The Store

The entire idea rubbed her the wrong way, and the phrase "secrecy oath" put her in mind of clandestine organizations and secret societies, but she read through the document and could find nothing specifically offensive in it, and she signed and dated the paper at the bottom.

Mr. Lamb collected the forms. "Very good," he said. "We're almost done.

Now all you have to do is run the gauntlet."

A chill washed over her. "The gauntlet?"

He looked at his watch. "We'd better hurry. They're waiting. And The Store opens in forty-five minutes. We need to get this done." He stood, walked around his desk, and she followed him out of his office and down a short hallway to an elevator.

Now she stood in the slowly moving elevator, staring up at the lighted numbers as they descended past the basement, past the first subbasement, to the second subbasement.

Why did The Store have two subbasements?

She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

The elevator doors opened, and as they walked out, she realized why she had not seen any of the other employees upstairs.

They were all down here.

A bare cement hallway stretched endlessly before her, looking much longer than the length of the building above, and it was lined along both sides with men and women dressed identically in green store uniforms. The sight would have been intimidating enough, but the employees were also completely silent, their faces serious, unsmiling.

"The gauntlet," Mr. Lamb said.

She wanted to turn around, wanted to go back upstairs and leave, and this time she would have done so, but the elevator doors had already slid shut behind her, and Mr. Lamb had placed a hand on her back and was guiding her forward, into the hallway.

Most of the faces before her were familiar, but they looked upon her as if they did not recognize her, and her heart rate accelerated. She tried to catch the eye of Marty Tyler, then May Brown, the first two people on either side of the hallway, but both stared at her blankly, and she quickly looked away.

What was she expected to do here? What was the point of this? She glanced over at Mr. Lamb, next to her.

"Strip," the personnel manager said. "Down to your underwear."

She shook her head. "I don't want to do this," she said, her voice sounding small and frightened. "I . . . I changed my mind. I don't want the job.

I don't want to work here."

"It's too late to change your mind," Mr. Lamb said. "Strip."

She looked at the employees lining the hallway, but they were still silent. None of them had spoken or had as yet made a sound.

"Leave on your panties and bra," Mr. Lamb said. A hard smile touched the corners of his mouth. "If you're wearing a bra."

"I can't --"

"Strip!" he ordered. "The Store opens at eight! We don't have time for games!"

Frightened, she bent down to untie her tennis shoes. She looked up, expecting to see people laughing at her, giggling, but the faces remained unsmiling.

She took off her blouse, her pants.

She stood at the head of the hallway in her underwear, shivering with fear as much as cold. Her left arm was held over her bra, her right hand covered her pubic area. She turned toward Mr. Lamb. "What now?"

"You run the gauntlet. If you make it to the end, you will join our Store family. You will be one of us."

_If?_

She looked down the hallway, saw for the first time that many of the employees were holding objects in their hands. Objects that could be used as weapons.

"Run!" Mr. Lamb said.

She ran, felt a coat hanger hit her buttocks, felt a flyswatter slap her left breast. The pain was tremendous, and her eyes were teary, but she kept her focus on the far end of the hallway and maintained an even course between the two rows of employees, forcing her legs to run faster. A knitting needle was shoved into her upper arm, and she had to will herself not to scream.

"You're ugly!" someone yelled.

"You're flat!"

"You're worthless!"

"You have no ass!"

"You're a moron!"

"You can't do anything right!"

They were all people she knew, but she couldn't tell who was yelling what.

It was all so disorienting, the jabs and the verbal abuse, and she could barely see for the tears, but she forced herself to keep moving forward. A cleat kicked against her shin, and now she was crying out loud, sobbing, but still she kept going.

"Loser!"

"White trash!"

"Bimbo!"

And then she was at the end of the hallway, facing a blank cement wall.

She took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, then turned. She saw Mr. Lamb at the far end, nodding.

She'd made it.

It was over.

She was bruised and bloody, but they all gathered around her, the employees, hugging her. "We love you," they said in unison. "We love you, Samantha."

She was still crying, but the hugs felt good, and the warm words were welcome and she hugged her new co-workers back, kissing their cheeks, laughing through her tears.

"We love you," they said.

"I love you, too," she told them.

"Congratulations." Mr. Lamb walked up to her, smiling, handing her a folded green Store uniform and a copy of a black book identified by gold embossed letters as _The Employee's Bible_. "You're one of us."

TEN

1

They were supposed to go for a hike, she and Jake. It was a beautiful day for it, the temperature warm and pleasant, not too hot, the deep blue sky filled with huge white clouds, but Shannon sensed something wrong almost immediately.

Jake was more subdued than usual, not himself, and he seemed not to care where they went. Ordinarily, he chose where they would hike, and if she made any suggestions he would invariably shoot them down. But today he acquiesced to everything she said, and that wasn't like him.

It worried her.

They hiked in silence, stopping only periodically to drink from their canteens. Usually, they walked together, hand in hand, meandering along the trails that led through the forest, talking intimately. Today, though, they walked single file, she in the lead, and it felt almost as though she was hiking alone. She had to keep sneaking surreptitious glances behind her to make sure that Jake was still there.

Shannon slowed. She'd never been this far along the trail before. Ahead, it wound down the side of a hill toward a small canyon below. A series of blue green pools connected by a thin stream lined the bottom of the canyon to the right of the trail. To the left of the trail, at the bottom of the canyon, was a meadow.

She turned around, looked at Jake. "You want to go down?" she asked.

He shrugged.

She started walking.

Fifteen minutes later, they were at the bottom and she was almost in tears. They'd walked close together, but they hadn't touched on the way down, hadn't even held hands. He hadn't helped her down the steep parts.

Something was definitely wrong.

She took a deep breath, turned, faced him. "What is it?" she asked.

"What's the problem?"

"Nothing."

"Something." She stood there for a moment, looking at him. "Oh, Jake," she said. She moved forward to hug him, but he caught her wrists before she reached him and held her at arm's length. He would not meet her eyes, and she felt her stomach drop. She knew what was coming.

"I . . . don't think we should see each other anymore," he said.

Her mouth was dry, her vision suddenly blurry. "You don't . . . I thought . . ." She cleared her throat. "I love you," she said.

He still wouldn't look at her. "I think it's time we started dating other people."

"You found someone else! That's why --"

"No," he said. "That's not the reason."

"Then what is it?"

"My job."

She started to say something, then shook her head, not sure if she'd heard him correctly. "What?"

"I'm not allowed to date anyone outside The Store."

"Outside The Store? You mean you have to have all your dates -- where? at the snack bar? In the hardware department?"

"No. I can't date anyone who doesn't work for The Store."

"That's stupid! They can't do that!"

For the first time, he looked at her full on, and she saw nothing in his eyes, no sadness, no remorse, no regret. "I don't want to date someone who doesn't work for The Store," he said.

"I can get a job there. I can --"

"No."

She realized that she sounded desperate, but she couldn't help it. "I love you," she repeated.

He shook his head. "I'm afraid we have to stop seeing each other."

She wanted to remind him of everything they'd been through together, everything they'd done. They'd made out on this very trail, a half mile back.

They'd gone to Winter Formal together, made love afterward. They'd eaten the same ice cream cone -- he licking one side, she the other. They'd done everything couples were supposed to do. They'd even almost had a child together.

Didn't any of that mean anything to him?

She wanted to say all that and more, but she could tell from the flat look in his eyes, the neutral expression on his face, that it would not get her anywhere. She would not be able to appeal to him on any sort of emotional level.

He did not care.

For him, the relationship was already over.

She closed her eyes, trying not to cry. Why had he gone hiking with her?

Why hadn't he told her at the outset that it was over? Why had he waited until they were out here in the middle of nowhere before springing this on her?

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Fuck you!" she screamed.

She'd intended only to nod, to be dignified and pretend as though he meant nothing to her and this was no big deal.

But she'd loved him.

"Fuck you!"

He shrugged. "We'd better go back."

"I wouldn't walk back with you if you were the last person on earth! Go to hell, you son of a bitch! Walk back by yourself!"

"If that's the way you want it."

Through her tears, she watched him walk away, up the trail. Again, she thought of the _The Sound of Music_, when Rolf turns in the family at the end, betraying his love for the sake of the Party.

It was like Jake and The Store.

"Nazi!" she screamed. "You fucking Nazi!"

The echo of her cries sounded throughout the canyon.

But Jake did not turn around.

2

Saturday. Samantha's first day of work.

Ginny awoke early to make Sam a special breakfast -- her favorite Spanish omelette -- but her daughter only picked at the food.

"This isn't a Shannon situation, is it?" Ginny teased. "You're not turning anorexic on us, are you?"

Samantha gave a perfunctory smile. "No, Mom." She made a big show of eating a few more bites of her omelette, but when she thought her mother was no longer watching, she put the fork down.

Ginny frowned, Three weeks ago, Sam had been ecstatic about the thought of getting a job at The Store, visibly excited by the prospect. But ever since her first interview, she'd seemed . . . different. Definitely not enthusiastic. For the past week, since she'd begun taking her nightly training classes, she'd seemed downright withdrawn.

It was as though working at The Store was something she was doing out of obligation, something to which she'd committed but had subsequently changed her mind about.

Ginny wanted to tell her daughter that she didn't have to go through with it if she didn't want to, she could get a job somewhere else.

But she said nothing.

"I have to get ready," Samantha said. "I can't be late on my first day."

She pushed her chair away from the counter and walked into her bedroom to change into her uniform.

A few hours later, Ginny drove to The Store.

She went alone, not telling anyone, intending only to sneak a peek at her daughter. It was better this way. Bill, if he came along, would make a scene.

Shannon would intentionally try to embarrass her sister. It would probably embarrass Sam to see her there, anyway, but it was her first daughter's first day at her first job, and she wanted to be there.

The funny thing was, Sam was the only person within their circle who'd actually gotten a job at The Store. Frieda Lindsborg had applied for a sales clerk position in Women's Clothing and Sondra Kelly's husband, Dar, had applied for a job in the Hardware department, but neither of them had been hired.

Instead, Bob Franklin, who'd been a drunk and a bum and hadn't even been able to hold a trash-collecting job with his brother-in-law's company, had been hired as a "director," one of the employees who "directed" customers to the correct aisle when they were looking for a particular item. Ed Brooks, who wasn't much better, had been hired as a stock clerk. She'd seen both of those two in The Store, and she had to admit they looked cleaned up and competent, but she couldn't figure out why they'd been hired over Dar or Frieda or the other deserving applicants in town.

Which made her feel uneasy about Sam.

Ginny parked the car and walked into The Store. There was something smarmy about the young man who greeted her at the door and offered her a shopping cart, and as she walked through the building, several of the clerks and "directors" seemed equally off-putting to her. As she pushed the cart past Housewares, a uniformed clerk appeared at her side and asked if she needed any assistance. She said no, pushed on, and another clerk accosted her at Women's Shoes, offering to help her pick out footwear. She said that she was not shopping for shoes today.

She'd never liked salespeople, had always felt uncomfortable in stores where employees hovered around her, watching her every move. She liked to be left alone, to shop in peace. The Store had done that originally, but now it seemed that the pressure was being increased, that more time and energy were being expended spying on customers.

She didn't like that.

She thought of the convoy of black trucks she'd seen driving up to Juniper that night back in February. She'd never mentioned it to Bill, and she wasn't sure why. She hadn't forgotten about it -- in fact, each time she'd gone to The Store or heard The Store mentioned, it had immediately come to the forefront of her mind. Yet she'd shopped here, let Sam apply for a job here, pretended that nothing was wrong.

Was there anything wrong?

She wasn't sure, and perhaps that was why she'd kept quiet. It had been an eerie feeling she'd had that night, a vague sense of unease, but that could have been the circumstances -- the darkness, the solitude, the fact that the rest of her family had been asleep. Bill had been paranoid enough as it was at that time, and she hadn't wanted to contribute to his anti-Store obsession.

But he seemed to have gotten over all that, and now she wondered if that was healthy. There _was_ something odd about The Store, something "Ginny!"

She turned at the sound of the voice. Meg Silva stood in the aisle to her right, holding in her hands a bolt of sewing fabric.

Ginny put on her best fake smile. Meg was about the last person in the world she wanted to see right now, but she nodded at the other teacher, walked over and said hello. Meg subjected her to ten minutes' worth of complaints about everything from the kids in her class this year to the quality of whole cloth made in Thailand, but Ginny was finally able to extricate herself, claiming that she had to hurry up and finish shopping because Bill needed the car.

"Well," Meg said, "I guess I'll see you Monday, then."

Ginny smiled. "Unless I win the lottery."

"That goes for both of us."

Ginny waved good-bye and pushed the cart toward the Toddlers' department, where Sam was supposed to be working.

As she passed by Linen and Bedding, she overheard a couple talking in the next aisle over.

"They have layaway," the man was saying. "We can get that TV now _and_ the crib."

"I don't think it's a good idea to go into debt," the woman replied.

_You're right_, Ginny thought. But she said nothing, kept on walking.

Ahead, she saw Sam. Her daughter was facing another direction, talking to a woman who was looking at kiddie pajamas, and Ginny quickly maneuvered her shopping cart into a side aisle, intending to sneak around behind Sam and watch her surreptitiously. She reached the end of the aisle, turned left, and stopped in back of a series of tall shelves containing various strollers.

"Are these pajamas _fireproof_ or _fire-resistant_?" she heard the woman ask.

"I don't know," Sam responded.

"Does it say anywhere on the label?"

"I don't know."

"Could you help me look?"

"No."

Ginny stood behind the shelf, shocked. Sam's attitude toward the customer was not only abrupt but rude, and it seemed totally out of character for her.

Ordinarily, she was friendly, cheerful, happy. Especially around strangers. Of the two girls, she was the more even-tempered and easygoing. Shannon was the more abrasive.

"It's not my responsibility to fulfill your duties as a parent," Sam said.

"I just work here. I'm a sales clerk."

Ginny frowned. What was going on here? What was wrong with Sam? She couldn't have been _told_ to act this way, could she? Was that what they'd been teaching her in those nightly training classes she'd been attending the past week?

Possibly.

Now that Ginny thought about it, she had been treated rudely herself by several Store employees over the past few weeks. In fact, she'd never been treated normally here. Either the clerks had been unctuous and toadying, or rude and dismissive. They had never been simply polite or professional.

"I don't like your attitude, young lady." The woman was obviously a fighter, and she was not about to be treated this way. "I'm going to speak to your supervisor."

Ginny could almost hear the shrug in Sam's voice. "Go ahead."

The woman moved off with a rattling of her cart, and Ginny moved as well, backward, away from the Toddlers' section, troubled.

3

"So, dude, did you win, place, or show?"

"Took the Triple Crown, motherfucker!"

"Bullshit." Denny looked from Chuck to A. B. "You know he didn't even get to touch her hand, let alone anything else."

"Big words, cherry boy. Big words."

Denny shook his head. The three of them were sitting at a plastic table in The Store's snack bar, scarfing junk food, talking trash, and checking out the babes as they passed by. Chuck had gone out with Audra McKinley last night, and while half of him hoped that his friend had gone all the way with her so they could hear the intimate details, half of him hoped that she'd slapped his face if he so much as tried to touch her. He liked Audra himself, would give his left nut to go out with her, and the thought that she'd gone out with his friend instead of him made him feel more than a little jealous.

But Chuck was the brave one. He was the one who'd asked.

A. B. looked disgustedly at Chuck as he wolfed down the last bite of his snack bar hot dog. "You know, dude, you are what you eat."

Chuck grinned. "That can't be true. Otherwise, I'd be a pussy."

Denny laughed. "You are."

"No, he's not. He's a wienie."

Around them, other customers were eating sushi and quiche and that other trendy crap The Store was trying to force down everyone's throat. But the three of them had made a stand, saying that the snack bar had better start serving the same type of food as George's if it wanted _their_ business, and The Store had caved in to their culinary demands, putting burgers and fries, hot dogs and shakes on the menu.

Now they hung out here all the time. In fact, the snack bar chow was so good that he couldn't even remember the last time they'd actually been to George's. Not that he cared. Downtown was dead, anyway. The Store was where all the action was.

And it was air-conditioned, besides.

Denny finished off his fries, dumped the last of the ice from his empty Coke cup into his mouth.

"Let's check out the games," A. B. said. "Maybe they have the new _Doom_."

Chuck nodded. "Or the new _Mortal Kombat_."

"Something."

Denny was still chewing his ice. He tried to say "Sure," but the word came out garbled, mushed.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Chuck said. "Didn't your mama ever tell you that?"

Denny swallowed the ice. "Your mama did. But I couldn't understand her because I was filling up _her_ mouth at the time."

"Dick."

"Exactly."

The three of them stood, moved away from the table, walked out of the snack bar area.

"May I direct you to the proper aisle?"

All of them jumped at the sound of the voice. Denny turned to see a tall, somewhat intimidating man in a Store uniform standing directly behind them. The man smiled, and Denny had to clear his suddenly clogged throat in order to speak. "We're looking for video games --"

"New games," A. B. said.

"Cool ones," Chuck added.

The man's smile broadened. "This way." He moved easily through the crowd of customers, past the checkout registers, past the displays of sale items. They hurried after him, up one row, down another, until they were in the electronics department.

Only . . .

Only Denny could not remember ever being in this aisle before.

He had spent a lot of time in this department -- they all had -- looking at games and videos, CDs and stereos and televisions, but he'd never seen the stuff they had here. He scanned the titles on the shelf in front of him: _White Power, White Rule_; _Sally's Three-Hole Fun Zone_; _Niggerkill_.

"Here you are, boys." The man gestured toward the shelves on either side of the aisle. "Hope you find what you're looking for." He nodded at them, strode away. "Wow," A. B. said, looking at the titles.

Chuck grinned. "This is cool!"

Denny picked up a game box: _Raped and Snuffed_. He nodded, smiled.

"Yeah," he said. "It is."

4

Frieda Lindsborg sat down in the center chair in Women's Shoes while the clerk went back into the stockroom to see if they had the sandals she wanted in black. She unlaced and took off her tennis shoes, then leaned back, closed her eyes. She was tired. She'd been shopping nonstop, running around town since she'd gotten off work, and she'd been on her feet since three o'clock his morning, when her shift at the bakery started. After she bought these shoes, she was going to rent a couple videos, go home, stretch out on the couch, and just watch movies for the rest of the afternoon.

A hand touched her ankle, began pulling down her sock, and she instantly opened her eyes, jerking her foot back.

"I found the sandals in black," the clerk said. "I was just going to help you try them on."

He was seated on a stool in front of her, an open shoe box containing the sandals on the floor next to him, and she immediately felt guilty for her little panic attack. She stretched her right foot out again, let him pull off the sock.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's been a long day."

"Nothing to be sorry about." The clerk dropped the sock on the floor, lifted her foot, examined it. He turned it gently to the left, then to the right. One hand held on to the calf, while the other began to caress her sole.

