It was almost Ten when Harry finally got home. He had stopped for dinner at a local diner, and spent more time sitting there and moping than he had meant to. The black Cadillac was parked in the driveway, and he could see Lane's broad shoulders hanging over the seat. Harry climbed out of his car and walked over slowly, realizing Lance was laying there with his head rested against the window, not moving. His heart started pounding, and he tapped the window lightly. Lance snapped awake with a small cry, and Harry jumped, spinning around and looked back at Lance, both of them laughing at each other.

"Sorry, 'bout that, man," said Lance as he got out of his car.

"Scared the shit out of me," muttered Harry.

"Guess this last weekend has finally caught up with me," he said with a smirk.

"Oh, that's very reassuring," chuckled Harry.

"Don't worry, I was only out for ten minutes I swear. I've already looked inside. There's nothing there, you're safe."

"Yeah, but a lot can happen in ten minutes," said Harry. Lance chuckled and agreed to search the house one last time with him. He came down the stairs a few minutes later. "No monsters up there," he said with a smirk. Harry walked out from the kitchen with a paddle in his hand.

"Did you check under my bed?" he asked.

"Of coarse I did," laughed Lance. He looked at the paddle and took it away from Harry. "What are you going to do with that, sailor?" He chuckled and placed it against the wall.

"Are you staying here all night?"

"No. Not unless you want me to."

Yes, thought Harry, but he sighed. He wasn't a kid anymore. He had to fend for himself. "No. I was just wondering. Staying in town?"

"Yeah, in a Motel about two miles away, across from a Hess station. You know the place?"

He briefly remembered sitting in the parking lot six months ago, debating whether or not he'd go in...

"I know it," he said softly.

"Hey, is there anyone else who's seen you with Shooter?"

"Tom Greenleaf," said Harry. "He drove by yesterday and waved at us. He must've gotten a good look at him."

"Where can I find him?"

"Devan's convenience store and diner. He has breakfast there every day at nine."

"Okay, I'm on it. And listen, once I find this John Shooter, I'm gonna talk to him and use the word 'we' a lot. 'We know what you're doing, We want it to stop, We're watching you.' Trust me, he'll hit the road so hard it'll hit back." Harry didn't feel reassured, but nodded.

"Okay," he said with a smirk. "See you tomorrow then."

"Take care of yourself," said Lance, and with that he left out the door.

Harry stared out the window as Lance got into his car. It was quiet, and he felt fine, until there came a thump from the upstairs. He jumped and turned around.

"Hello?"

There was another thump, and he looked back out the window. Lance was pulling out and driving away.

"Shit," growled Harry. He looked back up at the stairs and heard the thump again. Someone was moving around up there. Grabbing the poker from the fireplace, he headed up the steps nervously. His grip on the poker grew tighter as he got closer, and soon he could only hear the pounding of his own heart. If Shooter was there, there was no question in his mind he'd be killed. But not without a struggle at least.

Extending the poker, he carefully pulled the door open with it and looked in his bedroom. There was nothing there, but he could feel someone there. His hand felt around for the light switch and he flipped it on, holding up the poker, ready to fight.

"Hello?" he called. No answer. Figures. Only an idiot would answer back. He took a few steps into his room when he hear the shuffling of feet in the bathroom, and held his poker up again. He slid to the side until he could see the mirror in the bathroom. There was a shoulder and half an arm reflecting off of it, and he bit his lip. "I know you're in there shithead!" he called. "I'm gonna count to five, and then I'm gonna start swinging." He closed his eyes and opened them again as he gathered his courage. "One... two..." He ran in with a shout and slammed the poker at the first thing that came at him. The mirror shattered and peices fell all over the floor. There was no one in there. He turned the lights on and looked at the mirror. "I killed the mirror," he muttered to himself. There was a scratching noise from inside the shower, and he jumped around, slamming the poker several times into the shower door, stopping when he realized no one was there either. Instead, he looked in and saw a mouse, scuttling around in there nervously. "And the shower door," he muttered. He turned around a grabbed a wash rag from the counter top, then opened the door to the shower, grabbing the mouse in there and headed outside with it to set it free.

