"... feet-seven inches tall, blond, blue-eyed, about seven teen-years-old, in dirty, blood-stained clothing. It is unknown whether or not he is still armed, as weapons were found discarded at the scenes of his last crimes. Nevertheless, he is extremely dangerous. This psychotic killer is, allegedly, responsible for the deaths of thirty-one people in some of the most brutal and bloody slaughters this state has known, including a pregnant woman and a year-old baby, whose throat he cut and then dropped the tiny, mutilated body in the water by the barge where the murdered parents lived. The police are certain that he is still in the vicinity of Crawhole waterfront, as no cars are missing and Harkner, by report, does not drive. Over seventy-five policemen, from Ellenville, Rye Hill, and Frontwater, are combing the area in a systematic search. Inspector

  Haley says he is certain his men will bring results before dawn.

  "As for a wrap-up of the local news, the Harris County Flower Show will open tomorrow on schedule at ten o'clock with entries from Rockney, Fairhaven, Maple Grove, and Whitbey.

  "Last night, several men broke into the hardware store of Mrs. Alberta Ellis and her fifteen-year-old daughter, Judy. Mother and daughter were repeatedly sexually molested and Mrs. Ellis was severely beaten with sticks and chains—she is in fair condition at Frontwater District Memorial Hospital. She was able to identify one of her assailants as Jimmy Goofrin. Goofrin's body, shot to death in the head, was found late this afternoon beside the highway where it had been clumsily hidden in the bushes, some seven miles away.

  "Mosely Harwood, of North Cedar Vale, was named the new chairman of the landscaping committee started last fall by Reverend Robert Hobart and Mrs. Fitzhugh Jamison. He has already scheduled a checkup from tree surgeon Frank Jahovey for the seventy-year-old oaks along Cliff Walk. Other projects will be announced.

  "A fatal accident this afternoon on the Ellenville Highway, when a limousine went out of control and leapt across the divider, running motorcyclist Vernor Hawkins and his two passengers off the road. Cyclist 'Hawk' Hawkins, vice president of the Phantoms, a local bike club in the news earlier today in connection with the first of the alleged Harkner slayings, drove away from the accident unhurt. But the car, the driver of which still has not been identified, went up in flames, the police report, on impact.

  "This coming Tuesday, the Ellenville Relief Fire Brigade will sponsor a bazaar for the benefit of the Ellenville Daycare Center, which was so severely damaged by a snowstorm last February. There will be a fashion show of clothes from Grandma's time, coffee and sweet-rolls. Your contributions will be appreciated.

  "Once again, our major story: police from three counties have gathered this evening to help search the Crawhole waterfront for seventeen-year-old Dennis Harkner, whom witnesses claim they watched shoot and club to death five people at a Frontwater Bar this afternoon and who, allegedly, over the rest of the day and evening shot, stabbed, battered and strangled to death more than two dozen other victims, men and women, child and adult. Harkner is about five-foot seven-inches tall, blond, blue-eyed, about seventeen-years..."

  Hogg had closed his pants, settled his arm around my shoulder, and I was sort of drifting in the smell of him—when Denny climbed back up into the cab, closed the door and sat down.

  He was dripping wet and shivering a little. His hair was flat over his forehead. His breath hissed sharply. Water rolled down his face, around his parted lips. His shoulders were hunched and his knees pressed together. Three-quarters of the nail's arc, visible at the head of his cock, gleamed dully by the drops glittering between his thin thighs. Water tracked his belly into his crotch hair. Hogg glanced at him, but Denny was listening too:

  "... creature who has terrorized a town for eight whole hours now! No one within the sound of my voice will be truly comfortable until he is taken. Who is Dennis Harkner? Martin Sells, the manager and chief producer here at the station, has been on the phone long distance to Womack County, Pennsylvania, talking to Miss Addie Bowley of the Womack Correctional Institute for Boys from which young Harkner several times ran away, to find out for you. Miss Bowley gave us this statement: 'He always struck me as a bright, if occasionally sullen boy, who alternated between being very friendly and fits of temper. He was disciplined several times for minor infractions of a sexual nature. And he once helped organize his fellow inmates in a civics program for forestry protection during the winter of . . .'"

  "Sure are talkin' about me alot." Holding his cock, Denny just rubbed the head with his thumb. Water glittered on the red thumb-knuckle.

  "Ain't been talkin' about much else," Hogg said. "You know the lady that they're tellin' what she said about you?"

