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put the rope
around his neck. He still wore his dusty uniform. He did not look
at any of them, but stared straight ahead as they tightened the
noose and stood back. There over the hill, he could just make out
in the rising light his father's farm, the ruined beams of the
barn, the skeleton of the carousel. . . .
    He felt the floor give way beneath his feet
and the rope close like two cruel hands around his neck. It was
then that he screamed, not in pain but in raging promise, spitting
out one word over them, one word that echoed around the low hills
long after his feet stopped kicking at the air.
     
    "Rise and shine."
    He was jarred from his memories by the rough,
metal-scraping sound of the back doors of the truck opening. A dark
figure stood outlined there. The figure smoked, and the smoke that
came from his long cigarette was as black as his hooded eyes and
the suit he wore. He lifted his cigarette to his mouth. His nails
were neatly trimmed and pale, his skin as white as flour. He pulled
the cigarette from his lips, blew black smoke.
    "Our workers are up," the dark man said,
smiling. "Don't you think you should be up too?" His voice both
soothed and mocked.
    The other grunted, rolling up into a sitting
position on the cot. He spat on the floor.
    "They'll be finished by morning," the dark
man said.
    "Good."
    "Come, come, now. Can't we have a little
enthusiasm?"
    He spat again. "Lay off it, Ash."
    Ash was silent, smoking, and then he said,
"Could it be that we're feeling just the tiniest bit anxious?"
    There came now the dull sounds of equipment
being moved, along with the sounds that saws and hammers make.
There were no shouts or greetings; it was as if some inevitable
engine had ground into life and set about doing its work. Ash
smiled, turning to look at the proceedings outside, and after a
moment the man on the cot rose stiffly and joined him. He held his
right leg as he rose, though he gave no evidence of pain.
    "Look the same?" Ash inquired.
    "A little," he answered, not really wanting
to say anything. His eyes roamed the low hills, finally resting on
the church steeple, the rows of new houses, the stores. It was the
same, yet not the same. His gaze fell to the scene before him, the
piles of boards and metal struts, the rolls of white lights and the
red and green pennants. The ground they stood on was the same but
utterly different; the barn, the house, everything was gone; even
the huge oak had been uprooted, and other trees, low, scrubby,
unhealthy things, had grown in its place. They, too, would soon be
uprooted.
    He eyed the ranks of silent workers; more
were wandering down from the squat hill next to the church. A few
bony-looking wooden structures had already been raised, and one was
being covered in dull green canvas trimmed with red fringe. A few
bright lights from the line of humming trucks gave the scene
ghostly, intermittent spots of illumination.
    "I told you they'd be finished by morning,"
Ash said. He offered his cigarette pack, and when the other said
nothing, he took a fresh one for himself, lit it and tucked the
pack into a pocket of his sharply creased suit. He laughed, looking
at the cigarette for a moment. "They certainly can't hurt you, my
friend," he said caustically. "Tell me this," he continued, his
voice probing like a knife as he watched his companion, whose eyes
stared unswervingly ahead. "How does it feel to know they built you
your very own tomb at the top of the churchyard, at the very
highest point, and then couldn't find you to put you in it?" Ash's
smile stretched into a long, thin, ghastly grin. "How does it feel
to be back in Montvale, Jeff Scott?"
     

FOUR
    Someone had to be first, and someone had to
be second. Mayor Poundridge was second. He tried not to be, tried
to burrow himself so deep into his pillow that Montvale and the
whole world would go away and not come back. But if he didn't
believe in his job this morning, Emily did, and she wrapped herself
in her dressing gown and