"Very nice," he said. "Very nice."

He still hadn't taken off her other sock, had not even taken one of the sandals out of the box. The attention he was paying to her foot seemed obsessive, and she felt more than a little uneasy as his finger lightly traced the outline of her toes, but . . . but there was something exciting about it, exciting and, well, sensual.

He placed the foot on his left knee, then picked up her other foot, carefully pulling off the sock, again rubbing and massaging the foot itself.

He looked up at her. "Can I smell your feet?" he whispered.

She grimaced in disgust and tried to pull her feet back, but he held tight to her left calf and continued to stroke it lightly, delicately. He stood, still holding her foot, and pushed aside the stool.

He knelt in front of her.

She did not try to pull her foot away this time. As much as she hated to admit it, she liked the subservient position he held, liked the fact that he had to look up at her while she looked down at him. It seemed sexy, and she found herself wishing that she'd worn a skirt instead of pants.

He said nothing, but looked up at her, smiled, put his mouth around her big toe and began to suck.

Frieda closed her eyes, leaned her head back, tried to give him more of her foot. She'd never felt anything like this. The sensation was exquisite, and she arched her back, trying to keep herself from moaning.

He sucked each and every toe.

On both feet.

Finally, she opened her eyes. She glanced around. There were people talking behind the row of pumps in front of her, other people with shopping carts passing by the main aisle, but she and the clerk were alone by the chairs and no one had seen them.

The clerk smiled slyly at her. "Would you like to try the sandals on now, ma'am?"

"Uh, no," she said, still breathing heavily. "That won't be necessary."

She stood in her bare feet, patted down her hair, smoothed out her pants.

"I'll take two pair," she said.

ELEVEN

1

Bill never would have expected it of himself, but he had become addicted to local politics. He went to all public meetings now -- planning commission, sanitary district, town council. He'd never realized before how uninvolved most people were with their government. Theoretically, local politics was the arena in which people had the greatest voice. Its participants were most responsive to individual concerns because their constituencies were so small. Yet people were more familiar with national politicians -- even national politicians from other parts of the country -- than they were with their own locally elected officeholders.

They might have more control over local politics than national politics, but they were also a lot less interested in it.

Until recently, he himself had been one of the uninvolved. He'd voted in every election, but his votes had been based on general perceptions rather than specific knowledge. He'd been of the if-it-ain't-broke-don't-fix-it school, and if he hadn't heard anything bad about a town council member or a county supervisor, he had assumed that they were doing a good job.

He no longer made such assumptions. If he had learned anything from attending these meetings, it was that decisions were constantly being made that negatively impacted people's lives but that most people never learned about.

Which was one of the reasons he'd become such a fanatic meeting attendee.

That and the fact that he found it all so fascinating.

The town council meeting didn't start until six, but he was in his usual seat next to Ben by five forty-five. The editor was the only person in the council chambers and was busily circling items on the agenda that he could later expand into separate stories for the paper. A half-eaten tuna sandwich lay in an open baggie on his lap.

"You might find this interesting," Ben said, tapping a circled agenda item with his pen. "Apparently, The Store is not just building the new park, it's going to be responsible for park maintenance. The town's going to let one of its maintenance people go."

"Who?"

"Greg Lawrence."

"Don't know him."

Ben shook his head. "I guess we'll find out for sure tonight, but word is that Store employees are going to be assigned to clean up the park, trim trees, water and mow the grass, whatever."

Bill snorted. "Taking jobs everywhere they go."

"It's the American way."

The meeting was called to order fifteen minutes later. As usual, the council chambers were less than half full. There was only Ben, himself, a handful of retired people and local gadflies, and assorted individuals with items pending before the council.

After the pledge, the prayer, and the other opening formalities, the meeting got underway with the park maintenance issue. The agenda item was read, seconded, and as it was considered "old business," there was no opportunity for public discussion. The council unanimously agreed to accept what Councilman Bill Reid referred to as "The Store's gracious and generous offer" to provide all maintenance for the new park.

Greg Lawrence was laid off.

The mayor himself introduced the first item of "new business," the town's projected revenue shortfall for the next fiscal year. He read aloud a summary report from Juniper's financial manager stating that if the town's operating expenses remained at the current level, Juniper would run out of money before the fiscal year was half over.

"Obviously," the mayor said, "there's going to have to be some belt tightening. As we all know, the county is having financial problems of its own and has appropriated a large chunk of the property tax revenue that used to go to the towns."

"That's _supposed_ to go to the towns," Bill Reid said.

"Exactly," the mayor agreed. "And the result of this is that all we're really left with is our sales tax revenue. And with our tax base shifting, with our downtown businesses taking a hit because of Juniper's recent economic realignment, sales tax revenues are down considerably."

The mayor cleared his throat. "We also have a major unanticipated expense that we're going to have to encumber over to the next budget year. If you recall, as part of our incentive package to bring The Store to Juniper, we promised to ensure easy access for all vehicles entering The Store parking lot.

They initially wanted an extra lane, a turn lane, constructed on the eastbound side of the highway, and we compromised by restriping that section of road and promising to constuct the lane if it proved to be necessary.

"Well, a representative of The Store has formally submitted a written request for the new lane, and our own traffic study has confirmed that the restriping is indeed inadequate for the flow of traffic generated by The Store."

He cleared his throat again. "Which is a fancy way of saying that we are legally obligated to construct an access lane running from milepost 260 to The Store entrance."

"Where are we going to get the money for that?" Hunter Palmyra asked.

"Staff has proposed that we cut back on street maintenance, park and recreation programs, and other nonessential services. In addition, we should consider increasing building permit fees and dog licensing fees, charging for fire calls and police calls that don't result in action by safety officers false alarms, basically -- and we should look into contracting out specific services that are currently performed by town employees."

"I, for one, would like to see a breakdown of each proposed fee increase, and how much we would save from eliminating each program, service, or job position." Palmyra said. "I don't think any of us have enough information at our disposal right now to be able to intelligently address this issue, much less make any decisions."

"I make a motion that we postpone discussion of the revenue shortfall until our next meeting," Bill Reid offered, "and that staff provide us with the appropriate reports."

"Seconded," Palmyra said.

The mayor nodded. "Let's put it to a vote. All in favor?"

The hands of all five council members went up.

"All opposed?"

No hands.

"The motion has been carried unanimously."

Ben leaned over. "That means it'll be 'old business' next meeting," he whispered. "The public won't be able to comment. Pretty clever, huh?"

Bill did not respond. This whole meeting, the way it was being conducted, the subjects that were being discussed, none of it sat well with him. These five men -- two of them real estate agents, one a developer who had only moved to Juniper three years ago, one a retired civil servant from back East, one a retired AT&T supervisor -- were cutting jobs, laying off local workers, changing the entire face of the town in order to accommodate The Store. It wasn't right, it shouldn't be allowed to happen, and he wanted to stand up and make an impassioned speech on behalf of the local citizens and their rights and their concerns, but he didn't know what to say or how to say it, and he remained silently in his seat.

The mayor looked down at one of the papers in front of him. "Do I have a motion on the turn lane?" he asked.

Dick Wise nodded. "I make a motion that we accept the drafted resolution as is and encumber the funds to complete the highway construction contractually required of us, the contractor who will perform the work to be determined by the bid process."

"Seconded," Bill Reid said.

The motion was passed unanimously.

The mayor shuffled through the papers before him. "In a somewhat related matter, I have here a petition signed by downtown businesses and shopkeepers.

All of the merchants on Main and Allen streets." He looked to his left, then right, at the other members of the council flanking him on the dais. "I trust you all have your copies?" Assenting nods. "Very well, then. The petition asks us to either lift our current sign ordinance or allow temporary exemptions to the ordinance. Specifically, we're being asked to allow banners to be placed in front of stores or business, on the building fronts or on light poles."

Bill looked around the council chambers. "How come none of the merchants are here?" he asked Ben. "Where's Street?"

"How come it's not on the agenda?" the editor replied. He shook his head.

"They're trying to pull a fast one here. This'll be my top story. I'm going to nail their asses on this one."

The mayor glanced over at Ben. "Pursuant to Section Four, Paragraph Five of the Juniper Town Charter, I make a motion that the petition and its request for changes, exemptions, and/or variances to the sign ordinance be added to the agenda."

"Seconded."

Passed.

"We will open this matter for public discussion," the mayor said.

A quiet, nondescript man who'd been sitting unobtrusively at the back of the audience stood, walked to the podium.

"Please state your name and address," the mayor said.

"My name's Ralph Keyes. I'm here as a representative of The Store, located at 111 Highway 180." The man's voice was smooth, confident, with no discernible accent. "I would like to state for the record that we feel allowing exemptions to the existing sign ordinance would give preferential treatment to certain businesses and would constitute unfair competition. If such a course of action is taken by the council, we would be compelled to protest this matter and proceed to litigation. In our opinion, it is not the town's responsibility to promote or champion individual businesses." He spread his arms, smiled insincerely. "This is supposed to be a free country with a free market system.

By its very nature, this means that some businesses will succeed and other businesses will fail. It is not government's responsibility to intercede on behalf of individual merchants merely because they are floundering in the marketplace." Keyes nodded respectfully. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor."

He returned to his seat in the back of the council chambers, and the mayor glanced over the sparse audience. "Does anyone else wish to speak on this matter?"

Bill stood, walked to the podium.

He didn't think about it, he just did it, and he was not even sure what he intended to say as he faced the council.

"My name is Bill Davis," he said into the microphone. "I live at 121 Rock Springs Lane. I heard what Mr. Keyes said, and I understand his position and the position of The Store, but I have to tell you that I disagree with him one hundred percent. By your own admission, the council provided incentives to The Store in order to lure it to Juniper. Rules were bent or ignored, exemptions were granted. I think all our local businesses are asking is that they be given the same latitude, that they be allowed to compete on a level playing field. I mean, you're building _roads_ for The Store. The least you can do is let some of our local merchants hang signs in front of their shops so that people will know what they have, what they're offering, what's available. It's not an unreasonable request. And as for this idea of government intervention, you were elected by the people of Juniper to do what's best for the town of Juniper. I think that means you should extend a helping hand to our local businesses the same way you did to this national corporation. _That_ would be in the best interests of your constituents. _That_ was what you were elected to do."

The mayor nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Davis, I, too, wish to state my unequivocal support for our local merchants and businessmen. They are indeed the backbone of our town. Unfortunately, though, our Master Plan specifically prohibits the exhibition of signs and banners of the sort requested in this petition."

"The Store didn't have to follow _any_ of the Master Plan!"

"No, that was a special case. We made an exception to the rule. But we are not going to change that rule simply because we did grant that one exception.

And, I may add, The Store is now the largest employer in Juniper. I don't think I'm overstating the case when I say that our local economy hinges on how well The Store does. We knew that going in, and that was why we offered the incentives. To bolster the economic strength of our town."

"But you just said the town has less money, is going to have to cut programs and lay people off. Our local businesses are dying --"

"Your time is up, Mr. Davis. Thank you for your comments."

"I'm not through."

"Yes, you are."

"I'd like to be granted an extension."

"Denied. Please sit down, Mr. Davis, and allow others a chance to speak."

There were no others, and after a quick discussion among themselves, the members of the council voted to deny the request of the petitioning businesses.

Ben smiled cynically. "Democracy in action."

Bill shook his head. "Assholes."

He sat through the rest of the meeting -- routine business that offended no one and affected no one and sped quickly by. Afterward, he quickly got up out of his chair and started toward the back seats. He wanted to talk to Keyes, the Store representative.

But though he had seen no one leave the chambers, though neither door had opened or closed, Keyes was nowhere to be seen. Bill hurried outside, scanning the small parking lot, but it was empty.

The man was gone.

2

Bill sat in front of his computer, brooding.

He stared at the page of instructions he'd just completed. The program for which he was writing documentation was going to put several people out of work.

Hell, it might even eliminate a whole department. From what he could tell, this accounting system could probably be run by two people -- a supervisor and a data entry operator -- instead of however many individuals made up the current accounting staff at The Store's corporate headquarters.

It was something that had always been in his mind, the knowledge that his work was contributing to the "downsizing," "rightsizing," and "outsourcing" of America, that while he had a good life and a good job, they came at the expense of others. His company's systems were designed to replace people with computer programs, to decrease payroll costs and increase profit margins, to boost returns to stockholders without regard to the individuals who actually worked for a corporation.

But it was not something he had really focused on until now.

It was The Store connection that had really brought it home to him, that had made him realize how basically parasitic Automated Interface was. The ironic thing was that although he was indirectly helping to put people out of work, his job was pretty damn close to superfluous. Theoretically, documentation was necessary. Customers needed to be provided with instructions and descriptions of the software they purchased so that they could install it in their computers and use it. But the programs these days were pretty self-explanatory, the people who bought them were usually computer literate, and if users had problems they usually just called up the toll-free customer service number and asked questions of the support staff.

Most of the documentation he wrote sat in impressive-looking binders, untouched, on customers' shelves.

It was a depressing situation, and one he felt guilty about, but there was little he could do to change it. This was his job. He had a family to help support -- they certainly couldn't survive on Ginny's salary alone -- and he possessed no other skills, certainly none that could land him gainful employment in Juniper. At the very least, they'd have to move to a bigger city, someplace where he might be able to catch on at a large company. It was highly unlikely that another employer would allow him to telecommute and work out of his home.

Besides, he liked his job.

He felt guilty about that, too.

He wasn't in the mood to continue working on computer instructions, so he saved what he'd written on both the hard disk and a diskette, then toggled over to check his E-mail.

There was a message from Street, and he called it up:

You are God, buddy! I heard about the council meeting, and I want you to know that all of us downtown are pretty damn impressed with the way you stood up for us. Especially for a guy who always did his shopping in Phoenix!

Thanx for stating our case. Every little bit helps.

Want to join the recall effort?

How about chess tonight?

He smiled as he read the message. Maybe he wasn't such a traitor after all. He sent Street a message agreeing to a computer game, then signed off. He stared at the blank screen and found himself wondering what would happen if Street lost his store. Would he be able to find a job here in town, or would he have to move? It wasn't just an idle question anymore. There'd been a seismic shift in the economics of Juniper, and the shift was permanent. The Store wasn't going anywhere, and whatever business couldn't coexist with it would be killed.

Street might survive, because his shop carried a broad range of seldom needed electronic parts that it probably wouldn't be economically feasible for The Store to stock. But a lot of the local merchants carried a small selection of mainstream goods, and not only did The Store sell those items for a cheaper price, it offered a wider selection. Those businesses wouldn't make it.

The phone rang, and Bill answered.

It was Williamson James.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for posting my ad on the computer."

"What happened?"

"I found a buyer for the cafй."

"That's great. Who?"

"You're not going to believe this."

"Who?"

"The Store."

Bill was silent.

"Are you still there?" the cafй owner asked. "Bill?"

"I'm here," he said, and he tried not to let the emotions he was feeling into his voice.

"They're paying big bucks, too. I'm really lucky. Really _really_ lucky."

Bill closed his eyes, held the receiver tightly. "Yeah," he said finally.

"You are."

3

Ginny walked in from the bathroom, drying her hair, and glanced over at Bill on the bed. He was sitting up against the headboard, an open book in his lap, but his gaze was distant, far-off, not on the pages in front of him. She tossed the towel on top of the hamper. "Hey," she said, walking over. "What is it?" Bill looked up at her. He shook his head, put his book facedown on the nightstand next to him. "Nothing."

"Something." She sat down on her side of the bed and picked up a container of moisturizer from the nightstand, opening it. "Tell me."

"It's not important."

"Suit yourself."

He smiled at her in his best adoring housewife manner. "So how was your day, dear?"

She started spreading the moisturizer on her face. "Except for the students and Meg, it was fine."

"That's nice."

She paused. "You know, it's weird. The past week or so, the kids have seemed completely different. Ever since Easter vacation. They were only out for a week, but it's like they were gone for a year. Now they all dress like gang members, with the big pants, the baggy clothes. . . ."

"Fads change. You know that." He chuckled. "So the MTV influence has finally penetrated our little town."

"It's not that. It's . . ." She shook her head. "I can't explain it, but something's changed. They don't just look different, they're acting different."

"Come on --"

"You don't know these kids. I do."

"I'm sorry."

"Their parents all bought them exactly the same clothes. Those clothes."

"If they shopped here in town, of course they're all going to buy the same clothes. There's not much of a selection."

"That's just it. These aren't Juniper, Arizona, clothes. These are New York clothes. South Central L.A. clothes. And it's not just a fad. It's more like they're wearing . . . a uniform. It's not like they want to dress this way, it's like they have to dress this way, like their parents and their friends and everything are forcing them into this, requiring it of them. The peer pressure factor's way up all of a sudden." She sighed, started again spreading the moisturizer on her face. "I don't like it."

Bill was silent for a moment. "We made a mistake," he said finally, and his voice was serious. "We never should've let Sam work at The Store."

She'd been thinking the same thing, but it felt strange hearing him say it, and she felt obligated to defend her daughter. "It's what she wants to do.

Besides, she's eighteen. She's an adult. She has to live her own life."

"She may be eighteen," Bill said, "but she's not an adult. And as long as she lives in our house, under our roof, she's going to follow our rules."

"So you want her to quit?"

Bill looked at her. "Don't you?"

"I don't think it's my decision to make."

He sighed. "You're right." He leaned back against the headboard, looked up at the ceiling. "I don't know what to do."

Ginny put down the jar of moisturizer and scooted next to him on the bed.

She put a hand on his leg. "Maybe we should both talk to her."

"No. She does need to earn money for college. Besides, if we forbid her to work, she'll just resent us for it. She might even do something . . . I don't know, drastic."

Ginny smiled. "Are you sure you don't have her confused with Shannon?"

"Sam's more like her every day."

So he'd noticed, too. Ginny thought of the way Sam had treated that customer at The Store, the almost surly attitude she'd had around the house lately. This behavior wasn't like their daughter, and it worried her. "Maybe she'll figure it out for herself," Ginny suggested. "Maybe she'll quit on her own."

"Maybe," Bill said doubtfully. "I hope so."

"I do, too," Ginny said, and a chill passed through her as she thought of the black convoy. She snuggled closer to Bill. "I do, too."

TWELVE

1

Aaron Jefcoat sat in his police cruiser, in the parking lot of Len's Donuts, finishing an apple fritter before beginning his midnight tour of the town. He'd had over a week to think about it, but he still wasn't sure how he felt about his wife working. He glanced over at the photo of Virginia he'd mounted in a clear plastic frame atop the dashboard. The picture had been taken a long time ago, before she'd had the boys, and she looked damn good in it. She still looked damn good, he thought, but the photo captured her in her prime, the way she'd looked when he'd married her, and it was a reminder, in case he ever forgot, of the way she had changed his life.

