull solid thud.

He looked up and saw a double ring of faces looking over the edge, all of them yelling and cheering wildly. His gaze happened upon Curtis, the gate guard, and Frank. Both of them were smiling cruelly, happy to see him in pain.

The arena shook as an explosion louder and clearer than the background thunder, a noise that sounded like too-close cannon fire, rocked the building. Lightning had hit the skylight, cracking the thick safety glass, and through a fracture in the ceiling, rainwater began leaking down in a dripping curtain that bisected the ring, soaked the sawdust, and somehow put out the fire in Dylan's hanging head. Barry grinned crazily. "It's a sign from God!" he yelled at Calhoun "He's bringing down His wrath on all you motherfuckers!"

The president remained nonplussed. "There is no God," he said.

Barry felt woozy, warm blood from his shattered nose and the wound at the back of his head mingling with the cold wetness of die rain on his scalp, but he retained enough presence of mind to roll as Calhoun attempted to stomp on his face.

A black boot barely missed his head, and he reached out and grabbed the attached leg, digging his fingers into flesh. He yanked hard, putting all of his weight behind it, and Calhoun was momentarily thrown off balance. Barry staggered to his feet and ran toward the north end of the arena to get away from the president, trying to gain time and formulate a fighting strategy. Think! he told himself. He tried to remember a rule or regulation that would prohibit this fight or at least put an end to it. The only thing Calhoun respected was the C, C, and Rs --it was his law, his Bible, and if Barry could come up with an association ordinance that addressed this specific situation, he could get out of it.

Otherwise, he would be killed.

He reached the north wall and turned to face Calhoun. The old man was running, robes flapping, the lightning heightening his expression of demonic glee.

Robes flapping.

Robes.

That was it! Barry suddenly remembered Mike, volunteering because he was fined a hundred dollars for going outside in the morning to pick up his newspaper while wearing a bathrobe. It was against the rules, Mike said, for a person to appear outside his house wearing a robe.

But this was inside Calhoun's house, not outside. And he wasn't wearing a bathrobe. It was more like a judge's robe.

Did the rules specify a bathrobe, though, or was the wording vague? Did it simply say "robe," meaning any robe? He didn't know. But this was a chance he had to take.

Calhoun was getting closer.

And while the president might not be outside of his house now, he had been outside of it in his robes before. By the gate, during the confrontation with the Corbanites . And at the annual meeting, in the community center. And when he'd talked to Barry and the FBI agent.

The old man was almost upon him.

But what regulation prohibited that? What was it Mike had said? He'd mentioned it specifically, spelled out the exact rule he had broken.

Think!

Was it Article Three? Article Five?

"Article Eight!" Barry screamed. He stepped aside as the president lunged for him, pointed at the old man. "Article Eight! No one may wear a robe outside his house!" It was a paraphrase, probably a gross generalization, and it was all that he recalled from what Mike had said, but it did the trick. Calhoun stopped as if a switch had suddenly turned off inside his brain. He stood there, clawed hands opening and closing, leaking rainwater dripping onto his head.

"You broke the rules!" Barry said. He looked up at his neighbors in the stands. "He broke the rules! He violated the C, C, and Rs !" He heard distressed murmuring from around the arena, was gratified to see the other board members frantically conferring with one another.

"What's the punishment for violating Article Eight?" he asked Calhoun.

"Remain seated!" the president announced, and though his voice was as deep and resonant as ever, it contained a welcome note of unease.

"He's outside in his robes all the time! He's never without his robes! And it's against the rules!"

"Article Eight!" someone yelled.

The cry was taken up by a man across the ring. "Article Eight!"

Barry's heart was pounding. "Article Eight!" he shouted. He started chanting, trying to prod the crowd, desperate, knowing this was his one and only chance. "Article Eight! Article Eight! Article Eight!"

Calhoun's expression was one of rage and hate. He advanced on Barry.

"The battle will continue!" he declared. "Article Ninety."

Barry ran away, cutting a wide swath around the pole and Dylan's dark hanging head. "Article Eight!" he continued to shout. He raised his hands, trying to get the crowd to chant along with him. "Article Eight!"

There was still that disgruntled murmuring, but only a few individuals were chanting along with him.

