"Can't do what?"
"Those are official notices from the Bonita Vista Homeowners'
Association, and you are required to respond to them! You cannot--" He pointed with his clipboard, his arm shaking in disbelief. "--burn them!"
"Get off of my property," Barry said.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"There is a clause allowing board members and committee --"
"If you're not off my property in one minute, I'll throw you off myself." Barry pushed up his sleeve. "Do you understand?"
Campbell backed up a step. "You're making a big mistake. I am here as a representative of the Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association."
"Thirty seconds."
He started writing furiously. "I am reporting all of this."
"That's it." Barry grabbed the toady's arm. "Get out of here. Now."
"Don't you touch me!" Campbell jerked away.
Barry punched him. Hard. His fist connected with the man's stomach, and by God it felt good. Campbell doubled over, let out a surprised gasp, then scrambled backward to get out of the driveway.
"Don't you ever set foot on my property again!" Barry kicked the pile of burning papers, sending a half-blackened piece of envelope skittering out into the road.
Campbell ran off.
"And tell your friends, too," Barry shouted after him. He smiled as he watched the forms and notices burn themselves out.
In the morning, an expensive embossed envelope waited for him in the mailbox. There was nothing on the front, no return address, not even his name. It was blank.
Inside was an invitation for dinner at Jasper Calhoun's house.
His first instinct was to throw the invitation away and not go, but he realized that was only because he was afraid. He recalled the ominous dread he felt when he and Jeremy had walked up to the president's home.
It would be simpler and safer to stay at home tonight, watch TV, listen to his stereo, read a book. But he had returned to Bonita Vista for a confrontation, and while he would prefer that confrontation to happen at his house, on his own turf, he was not about to run from it no matter where it occurred.
There was no RSVP on the invitation, and he assumed that was intentional. Calhoun wanted him to worry about this, wanted him to fret over it until the very last minute.
He did spend the afternoon worrying, but it was not over whether he should accept the invitation. It was over what he should bring with him. He had no gun, but he considered hiding a knife in his boot or sticking an array of screwdrivers in his belt buckle or even walking in wielding a nail-studded two-by-four. He was pretty sure this was a trap, and he would be a fool not to protect himself.
In the end, however, he decided not to bring a weapon. There would doubtless be others present at the dinner-henchmen, board members, friends, supporters, followers-and it would be impossible for him to fight them all no matter what he was carrying. Besides, there'd probably be some sort of frisk or body search or metal detector. The best idea was to go in clean.
He debated whether to tell Maureen, and eventually decided he would not. He did not want to worry her, but he did call, and they talked about trivial things, innocuous things. Without saying so specifically, he led her to believe that he was merely cleaning up the house and yard while poring through the revised C, C, and Rs looking for ways to attack the association by using its own rules and regulations.
"When are you coming back?" she asked.
"Soon, I hope."
There was a pause.
"I don't suppose you're going to tell me what's really going on there?"
He should have known she was too smart to be fooled by his crude attempts at misdirection. "No," he admitted. "I'm not."
"It's not just me anymore," she told him. "There are two of us who need you."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I'm sure Dylan, Chuck, and Danna thought the same thing. I don't know what you're doing, and maybe I don't want to know, but be careful. This isn't a game. Those people are dangerous. I don't want to send out a private investigator a year from now and find out that my new baby's father has been turned into a Stumpy."
Barry didn't respond, but the idea was one that had already occurred to him, and he felt cold.
"Come home to us," Maureen said. "Nothing is worth your life."
"I know that. Don't worry. I won't do anything stupid."
The dinner was scheduled for eight, and though he could have walked, Barry decided to drive. He might need to make a quick getaway. And if... something ... happened to him, at least the disposal of his Suburban would cause them trouble and inconvenience.
He parked on the street rather than in the driveway so other people could see his vehicle. Walking up the path, he was filled with the same sense of trepidation he had experienced before, magnified by the fact that it was night. Calhoun had strong lights illuminating his grassy lawn, but they only served to make the surrounding woods seem darker.
A servant met him at the door. No, not a servant. A volunteer. Barry recognized the man. Ralph Hieberg . He'd been introduced to him at one of Ray's parties.
"Come in, Mr. Welch. You are expected."
Barry stepped into the vestibule. "Ralph," he said. "What are you doing here?"
The man's eyes darted furtively to the left and then the right. Barry thought he was actually going to answer, but he said, "Just come with me. Please. I only have a month to go. I don't want to get in trouble."
Barry nodded, understanding, and allowed himself to be led through another doorway into what appeared to be the living room.
He'd been expecting a building of dank dark corridors, a maze of passageways that led to some horrible inner sanctum, but instead the interior of the house was bright and airy. The room into which they walked was decorated in a Japanese motif, with bamboo-framed paper walls, low tables, and mats and cushions on the floor. There were no lights or lamps but illumination seeped through the translucent paper from all sides, ensuring that there were no shadows.
Ralph walked around the tables to the opposite wall and pulled aside a section, which slid open to reveal another room beyond. He stood to the left and motioned for Barry to enter.
There was writing on the walls, Barry noticed as he followed the volunteer. He looked carefully at the wall as he passed into the next room and shivered as he realized that the bamboo frames held not traditional blank rice paper but blown-up pages from Bonita Vista's Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions.
They went from this room to another... and then another and another.
Each looked exactly like the one before it. He saw no couches, no television, no bookcase, no kitchen, no bathroom, only an endless series of living rooms with low tables and mats and cushions and C, C, and R walls. Until finally they were in a room with no furniture, only an empty wooden floor and walls that did not glow with that sourceless illumination but were dim and dull. Ahead, the translucent paper was red and there was no writing on it. From behind the red wall he heard moaning and occasional sharp yelps. Barry found it hard to swallow; it felt as though his heart was in his throat.
"This way, Mr. Welch." The volunteer pushed aside a section of the red wall and the two of them walked into the chamber beyond.
This was what he had expected.
The room was massive, bigger than the entire bottom floor of his own house, with a high black ceiling from which hung dirty irregularly spaced lightbulbs . The walls were stone, the floor worn, unpainted wood that was stained with drops and splotches of what could only be old blood. There was a large pit in the center of the chamber, its sides made of burnished steel, its bottom covered with straw. Rusted metal tables stuck out at odd angles around the edge of the pit, like broken wheel spokes.