She'd had a job when they'd met. She'd been a carhop at Big Daddy's Diner, the old teenage hangout that had been torn down in the seventies to make room for KFC. But she'd quit working when they'd married to become a housewife, and she'd been responsible for taking care of the house, and later the kids, while he brought home the bacon.

It had been a fair division of labor, and it had worked now for over twenty-five years, but last week, all of a sudden, Virginia had decided that she wanted to go back to work. She wanted to get a job at The Store.

His initial reaction was to say no. He knew she'd been a little bored the past year, a little restless, and with the boys gone she didn't have as much to do, but he knew she'd get used to it. This was a transitional period, he told her. It would probably take a while to adjust.

She didn't want to adjust, she told him. She wanted to get a job.

He was against the idea, but he hadn't actually come out and forbidden her to work. Ten years ago, he would have. But women these days didn't act the way they used to. Times had changed. All he had to do was look at what had happened to his friend Ken. Ken's situation was almost identical to his own. A year or so ago, after his daughter had gone off to college, Ken's wife, suffering from the empty-nest syndrome, had wanted to get a job. He had forbidden her to do so, and there'd been nothing but headaches and heartaches for him after that. Finally, she'd threatened to leave him, and Ken had given in and let her go to work.

Aaron didn't want the same thing to happen with Virginia.

So he pretty much had to let her work.

And he still wasn't sure how he felt about that.

He finished his fritter, wiped his fingers on the napkin in his lap, and started up the cruiser.

Time for the tour.

When he'd first been assigned the graveyard shift, he'd hated it. On a purely physical level, his body had had a tough time coping with the change in sleep patterns, and he'd lain awake all day in his bed, while he was supposed to be sleeping, and dozed half the night in his patrol car, while he was supposed to be on duty. Not that it made much of a difference if he slept. Juniper rolled up its carpets at six and was for all intents and purposes dead to the world after dark. Len's Donuts was open all night, but he was usually the only customer, and it was a rare shift indeed when he saw even one other vehicle on the streets once the theater emptied at ten.

He supposed that was why he'd grown to like graveyard. He got paid more than he would if he worked day shift or swing, and there was a hell of a lot less to do. The way it worked out, he was able to spend more time with his family than he ever had before, and if that meant that he sometimes caught a few Z's during the early morning downtime, well, it didn't harm anyone.

Aaron took a slow, leisurely drive up and down the streets of Juniper. As usual, he saw no people, no cars, no movement. Everyone was asleep, snug in their beds, and he smiled to himself as he drove past his own house and thought of Virginia sacked out, snoring lightly in that cute little way she had. His eyes swept the street before him. Here and there, porch lights had been left on to ward off prowlers. Through an occasional curtain he could see the flickering blue light of a television that had not been turned off.

He felt protective of the town as he cruised its streets, as though he was a proud papa and all of the people were his children. It was a strangely comforting feeling, and at times like this he was glad he'd gone against his parents' wishes and become a police officer.

He drove down the dirt back roads at the east end of the town limits, then cut north through Creekside Acres in order to get to the highway. Turning left on the highway, he saw, through the driver's window of the cruiser, the square black bulk of The Store.

It was a shame, he thought, that they'd had to build The Store here. It seemed to him that it would've made more sense to build on that vacant lot next to the Tire Barn, maybe buy out and tear down some of those eyesore trailers set up there. But instead they'd built it in the meadow where he used to take his dates, back before he'd met Virginia. Even the hillside where he used to spread his picnic blanket had been blasted and flattened.

The next generation wouldn't know that the meadow had ever existed.

It was a damn shame.

And now Virginia wanted to work here.

He pulled into the Store parking lot, intending to take a quick spin around before continuing back toward Main.

Instantly, he slowed the car. The lights in the parking lot were off, but the moon was full and he could see small unmoving lumps on the asphalt: the forms of dead animals. He rode the brake as the cruiser slowly crept forward.

He'd heard about this before, but he hadn't really believed it. Forest Everson had told him that there'd been a lot of croaked critters found on the property when The Store was being built -- and Forest was the one who'd handled that dead transient case -- but Aaron still hadn't put much stock in those tales. He figured it was like those full-moon stories, that crap about more crimes occurring when the moon was full. He knew that wasn't true.

But there was a full moon tonight.

And there were dead animals in the parking lot.

He drove the cruiser slowly through the lot, glancing through the window at the bodies. There was a possum, a dog, what looked like a baby javelina, two crows, a bobcat. It was an amazingly diverse group of animals, and they all appeared unharmed and untouched. It was like they'd simply crawled onto the parking lot to die.

Forest had told him that as well, and he'd dismissed it at the time, but he felt an unfamiliar tingle in the hairs at the nape of his neck as he stared at the dead animals.

Fear.

It was fear. Not the full-blown emotion generated by a life-threatening situation, more the mild sense of unease experienced by children when they heard strange noises in the dark, but it was fear nevertheless, and Aaron was both surprised at himself and ashamed.

He continued forward, toward the enormous black mass of the Store building, looking out the window at the individual animals. Another dog. A squirrel. A tabby cat.

A tabby cat.

He stopped the car.

Annabelle?

He opened the door of the vehicle and stepped out to examine the animal.

It was Annabelle, all right. But how in the world had she gotten here? Their house was at least three miles away. Had she walked that far, or had somebody catnapped her and killed her and dumped her body? Neither explanation made sense, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he bent down and touched the cat's body.

Cold.

Virginia would be devastated. Hell, so would the boys. Annabelle had been a part of their family for the past seven years. She was almost like a little sister to them.

He didn't feel that hot himself, and there was a lump in his throat as he looked into the cat's face. She appeared calm, peaceful, eyes and mouth shut.

His fingers closed around her cold front paw.

And the lights in The Store flipped on.

Aaron jumped, nearly fell over backwards. He quickly scrambled to his feet, drawing his revolver. There were no windows in The Store, only sliding glass doors at the entrance, but in the gloom of night, the light was piercing.

It shone through the building's entrance and into the parking lot like a white searchlight, illuminating a swath of asphalt all the way out to the highway, causing long shadows to spring up from the bodies of the dead animals, the previously bright moonlight fading into insignificance before its fluorescent power. Aaron bolstered his weapon, already embarrassed by his panicked first reaction, and hurried back to the cruiser, hopping in and slamming shut the door. He put the vehicle into gear and drove through the lot toward the entrance of the building. His heart was pounding, his nerves alive with an adrenaline rush. There was probably nothing out of the ordinary here. A nighttime cleaning crew or some other workers were no doubt performing the legitimate duties for which they'd been hired. But at this hour, in the middle of the night, after the animals -- _Annabelle_ -- the sudden appearance of the lights was surprising.

No, not surprising.

Eerie.

Yes. As embarrassing as it was to admit, he was a little spooked by the lights, even here in his patrol car, with his two-way radio and his shotgun and his revolver. Not for any rational reason. Not even for any irrational reason he could point to or pin down. It was simply an instinctual reaction, one over which he had absolutely no control.

He forced himself to push that reaction aside, however, as he pulled the cruiser in front of the store entrance, slamming the transmission into Park. He took the oversize flashlight from underneath the dashboard and, leaving the engine running, stepped out of the vehicle. There was no need for the flashlight, really. Every inch of The Store appeared to be clearly illuminated.

But the parking lot was still dark, and after midnight there was no such thing as too much light. Besides, the flashlight doubled as a club, and he was more than prepared to use it in that capacity if necessary.

He stepped up to the glass doors, looked inside. He saw nothing at first, only aisle after aisle of products and a bank of unmanned cash registers. Then he caught the blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he focused his attention on the right rear corner of The Store.

And saw figures.

Black-clad figures.

Aaron's grip on the flashlight tightened. They were fanning outward from the corner, walking up aisles, moving around racks. They couldn't be employees, he thought. There was no way these strangely garbed individuals were here to perform any sort of legitimate work. They wore hoods and hats and looked like a variation on the cinematic conception of a cat burglar. Which meant they were probably here to rob or vandalize the place, to commit some sort of crime. Which meant that he was going to have to confront them and prevent the crime from being committed.

There were a lot of them, though, and he would be perfectly justified in calling for backup. The problem was that, aside from himself, only Dirkson was on duty tonight, and it would take at least ten or fifteen minutes for him to rouse the other officers and dispatch them to The Store.

Ten or fifteen minutes was a long time.

In the night.

In the dark.

It was then that he saw the words THE STORE stenciled on the back of a shiny black -- jacket? shirt? -- it was hard to tell what it was, but one of the figures had turned around, and the words -- black on black -- were visible in the fluorescent light.

They _were_ employees.

Aaron breathed gratefully, unaware until now that he'd been holding his breath. He watched through the closed doors as the figures separated, heading over to the various Store departments.

Figures.

Why did he keep thinking of them as "figures" instead of "people"?

Because they didn't look human.

It was true. There was something about the figures, their build, their appearance, their movements, that struck him as odd, that looked, to his eye, unnatural.

He stepped back, away from the entrance, trying to blend into the darkness, not wanting any of the figures to see him. From this vantage point, he watched them as they moved through the store. Beneath the black hoods and hats, their faces were white, skin the color of alabaster and possessed of an abnormal quality, an unidentifiable property that ordinary skin -- _human skin_ -- did not have.

That wasn't possible, though. He was just being crazy. The animals had thrown him for a loop, and he'd been spooked ever since. There was nothing unusual here, nothing out of the ordinary. These were just people, people working the graveyard shift like himself, people who were trying to do their job. Graveyard shift.

He was being stupid again.

But was he? What work were these figures performing? They were wandering through the store, but they didn't seem to be doing anything. They certainly weren't cleaning the floors or replacing lightbulbs. They weren't even taking inventory. They were just . . . walking through the building. That wasn't work. A figure stepped in front of the door.

Aaron jumped, instantly retreating further back into the darkness of the night. The figure stood inside The Store, behind the glass, facing out. Its head moved from left to right, as if scanning the parking lot. Seen this closely, from this angle, its movements seemed even stranger even more unusual and unnatural, and the skin of its face seemed whiter than any skin could be.

Aaron's heart was thumping wildly in his chest, and his mouth was completely dry.

The figure's head suddenly snapped to the left. Its eyes locked onto his.

The surrounding night suddenly seemed much blacker.

The figure stared at him.

Grinned.

Beckoned.

Aaron ran around the patrol car to the driver's side and its welcome open door. He slammed the door shut, put the vehicle into gear, and took off. There was no crime being committed here, no reason for him to hang around.

Technically, he was trespassing. He had no cause, no suspicions, nothing that would stand up in court if he attempted to explain why he was lurking outside The Store in the middle of the night.

He glanced in his rearview mirror at the black shape of the building as he swerved onto the highway. He could see a small square of light where the entrance was.

And a small black shape in the middle of the square.

That settled it. Fights or no fights, problems or no problems, Virginia was not going to work. Not at The Store. He'd get divorced before he let her apply for a job at that place.

He accelerated quickly, speeding down the highway toward Main, refusing to look in his mirror again until trees had blocked the view of The Store behind him. He did not rest easy until the cruiser was once again parked in front of Len's, and the well-lighted donut shop and its jovial proprietor were all he could see through his windshield.

2

The polarities had reversed.

Bill had been unsure at first whether the change in their winning streaks meant that the outcome of the chess games would return to a normal randomness or whether it meant that the win-loss pattern would simply be transferred between him and Street.

Obviously the latter.

He'd grown to hate the game, but, as before, he felt compelled to play, driven to follow this through to the end.

Yesterday, they'd played computer chess. Street had won.

He was winning today's board game.

No, he had won today's board game. "Check," he said, moving his bishop into place. "Mate."

Street examined the position of the pieces on the board, then with one sweep of his hand knocked them to the floor. "Shit."

"Two to two," Ben announced.

Street stood. "I need a beer. Anyone else want one?"

Both Bill's and Ben's hands went up.

"Buds all around." Street retreated to the kitchen, emerging a moment later with three cans. He tossed one to each of them, then popped open his own, taking a long draught. He sat back down, began picking up the chess pieces off the floor.

Bill stooped to help him.

"I can do it," Street said.

"I don't mind."

"If you really want to help . . ." Street's voice trailed off. He straightened, threw the pieces into the box, downed a long swig of beer. "Ah, fuck."

Bill frowned. "What is it?"

Street sighed. "You know I don't like to trade on friendship," he said.

"I've never tried to make either of you feel obligated to buy equipment from me, I've never tried to force you or con you. But I'm asking you now: do you think you could use some electronic equipment?"

Ben's voice was quiet. "You're really hurting, huh?"

Street nodded. "The Store's killing me." He looked from Ben to Bill. "I'm not asking for charity, but check around your homes or your offices, see if there're any electronic items you legitimately need. I'd appreciate the business."

"Are . . ." Bill cleared his throat. "Do you think you can survive?"

Street shrugged, finished off the beer. "I hope so, but who knows? At least I don't have alimony payments anymore. And at least the house is paid off.

I suppose, if worse comes to worst, I can always file for bankruptcy." He chuckled. "Then, after my electricity's shut off and I can't afford to buy food, I can catch squirrels and cook them in the fireplace."

Bill didn't laugh. "It's not that bad, is it?"

"Not yet."

They were silent after that. Street walked back into the kitchen, got himself another can of Budweiser. "So, gents," he said finally, "any plans for this evening?"

Ben looked at his watch. "Planning Commission. Actually, the meeting starts in fifteen minutes." He downed the rest of his beer. "I'd better start heading over there."

Street turned toward Bill. "What about you?"

"Same thing."

"What is this crap? I know why Ben goes to these things. It's his job. He has to. But you?"

"I like to know what's going on in my town."

Street snorted. "Since when?"

"Since I found out what an unreliable rag our friend here puts out."

"Hey!" Ben said. "I resent that!"

Street laughed. Too loudly.

"Why don't you come with us?"

"Pass." Street picked up his remote, turned on the TV. "I'm sure it'll be fascinating, but there's a one-star women's prison movie on cable. T and A wins out over civic responsibility every time."

"They'll be discussing The Store," Ben said.

"Yeah. That's just what I want to spend my night hearing about."

"I heard they'll be asking for rezoning and building approval. They want to sell groceries."

"They'll get their approval," Street said simply. "Fucking Planning Commission's in their fucking pocket, just like the council."

"Maybe you should speak out against it," Bill suggested. "It might help."

Street waved him away. "I'm no public speaker. Besides, just in case you haven't noticed, I'm feeling a little too happy right now. The last thing the local merchants need is a half-crocked electronics salesman talking for them."

He pressed the volume button on his remote. "I'm going to watch my cable while I can still afford it."

Ben stood, patted him on the back. "Take it easy, then. I'll let you know what transpires. And I'll drop by the store tomorrow. The paper needs some surge protectors. Ours are getting old."

Bill stood as well, leaving his half-finished can on the table. "I still need to get that old turntable fixed. I'll bring it by and we can go over it."

Street nodded gratefully. "Thanks, guys."

"Hey," Ben said, "we're friends."

Bill grinned. "Half my beer's left, too. It's all yours if you don't mind the drool. I backwash."

"No problemo." Street reached across the table, grabbed the can, swallowed its contents in one gulp.

Bill grimaced. "You're gross."

"Thank you."

Outside, the night was warm. The moon was out but not yet up, hovering somewhere beneath the level of the ponderosas, its light diffused in the eastern sky. Ben had walked but Bill had driven, and neither of them spoke as they headed out to his Jeep across the loudly crunching gravel of the driveway.

"We really should try to help him out," Ben said once they were in the vehicle.

"Yeah," Bill agreed. "We should."

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

As predicted, The Store was the main topic of conversation at the meeting.

There were only two people in the audience other than themselves, and though the Planning Commission met in the council chambers, it could have just as easily convened in a small conference room.

Fred Carpenter, the commission chairman, read aloud the text of the proposal to allow The Store to construct an addition to its existing structure in order to open a grocery department. The Store's property was currently zoned only to allow the selling of nonfood items, and the land would have to be rezoned to accommodate the proposed change in usage.

The chairman finished reading the proposal. "We will now open the subject up for discussion," he said.

Leander Jacobs raised his hand.

"The chair recognizes Commissioner Jacobs."

"I do not believe we should grant this rezoning request. Obviously, The Store intended to sell groceries all along. Decisions such as this are not made on the spur of the moment. They're made far in advance, back at the corporate office. The commission and the council should have been told of these intentions at the beginning. I feel that we were deliberately misled, and I do not think that we should rezone the property at this late date."

"That's all well and good," the chairman said. "But as you know, we've been given an ultimatum. If we don't rezone, The Store has threatened to leave town."

Bill's heart speeded up.

"Let 'em," Jacobs said.

The chairman looked at him. "Are you serious?"

"They won't leave. They have too much invested here. Call their bluff."

Yes, Bill thought. Show those bastards for what they are. He glanced over at Ben, caught the editor's eye. Ben was in his objective reporter's mode and looked noncommittal, but Bill felt unreasonably excited. For the first time, there was opposition to The Store by the powers that be, and he sensed an opportunity here. They might not be able to make The Store retreat, but maybe they could stop its progress.

Graham Graves raised his hand.

"The chair recognizes Commissioner Graves."

"I support the rezoning proposal. Allowing The Store to expand is in Juniper's best interest. This new grocery department will bring in fifteen new jobs. Five of them full-time."

Jacobs snorted. "And it'll take away thirty. Come on, Graham. You know as well as I do that it'll put Jed's market out of business. Buy-and-Save can't survive that kind of competition."

"Then he'll have to lower his prices. If his groceries are cheaper, people will shop at his store."

"First of all, you should excuse yourself from this vote. You've had it in for Jed ever since he broke up with Yolanda."

"That's a lie and you know it --"

"Gentlemen. Gentlemen!" The chairman banged his gavel. "We are not here to discuss prices or marketing strategies or personal affairs. We are here to address the question of whether or not The Store should be allowed to sell groceries."

Bud Harrison, the Planning Commission's quietest member, spoke up. "Can we look at the schematics for the addition?"

"I was just about to suggest that." The chairman stood and walked around the dais to where an overhead projector sat on a movable stand next to the wall.

He wheeled the projector around, plugged it in, and motioned for Graves to dim the lights. A schematic drawing of The Store and its property was projected on the opposite wall.

Carpenter glanced around the council chambers as if searching for someone, and at that moment the door to the room opened. A young man dressed in an expensive three-piece suit strode down the main aisle of the chambers, nodded, smiling to the chairman, and pulled a pencil from his pocket. Carpenter returned to his seat, and the man, identified as "Mr. McBride, a representative of The Store," spent the next half-hour going over the schematic and explaining The Store's expansion plans.

"Thank you, Mr. McBride," Carpenter said when the Store representative had finished answering questions from the commission.

Mr. McBride nodded, bowed, and promptly walked out of the council chambers.

"Isn't he even going to stick around and see how it turns out?" Bill whispered.

"Weird," Ben admitted.

Carpenter looked at his fellow commissioners. "We've heard all the information we need; I suggest we put it to a vote."