The old man ran after him, then leaped, wet robes whipping back, reminding Barry once again of some huge bird of prey. It looked for a second as though Calhoun was going to be able to fly, to glide through the air and swoop down on him. But the president landed a few feet away, then took two long, quick strides toward him.

They were at the south end of the ring, where Barry had come in, Ralph and the volunteers still blocking the exit. There was nowhere for him to go, and Barry ducked left as Calhoun swung at him. He reached out to defend himself, and his hand connected with the top of the president's head.

Calhoun's hair slipped off. It was a wig, and underneath, the old man was not bald but... something else. Barry saw pulsing black tendrils beneath nearly transparent skin, saw the hint of another form under the mask of makeup, and though he'd imagined such scenarios numerous times as a writer, to experience it firsthand caused his heart to accelerate with terror.

But he was still levelheaded enough to remember one of the revised C, C, and Rs he had read in passing at the annual meeting. "No baldness in public!" he shouted.

Calhoun stopped, shrank back.

"Article Fifteen!" Liz yelled.

Barry looked up, saw her standing proud and tall in the center of the crowd above him. She caught his eye, nodded, smiled.

For Ray, he thought.

"Article Fifteen!" he echoed. He sensed a shift in the mood of the crowd, a shift in his direction, but there was an ugliness to it, an unpleasant undercurrent he did not like. The people had been unsure before, unwilling to commit one way or the other, afraid to take a stand for fear of future retaliation, but they were with f I him now.

Calhoun obviously sensed it as well, because he turned around in a slow circle, stunned, looking up at the crowd, his fellow members of the association. "Wait!" he ordered.

But the residents of Bonita Vista were all standing, pointing down into the ring, pointing at him.

"Article Eight!" the men yelled.

"Article Fifteen!" the women countered.

Calhoun seemed to wither visibly under this verbal onslaught, as though the words took a physical toll on his body.

At the north end of the arena, the other board members were trying to leave, attempting to get out of their seats and make their way up the aisle to escape the growing wrath of the mob, but gowned women and tuxedoed men were streaming into that section of the stands, pushing them down, blocking their way.

People began dropping over the wall into the sawdust. Barry backed against the concrete, glancing around warily, unsure of where this was going, unnerved by the chaos around him. From above, a shoe came sailing down, hitting Calhoun in the face. A thrown wine glass shattered against his arm.

The president laughed, a deep, booming chuckle that sounded far too loud. Makeup had smeared away from the section of cheek struck by the shoe, and again Barry saw that transparent skin, those pulsating black tendrils. If this had been a movie or a novel, Calhoun would have been revealed as an alien. Or some type of creature from another dimension.

But Barry somehow knew that neither of these were the case. The old man was not a distinct and separate being. He had been born human.

He had become this way.

From being on the association's board of directors.

Calhoun turned easily in one fluid movement. He was still chuckling, and he spread out one now definitely taloned hand and pressed it against Barry's bare chest, pushing hard.

Barry felt ribs cracking, found it suddenly hard to breathe. His own hands reached out frantically, trying to find purchase and keep himself from toppling backward. His fingers touched the soft silky material of the old man's robes. He latched on, desperately clutching the fabric even as he tumbled. The material did not rip, and the slight tethering of the robes helped break his fall, allowed him to land sitting on his butt rather than flat on his back.

Calhoun whirled to face him.

And then they were upon him.

There must have been a dozen men on the floor of the arena now, fists clenched, faces filled with anger. More were dropping from the wall.

Some were carrying weapons--pocket knives, keys, champagne bottles--and they attacked the president. "No robes!" Curtis the gate guard screamed, swinging the butt of his revolver at that strange head.

An elderly man stabbed Calhoun's back with a pen. "Article Eight!" he yelled. He pulled the pen out, stabbed again. "Article Fifteen!"

A handful of men were grabbing at Calhoun's robe, and though Barry could not hear the sound over the thunder and the screaming crowd, he saw the material rip, saw the black cloth tear lengthwise, rending the garment. Calhoun let out an ear-splitting howl. From beneath the ripped material, what looked like diseased and blackened organs came tumbling out, still leashed to the body and to each other by clumps of bile-covered ligaments. They sizzled where the leaking rain water hit them, small jets of steam shooting up from hundreds of pinpoint fissures that erupted on the strange, dark viscera.

