As he stepped inside his house, he took out the hat and tossed it on the coffee table, right on top of the phone. Stretching and yawning again, he headed for the kitchen when the phone started ringing again. He stopped and turned around and looked at it with Shooter's hat on top of it. It was like the phone's morbid way of telling him who was on the other line, and when he answered, he was right.

"Hello?"

"Meet my by the river where we've met before in a half hour," said Shooter.

"And if I don't?" he asked.

"Anyone you've talked to between then and now is your responsibility." And he hung up. Harry's eyes widened. He wouldn't...

Grabbing his jacket, he ran out of the house, deciding not to take his car. He needed the exercise. Running down the same path, he hurried past the trees and bushes, trampling down the grass underneath him as he moved. When he got there, he found Tom Greenleaf's pick-up truck parked there. Shooter was nowhere in sight. Looking at the truck gave Harry an uneasy feeling, and he moved ever so carefully to it. Tom was sitting behind the wheel, not moving, not blinking. Just staring into thin air.

"Tom?" he called softly. "Tom?"

Tom did not respond, and Harry walked over, looking into the window carefully. There was blood flowing down Tom's right side, and when he leaned to the side, he briefly saw the red handle of a screwdriver protruding from his head.

Harry started gagging and backed up, seeing the blood on the rearveiw mirror and the side mirror, and a bloody axe, laying on the passanger's seat. He looked in the back and saw Lance, his head tilted all the way back, and his neck and throat completely torn up, mostlikely from that axe. Both were dead, and Harry was ready to vomit. Everything around him went silent, except for the squeaking of a squirrel in a tree right behind him. He turned and stared at that squirrel, and it was the last thing he saw before he passed out.

"'bout time you woke up, pilgrim," said a hated voice. Harry jumped awake. Shooter was there, and mostlikely ready to kill him too. Moving as quick as he could, he launched foreward, attempting to run, but tripped on his right leg which was stubbornly asleep. "You were out for three solid hours." Harry continued staggering away, tripping and falling several times. He was gradually regaining the feeling in his leg, but his mind and heart were racing at unnatural speeds. "Your leg's asleep. You were laying on it."

"Leave me alone!" shouted Harry.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. I've got you tied to those bodies in more ways than you know. Who's screwdriver do you think is in that man's head?" Harry stopped and managed to stand on his feet, and turned to Shooter.

"What do you want?!!!" he shouted.

"You already know that, pilgrim. I want you to turn yourself in."

"I have the magazine!" screamed Harry. "I HAVE the magazine! I HAVE THE GODDAMN MAGAZINE!!!" Shooter looked at him.

"There can't be any magazine," he said, seeming worried. "Not with that story in it, MY story in it." Harry spat at him, and Shooter stared at him. "You have the magazine?"

"With me? No. I was going to pick it up later."

"Bring it then, and be back at your house in two hours. If you talk to that sheriff again, or if you don't show up with the magazine, I will burn you and everyone you know like a cane field in a high wind."

"If I show it to you, will you go away and never come back?" demanded Harry.

"Yes," said Shooter. "I'll turn myself in, after taking care of myself of coarse. Cuz if there really is such a magazine then I'm crazy, and Mr. Potter, that kind of crazy ain't got no bussiness staying alive." He turned and started to walk off, but stopped and turned back to Harry. "You've got my hat. I want it back, one way or another," and with that he left.

Harry walked back over to the car and stared in through the passanger window at Tom. That was his screwdriver, and if it stayed there, he'd be framed for murder. "Oh man!" he muttered and opened the passenger door, climbing into the seat. He felt the cold axe underneath him, and quickly brushed it onto the floor. His stomach was turning again as he stared at the screwdriver. He started to reach for it, but then pulled back, gagging. "Geez!" he muttered. He reached again, but something shifted in the back, and he jerked around to see Lance's body fall to the side a little. Lace was still dead, and so was Tom. Neither were going to reach out an grab him. Closing his eyes and looking away, he carefully grabbed the handle and pulled the screwdriver out.

Once it was out, he jumped out, grabbing the axe as well, and looked at the lake. The truck was parked right near the edge of a cliff that hung over it. He hated the idea, but it was better than leaving them there for someone else to find. Walking over to the driver's side, he turned the key, which was still in the ignition, and started walking to the cliff edge, working the stick shift as he moved. Gradually the car picked up speed, and hit a rock a little too hard, causing Tom's body to fall foreward, his head resting on the horn. Harry curse and reached in with his other hand, pushing him back. They were close enough to the cliff edge now, and he tried to pull his hand out. To his horror, his watch was caught around the stick shift, and he couldn't pull it free. The cliff edge was coming closer, and he tugged with all his might. The watch broke off, and he jumped away from the car just in time.

He watched as the car drove over the edge and fell into the lake, sinking down to the bottom and out of sight. There was blood on his sleeves, and he made sure he changed his shirt and hid the axe and screwdriver in his house before getting ready to head to the post office.