Bill stood. "Aren't you going to open discussion to members of the public?"

The chairman stared at him. "I didn't think there'd be any discussion from members of the public."

"You thought wrong."

Carpenter's jaw tightened. He started to mouth a rebuke, then apparently thought better of it and nodded. "Very well, Mr. Davis. You have three minutes."

Bill glanced down at Ben, who shot him a look of encouragement. "From those plans," he said, "it appears as though the new grocery addition is going to be built behind the existing building."

"That is correct."

"I thought The Store backed up to national forest land."

"It does," Carpenter agreed. "But as part of the federal land exchange program, we traded forty acres of BLM-surrounded land we owned by Castle Creek for sixty acres adjacent to The Store's property."

"And now we're going to sell it to The Store?"

"No. In exchange for The Store's generous offer to provide park maintenance and to take over funding and organizing of the youth recreation programs, the town plans to donate the land to The Store corporation."

"This is outrageous!" Bill glanced around the room, looking for support.

Ben was furiously writing in his notebook. The other two people in the audience were staring blankly at him. He once again faced the commissioners. "You mean to tell me that Juniper is deliberately helping The Store at the expense of Jed McGill and then telling Jed that he should lower his prices if he hopes to stay in business?"

"Not at all," Carpenter said.

"But you're giving The Store free land, you're going to rezone its property, and like Leander said, there're going to be no repercussions for keeping their plan secret and not telling you their intentions in the first place. Jed's been an honest local storeowner here for . . . for as long as I've lived in town, which is longer than most of you, and now you're going to give him the shaft."

Carpenter smiled indulgently. "Is there any valid point you wish to make, Mr. Davis? What specific legal objections do you have to the rezoning plan?"

"I don't think The Store should be given special privileges."

"The Store is threatening to leave Juniper --"

"Like Leander said, let them."

" -- and The Store is our town's major employer. You are reacting out of personal bias, Mr. Davis. It is our job to examine our building codes and zoning ordinances and determine from that what is in the best interests of the entire town, not just a few specific individuals." He nodded at Bill. "Your time is up, Mr. Davis. Thank you for your input." He glanced around at his fellow commissioners. "Gentlemen, I suggest we put it to a vote."

By a vote of four to one, the Planning Commission agreed to rezone The Store's property to allow grocery sales.

"Big surprise," Ben said on the way out.

"I see an editorial here," Bill told him.

"There will be. But you know how well my editorials go over. People threaten to kick my ass and cancel their subscription." He grinned. "Luckily, we have a monopoly here."

"Have Laura write it."

"She's more popular than me?"

"Isn't she?"

"Yeah, but I hate to hear it."

"What about Newtin?"

"What about him?"

"He's not making you kiss The Store's ass anymore?"

"I think that still is our official policy, but I haven't been following it lately. And I think as long as the ad space keeps selling, he doesn't really give a damn what's in the articles."

Bill drove his friend home. "Doesn't all this just piss you off?" he asked as the editor got out of the Jeep.

"It not only pisses me off, it scares me," Ben said. He started up the path to his trailer. "Later!" he called, waving.

"Later."

Bill drove off.

_It scares me_.

It scared him, too, and he turned on the Jeep's radio so he'd have noise instead of silence on the dark trip home.

In his dream, The Store was expanding its parking lot so that it covered the entire town. The forest was gone, the mountains and hills were bare, and there was not enough asphalt to pave over the cleared land, so an asphalt-maker, a machine that looked like an oversized thresher, was inching forward at the edge of the parking lot, a relay-line of uniformed Store employees passing forward the bodies of townspeople, throwing them into an open scoop on the machine, as a mixture of powdered bones and tar was excreted from a series of nozzles at its rear. He was standing on the highway, watching, horrified, when he saw Ginny being passed froward, the girls following her. Sam was still wearing her Store uniform, but that had not exempted her from her fate, and she was handed from one employee to another, toward the open mouth of the asphalt maker.

Bill started running across the parking lot, toward the machine, but his feet became stuck on the gluey pavement.

Ginny was thrown into the scoop.

Shannon.

Sam.

Black bone-based asphalt emerged from the rear nozzles.

"No!" he cried.

And the machine continued on.

3

Jed McGill was awakened by the doorbell.

He sat up, then stumbled out of bed, aware that the doorbell had been ringing for a while but not sure for how long. The sound had been incorporated into his dream, and reality sounded like an echo to him as he groggily reached for his bathrobe. He glanced at the clock on his dresser.

Two a.m.

Who would be coming over at this hour?

_Ring_.

Yawning, his eyes still half-closed, he felt his way around the doorjamb, using the wall as his guide as he moved through the hallway toward the living room. _Ring_.

He rubbed his eyes, opening them wider. There was something about the unhurried insistence of the ringer and the even intervals between the door chimes that set off his radar. Even in this sleep-numbed state, he recognized that whoever was outside had been there for quite some time, waiting far longer than any ordinary person would have, and was still at the door, patiently pressing the button every thirty seconds.

_Ring_.

He approached the door warily, feeling oddly nervous. Juniper wasn't exactly New York, with psychos and criminals and gangs prowling around at all hours of the night. And he wasn't a ninety-eight-pound weakling. He was six three, two hundred pounds, and he pumped iron. He was in good physical shape.

Still, he felt apprehensive, almost jumpy, as his hand touched the door handle. It was probably just someone whose car had broken down, someone wanting to use his telephone to call for a tow. He leaned against the door, peeked through the peephole.

It was a man in a three-piece suit.

That should have settled his nerves. It was not a thug or a loony but a businessman. For some reason, however, seeing his visitor made Jed even more uneasy. Why would a businessman be standing on his stoop and ringing the doorbell in the middle of the night? It made no sense. The man didn't look harried enough or annoyed enough for his car to have broken down, so that theory went out the window. But if he was here to talk business, it could have waited until morning. And he should have called first.

Something about this didn't feel right.

The man calmly pressed the button next to the door.

_Ring_.

Jed threw the dead bolt, unlocked the door, opened it. The man stood on the stoop, smiling at him, and Jed didn't like that smile.

"Hello, Mr. McGill."

Jed stared at him dumbly.

The man pushed past him, uninvited, into the living room. "Nice place you've got here."

Get out, he wanted to say. Get out of my house. But he only turned and watched as the man maneuvered around the couch and the coffee table and sat down in the easy chair facing the television. The man was still smiling as he motioned for Jed to sit on the couch, and now Jed knew what he did not like about the smile. It was fake, yes, but that's not what unnerved him so. It was the hint of a threat behind the smile, the belligerence backing it.

He should not have opened the door, he realized. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. It was too late to stop it.

Whatever was going to happen?

He looked at the smiling business-suited man on the couch.

Yes.

He wished he'd brought his shotgun out with him, but it was still in the bedroom, leaning in the corner by the dresser. His rifles were in the gun case.

"Have a seat," the man said.

Jed walked slowly forward, stopped in back of the couch. "What do you want?"

"I just want to talk, Jed. Is that all right with you?"

"Not at two o'clock in the morning it's not."

"I stopped by your store today. Buy-and-Save. Cute name. Cute store."

Jed stiffened. "I don't know who you are or what you're trying to do, but I'm not going to let you barge into my house in the middle of the night and make fun of my store --"

"Calm down, Jed. Calm down." The man's smile was wider. "I'm not criticizing your store. I liked it. It was a nice place." He paused. "While it lasted."

"What --"

"The Store is going to be selling groceries," the man said. "As of tonight, Buy-and-Save is out of business."

Jed walked around the couch, advancing on the man. "Listen to me," he said angrily. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but I can't be threatened and I can't be scared off. You get the hell out of my house right now or I won't be responsible for what happens."

The man stood, still smiling. "Jed, Jed, Jed . . ."

"Get the fuck out of my house!"

"I was afraid you'd take it this way."

There was a noise behind him, and Jed turned to see other men entering through the open front door. Tall men, pale men, dressed in shiny black leather, wearing jackboots. Their faces were blank, devoid of expression, and there was something inhuman about them. Vampires, was his first thought, but that didn't seem quite right.

It was in the ballpark, though. It was definitely in the ballpark.

The men continued filing into his house.

Six of them.

Eight.

Twelve.

He ran across the room, toward the gun case, but the black-garbed white faced creatures were already there and in front of him. He whirled around. They were in back of him. To the sides.

He was surrounded.

"The Store is going to be selling groceries," the man repeated. "As of tonight, Buy-and-Save is out of business."

"The fuck it is!" Jed yelled at him.

The man pushed his way forward. His smile was now a full-fledged smirk, and the hostility was evident on his face. "The fuck it isn't," he said.

He faded into the background as the others closed in.

Jed did not even have a chance to scream.

4

Ginny awoke late.

She stretched, sat up, saw that Bill was not in bed and, hearing noise outside, peeked through the bedroom curtains. They'd talked last night before going to bed about cleaning out the garage, donating some of their old furniture and bric-a-brac to the Baptist rummage sale, throwing away the useless garbage that they'd accumulated over the years so they could actually walk into the garage, but they'd talked about the same thing a million times before and hadn't done it, and she hadn't expected them to follow through this time. Bill was already awake and dressed and outside, though, and when she peered through the window, she saw several boxes on the dirt drive and saw him carrying yet another one out of the garage. She tapped on the glass, and he waved at her, pointing to an imaginary watch on his wrist to indicate that she was late and should get out and help.

Ginny pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and walked out to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. Sam was already gone, at work, and Shannon was stretched out on the floor of the living room watching TV, an empty orange juice glass beside her.

"Why aren't you out helping your father?" Ginny said.

Her daughter did not even look up. "Why aren't you?"

"Smart-ass. I find anything of yours in the garage, I'm donating it."

Shannon sat up. "You better not!"

Ginny grinned.

"Dad!"

Laughing, Ginny walked outside. Bill was wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "About time," he said.

"I was getting my beauty rest," she told him.

He grinned. "Didn't work." He held up his hands to protect himself as she advanced toward him across the gravel. "You set yourself up for that one."

She punched him lightly on the arm. "Geek."

He drew himself up to his full height. "Computer nerd, if you don't mind."

Ginny glanced around at the array of boxes. "So what's going, what's staying? Have you found anything you're willing to part with?"

"Quite a bit, actually." He motioned toward a box next to a manzanita bush. "There's some of your stuff in there. I didn't know what you wanted or what you didn't, so I figured I'd let you sort through it."

Ginny walked over, looked into the box, saw an old PTA plaque she'd gotten when Sam was in elementary school, a jewelry box Bill's mother had given her that she'd never liked, a folded red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. She squatted down and started sorting through the items, pushing things aside or moving them around but taking nothing out. Sandwiched between a Betty Crocker recipe book and a 1982 Sierra Club calendar, she found a single photograph, an old Polaroid shot. She . pulled it out. "How did that get in here?"

The picture was of herself, as a teenager in the mid-seventies sometime, dressed in the absurd fashions of that era. She was at some sort of concert or rally, and her best friend, Stacy Morales, was next to her, posing in front of a bunch of other girls The ERA rally.

It all came back to her now. Spring, 1976. Her senior year in high school.

She and Stacy and a bunch of other girls from Cortez had traveled in Stacy's mom's van to ASU, where the campus women's center was putting on a rally to support the Equal Rights Amendment. It had been her first exposure to college life, and the students, the campus, the ideas, the lifestyles had all made a huge impression on her. She'd left the rally feeling energized and empowered, as though she could do anything. It was as if a whole new world had opened up to her. She returned to her own school the next day feeling like an adult among kids, and her grades actually went up that last semester as she'd studied her hardest to make sure she'd be able to get into a good college.

As she stared at the photo now, she experienced more than a twinge of nostalgia. Behind Stacy was a female college student wearing a T-shirt bearing the partially obstructed slogan: A HARD MAN is GOOD TO FIND. Next to her was a large-breasted young woman, shirt raised, flashing her tits at the camera and shouting joyfully. In those days, sex had been seen as liberating, and it had felt as though the dawn of a new era was upon them. No longer were men going to be allowed to have dominion over women's sexuality. The Pill had given them freedom, had given them control over their own bodies, and sex was going to be something in which women participated, not something to which they were subjected.

But those days were long gone. Today many of the feminists were as bad as the old male chauvinists had been. There was a prudishness in the women's movement now, a fear of sexuality that was more reactionary and regressive than the attitudes of most modern men. What had happened to the progress they had made back then? What had happened to the concept of "liberation"? Nowadays, women who called themselves feminists were advocating restrictions and censorship, trying to inhibit freedom rather than expand it.

They'd become just like the people they were fighting.

Bill walked over, looked at the Polaroid. "What's that?"

"Nothing," she said.

"There's another box for you over there."

She nodded. "I'll check it out in a minute."

She looked again at the photo, then slipped it into the right front pocket of her shorts and followed Bill across the gravel to the garage.

She had a hair appointment at one o'clock, but they finished cleaning out the garage by midmorning, and she accompanied Bill to both the Baptist church and the dump before coming back to make lunch. They ate outside, on the deck, and afterward he did the dishes while she took a quick shower and changed. Or, rather, he had Shannon do the dishes. For when Ginny emerged from the bathroom, he was back in his room, in front of his computer, while Shannon was rinsing out the kitchen sink.

"He gave me two bucks," Shannon explained.

"I've been working all morning!" he called from his room.

"Next time," Ginny told her daughter, "I'll give you three dollars if you make him do it himself."

"Three bucks for doing nothing?" Shannon laughed. "Deal."

"Four!" Bill called.

"Three bucks and no work beats four bucks and work!" Shannon called back.

"Sorry, Dad!"

Ginny shook her head. "I'll see you two later," she said.

Ordinarily, Ginny enjoyed getting her hair done. She liked talking with the other women, catching up on all of the gossip that she missed out on at school. But the mood at Hair Today was grim. Although she had never known Rene to be anything less than cheerful, the hairstylist seemed downright sullen this afternoon. She spoke hardly at all, and when she did her voice was curt, brusque.

Among the other women at the salon, rumors were flying. Kelli Finch, whose husband owned and operated Walt's Transmission and Tuneup, had heard that The Store was going to open an auto center and start performing repairs as well as selling parts. Maryanne Robertson, who worked part-time at The Quilting Bee, said there was a rumor that The Store was going to sell quilts on consignment.

Rene said nothing at first, but finally admitted that more than one customer had told her that a beauty salon would soon be opening inside The Store next to the espresso bar. "Pretty soon," she said sourly, "downtown'll be completely dead."

It was something that Ginny had noticed but had not consciously registered. Now that Rene mentioned it, though, Main Street did seem unusually quiet. Foot traffic was almost nonexistent, and only an occasional car drove past the front window. Even Hair Today seemed less crowded than usual, although that couldn't be attributed to The Store.

Not yet, at least.

"Maybe you should build a new salon across the highway from The Store,"

Maryanne suggested. "That way it would be convenient for people to go there.

They wouldn't have to go out of their way."

Rene grimaced. "With what? I'm in debt as it is. How am I supposed to get enough money to open a new shop?" She shook her head. "No, it's this or nothing."

"I'll still come here," Ginny promised.

The other women chimed in quickly, agreeing.

Conversation stalled for a moment. The only noise was the snipping of Rene's scissors and the hissing of Doreen's shampoo faucet as she rinsed Kelli's hair. "You heard about Jed, didn't you?" Maryanne said. "Jed McGill?"

The other women -- the ones who could -- shook their heads.

"He's missing."

"Missing?" Ginny said.

"They think he's skipped town. No one's seen him for a week, and over at Buy-and-Save they're not sure they're going to be able to meet their payroll this month."

"What happens then?" Kelli asked.

"I don't know."

"Buy-and-Save can't close. There's nowhere else to buy groceries."

"Circle K." Rene suggested.

Maryanne snorted. "Yeah, right."

"Well, I hope The Store hurries up with its grocery department, then."

Doreen led Kelli across the salon to the styling chair next to Ginny. "We have to have someplace to buy food."

"But would you really want to get your groceries from The Store?" Ginny asked.

"We have to have someplace to buy food," Doreen repeated.

Ginny waited a beat, but no one else answered. She thought of asking again, but she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the responses and she let the question die.

On the way home, she passed by the new park.

Twenty or thirty boys were lined up in rows on the field in front of the backstop. A table had been set up to the left of the bleachers, and a large blue banner strung between two posts behind the table read: SIGN UP NOW FOR STORE LEAGUE FAST PITCH!

She only got a quick look, but the kids all seemed to be wearing their baseball uniforms and the uniforms looked odd to her. Too dark. Vaguely militaristic. She thought they appeared out of place on boys so young. Wrong.

But then she was past the park and on the road to home and it was too late to slow down and take a longer look.

She'd have to tell Bill about the uniforms, though.

And the auto center.

And the salon.

And Jed McGill.

THIRTEEN

1

It rained for three days straight, the first major downpour of the spring.

There'd been some low clouds and light mist during the preceding months, but it had been a dry season so far, and they desperately needed precipitation.

Just not this much of it.

The storm was a bad one -- wind and lightning, not just rain -- and sometime during the middle day there was hail, the pellets of ice ripping holes in established bushes, killing Ginny's newly sprouted vegetables in the garden, and blanketing their entire property, for an hour or so, with white.

By the beginning of the third day, Monday, the hard-packed drive had devolved into mud, and a section of the road to town had been washed away.

School had been canceled, and although ordinarily the girls -- and Ginny would have been thrilled, they'd already been cooped up in the house too long and the phone call announcing the school closures seemed only to depress them.

"I'm supposed to work tonight," Samantha said. "How am I going to get there?"

"You're not," Bill told her.

"I have to."

"Explain the circumstances, trade with someone, call in sick. I don't care. You're not going in. Even the Jeep won't make it across that road in this rain."

"I can't call in sick."

"Yes, you can." Bill smiled slightly. "I used to do it all the time when I was your age."

"But I can't."

"Well, you have to do something, because you're not going to work tonight."

Samantha turned to her mother, and Bill saw the look that passed between them, but he chose to ignore it rather than turn the discussion into an argument.

He walked back to his office to check his E-mail and read this morning's online news. Radio reception for anything but the Juniper station was nonexistent, and he was about to pop in an old Rick Wakeman cassette when Ginny poked her head in the door.

"Bad news. The roof in the bathroom's leaking again."

He swiveled toward her. "I just fixed it last fall!"

"No, you tried to fix it. Obviously, you didn't. It's leaking."

"Shit." He pushed himself out of the chair and followed her down the hall to the bathroom. The ceiling above the toilet was darkened by a huge water stain. At three-second intervals, droplets fell into a pan that Ginny had placed on the floor next to the toilet.

Bill shook his head. "Couldn't it have been five inches to the left? Is that too much to ask?"

"That would be too easy. Besides, what's a leaky roof without pots and pans on the floor?" She pointed toward the wall behind the toilet. "That's wet, too. It's seeping down into the wall."

"I can't fix anything until the rain stops."