Calhoun seemed to have no skin or muscle on his body. Barry didn't see how that was possible with the robes so loose and flowing, but it was as though the president were some type of mummy and the garments had protected him, acted like a bandage and kept in the disparate elements that made up that loathsome form.

Twitching spastically, crying out in rage and pain and hate, Calhoun dropped to his knees, then fell flat onto his face. He managed to turn himself over, all trace of makeup gone now, his head a throbbing sac of black wormlike growths, and then he was still, the hole that had once been his mouth wide open and collecting rain.

He lay there for only a moment.

Then they tore him apart.

Barry grimaced and finally had to look away. The killing itself was bad enough, but this crazed animal savagery sickened and frightened him. He could not believe that his mild-mannered neighbors were capable of such barbarism, and he struggled painfully to his feet, then crept along the edge of the curved wall.

At the opposite end of the arena, the nude, lifeless body of one of the other board members was tossed into the ring to the sound of cheers.

There was no sign of the other old men of the board, but somewhere in the middle of the crowd a shred of black robe flew into the air.

Barry reached the doorway through which he'd entered the ring. Ralph, still standing in front of the other volunteers, knelt down before him.

Barry frowned.

"Hail to the president!" Paul Henri announced from somewhere up above.

The crowd was suddenly still, silent. Holding his chest, trying not to jostle his hurt ribs, Barry looked up. Paul Henri blew on his trumpet, and this time the notes were clear and audible: some sort of fanfare.

From above, a group of women solemnly lowered a ladder. His head felt numb, his ribs hurt like a son of a bitch, but the pain was not crippling and he was able to climb.

At the top, he was met by Frank, Audrey, and several other men and women whose faces looked vaguely familiar but whom he did not recognize. He looked around for Liz but did not see her. There were open doors at the top of the stands where couples, families, and individuals were exiting, hurrying out into the rain, lightning throwing their scurrying forms into silhouette.

"Congratulations." Frank bowed to him.

"What do you want?"

"You have earned your place on the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association board of directors." He held out a new black robe.

Barry knocked it away, though the action made his ribs ache with agony.

"Go to hell." He pushed through the line of his neighbors, starting up the steps toward the exit. Glancing to his left, he saw the crumpled body of the nude board member on the bloody sawdust, the shredded bits and pieces of Jasper Calhoun.

This was something he would not tell Maureen, could not tell Maureen.

"You're free!" he called out to Ralph and the volunteers, still down in the ring. "Go home!"

But they looked at him blankly, made no move to leave, showed no expression on their faces.

Barry turned toward Frank. "Tell them it's over. Calhoun's dead, the board's gone, there are no more volunteers."

Frank met his eyes, and Barry understood. It wasn't over. The association was not simply a group of people, it could not be eliminated by killing its members. It was a sys- tern, a series of rules and regulations that existed apart from and above the individuals who made up its membership. It J.! could only be stopped if those rules were rejected, if people refused to join or participate. He looked down at Ralph and the volunteers. Even they were not victims.

They were part of the problem.

He elbowed his way past Frank and the others, walked up the steps, and out the door. The arena exits came out on the east side of Calhoun's house. Logically, there was no way such a huge structure could physically be located within a residence even as large as Calhoun's, but Barry did not want to think about that. On the wide stretch of lawn, scores of people were running about, many of them heading for the road.

There was no rain, but the storm was still raging, thunder sounding and lightning flashing, wind whipping the surrounding trees into a frenzy.

Separating themselves from a nearby group of people talking animatedly among themselves, Mike and Tina came hurrying up to him, trailed by another older couple. "The top of the hill's on fire!" Tina said.

"It's spreading down toward the houses on Spruce! What should we do?"

Barry shook his head, tried to push his way past them.

"Lightning hit the gate!" someone on the road yelled. "It's open and they're getting in! Where's the president?"

"He's over here!" Mike shouted.

"No!" Barry said.

People came running toward him.

