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look. In huge, freshly repainted foot-high golden letters, the sign said:
    WELCOME TO BILLINGTON PENNSYLVANIA
    We’re glad you’ve come and hope you enjoy your stay. Population: 21,000
    It had taken the Stranger less than two hours of actual driving time to get here. If he had wanted to, he could have arrived here before noon, but he’d always been a night person and old habits died hard. He’d beenanxious to get to Billington, but he’d shown caution, instinctively feeling better about entering his enemy’s territory under the cover of darkness. He was a friend of the night and knew its dark cloak would shield him from anyone lying in wait, not that it was likely, since no one knew he was coming. Still, it didn’t hurt to be careful.
    Earlier today, after driving away from Duke’s farm, he’d driven until he crossed over the Pennsylvania state line, then found a quiet side road where he could lay low. He’d slept most of the day, dreaming about revenge and gathering his strength for the battle ahead. The antique trunk had whispered to him, awakening him when it was time to go.
    Now he sat, looking out all four windows of the truck, checking again to see if anyone lay in hiding along the sides of the road. No guards or sentries stood watch outside the town; no lookouts to warn Kemp. The town of Billington sat unprotected and at his mercy.
    A vision began to form in his mind, surely a message from the trunk of secrets, because when he closed his eyes to concentrate there was blood everywhere. He saw himself walking through streets stained red with the life juices of his enemy, rivers of gore running in the gutters, and dead bodies of innocent people piled on the sides of the road like sacks of foul-smelling trash on garbage day. In his hands, he carried the severed head of Wilson Kemp, his ultimate prize in the coming fight. It was a wonderful revelation, a harbinger of things to come, and it pleased the Stranger immensely.
    “Man, I can’t wait. This is gonna be so much fun.”
    He put the Ford in gear and quietly rolled across the town line. Wilson Kemp and the Stranger were now in the same small community for the first time in years andthere was no way in hell the tall dark man was going to let his enemy slip away from him.
    Unknown to the 21,000 sleeping residents, death had just entered their peaceful little town, and Billington, Pennsylvania, had just been declared a war zone.

C HAPTER F IVE
H ARDLY A L AUGHING MATTER
    Although he’d thought it nearly impossible the night before, Wilson somehow managed to get a fairly decent sleep. The holding cell could never be described as anything close to comfortable: The Ritz-Carlton it certainly was not, but the small bed had been soft, the thick wool cover warm, and he’d had a dry roof overhead. All in all, not too bad a place for him to sober up. In the past, on some of his really bad drinking binges, Wilson had slept in a hell of a lot worse.
    Early morning sunlight streamed in the cell window, bathing him in magnificent golden rays. He sat up on the edge of the bed, shocked to discover he felt almost human. Most mornings, his pounding head threatened to explode off his shoulders and his weary body felt as if it had been trampled by a herd of buffalo. Today, he could even open his eyes in the bright sunlight, something that ordinarily would have been agonizing. His craving for vodka had somewhat lessened overnight as well, not completely, of course, but enough that it wasn’t an all-consuming passion like most mornings.
    “My God,” he whispered while staring down at his hands, amazed to find them barely shaking. “If I feel thisgood after only a day away from the bottle, what would it be like to be completely stone sober again?”
    Feeling bolder than usual, he stood and walked over to the small mirror bolted by the sink on the far wall. It wasn’t an actual mirror like the usual silver-backed glass; the cops weren’t that stupid. They didn’t want