"But you can put a tarp up there or something, so it won't soak through the entire house."

Bill nodded, sighed. "I'll go down to Richardson's and get a tarp. I'll pick up some tar and some tar paper for when the rain ends." He turned away from the toilet. "Goddamn, I hate doing this every year."

"Maybe we should have the whole roof redone," she suggested. "Hire a real roofer."

"We can't afford that. Not right now." He pushed past her, walking across the hall into their bedroom, where he grabbed his wallet and keys from the top of the dresser. He put on his raincoat. "Check for any other leaks while I'm gone." He went back into his office, turned off the PC. "I'll be back in a half hour or so."

"Get enough to cover the whole roof."

"Don't worry."

The road was even worse than he'd expected, and he had to put the Jeep into four-wheel drive to make it through a couple of spots, but he lucked out and there was a temporary respite from the rain, then he was on pavement and heading down Granite toward the hardware store.

The only other vehicle in Richardson's small parking lot was the owner's own vehicle, parked near the side of the building. Bill pulled up directly in front of the door and ran quickly inside as another heavy downpour started. He stomped his boots on the doormat to dry them off so he wouldn't slip on the slick floor.

"Wet enough for you?" Richardson stood behind the cash register, grinning.

On the counter in front of him was a huge sack of screws and nuts that he was separating into little piles.

"Not really," Bill said. "But I think my roof's had about enough of it."

He looked around. "Where do you keep your plastic tarps?"

Richardson stared down at his screws. He cleared his throat, embarrassed.

"Can't say as I carry any tarp," he said.

"What?"

"Well, if I could've predicted this storm, I would've ordered up a whole lot of stuff like that. But the truth of the matter is, Bill, I can't afford to stock much anymore. The Store's taking away most of my business, I'm strung out on credit as it is, and I only order what I know for certain'll move." He held up a nut. "Screws and nuts, bolts and nails. Mollies. Pipe and lumber."

Bill looked around, noticing for the first time that the shelves of many of the aisles were bare, the end displays empty.

"You don't have any kind of plastic sheets that I could use to cover my roof? No rolls of anything?"

"Nope." Richardson shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "I wish I could help you, Bill. I honestly do. But times are tough." He gestured around the quiet store. "As you can see, the joint ain't exactly jumping."

"The Store doesn't sell hardware, though, does it?"

"They don't carry lumber, but they carry everything else. And they're lowballing me at every turn." He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sure you've heard it all before."

Bill nodded. "That's the sad part. I have."

"I knew they might cut into my business, you know? I just didn't think it'd happen this fast. I mean, shit, I've been here since 1960. I've weathered a lot of trends." He shook his head, looked up. "And I thought people would be more loyal. I don't expect pity or charity, but I always considered my customers my friends, and I thought that would count for something. I didn't think they'd abandon me over a few pennies' price difference. It hurts, you know?"

They were silent for a moment, the only sound amplified rain on the tin roof. "You don't have anything to help me with the leak?"

"I could order some tarps. Be here in half a week, maybe five days."

"I'd like to wait," Bill said. "But it's kind of an emergency. I need it now." Richardson sighed. "Go ahead. Hit The Store. Everyone else does."

Bill thought for a moment. "You know what? I'll hold off on the tar and the tar paper. Why don't you order some for me. I don't need to fix the roof instantly, anyway. And I should wait until it dries out. I'll just get a cheapo tarp at The Store, keep the water out until the rain stops. It'll work temporarily."

"You're a stand-up guy," Richardson said gratefully.

Bill smiled. "No, but I can fake it."

The Store had quite a selection of tarps and plastic sheeting. There was even a Home Raincoat, a monstrous piece of waterproofed canvas that was specifically designed to fit over the roof of a house. But Bill bought four packages of the cheapest tarps he could find, did not take advantage of the two for-one sale on rolls of tar paper, and quickly sped home, where he climbed up on the roof and spent the next two hours trying to weight down the tarps with rocks he salvaged from the forest behind the house.

His efforts paid off, however, and when he walked into the bathroom, the leak had stopped.

"Fixed!" he announced.

"For now," Ginny said.

"I've ordered some roofing supplies from Richardson. Once the rain stops, I'll patch it."

"I've heard that one before."

He slapped her rear end, making her jump, then, before she could hit him back, ran past her into the bedroom to change into some dry clothes.

Ginny and the girls spent the afternoon watching soap operas and talk shows in the living room, while he retired to his office and dialed up Freelink.

There'd been a shooting at one of The Stores in Nevada last week, and he'd been keeping up with all of the current events surrounding the various Store shootings over the past six months, but even though he was writing documentation for a Store system, he'd never really bothered to check into the history of the company.

Until now.

He accessed Freelink's Business Information database, and downloaded everything about The Store that he could find.

He read it all.

According to articles from the _Wall Street Journal_, _Business Week_, _Forbes_, the _Houston Chronicle_, and _American Entrepreneur_, The Store began as a small mercantile in West Texas in the late 1950s. Newman King owned a single shop on a virtually untraveled dirt road, miles from the nearest town.

Through word of mouth and, eventually, a series of billboards that he erected on major highways, The Store became something of a tourist spot, a must-see stop for easterners heading west on vacation. People were initially amused by the mercantile's humorously bland name and by the incongruity of its desolate location and up-to-the-minute stock, but they bought in droves. King kept his prices low and his selection large, and his combination of business acumen and self-promotion caused profits to shoot through the roof. Eventually he opened another store -- also on a small back road.

By the mid-1960s, he owned a regional chain of discount retail outlets and had joined Texas's rank of self-made millionaires. There were scattered complaints from competitors of hardball tactics -- bribes and intimidation, illegal business practices -- but there was nothing provable and nothing stuck.

Taking his cue from Sam Walton and Wal-Mart, King began opening big, modern stores in towns that previously had only small, local markets. He would not go into a town that had a Wal-Mart or a Kmart, or even a Woolworth's or Newberry's, but in towns with only local competition, he would dazzle the locals with state-of-the-art products and contemporary fashions and items that had previously been available to them only through catalogs.

And they would buy.

Sometime within the next two decades, King dropped from sight. He had gradually become more reclusive over the years, the press conferences that had once been de rigueur before each and every Store opening dwindling to four, then two, then one a year.

There were accusations from former employees that The Store was more like a cult than a place of employment, that bizarre tests were required to get a job at The Store, that participation in strange rituals was mandatory for all management trainees, that any attempt to either quit or go public with nonflattering information was met with well-organized retaliation. King remained in hiding, would not publicly respond to any accusations, but no charges were ever filed, many of the accusers were discredited or disappeared, and after that brief flurry no complaints were ever brought up again by any subsequent employees.

In the mid-eighties, The Store's corporate headquarters moved from a nondescript series of offices in El Paso to a huge black twenty-story skyscraper in Dallas that was dubbed The Black Tower by friend and foe alike. Still, there was no attempt made to expand The Store's base, to move into larger cities or metropolitan areas.

King's reported eccentricity and mysterious private life -- he was rumored to live alone in a concrete bunker under the desert, afraid of being exposed to ultraviolet rays because of the depleted ozone layer, afraid of breathing anything but specially filtered air -- not only created an air of mystique but tapped into the public's never-flagging interest in the Howard Hughesian rich and strange. There was speculation on Wall Street that King was staging all of this in order to gain name recognition and from there move on into other ventures, but he continued his slow progress throughout the country, opening Stores only in small rural towns.

And now The Store had come to Juniper.

Bill stopped reading, rubbing his tired eyes. The articles were mostly from financial publications, focusing on the nuts-and-bolts of the business, so the emphasis was not on muckraking or human interest and there was nothing overtly negative about Newman King or The Store. But there was still enough between the lines to put him on guard.

Bribes, threats, and intimidation? A cult? If those aspects were even mentioned in articles focusing on the financial world, it meant that they were more than merely idle speculation or isolated charges. And combined with his own thoughts, feelings, and observations, they painted a rather frightening picture.

The phone rang and Bill picked it up. "Hello?"

It was Ben.

"Richardson's burned down," the editor said.

"What?"

"I just came back from taking pictures. The fire guys're still there. The rain's helping, but the lumber was covered and it went up like a tinderbox."

"Is --"

"Richardson's dead. He was trapped in the blaze."

"Jesus."

"By the time they got to him and pulled him out, he was gone."

"What caused it?" Bill asked. "Do they know?"

Ben didn't answer.

"Lightning?" he asked hopefully, though he'd neither heard thunder nor seen lightning all afternoon.

There was a pause. "No," Ben said finally, and there was a note in his voice that Bill recognized and didn't like. "Arson."

"It's taking over," Bill said, pacing up and down in front of the bed.

Ginny looked up from her magazine. "What is?"

"You know damn well what. The Store. Its competitors are disappearing. Or their businesses are burning down." He looked at her. "You don't think that might be just a wee bit on the suspicious side?"

"Don't yell at me."

"I'm not yelling!"

But he was, he knew. He was taking it out on her, although he wasn't mad at her at all. He was frightened. He'd been concerned before, angry, uneasy, but it was the physical presence of that blackened, still-smoking building that made him realize the death and destruction that The Store could cause.

The Store?

He was thinking of The Store as a single organism, a monolithic monster, but it wasn't that, was it? It was a corporation, a series of retail outlets scattered throughout the country and staffed by ordinary local people.

No, it was a structured organization created to follow the whims and carry out the wishes of Newman King.

That was how he thought of it.

But why? What was the point of it all? What was the purpose?

Those were questions he couldn't even hope to answer.

He thought for a moment, then opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the hall. "Samantha!"

Ginny hurried after him. "What are you doing?"

"Samantha!" He pushed open the door to his daughter's bedroom, walked in.

She'd obviously been sleeping, and she sat up groggily. "What?"

"You can't work at The Store anymore."

That woke her up.

"I can't --"

"-- work at The Store," he finished for her.

"Well, I am."

"I'm afraid you're not."

"I'm eighteen," she said. "You can't tell me what to do."

"As long as you live in my house I can."

"Then I won't live in your house!"

Ginny stepped between them. "Come on," she said. "Let's not give any ultimatums or paint ourselves into any corners. Let's all calm down."

"You cannot work at The Store," Bill repeated.

"I like working there."

"You want to read what I read about The Store? You want to hear what I've heard?"

Sam shrugged in a way that was meant to be infuriating and was. "Not particularly."

He wanted to hit her, wanted to tell her to get the hell out of the house, then, and not come back. He was filled with an almost blinding rage, and it was his recognition of that emotion, his realization that he was overreacting in a way that was totally inappropriate, that brought him back down to earth.

He looked at Sam, who was staring at him, holding the covers under her chin. What was wrong with him? What was he thinking? He had never hit either of the girls. Ever. And he had never even been tempted to do so until now.

This was something he couldn't blame on The Store.

Could he?

Shannon poked her head in the door. "What's happening?" she said. "What's all the craziness?"

"Go back to bed," Ginny told her.

"I just want to know."

"It's none of your business. Back to bed."

Embarrassed, Bill faced Samantha. "I'm sorry," he said.

"You should be."

"But I still don't want you to work there."

"It's my decision. I need the money, and I like my job."

"We'll talk about it in the morning," Ginny said. She ushered him out the door. "It's my decision," Sam repeated.

"Like your mom said, we'll talk about it in the morning." Bill closed the door behind him and followed Ginny back to the bedroom.

2

Shannon walked into her sister's room after breakfast. Sam was still not up, but she was awake, and Shannon knew that she simply hadn't wanted to face their dad.

"So what was all that about last night?"

Samantha looked at her. "His brain snapped."

"But what was it about?"

"None of your business."

"Come on," Shannon said. "Don't you give me that, too."

"He doesn't want me to work."

"Why not?"

Sam shrugged. "Who knows?"

"It has to be something."

"Does it?" Sam looked at her. "Why am I even talking to you? Get out of my room."

"I was thinking of getting a job there, too, this summer."

"Yeah, right."

"I was."

"Didn't I tell you to get out of my room?"

"I thought you might want to talk --"

"With you?"

"Sorry. I forgot what a bitch you are. My fault." Shannon turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

FOURTEEN

1

It had been a long time. Cash had died fifteen years ago this coming July, and she had not had a man since. She wasn't complaining. She had never wanted anyone else. Cash had been her husband, and as far as she was concerned, it would be unfaithful of her to make love with another man.

Still, sometimes she missed it.

Flo glanced up and down the store aisle to make sure no one was watching, then looked at the selection of massagers and vibrators on the shelf in front of her. There was one that strapped on to the user's hand, another that looked like a rubber ball on a wand, but she found herself focusing on the vibrator on the right, the one that looked like a man's penis.

"Excuse me, ma'am. May I help you?"

She jumped at the sound of the voice, turning in embarrassment to face a young man wearing a green Store uniform. She opened her mouth to say something, but no sound came out.

"These are nice models here," the young man said. He gestured toward the vibrators. "Top-of-the-line products. Discount prices."

"I -- I wasn't looking at those," Flo said.

"Yes, you were." The young man smiled, but there was nothing snide or smirking or hurtful in his smile. Nothing lascivious.

Lascivious?

She was old enough to be his grandmother.

"I --" she began.

"You're looking for a vibrator." He picked up the middle model, the wand.

"This one is probably the best if you're going to be massaging your back muscles and those hard-to-reach places. On the other hand, if you're looking to sexually pleasure yourself --"

"I am not!" She was almost shouting, and she felt the heat of embarrassment flush her face. She quickly glanced around, but they were still alone in the aisle.

"It's none of our business if you are. And it's nothing to be ashamed of, ma'am. We're here to provide you with the products you need, not to pass judgment on your lifestyle. Our policy is to make sure that everyone finds what they want and that none of our customers are ashamed or embarrassed. If I've made you feel that way, I am truly sorry."

Flo took a deep breath. "No, I'm sorry. I overreacted."

The young man placed a familiar hand on her shoulder. "Here at The Store, we have a confidential relationship with our customers. Like priests and lawyers, we do not divulge what is said to us in private. It remains between us and the customer. That is one of the cardinal rules listed in _The Employee's Bible_, and it is why we are able to provide such effective customer service."

Flo was silent.

"So anything you say is between me and you. Period." He replaced the wand vibrator and gestured toward the others on the shelf. "Now, if you're really looking for a muscle relaxer . . ."

"No," she said.

He smiled. "I didn't think so."

She looked at him. He was a nice young man, helpful, friendly, easy to talk to. She felt comfortable with him. She trusted him. "Maybe we should start over," she said. "From the beginning."

He nodded. "Very well." He walked down the aisle, turned, walked back, smiling at her. "May I help you, ma'am?"

"Yes," she said. "I'd like to buy a vibrator."

"As you can see, we have several different models for you to choose from."

"I already know which one I want."

"And which one is that, ma'am?"

"That one there," she said, pointing. "The one that looks like a cock."

2

Holly missed the cafй.

She wasn't the only one, either. A lot of the old regulars seemed to be lost, not knowing what to do with their time now that they didn't have a booth bench or a counter stool to park their butts on.

At least she had a job. As part of the purchase agreement, The Store had promised Williamson that all of the cafй's employees would be kept on. She'd assumed that that meant she'd keep her old position. But The Store had shut down the cafй and had transferred her, the cooks, and the other waitresses to the snack bars in The Store.

No, not snack bars.

Eating establishments.

It just wasn't the same. Aside from the froufrou food and the unfriendly coworkers, the space here was cramped, and she didn't feel comfortable, didn't feel she had room to move around. She also didn't like staring out at shoppers all day long.

And The Store didn't allow tipping.

That was her biggest gripe.

Vernon Thompson had followed her over from the cafй. The Store's espresso bar wasn't quite the same, and the old-timer complained about . . . well, just about everything. But she was there and he was there and at least that provided some sense of continuity, some feeling of home.

His buddy, though, was gone. The Store had done what nothing else could and had split up the friendship. From what she heard, Buck now spent his days on a barstool at the Watering Hole. She wasn't sure what had happened or why -- and she didn't want to pry -- but she knew that Vern missed his pal, and it was sad to see the old man moping alone on one of those tiny plastic chairs, trying to talk to other customers who were usually too rushed and busy to even give him the time of day.

She blamed Williamson. Why did that son of a bitch ever have to sell the cafй?

She patted Vern on the back as she poured him yet another in his endless refills of straight, plain, old-fashioned black coffee, started to pick up the oversized cafй au lait mugs from the empty table next to him, and looked up to see Buck, wearing a cowboy hat and an old longcoat, weaving down the center aisle toward the espresso bar.

She glanced over at Vern. He'd seen, too, and they both shared a glance.

Neither of them were sure if this was good or bad, if Buck was coming here to hang out or cause problems, and they waited, unmoving, as he staggered toward them.

"Vernon!" Buck yelled. "You old peckerheaded son of a bitch! How's it hangin'?"

Shoppers across the aisle and customers in the espresso bar turned to look at him, but Buck paid them no heed.

Vern seemed to be unfazed. "Can't complain," he said. "Why don't you draw up a stool, have a sit down?"

"I will, I will." He turned toward Holly. "Holly! My favorite waitress!

Ain't this just like old home week!"

"Sit down," she told him. "I'll get you some coffee, sober you up. On the house."

"Don't want no coffee!"

"Lower your voice. People're staring."

"Don't care!"

Holly looked at Vern for help.

"Come on," Vern told his friend. "Don't make a damn scene."

"I . . ." Buck blinked, looked confused, then quickly recovered. "I want to see the manager!" he announced.

Holly quickly looked around. "No, you don't, Buck. You're drunk. You either sit down and shut up, or you go home now."

"I demand to see the manager!"

"Is there a problem here?" The short, officious man who suddenly appeared next to Holly looked quizzically at Buck. "Is there something I can do for you, sir?" "Yeah, goddamn it. You can take me to the store manager."

"Certainly."

Holly licked her lips, suddenly feeling nervous. She had never met The Store's manager. As far as she knew, no one had. It was not something that was ever talked about or brought up, but by tacit agreement the manager was never mentioned.

She didn't know why.

Now the fact that Buck was going to be taken to him set off a feeling within her that was almost like panic. "He's drunk!" she said.

The short man turned to face her. She had never seen him before, but the name tag on his suit lapel read MR. WALKER. "I know," he said.

"I want to see the manager!" Buck demanded. "Now!"

"But the fact that he's drunk doesn't mean that he has no right to see the manager."

Buck grinned.

"This way, please. I will take you to Mr. Lamb. He will take you in to see the manager."

Holly watched, coffeepot still in hand, as Buck was led straight down the aisle to a door in the far wall. The door opened wide, she saw a stairway leading up, and then the door closed. High up on the wall, near the ceiling, she saw a series of one-way-mirrored windows that she'd never noticed before.

The manager's office.

She shivered.

"What's going to happen?" Vern asked. His voice was low, quiet, and she realized for the first time that he was scared, too.

That made her even more frightened.

"I don't know," she said.