  "Miss Bowley?" Denny looked over. "I heard of her. But she was in the upstairs office and I don't think I ever saw her to speak, you know?" He looked back at the radio. "Guess they gonna get my ass pretty soon."

  "... cordon of roadblocks completely enclosing the Crawhole area within miles—"

  Hogg switched off the radio. "We're fifteen miles outside of Crawhole already." He sat back. "And they still don't know you got wheels under you. They probably think you're hoofin' from warehouse to warehouse around the docks. The fuckers ain't too smart, you know. I been stayin' out from under them for a while now myself. You just got to use your head." Hogg took his arm from

  'round my shoulder, turned, and reached into the sleeper. He pulled up the gray blanket and from underneath took out a shirt. It was a Sweet-Orr blue, wrapped on a rectangle of cardboard with a white-paper cleaner's band around it. "Ain't new, but it ain't bloody either. If you roll up the sleeves it'll be okay. Think it's got a tear in the elbow. But at least it ain't got killin' marks all over it." He leaned the shirt against the back of the seat, reached under the blanket again and brought out a folded pair of gray khaki pants. "Damn wop was sleepin' all over these last night, but other than that there ain't nothin' wrong with 'em." As Hogg held them up, the legs came unfolded. There was a new denim patch on one knee, the kind that irons on and, if you don't sew it too, usually comes off in a few days. But I guess it was all right. Who'd ever pressed them last had got the crease in one leg about half an inch off the one that had been put in by the factory. There was a belt around the loops, the kind with three rows of steel studs all along it and a big, fancy buckle with turquoise inlay and a metal cow's skull with long horns—another car passed. The buckle gleamed and the studs flared and died like electric lights. "I guess they may be a little baggy on you," Hogg said, "but that's better than bloody. Damned if I'm gonna give you my new belt though—I paid nine dollars for that six months back and I ain't had a chance to—" He stopped, frowned down at his own scuffed, brass-buckled garrison, back on his pants now. He squinted at the pants he was holding up. "Shit—you might as well have that too." He lay them carefully in the sleeper so the legs hung out down the seat back. "Maybe you'll find somebody who'll give you a workout with it." Hogg narrowed his green eyes at the clean clothes. "They gonna be big on you, ain't nothin' you can do about that. And you gonna look funny. But you ain 't gonna look like what they're lookin' for."

  "Shit—" Denny said softly. He looked at Hogg. He looked at the clothes. He looked at me. He looked at the clothes again. He swallowed. He looked at Hogg again. His eyes were wide and his face seemed like he was tasting something faintly bitter. He looked at the clothes—again—and whispered: "Oh, shit. , .!"

  "Hey—" Hogg leaned forward and turned the ignition. The motor thrummed and we bounced a little. "I wanna see the cocksucker here do you in one more time, huh? Before you get dressed. It tickles me." The truck crunched forward on the gravel. "Hey, cocksucker, move the duds out from behind my shoulder so

  I don't lean back on 'em and mess 'em up." I did. "Now go on and suck him off. I wanna watch." We rolled onto the highway.

  Denny looked at me with that same look on his face, that I guess was just wondering confusion. He let his knees drop open and slid his hands forward on his thighs. With the nail hanging from it, almost loose, his cock rose a little. I got on my knees on the floor again, crawled between his bare ones, and put his cock in my mouth. The nail was cold. The bay water was bitter with salt. I couldn't help thinking, as I bobbed, it was the cleanest dick I'd sucked all day. Denny put his hands on my head now. His heels hooked behind my knees. I held his wet, bony hips, and felt small muscles flex. Because he'd just shot ten minutes ago, I figured it would take awhile. He splashed pretty quick though.

  But then, with Denny, it never did take that long.

  "Come on," Hogg said when I got back up on the seat. "Give him a hand with his clothes—" He pulled the wheel around, glanced over—"if he needs it." We were speeding along the highway.

  "That's ... all right," Denny said. He was unbuttoning the shirt. "I can do it." He slid his arm into the sleeve. It was stuck together with starch and hissed coming apart. After he got the pants on, he sat with his bare feet on the floor, watching the night outside. Once in awhile he'd look down and finger the studs on the belt around his waist. He'd fastened the buckle at the last hole, but it still hung pretty loose in his lap. His fly was still open and, looking back out at the road, he reached in to scratch. His hair, drying, was getting curly.

  We drove a long time.

