The bedroom door opened to pitch darkness, thanks to the curtains that were still closed. But somehow Stiles sensed movement in there—the vibration in the air, or the whispery rustle of blanket and sheet. The bed. He turned and swept on the wall switch even as his other hand caught the hilt of the sword over his shoulder and drew it halfway from the scabbard. But the dim light of the overhead bulb showed the figure on the bed to be not some pasty cadaver but George Bailey. He was huddled back into the pillows and holding out a mason jar full of pee-colored liquid. In his other hand was a disposable lighter. The aroma of gasoline was heavy in the air and mixed with the stench of the garlic lining the window. The old man finally recognized Stiles and set the jar back on the nightstand, trying to slow his hyperventilating. The soldier just ignored him, went instead to the windows, and peeked past the curtains.

Through the limbs of the big elm out front, he could see the figures below, wandering around in the yard, calling out to the people in the house and mimicking what their dead minds recalled as enticing. A drunk offered a bottle he no longer drank from. A child held out his candy bar. A woman he recognized as Georgetta Stovall did a bump-and-grind just below the window in her jet black leather, rubbing her breasts and her crotch and moaning in monotone. Stiles found the scene distasteful and turned his attention to the van at the edge of the road, measuring the distance and the number of steps he would need, and the time. But then he noticed what he hadn’t before. Bailey’s window had been nailed shut. There was no way to break it loose without attracting attention. “Scratch one escape route,” he whispered to himself. “Only one left.” He started for the door.

“Mr. Stiles?” the old man on the bed croaked.

“Yes?”

“I just . . . well, I just wanted to say how sorry I am. About Mrs. Atchison. I liked her, you know. We weren’t best friends, but she could be sweet when she wanted. She shouldn’t have had to die like that.”

“She didn’t have to. You could have stopped it.”

“I couldn’t!” The veins in his neck stood out. “It was just like with Nathan. I couldn’t move, I was rooted to the spot. All I could do was stand there and watch. I was so afraid . . . I’m afraid, dammit! Is that so hard to understand?!”