"Could I have some service here?" a man behind her demanded.

Holly held up her hand. "Just a minute." She put down the coffeepot on Vern's table and, on impulse, started walking down the aisle toward the manager's office. Vern came with her.

They were nearly to the door when it opened and Mr. Walker emerged. He scurried away, into the hardware aisles.

Mr. Lamb, the personnel manager, came out seconds later. He quickly scanned the aisle before him, his gaze locking on Holly's. "Is that your friend who wanted to see the manager?"

She nodded dumbly.

His voice was serious, his words orders, but there seemed to be a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Call the paramedics," he said. "I think he's having a heart attack."

3

"Everybody's family's crazy," Diane said.

Shannon shook her head, sighing. "Not as crazy as mine."

The two of them were walking down the path that led through the forest from Granite Road to The Store parking lot. It was hot, felt like summer already, and Shannon wished they'd stopped off at George's to get a Coke or something before starting off on this trek. She was dying of thirst and the path seemed to be a lot longer than Diane had led her to believe.

But at least it gave them a chance to talk.

"My dad makes us say grace before every meal. Jo's a klepto, my brother's a doper, but my dad thinks that if we thank God for the meat loaf, it'll somehow make up for his poor parenting skills and we'll all turn out to be perfect people."

Shannon laughed.

"It's not funny."

"It's a little bit funny."

Diane smiled. "Well, maybe a little. But the point is, compared to me, you have nothing to complain about."

"I wouldn't say that."

"I would. So your dad's a little whacked-out about The Store. Big deal.

There're a lot worse things he could be."

Ahead, through the trees, they could see open space. Sunlight on car windshields. Black asphalt and brown brick. The Store.

"At last," Shannon said. "Civilization."

"Can you imagine what it must have been like in pioneer days? Traveling for months without seeing another human? Living on, like, a drop of canteen water a day?"

Shannon shook her head. "I don't even want to think about it."

They broke through the trees at the side of the parking lot and slid down a short dirt embankment to the asphalt. Diane leading the way, they wound their way through the rows of parked cars toward The Store entrance.

Suddenly Diane stopped short. "Oh, my God."

Shannon almost ran into her. "What is it?"

Diane pointed toward the row directly in front of them. "Mindy."

Mindy Hargrove, her hair disheveled, her clothes in disarray, was running toward them, away from The Store, crying uncontrollably. Shannon stood next to Diane, staring, not knowing what to do. She hadn't seen Mindy for a long time.

The girl's attendance had been sporadic for most of this semester, and for the past month she hadn't been in school at all. The rumor was that she wasn't going to be promoted from eleventh grade, that she'd still be a junior next year.

Everyone felt sorry for Mindy because of what had happened to her father, but at the same time, she'd always been a bitch and no one really felt _too_ sorry for her.

For the first time since it had happened, Shannon thought of her encounter with Mindy on the road home after school.

_It's built with blood_.

The two of them had not spoken since then, although they'd seen each other a couple of times in the halls, and Shannon had sort of assumed that Mindy had been embarrassed by her outburst and had not wanted to be reminded of it. She'd stuck to her nervous breakdown theory and figured that Mindy had merely been looking for a scapegoat for her dad's death.

But for the first time, the thought flashed through her mind that maybe there _was_ something wrong with The Store. Maybe her dad and Mindy weren't so far off.

She immediately dismissed that idea. It was stupid, childish.

Diane moved forward, stepping out from between the cars into the open row of the parking lot.

Mindy suddenly screamed at the top of her lungs and darted to the right, stopping next to the driver's door of an old Buick.

"What's she doing?" Diane said.

Shannon didn't answer. She watched as Mindy, still screaming, pulled a set of keys from her right front pocket and started sorting through them. Her unchecked cries had attracted the attention of a handful of other people in the parking lot and all were staring at her nervously.

"This is spooky," Diane said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Shannon agreed, and they slipped between cars, moving around to the front of the building.

From behind them came the unmistakable sound of metal on metal, and they turned to see the Buick scrape the side of a Volkswagen as it sped through the parking lot away from them, heading toward the highway. A second later, it rounded the far end of the row and sped half the length of the lot, turning down the aisle directly in front of The Store's entrance and immediately accelerating.

"Oh, my God," Shannon said. "She's going to ram the building."

The car gained speed, its engine racing loudly as it shot toward the front doors. Mindy was screaming, her face red and contorted, and even from this far away, Shannon could see the expression of fanatic determination on her features.

The car hit hard with a noise that sounded like an explosion, a crunch that Shannon felt in her stomach and under her feet, like a sonic boom. The bumper and right front panel of the car smashed against the brick, crumpling instantly, but the rest of the car plowed into the doorway, glass shattering inward.

There were screams from all around, inside and outside the store, seemingly everywhere, and Shannon was suddenly aware of the fact that she was running toward the accident, Diane at her side. Mindy was slumped over the steering wheel, completely limp, held in by a shoulder harness, and it looked like she was dead, but with one convulsive jerk she was moving again, and the car, whose engine had never stopped running, lurched backward, tearing free from the building with an excruciating squeal and nearly plowing through the gathering crowd behind it.

From the side, Shannon saw Mindy's face, and it was covered with blood, but that look of crazed determination was still there, and she watched helplessly as the car backed up and then sped forward to make another run.

This time, Mindy missed the entrance entirely and the Buick smashed against the brick wall, bouncing back. It spun once and came to a stop, engine steaming, pieces of metal continuing to fall from underneath the vehicle as it stood there. The air seemed suddenly quiet after the crashes, the cries of the crowd muffled, and Shannon looked through the car's broken window to see if Mindy was still screaming, but she could not see Mindy's face, could only see the stem of the steering wheel that had been embedded there.

From somewhere came a policeman, a uniformed officer who pushed his way through the gathering onlookers and tried unsuccessfully to open the smashed driver's door of the Buick. Unable to budge either the driver's or passenger's doors, he pushed one burly hand through the glassless window, put a hand against Mindy's neck, feeling for a pulse. He looked back, shook his head.

"Is she -- ?" Diane began.

The policeman nodded. "She's dead."

FIFTEEN

1

He heard the saws when he awoke. The saws and the earthmovers.

The Store was expanding.

Bill got up, put on shorts and a T-shirt, went for his morning jog.

Construction had indeed begun on the recently approved addition, and an army of men and machinery were hard at work demolishing the stand of trees behind the building. These were obviously not local construction workers -- the customized state-of-the-art equipment told him that much -- but there was no site sign announcing the contractor's name. He jogged off the highway, into the empty parking lot, and as he drew closer to the side of the building, he could clearly see the logo on the side of a black bulldozer: a shopping cart filled with consumer products.

And the words beneath it: THE STORE CONSTRUCTION COMPANY. A DIVISION OF

THE STORE, INC.

Ben was already at the site, behind the makeshift chain-link fence, taking photos for the paper. Bill saw the editor crouched next to a crane, camera pointed toward the rear of The Store.

"Hey!" Bill called.

Ben saw him, waved, and continued taking photos, moving around the crane to a tangle of fallen trees that were being cut into segments by ten or twelve men all armed with power saws. Bill stood outside the fence, watching, waiting.

Finally, the editor finished his roll of film and walked past a tractor, through the gate, and out to the parking lot.

Bill walked over to meet him. He had to shout to be heard over the saws.

"Why are you out here taking pictures this early? I thought you left that grunt work for your underlings."

"Grunt work? This is what passes for a glamour assignment here in Juniper.

They'll cover this afternoon's Little League game and tonight's school board meeting. I get The Store."

"Dan Rather look out."

"Eat me."

Bill laughed, and the two of them headed slowly across the lot toward the front of The Store, where Ben had parked his car. Bill glanced to his right as they walked. The front entrance of the building had been repaired yesterday. By local workers, he had assumed at the time. Now he was not so sure. He gestured back toward the construction workers. "Are they the ones who fixed the front of the building?"

Ben nodded. "Yep."

"And they're doing the addition alone, with no help from any of our workers here?"

"You got it."

Bill shook his head. "The council could've at least insisted that they use local contractors. I mean, that's pretty crappy. Construction was the only business around here benefiting from The Store --"

"Except for the paper," Ben reminded him.

"Except for the paper," Bill conceded.

"So much for the providing-local-jobs theory, huh?"

"I'd say those people deserved it for being so naive and gullible --"

"Especially when you warned them, right?"

"-- but the rest of us have to suffer the consequences as well." He looked at his friend. "Jerk."

"Come on, you don't think you're becoming just a little holier-than-thou on this subject?"

"You're not?"

"It's my job. I'm a journalist."

They reached Ben's car. "You want me to give you a ride home?" the editor asked, unlocking his door.

Bill shook his head. "That's okay. I need the exercise." He glanced back, saw only the edge of the construction fence behind the building on the south side. There was a loud crash as another ponderosa went down. "They're not going to be happy until every tree in Juniper is cut."

"Joni Mitchell called it. 'Big Yellow Taxi.' "

"Hippie."

"I've already admitted that."

They stood there for a moment, looking at each other over the roof of the car, listening to the sound of the saws.

"There's nothing we can do about any of this, is there?" Bill asked finally.

"It's progress. Hop on the bandwagon or get the fuck out of the way."

Bill stared up at the clear blue sky, ran a quick hand through his hair.

"Any leads on Richardson's store?"

"What do you think?" Ben said.

"Just checking."

"Want my prediction?"

"On what?"

"The Buy-and-Save situation."

"Not really," Bill said, "but give it to me."

"I predict that its final demise will coincide with the completion of this food department here." He motioned toward the construction site. "It'll hold on till then." He looked over the car roof at Bill. "Want to give me odds?"

"I think not." Bill took a deep breath, waved goodbye, and started running. He wanted to be angry and outraged, he'd settle for scared, but he felt only tired and discouraged, and he jogged out of the parking lot and down the highway, heading toward home.

The sound of the saws followed him all the way.

2

Ginny usually spent recesses in the classroom -- they were only ten minutes long, which didn't really give her a chance to do anything -- but today she felt restless, antsy, and after leading her kids out to the playground, she hurried over to the staff lounge for a quick cup of coffee.

The lounge was empty save for Lorraine Hepperton, who was sitting on the couch, humming to herself.

Ginny smiled at the other teacher as she strode over to the coffee machine. "My, aren't we in a good mood today."

Lorraine smiled back. "Yes, we are."

Ginny laughed. She poured herself a cup of coffee, then walked over to the couch, sitting a cushion away from her friend. "So how're things going?" she asked.

"Here at school or in my real life?"

"Is there a difference?"

"There is now." Lorraine rummaged through the purse at her side. "Want to see what I bought?"

"Sure --" she started to say, but Lorraine had already found what she was looking for and held up a doll, an ugly, particularly nasty looking doll, an orange figure ostensibly human but with stiff bristle hair that extruded from the misshapen head in strange clumps and an off-center face comprised of black cloth dots connected by thread. The figure was nude, and an exaggerated vulva protruded from between its legs.

Ginny grimaced. "What is it?"

"A voodoo doll. I bought it at The Store."

"Why?"

"To try out. I figure it can't hurt." She chuckled. "I call it Meg."

Ginny was shocked. "You're joking!"

"No, I'm not." She glanced quickly toward the door to make sure there was no one else coming into the room, then withdrew a pincushion from her purse. She pulled out a pin, inserted it in the figure's left breast, pressing it all the way in.

She giggled.

A chill crept down Ginny's neck. She could not imagine any national chain store selling something like this, not even as a joke or gag gift, and she wondered where in The Store this creepy little doll was displayed.

Lorraine inserted another pin in the doll's stomach.

_The black convoy_.

Ginny stood, moved away from the couch, feeling cold. She turned around by the coffee machine. "You don't think that thing really works, do you? You don't believe that stuff?"

Lorraine turned the doll over, held out the tag. "Made in Haiti."

She still wasn't sure how serious the other teacher was. Lorraine's voice was pleasant, her tone light, but she did not sound the least bit jocular or facetious. It was as if this was a normal conversation, as if they were discussing the fabric quality of a new blouse.

Lorraine pulled out one more pin, pressed it directly into the oversized vulva, then put both the pincushion and the doll back inside her purse. A split second later, another teacher walked through the open doorway into the lounge.

"Hello, Meg," Lorraine said sweetly.

SIXTEEN

1

"The school year's almost over," Ginny said.

Bill glanced over at her. "Happy?"

"Yeah. I am. It's been a long year."

"Any more voodoo dolls lately?"

She shook her head.

"Witches' sabbaths? Satanic rituals?"

"Not funny," she said.

He sighed. "No. I guess it's not."

They were silent for a moment. The house was still, quiet. Both Sam and Shannon were gone, out with their respective friends, and the only noise was the muted hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

"She'll have to quit after summer," Ginny said. "Once she goes off to school."

"I wasn't even thinking about that."

"Bullshit."

"You're right." Bill leaned back on the couch, stared up at the ceiling."Maybe she can get a summer job on campus, leave early."

"She hasn't even decided where she's going. She has to pick a college first."

"It depends on which one offers the best financial aid package."

They were quiet again, and Bill closed his eyes. He felt tired. He'd been tired a lot lately, though he wasn't sure why. He hadn't been getting any less sleep or doing any more work than usual. Stress, he supposed. He'd had a lot on his mind. Too much.

"We never sit outside anymore," Ginny said out of the blue.

He opened his eyes, turned his head toward her. "What?"

"We never sit outside anymore. Have you noticed that? We never sit on the porch together. You're always in front of your computer and I'm watching TV."

"We sit together. We're sitting together now."

"But not outside. We used to go outside after dinner, look up at the stars, talk. Remember that?"

"You're the one who doesn't like to go out at night. The bugs eat you alive."

"That's not the point." She moved closer, put an arm around his shoulder.

"We don't spend as much time together as we used to."

She was right, he realized. He hadn't thought about it before, but despite the fact that he worked at home and she usually came home from school before four, the only quality time they seemed to spend together was in bed. It was as if they lived two separate existences under the same roof. It hadn't always been this way. Once upon a time, they'd spent every free moment together. As she'd pointed out, they'd sit on the porch, cuddle, talk about the past, plan for the future. It was partially the girls, he supposed. When they were around, it was pretty hard to be intimate.

But he couldn't blame everything on them.

"You're right," he said. "We should spend more time together."

"It's almost summer. It's warm enough to sit on the porch."

"You want to go outside? Look at stars?"

She kissed him. "There's hope for us yet."

"Did you ever doubt it?"

"No," she said slowly, and her voice was surprisingly serious. "I never did."

2

They all had to attend Sam's graduation.

As a family.

Shannon had wanted to sit with her friends, who were clustered in the right front corner of the bleachers, near the gate through which the graduates would walk, but her parents said this was a family event and the family was going to celebrate it together.

Her grandparents had come over for the occasion, and she sat between her two grandmothers on the hot metal bench. Her father was manning the video camera, and she had been given the Nikon and assigned to take still photographs.

At least it gave her something to do. She loved her grandparents and all, was glad to see them, but it was kind of uncool to be hanging with them while her friends were on their own and had the run of the field.

She saw Diane hop over the rail of the bleachers and dash over to Zona Marsden, who was in the band, seated to the right of the empty folding chairs set up for the graduates. The two girls talked for a moment, heads huddled together, then both burst out laughing. Diane sped back across the athletic field and disappeared around the side of the bleachers.

Shannon thought of asking her dad if she could go with Diane, prepared to argue that she'd be able to get better pictures of Sam if she was down there with her, but at that moment, the band started up, playing some anonymous march, and red-jacketed ushers began leading teachers and school administrators to the first row of folding chairs.

"Make sure you get Sam when she steps onto the field!" her dad called, moving to the bleacher aisle and starting down the steps as he turned on the video camera.

"I will." Shannon stood, moved past her Grandma Jo and Grandpa Fred, and followed her father down the metal steps to the edge of the bleachers in order to get a better shot.

The adults were seated and the first graduates filed onto the field. They were doing it alphabetically, and the graduating class wasn't very big, so Sam would be near the beginning. Shannon took off the lens cap and adjusted the focus on the camera so she'd be able to just point and shoot when Samantha walked out.

"Here she comes!" her dad called.

Shannon snapped a photo as soon as Sam and her paired partner stepped through the gate, another as she approached the folding chairs, another as she sat down.

She'd be going through this herself next year. She wouldn't have the extra yellow tassel probably -- her grades weren't as good as Sam's -- but she'd be graduating. She glanced back at her grandparents. All four of them were smiling, and she knew they were happy, but the smiles seemed strained, as though they were in pain and had to force themselves to be cheerful. It suddenly hit her how old and frail her grandparents were, and the thought crossed her mind that they might not all be here for her graduation next year. She instantly pushed the horrible thought away, afraid to even think it, worried on some superstitious level that simply acknowledging the possibility might make it a reality.

She moved back to her seat for the remainder of the ceremony, putting warm hands on her grandmothers' cold, thin arms as prayers were said and speeches were read. Her dad remained in place, videotaping.

She went back down to the edge of the bleachers with her father when they started issuing diplomas, and she took a picture of Sam rising from her chair, another of her standing at the head of the line waiting to receive her diploma.

When they announced the name Samantha Davis over the loudspeaker, she couldn't resist, and even as she snapped a photo of Sam accepting the diploma from the principal, she whooped loudly, screamed.

Quite a few other people screamed and clapped as well. Sam was one of the most popular seniors in school, and while Shannon often found herself somewhat annoyed by that, she experienced a surge of pride today, and she was proud to be the sister of Samantha Davis.

After the ceremony, they were taking pictures in front of the Juniper Union High School sign, Samantha posing with both sets of grandparents, when Diane, breathless, came running up. She waved to Sam, nodded to her parents, then stood directly in front of Shannon. "They need two people to work the punch bowl at Grad Night," she said. "You want to do it?"

"What?"

"Smith and Jimmy got caught trying to smuggle a bottle of scotch into the gym. I guess they were going to spike the punch. It's supposed to be a sober grad night, no alcohol, so they were automatically kicked out, and now they're looking for two replacements. Mr. Handy said it's ours if we want it."

Shannon looked hopefully at her mother.

"Go ahead," her mom said, smiling.

"Yes!" Diane pumped a fist in the air and grinned. "I'll tell them we're in." She started running back down the sloping grass toward the gymnasium.

"Where and when?" Shannon called.

Diane turned around, running backward. "Meet me at the gym when you're through here!"

"We're going out to eat!"

"Eight o'clock, then! The gym!"

Shannon nodded, waved, and Diane disappeared into the crowd of still milling parents.

Dinner, Shannon thought, was somewhat depressing. They went to the Castle Creek Steakhouse, the closest thing to a decent restaurant in this area of the state, but so did half the graduating class. And although Sam spent most of the meal visiting with friends, talking to other kids, it was conspicuously obvious that she didn't have a boyfriend. Most of the other girls in the restaurant, except the losers, were eating out with their families and their boyfriends.

