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candybars in the glove compartment lying on top of my Police Special. I added these items to the bag.
Later, when I was in position between the garage and the hedge at 202 Wyemore Lane, I’d load the
gun and stuff it into my belt. Like a cheap gunsel in the kind of B pictures that played The Strand.
There was one other item in the glove compartment: an issue of TV Guide with Fred Astaire and
Barrie Chase on the cover. For probably the dozenth time since I’d bought the magazine at the
newsstand on upper Main Street, I turned to the Friday listings.
8 PM, Channel 2: The New Adventures of Ellery Queen, George Nader, Les Tremayne. “So Rich, So Lovely, So
Dead.” A conniving stockbroker (Whit Bissell) stalks a wealthy heiress (Eva Gabor) as Ellery and his father investigate.
I put it into the bag with the other stuff—mostly for good luck—then got out, locked my car, and
set out for Wyemore Lane. I passed a few mommies and daddies trick-or-treating with children too
young to be out on their own. Carved pumpkins grinned cheerfully from many stoops, and a couple of
stuffed straw-hat-wearing dummies stared at me blankly.
I walked down Wyemore Lane in the middle of the sidewalk as if I had every right to be there.
When a father approached, holding the hand of a little girl wearing dangly gypsy earrings, mom’s
bright red lipstick, and big black plastic ears clapped over a curly-haired wig, I tipped my hat to Dad
and bent down to the child, who was carrying a paper bag of her own.
“Who are you, honey?”
“Annette Foonijello,” she said. “She’s the prettiest Mouseketeer.”
“And you’re just as pretty,” I told her. “Now what do you say?”
She looked puzzled, so her father leaned over and whispered in her ear. She brightened into a smile.
“Trigger-treat!”
“Right,” I said. “But no tricks tonight.” Except for the one I hoped to play on the man with the
hammer.
I took a Payday from my bag (I had to paw past the gun to get it), and held it out. She opened her
bag and I dropped it in. I was just a guy on the street, a perfect stranger in a town that had been beset
by terrible crimes not long ago, but I saw the same childlike trust on the faces of both father and
daughter. The days of candy doctored with LSD were far in the future—as were those of DO NOT USE
IF SEAL IS BROKEN.
The father whispered again.
“Thank you, mister,” Annette Foonijello said.
“Very welcome.” I winked to Dad. “You two have a great night.”
“She’ll probably have a bellyache tomorrow,” Dad said, but he smiled. “Come on, Punkin.”
“I’m Annette!” she said.
“Sorry, sorry. Come on, Annette.” He gave me a grin, tipped his own hat, and they were off again,
in search of plunder.
I continued on to 202, not too fast. I would have whistled if my lips hadn’t been so dry. At the
driveway I risked one quick look around. I saw a few trick-or-treaters on the other side of the street,
but no one who was paying the slightest attention to me. Excellent. I walked briskly up the driveway.
Once I was behind the house, I breathed a sigh of relief so deep it seemed to come all the way from my
heels. I took up my position in the far right corner of the backyard, safely hidden between the garage
and the hedge. Or so I thought.
I peered into the Dunnings’ backyard. The bikes were gone. Most of the toys were still there—a
child’s bow and some arrows with suction-cup tips, a baseball bat with its handle wrapped in friction
tape, a green Hula Hoop—but the Daisy air rifle was missing. Harry had taken it inside. He meant to
bring it when he went out trick-or-treating as Buffalo Bob.