I heard the click of the key in the outside door.

I sat up, kind of poised on the edge of the bed, ready to move if she called to me.

I waited, holding my breath for quiet. There was another click, as Rose unlatched the screen, and then a rusty squeak as she pushed it open. Then . . .

It was a small house, like I’ve said. But from where I was to where she was was still quite a piece—maybe thirty feet or more. Yet that far away, I heard it. The gasp; the scared-crazy sound of her breath sucking in.

And then she screamed. Screamed and cussed in a way I don’t ever want to hear again.

“N-Nick! Nick! The son-of-a-bitch is back! That goddam Tom’s back!”

14

I grabbed for my pants, but the legs were twisted and the way Rose was carrying on, I didn’t have no time to fool with ‘em. Pants weren’t what I needed anyway, with that god-danged Tom back. So I snatched up my gun, which I sure as heck did need, and ran for the door.

I tripped over a chair in the kitchen, almost taking a header against the wall. I righted myself, and dashed out to the porch. Then, I saw how things were—and they sure weren’t good, all right, but they were a lot better than I’d expected ‘em to be.

It was Tom’s body that was there, not Tom. It had been left on the porch, face up, with the shotgun placed at the side. The beard had grown out some, because hair does go on growing for a while on dead people. He was all covered over with mud, and the middle of his body was just a big gutsy hole. His eyes were wide open and staring. The meanness was gone from them, but the fear that had taken its place was worse. Whatever death looked like, it sure didn’t look good to him.

All in all, you might say he wasn’t a very pretty sight. Nothing that would take first prize in a bestlookin’-fella contest. Old man Death had painted Tom Hauck in his true colors, and it wasn’t an even halfway flattering portrait.

I couldn’t really blame Rose for carrying on like she was. Almost any woman would have done the same, if her husband had come home in the middle of the night looking like Tom did. Rose had a right to raise a ruckus, but it wasn’t helping things, particularly helping me to think. Which I was obviously in need of doing and fast. So I got an arm around her and tried to calm her down.

“Easy, now, honey, easy. This don’t look so good, but—”

“Goddam you, why didn’t you kill him?” She tore away from me. “You told me you killed the son-of-a-bitch!”

“I did, baby. He sure don’t look like no live man, now does he? He couldn’t be no more dead if—”

“Then who brought him back here? What goddam dirty bastard did it? If I get my hands on the son-of-a-bitch—”