Shannon knew for a fact that at least six boys had asked Sam to Grad Night although she had decided to go stag -- but it wasn't the same as having one special person to share this special night with.

She missed Jake.

That's what it came down to, really, and she found herself wondering if she would have a boyfriend by the time she graduated or if she would end up going out to dinner with just her parents and her sister and her grandparents.

Maybe not even all of her grandparents.

God, this was turning out to be a depressing night.

Things improved greatly after dinner, though. They all went home, she and Sam quickly changed into party clothes . . . and then changed again into party clothes that were acceptable to their parents, and their dad dropped them off at school.

After he drove away, Shannon shyly gave her sister a special graduation present she'd bought herself. She'd contributed to the PC and printer that the whole family had chipped in on, but she'd wanted to get Samantha something more personal, less practical. Something that was just from her. So she'd gone down to Ellen's Attic and, with the allowance and baby-sitting money she'd saved all year, bought her sister an antique brooch.

"I know you like those things," Shannon said. "And I thought it would be a good graduation present."

"It's a wonderful present!" Sam hugged her, awkwardly yet gratefully.

"Thank you so much." She immediately pinned it to her blouse. "What do Mom and Dad think?"

"I didn't tell them. It's from me to you, so I wanted you to see it first."

Sam smiled. "It may not seem like it sometimes, but I really am glad you're my sister."

Shannon looked away, embarrassed. "Me, too," she said.

They split up after that, Sam walking over to where her friends were congregating for the last time at Senior Corner, Shannon heading straight to the gym, where Diane was already filling paper cups with red fruit punch.

"It's about time you got here," she said. "Help me fill these up before the rush starts."

Grad Night this year was sponsored by The Store, all of the decorations and refreshments, even the entertainment donated or paid for by The Store. A big banner strung above the doorway announced WELCOME TO THE STORE'S FIRST ANNUAL

GRAD NIGHT CELEBRATION!

That was nice, Shannon supposed, but it also meant that they had to abide by rules and regulations imposed by The Store. Traditionally, Juniper's Grad Night parties lasted from dusk until dawn, with parent and teacher volunteers chaperoning the kids inside the gym and policemen monitoring the parking lot and the streets abutting the school in order to make sure there was no trouble. This year, however the chaperons had been scrapped. The Store had supplied its own security. And the police would probably have very little to do in the parking lot or on the street because once seniors entered the Grad Night party, they were not allowed to leave the gym.

This was all supposed to cut down on problems and troublemakers, but to Shannon it lent to the celebration an uneasy atmosphere. Teachers and administrators were still in attendance, but they were relegated to the sidelines: making lame announcements from the stage between songs, helping students serve refreshments. In contrast, stoic guards in green Store uniforms were conspicuously stationed around the gym to monitor the partiers' behavior and to block all exits. The guards were not people from town but part of the group of initial Store employees brought in from the corporate office. No one knew them, and they knew no one, and it made for an unsettling time. This was supposed to be a graduation party, a celebration of freedom from compulsory schooling, but it felt more like a dance at a prison, and long before midnight Shannon was sorry she'd agreed to help out. She felt like she was being watched all the time, monitored, and it was a feeling she didn't like.

Sam stopped by several times throughout the early evening, accompanied by different dance partners, but eventually Shannon lost track of her sister, and the next time she saw her, several hours later, Sam was huddled with a group of Store guards to the left of the bandstand.

During a break in the music, while Mr. Handy gave out joke awards that were supposed to be humorous but were merely embarrassing, Shannon made a quick trip to the bathroom. Sam was already in there with a bunch of other girls, and she put a hand on Shannon's shoulder. "I've been promoted," she said. "I'm going to be lead in Housewares this summer. They're letting me out of Infants. I guess they like me."

"What's a lead?"

"It's the lead salesperson. The department manager'll be over me, but I'm pretty much second in command. I'll be like the boss of all the Housewares part timers."

"Who told you? One of those guys guarding the door?"

"Yeah. Ray."

Shannon smiled teasingly. "Ooh, first-name basis. Is there something going on here I should know about?"

"With Ray?" Sam laughed. "I don't think so."

"Well, I'm happy for you," Shannon said. "That's great."

But it wasn't that great, and she wondered why her sister seemed so proud and excited over such a trivial thing. Sam had always disdained those girls at their school who set their career sights no higher than being a waitress or a sales clerk. She was adamant about getting out of this town and getting an education and becoming part of what she called "the real world." It seemed completely out of character for her to feel honored because some security guard told her she'd gotten a minor promotion in her menial part-time job.

Shannon wondered if she should tell her parents what she thought but decided that it would only make her dad crazy. He had a bug up his butt about The Store, anyway, and this would only make him worse. So she said good-bye to Sam, pushed it out of her mind, and by the time she returned to the refreshment table she had completely forgotten it.

SEVENTEEN

1

The addition was finished.

The grand opening of The Store's new grocery department was tomorrow.

It was impossible to believe that it had been completed so quickly.

Groundbreaking had been only a little over a month ago. By the time Ben's photos of that morning had appeared in the paper, they were already out of date.

Construction had moved ahead so rapidly that, according to the town council, it was all Juniper's various inspectors could do to keep up.

Bill had jogged by there this morning, and already the banners had been strung, the helium balloons tied in place. A page of coupons had appeared in the paper on Saturday, offering such outrageously low-priced items as one-cent lettuce and twenty-five-cents-a-pound catfish fillet. The Store was bribing people to shop in its food department, and Bill knew the bribes were working, because he and Ginny were going to stock up on a bunch of groceries tomorrow and if _they_ could be bought, anyone could be bought.

He wished there was another place in town to buy foodstuffs. But Ben had been right. Buy-and-Save was scheduled to shut its doors next week -- just after The Store's grocery department opened. Already, the place looked abandoned. He drove down Main, slowed as he passed the market. The windows were dirty and dark, and there were only two cars in the parking lot. Employees' cars, probably.

Once Buy-and-Save closed, there'd be only The Store.

He wondered what had happened to Jed. Rumor had it that he'd skipped town, owing bills, but he didn't know anyone who actually bought that story. It was completely out of character for Jed, and Bill had the feeling that the truth was something far less ordinary and far less benign.

And connected to The Store.

He drove by the empty cafй. The windows were soaped up, whited out. As were the windows on an increasing number of storefronts in town.

It was Tuesday, benefits day, and up ahead the line in front of the unemployment office was long. Even longer than it had been after the lumber mill closed. It wound outside of the brown brick building and around the corner to the parking lot. At the end of the line he saw Frank Wilson, one of Hargrove's old cronies, and while a small mean part of him wanted to gloat because the man had gotten what he'd deserved, he couldn't really feel good about it.

Revenge was not always sweet.

There were quite a few construction workers in line, and underneath the metal letters euphemistically identifying the building as the Arizona Department of Economic Security, he saw Ted Malory. He waved, but Ted didn't see him, and he continued on, not wanting to honk and draw attention to himself.

According to Ted's wife, The Store had stiffed him on the roofing job he'd done, not paying the amount originally agreed upon, deducting money from the payment for imaginary errors and oversights. He hadn't had a job since, had had to lay off his whole crew, and Charlinda said they'd probably have to file for bankruptcy. To top it off, his son and a group of other boys had recently been caught dropping M80s down the toilets at school, and, along with the parents of the other boys, Ted and Charlinda were responsible for covering those damages as well. Trouble came in waves, his grandfather used to say, and that sure as hell seemed to be true.

Especially these days.

Street's store was still in business, and he stopped by, bought a diamond needle for his turntable that he didn't need, then walked over to the record store.

Doane nodded a greeting as he stepped inside.

"Hey," Bill said.

"Hey, yourself."

"I probably shouldn't ask," Bill said, heading over to the used-CD rack, "but how're things today?"

"Well, you heard what happened to the radio station, didn't you?"

He shook his head. "No. What?"

"The Store bought it."

He stopped walking, turned to face the store owner. "Shit."

"Yep. They kept it quiet, but I guess the deal was finalized last week.

The station switched over this morning." He smiled mirthlessly. "They even changed their call letters. The station is now called K-STOR."

"Why?"

Doane shrugged. "I guess they want to control what we hear as well as what we buy." He walked behind the counter, turned on his receiver, and the sounds of an obnoxious rap group blared through the speakers. "From what I can tell, they're only playing music they have in stock. You know that old saying, 'People don't know what they like, they like what they know'? Well, that's especially true in music. That's why there were all those payoff scandals years ago. It's a fact of life: if music gets played on the radio, if people hear it often enough, they start liking it." He turned off the receiver. "They'll have no problem moving their stock."

"But why did Ward and Robert sell? The station had to be making money."

"Rumor is, The Store made them an offer they couldn't refuse."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Doane shrugged.

"You mean they were offered big bucks? Or they were threatened?"

"Maybe both." He held up a finger before Bill could respond. "I'm only repeating what I heard. I don't know any more than that."

Bill did not even feel like arguing. He should feel like ranting and raving. But he didn't. He felt drained, tried. He recalled his dream about the asphalt machine. That's what The Store seemed like to him: an unstoppable force hell-bent on bulldozing its way over the livelihoods and lifestyles of the town.

"As you heard, they've switched formats already. They're playing top forty. Period. No country."

"No country?"

"Not anymore."

"People won't stand for that in this town."

"They'll have no choice. Besides, people are basically passive. They'll piss and moan for a while, but they'll get used to it. They'll adjust. It'll be more convenient for them to listen to the music they're being offered than to write a letter or make a phone call or do something to change it. It's human nature."

He was right, Bill knew. It was depressing but true. Human beings' capacity to adjust to almost anything was supposed to be one of their greatest virtues, but it was also one of their greatest weaknesses. It rendered them compliant, allowed them to be exploited.

Doane smiled weakly. "Promise me something. If you ever win the lottery, if you win, like, thirty million dollars in the Powerball or something, buy the station back and put on some decent music."

Bill forced himself to smile. "It's a deal."

There was nothing new in the store, and nothing that he really wanted or needed, but he bought a few CD versions of albums that he already had on vinyl.

He'd probably spent more in Doane's store in the past three months than he had in the entire previous year, but Ginny seemed to understand why, and he didn't think she'd give him a hard time about today's purchases.

It was out of his way, but he drove past The Store on his trip home. In contrast to the deserted downtown streets, The Store's parking lot was crowded.

Even though it was a workday.

Even though it was the middle of the afternoon.

He drove by without slowing, glancing out the passenger window. All trace of the original meadow was gone. The contours and topography of the clearing had been changed completely, and the location now looked as though The Store had always been there.

He turned right down the road that led through Creekside Acres and drove down the dirt road toward home.

Where he spent the rest of the afternoon working on the documentation for The Store's accounting package.

2

Summer.

Shannon awoke late, ate a leisurely breakfast, and spent the rest of the morning lying on her bed, staring into space and listening to the radio. She hated summer, although she didn't know when that had started, when her feelings had flip-flopped. She used to love the season. As a child, there'd been nothing better than three months with no school, and the long days had been filled with limitless possibilities. She'd awakened early each morning, gone to bed late each night, and spent the sunny hours in between playing with her friends.

But she didn't play anymore, and now the days stretched endlessly before her, a massive block of time in which she had nothing to do.

It wouldn't have been so boring if her friends had been around, but this summer they all either had jobs or had gone on vacation with their relatives.

Even Diane was working, spending the days behind the cash register at her father's gas station.

It would have been different if she'd had a boyfriend. Then she would've welcomed the freedom. She wouldn't even have minded the absence of her friends.

She would have had plenty to do with her time.

Jake.

She still missed him. He'd been a jerk sometimes -- a lot of the time but she missed having someone to talk with, to walk with, to snuggle with, to just be with.

It was still hard to get used to the fact that someone who had meant everything to her, who'd claimed to love her, with whom she had shared intimate secrets, embarrassing fears, now didn't care if she lived or died. It was a hard thing to reconcile, a big adjustment to make, and she thought that this was what it must feel like when someone you love dies. The emotional withdrawal was the same.

She breathed deeply and with difficulty, stared out the window of her bedroom. It was one of those still summer days that were far too common in Arizona. Blue sky, no clouds. Heavy air: hot, no breeze. It might have been bearable if they had air conditioning, but they didn't, and the fan she'd set up on her dresser only created a weak warm current that died halfway across the room. She thought of Sam, working in The Store. Air-conditioning. People. Music.

Noise. Life. It suddenly sounded good to her and she decided at that moment that instead of wasting her summer vegging out and watching soap operas and television talk shows she'd get a job herself. There was nothing she really wanted to buy, no specific reason she needed to earn money, but she could take what she made this summer, put it in the bank, and get a head start on saving for her own college education.

Excited and newly energized, she bounded out of bed and hurried down the hall to her dad's office. The door was closed, but she opened it without knocking. "Daddy?"

He looked up from his computer. "What is it, daughter dearest?"

"Stop being a buffoon."

"That's why you invaded my privacy? To insult me?"

"No. I want to get a job."

The expression on his face shifted, hardened. "Where?"

"I was thinking of applying at The Store."

"I don't want you working there," he said grimly.

"Why? Everyone else does. Sam does."

"Sam's older." He paused. "Besides, I don't like her working there, either."

"Fine. I'll apply somewhere else, then. Although, just in case you haven't noticed, business is not exactly booming in Juniper."

"Why do you want to get a job anyway? It's summer. Enjoy it. You'll be working for the rest of your life. You might as well enjoy your summers while you're still a kid."

"Earth to Dad. I'm seventeen. I'm not a kid anymore."

He smiled sweetly. "You'll always be my little girl."

"Buffoon alert."

"You still haven't answered my question. Why do you want to get a job?"

"I'm bored. All my friends are either working or gone. There's nothing to do." "There's always something to do --"

"I don't want an inspirational speech. I just want to find a job."

"Go ahead," he said. "With my blessing." He met her eyes. "Anywhere but The Store."

She nodded, started to close the door and turn away, then swiveled back to face him. "Can I take the car?"

"Your mom has the Jeep and Sam took the Toyota. But if you can find a third car in the garage, you're welcome to it."

"I forgot," she said sheepishly.

"Have a nice walk, and don't forget to close the door behind you."

She closed his office door, heading down the hallway to the kitchen, where she pulled a Dr Pepper out of the refrigerator. She considered scrapping the whole idea. Or at least waiting for another day. It was hot as blazes out there, and she'd be drenched with sweat by the time she walked all the way into town.

The chance of anyone hiring a sweaty, smelly seventeen-year-old for any position was pretty slim.

But an endless afternoon stretched before her, and she'd already had enough of those the past few weeks to last her a lifetime. She needed to get out of the house, find something to do. Besides, no one was going to want to interview her today. She'd just pick up applications this afternoon, bring them home and fill them out, then return them tomorrow.

And she already knew where she really planned to apply.

The Store.

Any other place in town probably would give her an instant interview, a quick yes or no. The Store was the only employer big enough to be impersonal, and despite the promise she'd given her dad, it was the only place she wanted to work.

She knew her parents didn't like The Store for some reason, but she wasn't exactly sure why. Some of the rules for employees seemed to be weird -- like that dating prohibition (wasn't it usually the other way around?) -- and it still made her feel uncomfortable when she thought of the Store guards at the Grad Night party overseeing the rest of them as though they were cattle -- and Mindy -- but there didn't really seem to be anything about the place that would generate the sort of bizarre hatred her parents, and especially her dad, seemed to feel.

It was probably a political thing.

Her parents were big on that stuff.

She went into her bedroom and grabbed her purse, just in case she needed ID. "I'm going!" she called out.

"Good luck!" her dad yelled.

She let the screen door slam behind her and walked down the long drive to the road, where two of Mr. Sutton's horses were watching her forlornly from behind their fenced barricade. She ran across the dirt road, jumped the ditch, and gave them each a quick hug, murmuring reassuringly. If she'd seen them from the porch, she would've gotten some sugar cubes from the kitchen for them, but she didn't want to turn back now, and she patted each of the horses, promising to bring them a treat next time. The animals were hot, too, miserable in this windless weather and trying to stay in the shade. It was edging into the warmest part of the day, and though the horses obviously wanted company, she had to get going, and she gave them each a quick good-bye hug and jumped back over the ditch onto the road, heading toward town.

By the time she reached The Store, it looked like she'd been running a marathon. Her blouse and shorts were sticking to her skin, her hair hung in wet clumps about her face. She couldn't ask for an application looking like this, so she bought a can of cold Coke from the newly installed machine next to the door and sat outside on the bench next to the building, staring out at the parking lot while she tried to cool off.

She looked around. This was the spot where Mindy had crashed into the wall, and though she hadn't thought of it in several weeks, she suddenly saw in her mind the stem of the car's steering wheel bloodily embedded in Mindy's face.

_It's built with blood_.

She took a deep breath, feeling a slight chill pass through her. Maybe her parents' feelings weren't quite so unfounded.

But then she looked out into the parking lot and saw a mother happily pushing a shopping cart toward the front entrance, a little boy singing loudly from his cart seat.

There was nothing weird here. This was a normal discount retail store.

There'd been some bad luck, maybe, some negative coincidences, but that sort of thing happened everywhere, all the time.

The woman passed by her bench, and the little boy waved at Shannon. "Hi!" he said.

She smiled at him. "Hi."

A few minutes later, she was sufficiently cooled off, no longer sweating, and she walked into The Store, feeling a welcome burst of air-conditioning as she stepped through the doors into the building. A smiling director asked if she needed some assistance, she told him she wanted to get a job application, and he directed her to the Customer Service desk. The woman behind the counter, who Shannon remembered from Buy-and-Save, gave her an application and a pen and told her to move down to the end of the counter and fill in the requested information.

"We don't have many openings left," she said, "but you're in luck. There's a clerk position available in the Garden department."

"I'll take it," Shannon said.

The woman smiled. "Fill out the application, and we'll see."

Shannon did so, turned it in, then walked through The Store looking for Sam. She found her sister behind the register in the Housewares department, conspicuously yawning while an elderly woman lectured her for not being helpful.

Shannon pretended to look at dishes and silverware until the woman finally left, disgusted.

Samantha smiled. "We get all kinds." She looked down the aisle behind Shannon. "Mom and Dad here, too?"

Shannon shook her head. "Just me."

"To what do I owe the honor?"

"I'm applying for job here."

Sam's expression darkened.

"I thought you could help me," Shannon said quickly.

"You don't want to work here," Sam said.

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"Look, I was just asking you to put in a good word for me. But if that's too difficult for you, forget it. God, I didn't think you were going to turn it into a whole big thing."

"I'll tell Dad."

Shannon stared at her sister. "Thanks. Thanks a lot."

"I don't think you --"

"I already turned in the application. If you won't help me, fine. But I'm going to get a job here."

"You already turned it in?"

"Yeah."

Sam took a deep breath, and a look of -- what? fear? -- passed over her face. "Okay, I'll take care of it," she said.

"Take care of what?"

