At that Chris Stiles went rigid. His weathered face tightened and his eyes flared. He stood slowly, stalked across the room, stared into the shadows at his brother and hissed, “Don’t you lay that guilt shit on me. Don’t you dare! I’ve given up everything for you. I’ve laid my ass on the line time after time. I’ve paid you back for ’Nam and more, so don’t you ever start that shit. Alive, you say. Am I? Really?” He walked to the table, picked up his cigarettes, and lit one with a shaking hand. “I thought so for a while, when you didn’t show up again. I had a job in Louisville. The money wasn’t bad and I had friends. There was even a girl there. But then I get this feeling, this gnawing at the back of my neck. ‘Go to Indiana,’ it says, ‘Alex is waiting,’ and I drop everything just like that, just like before. I dropped my life for you. So don’t ever get in my face like that again! You hear me?” He ground the Vantage into the ashtray after just a few puffs and sat down at the dining table, turning his attention to the reloading press there, his back to his brother.

For a while there was silence, save for Carson on the jittery tube. “Our first guest is someone I’m sure you’re all familiar with. . . .”

Alex coughed, then cleared his throat. “Kind of edgy, aren’t you, Hoss?” he managed weakly, but humorous quips weren’t going to help him now. He saw that and fell silent for a moment, fidgeting uncomfortably in the old recliner. “I’m sorry, Chris. Really. It’s just . . .” He paused, inviting the silence back while he sought the words. “It’s hard for me, sometimes. All these years without rest . . . I’m tired, Chris. And scared. I’m afraid this is never going to end, that we’re never gonna win. I guess it gets to me sometimes.”

“It gets to me, too,” Stiles said over his shoulder. His voice retained its bitterness but was now softer, more controlled than before. “I know it’s not easy for you. And I’m still trying to help. I came, didn’t I?”

Back in the shadows Alex smiled, or at least gave a semblance of a smile. The closest he could manage. “Yeah, you did, Hoss. That you did.”

Charles Nelson Reilly began telling a story to Johnny and Ed. The picture had faded for the moment, but he could still be heard, rambling madly.

Stiles lifted the Uzi pistol off the table and worked the bolt on the compact submachine gun. “So, what is it this time?” he wondered aloud. “The boogeyman?”