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Two more shots rang out。 Small…calibre； twenty…twos。 Bernie twisted the rake handle so hard it bowed； veins in his temples throbbing。 One word sprang…neon； glowing…into his mind。
Kids。
At forty…six； Bernie Kleigel was a cardiac time bomb； a coronary car wreck waiting to happen。 He was overweight and underworked； the kind of guy who pissed off easily and held grudges with the half…life of plutonium。 He missed his misspent youth； resented the ceaseless ravages of middle age； had nothing but dread for the future。
When Millie arm…twisted him into one of her wacko fad health regimens； it sucked what little fun was left to be had out of his mid…life crisis。 He quit smoking； gave up alcohol and caffeine and cholesterol； not to mention fried foods and sodium。 His doctor was pleased； the quack bastard。 Keep it up； he said； and Bernie'd live another forty years。 Millie smiled and swore to it。
Bernie was a man on the edge。
And here were these kids； not knowing what they had； not realizing how goddam delicate and precious life was。 Didn't they realize they could blow their little goddam brains out with those things？ Or maybe somebody else's； 〃accidently〃？ Christ！ When you got right down to it； in this world full of idiots； nobody was safe！
Another shot came。 Bernie pictured it vividly in his mind： a meat…spattered Rube Goldberg engine of destruction。 He saw the bullet divot off the trunk of the tree； missing its intended squirrelly target by a mile。 He saw it pinging off tree after tree； mindlessly searching for something delicate and precious to destroy 。。。
。。。 and then he saw his own little Billy violently airlift backwards； the top of his head a hot red horizontal rain of grease and gristle。 He saw himself drop to his knees； deep in the throes of the anguish he knew he'd most certainly feel。
〃NOOOOO 。。。 ！！！〃 he heard himself wail； while a million mournful worst…case scenarios rustled in his fore…brain； just waiting for their chance to unfold 。。。
Not that any of this actually happened； of course。 Just that it damn well could have。 That was the thing that people never seemed to understand。
Which was why the world needed Bernard S。 Kleigel： the Conscience of a Nation。
〃Goddam sonofabitching kids；〃 he hissed： hunched up in his backyard； craning his neck； trying to get a fix on their location。 Somewhere down the hill； by the sound of it。 Off toward the sonofabitching creek。
Which； technically； wasn't his property； but that never stopped him from bitching about it。 His two…acre plot of cleared ground bounded on the back of those woods； fercrissake！ And it was posted； every goddam inch of it。 No Trespassing。 No Hunting。 No Kidding。
Another shot popped off； reverberating through the tree line。 Bernie threw the rake down like a gauntlet： the proverbial rake of doom。 He'd have their butts…or their parents' butts…up on charges so fast 。。。 ！
He stopped； in mid…tirade。
And listened to the flurry of gunfire erupt： a frantic volley； riddling the country quiet like a string of cherry bombs。 It lasted for only a few manic seconds。
And then； just as suddenly； stopped。
Bernie took a deep breath； felt the trip of his heart in his Adam's apple。 He scanned the tree line nervously； as if there were something to see。 The only sound was the wind； moving through the trees like a thief through a sleeping man's pockets。
Suddenly； it all made perfect sense。 He was just amazed that it hadn't happened sooner。 These were no ordinary hunters； he knew； laying down a suppressing fire against the birds and bunnies of the world。 These were no ordinary kids。
And there was only one thing to do。
〃Billy； get in the house；〃 he said。 Billy just stared at him with huge blank eyes。 〃There are drug dealers out there； dammit！ MOVE！〃
The Michelin boy animated； scattering leaves as fast as his five…year…old legs could carry him。 Bernie followed； storming up to his modest split…level with the brick…face siding。 He noted； in passing and sourly； that a few more of the brick faces had popped off； revealing the three layers of chicken…wire…reinforced cement。 Goddam cheap siding； he thought。 I ought to sue the bastards！ Whole goddam world is falling apart 。。。
Bernie stomped onto the back porch and clomped through the mudroom。 In the kitchen； Millie was whipping up an Egg Beaters…and…cottage…cheese omelet。
〃Goddamned street gangs； right in our backyard！〃 he hollered。 〃I tell you； I won't take this lying down！〃