"There are tests and things you're supposed to go through before you get hired, but I'll see if I can get you out of it. I . . . think I can."

Shannon nodded. "Thanks," she said grudgingly.

Sam looked sick, almost physically ill. "Go home," she said. "They shouldn't see us together."

"Why?"

"Just go. I'll . . . talk to some people, and I'll tell you what happens tonight." She smiled, but her smile was forced, closer to a grimace, and once again, Shannon thought of Mindy.

_It's built with blood_.

She looked at her sister. "Thanks," she said again.

Sam nodded.

Shannon walked back through The Store toward the entrance, feeling uneasy but not knowing why.

Her mom was already home by the time she arrived back at the house. She was sorting through a pile of papers and mimeograph sheets on the coffee table in the living room, but she looked up as Shannon walked in. "Your father said you were out job-hunting."

"Yeah."

"Where did you apply?" her mom asked.

"Where didn't I apply?" she lied.

"Any luck?"

Shannon shrugged. "I don't know. There don't seem to be too many places looking for help right now."

"Summer school starts on Monday. I could use an aide."

Shannon snorted derisively.

"Ten bucks a week. And it'll look good on your resume for college."

"We'll see. If I don't get a job, maybe I'll do it."

Samantha arrived home late. She walked directly into her sister's room and shut the door behind her. "You're hired," she said. "Report tomorrow. Ten o'clock. Mr. Lamb."

"Thanks."

Sam nodded.

She looked tired, Shannon thought. And pale. Sick. "Are you all right?" she asked "I'm fine," Samantha snapped.

"Just asking."

"What are you going to tell Mom and Dad?"

"I'll think of something."

"Just leave me out of it."

"Okay." Shannon watched her sister turn and walk silently out of the room.

A few moments later, she heard the shower running in the bathroom. She considered telling her parents that she'd gotten a job -- she had to tell them, since she started work tomorrow -- but she didn't know what to say and needed some time to come up with a plan.

They'd freak if they knew she'd be working at The Store.

Shannon lay on her bed, reading a magazine, and after Sam finished with her shower, she waited another ten minutes for the steam to clear out of the bathroom, then went in to take her own bath.

She pulled up the metal knob that plugged the drain and began running the water, testing it first with her fingers to make sure the temperature was okay.

She undressed, opened the hamper to toss in her shirt and jeans, and saw Sam's panties lying on top of the other clothes. They were spotted with blood, and though at first Shannon thought nothing of it, she realized seconds later that her sister's period was not due for another few weeks.

Shannon paused. She thought of how worn out and sickly Sam had seemed tonight, and she considered asking her about it, seeing if anything was the matter, but she simply stared down at the bloody cotton underwear for a few moments, then threw in her own clothes, let the lid of the hamper fall, and stepped into the tub, sinking into the water.

She told her parents after her bath.

They were seated on the couch, watching TV, and she walked into the living room and stood before them. She'd considered just coming out and telling them the truth, considered easing them into the truth, but finally decided that the best course of action, the only course of action in this instance, was to lie.

"I got a job," she said.

Her mom smiled. "That's great. Where?"

"When did you find out?" her dad asked. His voice was serious, not supportive, and she detected the beginnings of a frown on his face.

"Just now."

"How?"

"They called," she told him.

"I didn't hear the phone ring."

"It rang. I answered it. I got the job."

"Where?" her mom repeated.

"Yes," her dad said. "Where?"

Was that suspicion she saw on his features? She swallowed hard, tried to smile. "George's," she lied. "The hamburger stand."

Mr. Lamb was waiting for her the next morning by the Customer Service desk. She'd carpooled in with Sam, and she was a half hour early for her appointment, but Mr. Lamb was waiting for her anyway, and he smiled as he shook her hand. His skin was cool to the touch, his smile cold, and she wished Sam had stayed with her as the personnel manager began giving her a brief description of her duties. He paused in his prepared speech, as if reading her mind. "Yes," he said. "You're very lucky to have a sister like Samantha. She's quite a woman."

His smile broadened. "Quite a woman."

Shannon felt chilled. She should've listened to Sam and her parents, she thought. She should not have applied for a job here.

This was a mistake.

Suddenly, a summer of lying on her bed, reading magazines and listening to the radio, seemed pleasant rather than boring, seemed like what she should be doing with her time, and for a brief second she considered turning down the job, quitting, getting out of here.

But Mr. Lamb was now leading her out of the Customer Service area, taking her on a tour of The Store, and it was too late. The chance had passed.

Too late?

Why was it too late?

She didn't know, but it was, and she followed him down the aisles, through the departments, as he explained the layout and operation of The Store.

Her panic passed, her uneasiness disappearing as quickly as it had come.

Mr. Lamb showed her the break room, the locker room, took her through a stockroom, led her into a room lined with video screens in which Jake and his fellow security men monitored the building.

Jake, thank God, wasn't there.

She wondered what she'd do if she ran into Jake in the break room or something. How would she handle it? She tried to tell herself that the fact that Jake worked at The Store was another reason that she shouldn't have applied here, but she knew deep down that he was one of the reasons she had. Despite what she told people, despite what she pretended, somewhere in the back of her mind was the thought that they might get back together again.

Mr. Lamb was definitely a weirdo, but the initial chill she'd felt in his presence was gone, and the deeper into the building they went -- Mr. Lamb introducing her to other, smiling employees along the way -- the more comfortable she felt about The Store. She could work in this place. She could fit in here.

They took a small elevator downstairs, to a concrete-lined hallway that looked like a bunker, and he showed her a conference room and a training room and then stopped before an arched doorway with gilt-edged trim.

"Here," he said, "is the chapel."

Shannon glanced through the doorway, into the room. For a brief second, the coldness returned. Pews were arranged in rows, scented candles burned in twin alcoves in the side walls, but instead of a pulpit or altar at the front of the chapel there was a huge portrait of Newman King, lined with red velvet.

"This is where the department managers hold their meetings each morning.

Before the store opens, they pray to Mr. King that we will have a profitable day." Pray to Mr. King?

She'd seen The Store's founder on TV, on the news, and while he was obviously a rich and powerful man, he was not a god, and the idea that the man or woman she'd be working under came in here each morning and ritualistically prayed to the painting of a millionaire creeped her out.

Then they were moving on, back into the elevator, back onto what Mr. Lamb called The Floor, and shoppers and browsers were roaming the aisles, sitting in the sushi and espresso bars, and Shannon was thinking how lucky she was to have been hired by The Store.

"That's it for now," Mr. Lamb said. "There'll be a week's worth of training classes -- how to work the cash registers, handle customers and the like -- then there'll be a two-week probation period, then you'll be in." He handed her a photocopied schedule of training classes. "Your first class is tonight, in the downstairs training room. Be there or be square."

"Uh, thank you," she said.

He grinned. "Thank your sister." He looked her over, starting at her feet, moving up to her hair, then nodded, satisfied. "I think you'll be a model Store employee."

"I'll try," she said.

He started to walk back behind the Customer Service counter, then stopped and turned at the last minute. "A word of advice?" he said. "Lose the baby fat.

You're a little chubby. We don't like to have fat bitches working for The Store.

Not a good public image."

He smiled, waved, then stepped behind the counter and disappeared into an office.

Fat bitches?

She was shocked, not sure how to respond, not sure even what she felt. It had been said so offhandedly, so casually, that she was not even sure she'd heard him correctly.

No. She knew she had.

It was an unprofessional thing to say. That was her first response. A person in a position of authority shouldn't talk like that, shouldn't use words like that.

Her second response was to walk over to Women's Clothing and find a mirror.

Baby fat.

Chubby.

Was she really overweight? He'd zeroed in on that, offered it without being asked, practically ordered her to lose weight if she wanted to keep this job, so obviously it wasn't just a matter of her being paranoid, wasn't just a matter of perception. She had a problem.

She felt more defiant than hurt, more angry than embarrassed, but then she saw herself in the mirror, and all of those self-preservation instincts fled.

He was right.

She turned to the left, turned to the right, looked at her backside over her shoulder.

She'd have to stop eating so much. Her mom would throw a fit, give her that anorexia/bulimia lecture, but she'd stick to her guns this time.

It had been confirmed by a third party.

She was fat.

"May I be of assistance?"

She turned to see a trim middle-aged woman in a Store uniform smiling helpfully at her.

"No," she said. "Thanks."

She turned, walked down the main aisle toward the entrance.

That was it. She'd skip lunch today.

Maybe dinner.

She walked through the front doors.

Maybe she'd cut out breakfasts entirely.

EIGHTEEN

1

The town was broke.

For the first time since Bill had begun attending meetings, the council chambers were full, all of the seats taken. Ben had really played this up in the paper, had even sent Trudy out to interview Tyler Calhoun, the president of the chamber of commerce, and Leslie Jones, their county supervisor, about what would happen to the town and the county if Juniper was forced to declare bankruptcy.

The articles had obviously stimulated quite a bit of interest among the townspeople and had spurred many of them into attending tonight's meeting.

Bill sat in his usual seat, next to Ben, who was grinning hugely. "Quite a turnout, huh?"

"You're taking credit for it?"

"Of course."

"It is pretty impressive," Bill admitted.

"Don't get your hopes up yet. I've been eavesdropping on the conversations behind me, and we've got some staunch Store supporters back there. They're not all disgruntled citizens."

"But they can't be happy with the idea of bankruptcy."

The meeting was called to order before Ben could respond, and Bill sat silently along with everyone else as the rote procedural requirements were met and the council debated and voted on a host of trivial issues.

Discussion of the town budget was the last item on the agenda, and the mayor had obviously hoped that the audience would thin out by that time, that at least some of the people would go home, but although it was now after nine, not a soul had left the council chambers and the townspeople sat expectantly, waiting to hear about the state of Juniper's finances.

The mayor glanced around at his colleagues on the council, then put his hand over the microphone in front of him and whispered something to Bill Reid before addressing the chamber. "As you are all probably aware, the council received an updated report this week from Juniper's financial manager, and the prognosis for the new fiscal year is not good. In fact, it is worse than we'd feared. In an effort to lure The Store to Juniper, we offered tax and other incentives to the corporation that, we are now contractually obligated to deliver. Most of these involve the widening of streets and general redevelopment of the area immediately adjacent to The Store. And while this greatly improves our bond rating and the long-term economic outlook of the town, the net result is that in the short run, despite our belt-tightening, we are continuing to experience a revenue shortfall."

He cleared his throat. "Simply stated, we're on the verge of bankruptcy."

A murmur passed through the audience.

"Now, it's not as bad as the papers have been saying," the mayor promised.

He glanced over at Ben. "No offense."

Ben grinned. "None taken."

"The situation is serious. I won't kid you about that. But it's not the end of the world. In fact, we've been studying the situation all week, and it may even be a blessing in disguise. I think we have the opportunity now to reinvent our local government, to make it leaner and meaner --"

"It can't get much meaner!" someone called out.

The council members laughed along with everyone else. "Now, now," the mayor said, chuckling. "We're all in this together. Let's not start pointing fingers. As I said, we have a real opportunity here to not just alleviate this temporary fiscal crisis but to correct the bedrock structural problems that are at the root of it."

"Hold on to your hats," Ben whispered.

"We have already begun looking at outsourcing or privatizing nonessential programs and services. Our agreement with The Store in regard to park maintenance has turned out to be not only extremely successful but cost effective, and I think it should serve as a model for our future endeavors. We have already raised certain user fees and have cut back on work hours, eliminating all overtime pay, but we still have a large shortfall to make up, and these baby steps are not going to do it. The town's largest single expense is personnel: salaries and benefits. I propose that we downgrade our full-time clerical and support staff to part-time or half-time, thus eliminating health insurance and retirement expenses. We should also look at the possibility of contracting out more than just nonessential services."

There was an angry undercurrent to the whispered reactions of the audience.

"Good solution," Ben said. "Put even more people out of work."

"Amen," a woman behind him added.

The mayor frowned. "We will be opening the floor to public comment in a moment. First, do any of the council members wish to address this issue?"

"I think it's an unfortunate but necessary step," Bill Reid said.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"We should also examine the option of using volunteers for some jobs,"

Dick Wise stated. "We have a wealth of unpooled talent in this town that we could take advantage of. And volunteerism is an American tradition. Our country was founded on the idea of a volunteer government."

The other two council members said nothing. Hunter Palmyra shook his head.

"Any other comments?" the mayor asked. He looked around at his fellow council members. "Very well. We will now open this matter for public discussion."

From the crowded seats in the middle of the chambers emerged a pale, nondescript man who stood, stepped into the aisle, and walked toward the podium, carrying a sheaf of papers. He looked familiar, but it took Bill a second to place him.

The man from The Store. The shill who'd spoken against waiving the banner ordinance for local businesses.

Bill glanced over at Ben, who raised his eyebrows, began writing in his notebook.

"Please state your name and address," the mayor said.

The man leaned into the microphone. "Ralph Keyes," he said.

"Representative of The Store, located at 111 Highway 180." He placed his papers on the podium, shuffled through them. He cleared his throat. "The Store. is not unaware of the town's current financial situation," he said. "And we would _like_ to alleviate some of the financial burden by declining the offered tax breaks and paying for the various capital improvements to the adjacent highway.

Legally, however, we are not allowed to do so. The Store can assist the town in other ways, though. We can offer Juniper our own incentives. Counter incentives, if you will."

He searched through his stack of papers. "I have here a proposal put together by The Store and drafted by our lawyers. In it, we detail how the town can effect a smooth transition to a privatized police force. The Store is offering to finance and maintain this force, to continue providing the full range of police services, and to absorb all incurred costs."

Arguments erupted in the chambers.

Quite a few people in the audience, it appeared, were policemen, firemen, and other municipal employees. But there were also Store employees present, and the two sides began loudly debating the merits of the proposal. The town employees angrily denounced the idea of privatization, and the Store supporters jumped in with their defenses of the plan.

"Order in the chambers!" the mayor announced. "Order! If you have anything to say, you can come up here and state your piece. But you cannot disrupt a speaker who has been recognized by the council."

Keyes waited calmly by the podium, a slight smile on his lips.

"We cannot have a private police department!" Aaron Jefcoat shouted. "The police are here to uphold laws and serve the public, not follow the orders of some company!"

Forest Everson faced the council. "We're a police force, not a private militia!"

"There would be no change in the department's structure or manpower," the mayor said. "The only difference would be on paper. Rather than the taxpayers funding the police department, The Store would provide the monies necessary." He looked toward Keyes. "Isn't that right?"

The Store's representative nodded.

"That's the way it should be!" said an overweight man Bill did not recognize. "Why should all of us have to pay for the police when not all of us commit crimes?"

"Because the police protect everyone!" Forest replied. "Including you!"

"We have to pay for protection? Who are you guys, the mafia?"

"Order!" the mayor announced.

After several more minutes of arguing and back-and-forth verbal volleys, the mayor finally succeeded in getting the audience quieted down. Keyes handed copies of the drafted proposal to each of the council members, then took his seat.

No one attacked him.

No one spoke to him.

Bill looked back at The Store representative, and the pale man met his eyes. Smiled.

Bill quickly turned away.

A host of speakers came up to the podium, most of them denouncing the privatization proposal, a few championing it. Bill thought of going up to speak, but all of the points he wanted to make had already been made, and there wasn't really anything fresh he could bring to the discussion. He was glad, though, that so many people were speaking out. It was about time the citizens of Juniper started getting involved in this, started taking some responsibility for what was happening to their community.

He expected the issue to be carried over to the next meeting. It was an important topic, a major decision. But an hour later, the mayor read aloud the proposal Keyes had submitted and without any further discussion said, "I make a motion that we accept the proposal as is."

"I think we should take some time to study this proposal," Palmyra said.

"We should at least let the finance department and the police chief have a look at it and see if they have anything to add or amend."

The mayor ignored him. "Do I hear a second?"

"I second the motion," Bill Reid said.

"Let's vote."

The resolution passed, four to one, Councilman Palmyra voting no.

Bill sat, stunned. That was it? One quick vote and The Store was now in charge of the town's police department? That didn't seem possible. It didn't seem right. It didn't seem legal.

The reaction of the audience was subdued. "Stunned silence," Bill would have called it, but he was not sure how much of it was shock and how much was fear. This was a historic moment they were witnessing here tonight. The dismantling of local government, elected government, the transference of the mantle of power from the people to The Store.

He was not surprised when Keyes again approached the podium.

"Ralph Keyes," he said. "Representative of The Store, 111 Highway 180."

The pale man shuffled once more through his papers. "By our calculations, the town could save additional money by contracting out the fire department as well.

I have here a proposal by which The Store agrees to finance the Juniper Fire Department and take over all administrative duties while leaving the existing prevention and suppression programs intact . . ."

The debate this time was not as loud, not as long, and for a brief moment after the discussion in the audience had ended and Keyes had once again taken his seat, Bill was afraid no one would get up and speak against the new proposal.

Then Doane stood, walked to the podium.

He had not known that the music store owner was at the meeting, but Bill felt a surge of pride as he watched the long-haired man stride up to the front of the chambers. Doane had no fear, was more than willing to speak his mind and state his opinion on any issue, and he was perfectly capable of giving the council what for. Bill smiled as Doane tilted the microphone up to accommodate his height and brushed a wisp of hair from his eyes. This was one of his people, and he had never felt as much a part of the town as he did at this moment.

"My name is Doane Kearns," he said loudly and forcefully. "My address is Lot 22, Creekside Acres --"

"Creekside Acres is an unincorporated area," the mayor interrupted. "You do not live in Juniper and therefore cannot comment on town matters."

"I work in Juniper. I own a business in Juniper."

"I'm sorry. The rules clearly state --"

"Fuck the rules," Doane said.

There was silence in the council chambers.

"I have something to say, and I'm going to say it. Mr. Mayor --" He pointed. "You, sir, are selling this town down the river."

"You're out of line, Mr. Kearns."

"In fact, I think you'd peddle your own mama's ass to AIDS-infected convicts if The Store told you to."

The mayor's face grew red and strained, but his voice remained calm, even, only a slight hint of anger seeping through. "Jim?" He motioned toward the lone uniformed policeman stationed next to the door. "Please escort Mr. Kearns from the council chambers."

Doane's microphone had been cut off, but he continued to speak, raising his voice so it could be heard above the growing buzz of the audience. "You're letting them _buy_ our government. I thought this was supposed to be a democracy. I thought the people were supposed to decide how money should be raised, how it should be spent, what the function of the town government is. . . ."

The policeman reached Doane, reluctantly motioned for him to leave.

"I'm going!" Doane cried. "But remember this! I was silenced! The Store and their puppets silenced me and kept me from participating in participatory democracy!"

"I'll remember it," Ben said quietly, writing in his notebook.

The policeman led Doane out of the council chambers.

The mayor and the council did not even ask if there were any more speakers. The mayor made his motion, they voted on the proposal without discussion, and the fire department was contracted out to The Store.