Two of them would pause there arm in arm beneath the dimming marquee and wait until the rest of the people were gone and they more or less had the square to themselves. Then they would turn their collars up to the evening chill and, huddling close, they would stroll along the empty sidewalks, laughing and talking and window-shopping in darkened displays. If they were lucky they would find a diner open late, and she would relish being served for a change instead of doing the serving. They would sit there alone and stare at each other through the swirls of coffee steam and talk; about the movie at first and the weather and other inconsequential things, but slowly, as he opened up, the conversation would turn soft and serious. She would listen patiently to things he wanted to say, things he had to, even things she could not possibly understand or approve of. And when he was finished she would simply smile and reach across the table to take his hand, and nothing more would need to be said. And then . . .

And then?

Then they’d live happily ever after, Stiles grimaced, embarrassed at the sophomorism of his own mental fantasies. Jeez, grow up! You’re starting to sound like those damn Harlequins! He picked an open paperback from the dash, bent down the page, and tossed it to the back of the van. Too dark to read anyway. Tomorrow, old son, you change your reading tastes for awhile. Maybe something a bit more fitting—a little Bram Stoker perhaps. That should put you in the mood.

He looked into the night around him and shivered. Yeah, tell me about it.

He fished a handful of pretzel sticks from the bag on the console and grumbled under his breath. The fantasy may have been strained, he granted, but there was always a remote possibility that it might have happened. If he’d really gone to the movies, that is. But what was he doing instead? Sitting in his van, in the cold, in the dark, watching and waiting and cursing his brother for getting him into this in the first place. “I hope you’re happy, Alex,” he said aloud, not really expecting a response. He didn’t get one.

Billie’s voice still lingered along the edges of his mind. Even through the muffled phone line he’d had no trouble picking up on the disappointment in her voice. But hell, what else could he do—tell her where he was really going? Oh well. There was always tomorrow night . . . that is, if something would just happen tonight.

C’mon, dammit! Let’s get this over with!

He reached for more pretzels and grumbled again and wished for a cigarette to soothe his jangled nerves. There was no need for impatience; it wouldn’t get him anywhere. It never did. But he just couldn’t seem to beat it this time out. Too much time between stakeouts, he supposed, but that focused, waiting state of mind he’d developed in ’Nam and honed over the years seemed for some reason just beyond his grasp tonight. You’re concentrating too hard. Just relax. Let it happen.