  Sometimes Hogg would wiggle around and gouge at his crotch with his thumb, like he was really itchy. Once I reached between his legs to take his dick out, but he pushed my hand away and told me to cut it the fuck out before he broke my neck.

  I guess we drove two-and-a-half, three hours.

  The truckstop where Hogg finally turned in had maybe half a dozen vans parked over the gravel between the gas pump and the all-night diner.

  "This ought to do it, if anything does," Hogg grunted, yanking back on the break. He looked at Denny. "We're a hundred-fifty miles out of state. Most of the folks around here probably never even heard of Crawhole ... except for on the radio tonight." Hogg sat back in the seat; the shadow from the top of the windshield slid

  down over his eyes. "Okay, now: What's your name."

  "Huh?" Denny started a little, looked at Hogg; he hadn't really been listening. "Dennis . . ." he said. "Denny Harkner."

  "Naw, it's—" Hogg dropped his head a moment to gnaw at his thumb: "It's Bo Jonas. Bo is short for Beauregard. Can you spell Beauregard?"

  Denny frowned. "B-o-r-r..."

  "It's short for Bobby," Hogg said. "You can spell Bobby."

  "B-o-b- ..." Denny frowned again: ". . . y."

  "That's right: Bo Jonas. You got that?"

  "Yeah," Denny said. "Un-huh."

  "You come from Plattsburgh, New York," Hogg said, "and you're hitchhiking to see your Aunt Ruth Jonas down in Lakeland, Florida."

  He looked out the window. "Lots of fruit haulers when their carryin'-licenses lapse, come by this way 'cause they're scared of the big highways— Now what's your name? And where're you goin'?"

  "Eh . . . Bo Jonas," Denny said. "Bobby . . . And I'm going to Florida . . . where in Florida?"

  "Lakeland. That's about fifty miles east of Jacksonville."

  "Yeah. Lakeland. And I'm coming from Plattsburgh. To see my aunt."

  "Ruth Jonas," Hogg said. "There's a big Air Force base in Plattsburgh, and it's just twenty miles south of the Canadian border, across from Montreal." Hogg dug in his shirt pocket and took out the money. "Here's your dough from yesterday. Put it in your pocket, close your fly, and keep your hands off your pecker."

  "Yeah." Frowning, Denny took the money and tried to slip it in his own shirt pocket. Starch stuck the square of cloth to the cloth beneath and he had to slide two fingers in and then spread them to get it open. He put the money in. There was a button on the top of the pocket and he closed it. "Okay. Yeah, all right."

  "Your pants cuffs rolled up?"

  Denny nodded. "I wish I had some shoes."

  "They'll just feel sorry for you and give you a ride that much faster."

  Denny took the door handle, then looked back. "I don't want nobody feelin' sorry for me. I'd kill a motherfucker for that."

  "That's all right," Hogg said; but he gave me a half-disgusted look

  and shook his head. "You just get on out of here."

  "Yeah," Denny said. He looked at me too. When he put his hand on my knee—the skin at the sides of his nails was still white and translucent from the bay—his face did a small, bitter twitch. "Hey, so long, cocksucker." He was trying to smile. "Hey, Hogg?" He blinked, and the twitch flickered again among his thin, acned features. "Goodbye and . . . thanks."

  "You're very welcome," Hogg said. "Now just get on out."

  Denny pushed on the handle, jumped down to the asphalt, slammed the door, and walked toward the lighted truck stop. His pants were awfully big. Rolled up around his ankles like that they looked pretty strange. The belt—the studs glittered across his butt as he passed under the tin-coned lamp on the phone pole— was pretty far down, and lopsided. The sleeves rolled up above his elbows were like bags hanging off his shoulders. But I've seen guys in funnier clothes. When he got to the gravel, his step got a little more ginger to it and his hands started bouncing around his hips.

  Four men came down the concrete steps of the restaurant. Denny went straight for them. I couldn't hear what he was saying but they stopped to listen.

  Once one of the men thought something Denny said was really funny and laughed.

  Eight soiled knuckles in a row on the top of the carpeted wheel, Hogg watched through the bug-specked windshield.

  They talked some more. Once Denny pointed back at Hogg's truck.

  The center knuckles rose.

  The man who'd laughed put his hand on Denny's shoulder and laughed again.

  Two of the men walked away. Denny went with the man who'd laughed, toward one of the smaller trucks.

  "Shit," Hogg whispered, reached forward and started the motor.