〃Of course not； honey；〃 Millie replied； on another frequency altogether。 Lite FM 101 mental…flossed beautiful Muzak in her one ear and out the other： the Rolling Stones' 〃Paint It Black；〃 as only 1001 Strings could play it。 She smiled at him and shuffled across to the breakfast nook； her fuzzy slippers whuffing on the Congoleum。 〃I hope you're hungry！〃
She slid the congealed mass out of the pan and onto a plate in front of him。 He groaned and grabbed the phone； punched three digits with a practiced fury。
〃There's gonna be some hell to pay；〃 he vowed。 〃And the devil don't take checks！〃
〃Of course he doesn't；〃 she assured him； humming absently along with the tune。
Downtown； County Control was a maze of glass…walled cubicles deep in the pale green cinder…blocked bowels of the Courthouse Building。 County Control was the emergency services nerve center； linking seventy…three fire departments； forty…two ambulance panies； and fifty…five different police departments； most of them two…to…five…man borough forces。
Half the counties in Pennsylvania didn't even have 911 service； and wouldn't for years to e； which put Paradise somewhat ahead of the pack。 Still； Paradise County was a monument to bureaucratic provincialism： there was no county sheriff； no standardized training； no guarantee that any of its workers even talked to each other； no less shared vital job skills。
A crew of eight ran the plex web of telephone； puter； and radio munications。 It was a hodgepodge of state…of…the…art and prehistoric technology； the crazy…quilt survivor of a dozen pitched budget battles。 It ran twenty…four hours a day； every day of the year。
At the moment； it was dead silent。
That suited Dottie Hamm just fine。
She'd just e on shift at eight： manning the Metro dispatch desk； a Spenser novel in one hand and a box of Dunkin' Munchkins within easy reach of the other。 A thirty…two…ounce Big Gulp of Diet Coke sat by the wayside； ready to soothe the inevitable parched throat。
And Dottie was ready for action。
Three other civilian police dispatchers were on duty； covering city； county； and rural zones。 Across from the quad； Jerry and Jean worked the EMS and fire department lines。 Carol ran warrant searches and APBs from her post near the supervisor's office。 Overstaffed file cabinets stood near an IBM mainframe； and the whole plex burbled with the quiet nattering of crosstalk； punctuated by beeps and the squelched bark of static。
It was all music to Dottie's ears。 Sundays were like that。 EMS would doubtless see a little action 'round eleven。 When area services finished； there was always some oldster seizing up with the spirit out at the Church of the Nazarene； or slipping on the stairs at Zion's Gate and needing to be medevacced to glory。 But generally； folks just hibernated； generally； it was just too damn cold to excite the criminal element。
Warm snap days； on the other hand； were wild cards。 Anything could happen。
Days like today； for instance。
Dottie had worked the second shift weekends for going on eight years。 She was a sweet…faced； potato…shaped woman with a cool head； a balming manner； and almost infinite patience。
Until Bernie Kleigel called。
His name came up on her video monitor seconds after Kelly routed it。 The monitor was a part of the enhanced 911 system； instantly displaying origin information； special stats； and call history for any number。
Dottie saw KLEIGEL； and her molars ground together。
Some wiseass had typed 〃10…96〃 under it。 10…96 was code…slang for nutcase。 The wiseass was her。 And the call…history list confirmed the diagnosis。 Every couple of days； regular as clockwork： Kids in woods。 Dogs barking。 More kids。 Noisy trucks。 Kids； kids； kids 。。。
Dottie closed her eyes and saw the list extending clear back to infinity。 They'd never seen his face； but his nasty nasal voice was woefully familiar。 Taking a call from Bernie was like lancing a boil with your teeth。
She picked up the phone； brushed a fleck of powdered sugar from her blouse。 〃Metro dispatch 。。。 〃 she sighed； resigned to her fate。
〃Dammit； there's a WAR going on down here！〃
Dottie rolled her eyes。 Dave Dell looked up from his desk on the other side of the glass； then caromed back in his swivel chair and froze： red face grimacing horribly； hands locked in a throttling deathgrip around his throat。 She recognized the symptoms at once。 He was having a Kleigel attack。
〃Now； Mr。 Kleigel 。。。 〃 she began； stifling her laughter with professional aplomb。 She had to be strong： Kleigelitis was a terribly contagious disease。
〃Don't 'now Mr。 Kleigel' ME！〃 he barked； his voice a razor of rusty tin。 〃They're having some