"The townies! They're on a rampage!" "They're going to riot! Call out the volunteers!" He kept walking, ignoring them, striding purposefully toward his car. He could see from a strange glow at the top of the hill that the lightning fire was spreading quickly, fanned by the wildly blowing winds. It was as if the surrounding forest was filled with nothing but dry under, despite the recent monsoons. Behind him, he heard cries of panic, calls for someone to alert the fire department. A woman yelled that lightning had also struck over on Poplar Street and that a partially constructed house was burning, the fire racing through the greenbelt. Several people shouted into cell phones.

There were no fire hydrants here, he remembered. Even ifCorban's volunteer fire lighters wanted to put out the blaze and save the homes of Bonita Vista--a very big if-there was no water with which to do it.

The whole place was going to burn to the ground, and Barry felt like laughing. It served those bastards right. So smug and self satisfied, so convinced of their infallibility. Now they'd been brought down by their own shortsightedness, by not doing one of the few things that homeowners' associations were legitimately supposed to do--maintain the community's infrastructure.

No one chased after him, tried to stop him or even spoke to him, and he felt good, strong as he strode away from the house and through the disintegrating crowd. He could smell the smoke, and he was glad the wind was fanning the flames.

He hoped the fire consumed Calhoun's house. Especially that evil boardroom and its horrid wall of ever-changing words.

Article Ninety.

He had the feeling that if that could be destroyed, all would be well.

What about the Stumpies ?

They would probably be killed--unless one of the volunteers in the house rescued them--but Barry found that he could live with that. They had already given most of their lives for the homeowners' association, and he had no doubt they would willingly sacrifice the rest if it would put an end to the excesses of the organization once and for all.

The people who only moments before had been trying to congratulate him were fleeing, running back to their homes in order to gather valuables or fight off fires. A fight broke out near Calhoun's flagpole. It was a free-for-all. Barry heard a loud, inhuman screech behind him, and he turned to see a well-coifed woman go down, shoved by an angry man in a suit and tie.

"Mr. Welch! Mr. Welch!" That despicable little toady Neil Campbell was running after him, without his clipboard for once, and Barry stopped to face the association flunky.

"I can help you," Campbell said breathlessly.

"With what?"

"Anything! I'm at the board's service! I'll be your right hand man!

Any investigations you want conducted, any houses you want kept under surveillance, any--"

"Neil?" Barry said.

"What?"

"Eat shit and bark at the moon."

Barry turned away, unable to keep the smile from his face as he walked purposefully out to the road. A pickup barreled by and seconds later rammed into a Jeep. From somewhere down the hill, a car alarm sounded.

Flickering flames could be seen through the trees, and the smell of smoke was everywhere.

Burn, baby, burn, Barry thought.

Still smiling, happier than he'd been for a long long time, he jogged up the lawn toward the road. Where the Suburban waited that would take him to Cedar City. And Maureen.

epilogue The insurance company had paid off on both the house and the property, taking the burned land off their hands. Barry had no idea whether the company planned to sell the lot as is or put up a new house and rent it out. He didn't care. He never wanted to see or think about Bonita Vista again.

They were moving on.

The red Acura hugged the curves as Jim J. Johnson drove through downtown Willis and onto a side street that wound up the ridge. Barry reached for Maureen's hand and squeezed it.

"This is the most remote neighborhood in town," the real estate agent said, turning onto a narrow dirt road that passed through a copse of scrub oak, pinion pine, and juniper. "They're still on the sewer system, but there's no cable out here. Strictly satellite dish." Two empty lots separated by an abandoned half-finished A-frame popped up on the right. A one-room log cabin was set far back from the road on the left.

"See what I mean?"

They looked through the car window at an old dented trailer, two duty kids fighting over a spraying hose in the yard.

"Like I said, I'm not sure you'll be happy here," the agent told them.

"You look like the kind of people who would appreciate more, shall we say, refined surroundings. Now we have a gated community here in Willis, a new planned neighborhood with two manmade lakes and a private golf course. The views are spectacular, the best in town, and strict zoning ordinances ensure that you'll never have to put up with trashy neighbors. What do you say I

drive you out to Rancho de Willis and let you see for yourselves?"

Barry stared out at a poorly constructed patio attached to a rundown shack, saw a child's broken Big Wheel lying upside down in a patch of weeds.

"No," he said, looking at Maureen.

She smiled.

"This will be perfect. This will be fine."