  We pulled around onto the highway, going back the way we'd come.

  "He must be one lucky motherfucker, you know? The dumb-ass scumbag just might make it!" Hogg shook his head. "Guess I should've taken my clippers out and cut that damned thing off his

  dick—but, hell, he went through so much gettin' it in there "He

  shook his head again. After awhile he said: "He might make it. Be

  his luck. I don't see how he kept alive all this time."

  I fell asleep during the drive back.

  Once I woke when we'd stopped at some all-night filling station. I looked up over the window edge to see Hogg, outside under the highway light, joking with the pump-jockey in his red baseball cap with the visor turned backward and a dirty blue collar open at his neck—like Hogg was any old trucker, bob-tailing it home after his run.

  A couple of hours later, I woke again.

  Hogg had stopped the truck. In his lap, he had a wax paper full of French fries. When I blinked and raised my head, he said: "Here..." and fed me a couple of handfuls. I ate right from his fingers—only I was so tired, I fell asleep licking ketchup off his thumb. When I woke again, my head was against Hogg's big arm, shaking with the road. First I thought it just a few minutes later. But the radio was on. (All that came through was a country-and-western station.) Outside, swatting the new blue like rags of black lace, trees flipped by.

  As I sat up, between them I saw the gun-gray bay dragging back beside us.

  Hogg glanced at me, grunted, then pulled the truck over to the shoulder. "Christ, I gotta take me a wicked shit! An' my fuckin' kidneys been workin' overtime." He reared back on the hand brake, opened the door, dropped to the road, and came around to my side of the truck. (The French fries paper was balled up under my hip.) I leaned out the window to watch. Hogg put both hands on the dusty fender, bent a little forward, and gave me a grin.

  I heard what sounded like a fart—that got swallowed in something wet. Now he lifted the heel of his bare foot and shook his leg. Something fell loose inside his pants, dropped down inside to catch behind his knee. He shook his leg again.

  I pushed down the door handle, jumped out, lunged forward, and flung myself on the shoulder's dirt, a hand each side of his feet. The turd's end, like some big nigger's dick out at Crawhole, dropped from his cuff to lean against Hogg's blackened heel.

  "Shit," Hogg drawled. As I was trying to push it in my mouth, he rocked his foot back on his heel, turned it—the hard cracked rim pushing my face aside—and mashed his foot on the turd. Shit wedged up through his grimy toes. I caught his ankle with one hand, tried to pull his foot over with the other, jabbed my tongue between them, tried to push them into my mouth.

  Above me, Hogg chuckled. "That's right, cocksucker. You're a dirty little bastard. ..."

  His toes came up and clawed my tongue, gray with grit and shit-paste. Under the shit they were salty. He laughed again and let me get his foot up. I rolled almost to my back, gnawing on what crusted the ball, with dirt in it now, and small stones.

  "Cocksucker," he said, "I'm gonna fuck your face like a goddamn asshole. Get that shit all wet for me, that's right—"

  I scraped to the horn with my teeth.

  "You ain't nothin' but a fuckin' scumbag asshole anyway."

  He kicked my face away with spread toes. When I went forward again, my tongue wagging, he hit me back, across the mouth with his foot's crusted rim.

  "Get on up! I got somethin' comin' to wet it down!"

  I heard his water and pushed back.

  Urine ran on the truck tire, darkening the rubber and turning the clotted nuts on the capless hubs black. The loose hank of foreskin made his piss splatter.

  Working my mouth, I crawled in front of him. His water wet my ear, my cheek. I held my mouth wide. It bubbled hot at the back of my tongue, tickled and dripped from my pallet, ran out over a place where there was no shit on my lower lip.

  "Make it wet. .. that's it. Nice and wet. Wet that shit up. Yeah! Just like ol' Hogg likes it."

  Pee ran down my chin, my neck, under my shirt and down my stomach.

  Hogg put his middle finger in my mouth—water splashed the ham of his thumb, dripped off his fingertips—and scraped something from the back of my teeth and under the side of my tongue. Then he brought his hand back to milk his dick forward, rubbing it, and rubbing it in. "Yeah ...!" Veins bulged, disappeared under his thumb and forefinger. "That's right, cocksucker! You got it!" With his other hand on the truck above me, he leaned forward. His dick went into my mouth. I closed my lips around it, wallowed my tongue under it. His hand came down from the truck and caught my head; then his other hand. He grunted, slid in, pulled back, slid in again.