hairs on the back of his neck stirred.

'Holy crow, you hear that?' Magruder whispered. Ronnie could see Joe now. Joe's eyes were big and scared-looking.

'I hear it.'

It was a sound as low as a powerful outboard engine idling. Ronnie knew it took a big dog to make a sound like that. And when a big dog did, it more often than not meant business. He hadn't seen a BEWARE OF DOG sign when they drove up, but sometimes these bumpkins from the boonies didn't bother with one. He knew one thing. He hoped to God that the dog making that sound was chained up.

'Joe? You ever been out here before?'

'Once. It's a Saint Bernard. Big as a fucking house. He didn't do that before.' Joe gulped. Ronnie heard something in his throat click. 'Oh, God. Lookit there, Ronnie.'

Ronnie's eyes had come partway to adjusting, and his half-sight lent what he was seeing a spectral, almost supernatural cast. He knew you never showed a mean dog your fear - they could smell it coming off you - but he began to shudder helplessly anyway. He couldn't help it.

The dog was a monster. It was standing deep in the barn, beyond the jacked-up car. It was a Saint Bernard for sure; there was no mistaking the heavy coat, tawny even in the shadows, the breadth of shoulder. Its head was down. Its eyes glared at them with steady, sunken animosity.

It wasn't on a chain.

'Back up slow,' Joe said. 'Don't run, for Christ's sake.'

They began to back up, and as they did, the dog began to walk slowly forward. It was a stiff walk; not really a walk at all, Ronnie thought. It was a stalk. That dog wasn't fucking around. Its engine was running and it was ready to go. Its head remained low. That growl never changed pitch. It took a step forward for every step they took back.

For Joe Magruder the worst moment came when they backed into the bright sunlight again. It dazzled him, blinded him. He could no longer see the dog. If it came for him now

Reaching behind him, he felt the side of the truck. That was enough to break his nerve. He bolted for the cab.

On the other side, Ronnie DuBay did the same. He reached the passenger door and fumbled at the latch for an endless moment. He clawed at it. He could still hear that low growling, so much like an idling Evinrude 80 hp motor. The door wouldn't open. He waited

for the dog to pull a chunk of his ass off. At last his thumb found the button, the door opened, and he scrambled into the cab, panting.

He looked in the rearview mirror bolted outside his window and saw the dog standing in the open barn door, motionless. He looked over at Joe, who was sitting behind the wheel and grinning at him sheepishly. Ronnie offered his own shaky grin in return.

'Just a dog,' Ronnie said.

'Yeah. Bark's worse'n his bite.'

'Right. Let's go back in there and screw around with that chainfall some more.'

'Fuck you,' Joe said.

'And the horse you rode in on.'

They laughed together. Ronnie passed him a smoke.

'What do you say we get going?'

'I'm your guy,' Joe said, and started the truck.

Halfway back to Portland, Ronnie said, almost to himself: 'That dog's going bad.'

Joe was driving with his elbow cocked out the window. He glanced over at Ronnie. 'I was scared, and I don't mind saying so. One of those little dogs gives me shit in a situation like that, with nobody home, I'd just as soon kick it in the balls, you know? I mean, if people don't chain up a dog that bites, they deserve what they get, you know? That thing ... did you see it? I bet that motherhumper went two hundred pounds.'

'Maybe I ought to give Joe Camber a call,' Ronnie said. 'Tell him what happened. Might save him gettin his arm chewed off. What do you think?'

'What's Joe Camber done for you lately?' Joe Magruder asked with a grin.

Ronnie nodded thoughtfully. 'He don't blow me like you do, that's true.'

'Last blowjob I had was from your wife. Wasn't half bad, either.'

'Get bent, you fairy.'

They laughed together. Nobody called Joe Camber. When they got back to Portland Machine, it was near knocking-off time.

Screwing-around time. They took fifteen minutes writing the trip up. Belasco came out back and asked them if Camber had been there to take delivery. Ronnie DuBay said sure. Belasco, who was a prick of the highest order, went away. Joe Magruder told Ronnie to have a nice weekend and a happy fucking Fourth. Ronnie said he planned to get in the bag and stay that way until Sunday night.

They clocked out.

Neither of them thought about Cujo again until they read about him in the paper.

Vic spent most of that afternoon before the long weekend going over the details of the trip with Roger. Roger was so careful about details that he was almost paranoid. He had made the plane and hotel reservations through an agency. Their flight to Boston would leave Portland jetport at 7: 10 A.M. Monday. Vic said he would pick Roger up in the jag at 5:30. He thought that was unnecessarily early, but he knew Roger and Roger's little tics. They talked generally about the trip, consciously avoiding specifics. Vic kept his coffeebreak ideas to himself and the napkin stowed safely away in his sport-jacket pocket. Roger would be more receptive when they were away.

Vic thought about leaving early and decided to go back and check the afternoon mail first. Lisa, their secretary, had already left for the day, getting a jump on the holiday weekend. Hell, you couldn't

get a secretary to stay until the stroke of five any more, holiday weekend or not. As far as Vic was concerned, it was just another sign of the continuing decay of Western Civ. Probably at this very moment Lisa, who was beautiful, just twenty-one, and almost totally breastless, was entering the Interstate flow of traffic, bound south to Old Orchard or the Hamptons, dressed in tight jeans and a nothing halter. Get down, disco Lisa. Vic thought, and grinned a little.

There was a single unopened letter on his desk blotter.

He picked it up curiously, noting first the word PERSONAL

printed below the address, and second the fact that his address had been printed in solid caps.

He held it, turning it over in his hands, feeling a vague thread of disquiet slip into what was a general mood of tired well-being. Far back in his mind, hardly even acknowledged, was a sudden urge to rip the letter into halves, fourths, eighths, and then toss the pieces into the wastebasket.

Instead, he tore it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

More block letters.

The simple message - six sentences - hit him like a straight shot just below the heart. He did not so much sit in his chair as collapse into it. A little grunt escaped him, the sound of a man who has suddenly lost all his wind. His mind roared with nothing but white noise for a length of time he didn't - couldn't - understand or comprehend. If Roger had come in just then, he likely would have thought Vic was having a heart attack. In a way, he was. His face was paper-white. His mouth hung open. Bluish half-moons had appeared under his eyes.

He read the message again.

And then again.

At first his eyes were drawn to the first interrogative: WHAT'S THAT MOLE JUST ABOVE HER

PUBIC HAIR LOOK LIKE TO YOU?

It's a mistake, he thought confusedly. No one knows about that but me... well, her mother. And her father. Then, hurt, he felt the first splinters of jealousy: Even her bikini covers that ... her little bikini.