As he passed his desk, he picked up the pack of cigarettes and stared at it. There was only one left, and he didn't want to waist it. He placed it back on the desk and started down the stairs again, changed his mind at the last minute and ran back, grabbing the last cigarette and his lighter.

"I'll just smoke it," he muttered to himself. "Buy myself a new pack and smoke the shit out of that one." He released the mouse near Chico's grave. The shovel was still sticking up from the ground, and he squatted down, lighting his cigarette.

"Thought you said you didn't smoke," said a voice behind him. Harry closed his eyes and sighed.

"I took it up recently for my health," he grunted. "What do you want, Shooter?"

"I think we both know what I want. You to turn yourself in now and get it over with."

"Not on your life," said Harry. "I'm gonna get that magazine and you are gonna get the hell away from me."

He stood up and Shooter smirked. "There isn't any magazine, is there, Potter."

Harry backed up and grabbed the handle of the shovel behind his back to Shooter wouldn't see.

"Well then," he muttered. "Let's see what we can do to make you feel better." Shooter started to circle him, and Harry let go of the shovel handle.

"Sounded like you were throwing a fit up there," he said with a smirk. "I think your nervous. Stealing someone else's story, now that doesn't seem to bother you. But getting caught for it, now that's something you weren't ready for. But that's not entirely what I come here for."

"What do you want then?" asked Harry, feeling confused again.

"I want you to fix it," said Shooter. "The ending. I don't know what is worse. Stealing my story or ruining the ending."

"I don't think I read the ending, Shooter."

"Oh, I think you did. '"I can do it," Todd Levey said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. "I'm sure in time her death will become a mystery, even to me." That's how the story ends, it's the only ending. You're gonna write it for me and then you're gonna publish it with my name on it."

"I'd be more than happy to write your ending, Mr. Shooter," said Harry. Shooter stared at him suspciously and started pacing again.

"Saw your wife today when you were there. She's perty." Harry felt the color drain from his face.

"Let's leave Cho out of this," he said softly.

"I'd like to, Mr. Potter, but I'm beginning to think you're not going to leave me that option."

Harry snapped and grabbed the shovel behind him, charging at Shooter with full speed. Shooter was too fast and too strong. He grabbed the shovel handle and pinned Harry to the tree with it. "One night you're gonna drop by and find her nailed to the garbage can, or turn on the radio one morning and hear how she came in second in a battle with the chainsaw you keep in the shed."

"Leave her alone!" he spat. Shooter let go of him and walked away.

"Two more days, Mr. Potter, to prove yourself. Remember, no police." He left and Harry staggered back into the house.

He lay wide away in bed for hours before he could finally even doze. Too many disturbing images were in his head, and they refused to leave.

Harry sat on his sofa, eating a bag of Doritos and thinking again about a new storyline. His writing was the only thing he had available that would help him not think about what Shooter had said to him. Ever since the bastard set foot on his doorstep, he'd been unable to concentrate on anything, and every night it became harder and harder to fall asleep. Lance was the only person he knew he could count on if Shooter tried to lay a finger on him or Cho. He decided he'd call him and tell him about what had happened, just to settle his mind a little.

Standing up, he walked to the phone and plugged the line back in and sat down, trying to remember the number.

Riiiiiing! Riiiiiing! Riiiiiing!

Harry stared at the phone for a minute. If that's Shooter, I swear to God I'll...

He sighed and answered the phone.

"Is that you, John Wayne?" he asked.

"Harry?" asked a voice. It was Cho's. "Harry? Harry are you there?" She was shouting and sounded frantic.

"Yes, Cho, I'm here," he half yelled. "Just lower your voice a little."

"Harry, I've been trying to call you all night but the line was down."

"I was asleep," said Harry. "Why? What do you want?"

"Someone burned down our house," she said, breaking into sobs. Harry sat there for a minute, trying to absorb what she said.

"What?!" he cried.

"SOMEONE BURNED DOWN OUR HOUSE!!!" screamed Cho as she continued to sob.

(A/N: The stupid school filter blocked off all email sites, so now I won't be able to tell whether or not I'm getting reviews that way. I hate Bess the filter dog! Anyway, please review! I can still check on this account.)