“Oh, let him go,” Doug shrugged. “He just—” Tommy cut him off with the wave of an arm.

“Don’t screw with my fifty bucks, Larry,” Tor Johnson said. “Now, c’mon.” He started back up the road, still wearing his mask. Doug followed obediently, and then Larry. This time there was no small talk of tits and hot rods. Tommy dictated silence, and the others obliged. Larry’s queasy feeling remained. This is just a joke. We’re just playing a joke. That’s all.

“Lighten up, Tommy,” Doug was saying up ahead. “This is getting to be a drag. If you’re gonna start acting like a shithead, I’m outta here.”

“You forget,” the one in the mask pointed out, “I’m driving.” He motioned them off to the right. “Here’s where we go over.” When the moon next peeked out of hiding, they saw glimpses of brick through the underbrush.

Using the Red Chopper, Tommy cleared some of the weeds and tanglevine away from the wall, being careful to leave enough to aid in climbing. The wall itself was nearly eight feet tall. They would need all the handholds they could get.

“Dougie, you’re first,” Tommy decided.

“Why me?”

“Because I said so.” Tommy puffed out his chest and threatened with the ax. Whether he meant it or not was hard to tell with Tor Johnson covering his face. “Just climb the wall and tell us what you can see. Now, is that so hard? Or are you the chickenshit Larry said you were ’while ago?”

Doug stood and glared at him, and Larry would’ve sworn he was going to punch Tommy, who was smaller. He’d seen him do it to other guys and for a lot less—unlike Larry, Doug Baugh wasn’t one to bluster and stomp and cuss when he got pissed. He just hit someone. And he had that same look on his face right now. Go ahead, Larry silently urged, knock him on his ass so we can get out of here. But in time Doug just grinned and lit another cigarette and, once it was pasted to his bottom lip, started clambering up the wall. “Damn stickers,” was all he grunted before swinging over the top and vanishing to the other side.

“What do you see, Doug?” Larry called. “Doug?”

There was silence. No insects. No frogs. No Doug.

“Something’s wrong,” Larry fretted. “I knew this idea sucked. . . .”

“Quit screwing around, Baugh,” Tommy snapped, lighting up a cigarette that protruded through Tor’s grimacing lips. Smoke came out the open rubber nostrils. “Baugh?” He motioned to Larry. “Go see what’s keeping him, Fatso.”

“You gonna give me a boost? Bend over so I can step on your—”