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tracks. After following them for two days, fifteen-year-old Tre caught up with the killers near Etna, Wyoming. It was dark and they were sitting around a campfire. Tre put them down with one bullet apiece. Then he stripped the bandits of everything useful and left their bodies for the coyotes.
    And there had been a man roughly twelve months after that, a half-crazy scarecrow who dropped on Tre from a tree and tried to cut his throat. Fortunately, by pointing the .410 back over his shoulder, Tre had been able to blow the creature away. A second shot finished the job.
    Still, Tre had never reconciled himself to violence, and he blamed himself for remaining in the underground mall even though he could sense that Bob wasn’t trustworthy. His hunger for books had overridden his common sense.
    Unfortunately, Bob had not only shot holes in the multipurpose tarp but fallen on it as well, so Tre elected to leave it. The .45 would come in handy, though, as would the extra magazine Tre found in a pocket, and the Gerber folding knife on Bob’s belt. Having collected those items, Tre took a moment to recharge the Tarus with alternating .410 and .45 rounds before restoring the weapon to its holster.
    Then, with his pack on his back and Bob’s flashlight to show the way, Tre left the travel agency. He could feel the pull the bookstore exerted on him but refused to give in. The first priority was to search for Bob’s hoard. And there was bound to be one.
    Upon returning to the fire pit, Tre saw that a small blaze was still burning. He had no interest in most of Bob’s personal items. He did take a pair of reading glasses, however, which might come in handy someday, or could be traded for something else.
    Then, as he swept the beam of light back and forth across the floor, Tre saw a clear wear pattern in the filth. The trail led down the corridor to a door labeled “MAINTENANCE.” Tre saw that a new hasp and a heavy-duty padlock had been added to the barrier.
I missed the key,
he thought, and knew he would have to return to the travel agency.
    Tre retraced his steps, entered the office, and knelt next to the body. Now that he knew what to look for, the chain was obvious. After pulling it free, he saw the key. Rather than wrestle the chain off over Bob’s head, Tre cut it free with the Leatherman tool he carried on his belt.
    With key in hand, he went straight back to the door. The lock opened easily, as did the door. Tre found himself standing at the entrance of what amounted to a vault.
    Shelves lined the left wall, and large pieces of smoked meat hung from hooks on the right. That was when Tre realized that one of them was shaped like a human leg. He remembered the chili, felt the contents of his stomach rise, and threw up on the floor. After a series of convulsive heaves, Tre stumbled away to vomit in the hall.
    Finally, with nothing left to give, Tre fumbled for his water bottle. Having rinsed his mouth, he went back to where the flashlight lay and picked it up. Now he understood. The blocked entrances, trapdoor, and ladder were all part of an elaborate plan to lure scavengers into his underground kingdom. Then Bob would invite them to dinner, enjoy an evening of conversation, and kill the unsuspecting guest. If they were carrying something of value, that went into the vault. And after some butchery, the body parts were added to Bob’s larder. Had Tre been a drinker, or less vigilant,
he
would have been on a future menu.
    Tre forced himself to ignore the stench of his own vomit and go back in. He directed the light away from the meat and over to the shelves. There were at least fifty cans of food, a variety of ammo, and a collection of valuable spices. Further back, laid out on a shelf, a jumble of long guns could be seen. And there were all sorts of other items too . . . some valuable and some whimsical: a cell phone, a Barbie doll, a sphere-shaped puzzle. The puzzle looked interesting, so Tre took it.
    But he could only carry