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the first one out of his blankets. He built a fire and put the coffee pot on. He laid strips of bacon in a skillet and placed the skillet on the wire rack over the rock-encirled fire. Then, on impulse, not totally convinced that what had taken place the night before had been real, he walked over to the line of vehicles. They all started. He turned on the radios and began punching buttons. Various stations. He could not find any fifties music at all.
    He returned to the campsite and woke up his friends. They gathered around the vehicles, listening.
    â€œThen it was a dream?” Leon questioned. “It didn’t happen?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Hillary said. “It sure seemed real to me.”
    â€œMe, too,” Bos said.
    â€œLet’s fix some breakfast,” Doyle suggested. “And then let’s get the hell gone from this place.”
    That sounded like a fine idea.
    They gathered around the fire, warming their hands and waiting for the coffee to boil. Just as they were pouring the hot coffee, all the radios in the vehicles came on.
    Rock Around The Clock , from back in the fifties.
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    Watts finished his breakfast and rinsed out his plate, then put it in the dishwasher. He slipped into a shoulder holster rig and checked the loads in his snub-nosed .357. Watts had slept deeply and surprisingly well. He felt refreshed. He also felt excited for the first time in a long time – since his retirement. He felt like an old firehouse dog who’d just jumped on the fire truck for a ride to another three-alarmer. He turned at the ringing of the phone and picked up the receiver.
    STUPID OLD COPPER!
    He slowly replaced the receiver into the cradle and headed for the door.
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    Sheriff Gordie Rivera sat in his car for a moment. He looked at the radio, puzzled by the music. He could not find anything except for one station that played all fifties music, and he’d never picked up that particular station before.
    He stopped fooling with the car radio and picked up the mike to his unit radio. “Blanco County One to headquarters.”
    WHAT DO YOU WANT, ASSHOLE! the voice sprang out of his speaker.
    Gordie tossed the mike to the seat beside him. He had made up his mind during the often-restless and sleepless night, that this entire thing was the work of a nut. Nothing supernatural about it.
    And he wasn’t going to dignify that nutty craphead with a reply.
    HEY, GREASER, I’M TALKING TO YOU.
    Gordie’s good intentions went flying out the window. He grabbed up the mike and keyed it. “Listen, you jerk. I’m gonna put your butt so far back in jail, somebody is going to have to pump light to you. Now what do you have to say about that?”
    The voice started singing Jailhouse Rock.
    â€œYou miserable ...” Gordie choked back the rest of his remark, which was to have been laced with some very personal comments about the ancestral quality of the voice’s lineage.
    Gordie turned off the sheriff’s department radio and backed out of the drive.
    â€œYou got traffic for us, Sheriff?” dispatch asked, the words coming out of a dead speaker.
    Wearily, Gordie picked up the mike. “Yeah, headquarters, I have traffic.”
    No response.
    â€œYou copy, headquarters?” Gordie asked.
    YOU DUMBASS! YOU HAVE TO TURN THE RADIO ON!

Chapter Three
    â€œIt’s the reporter,” the man said. “It’s time, honey.”
    Their eyes met. “How much time do we have?” she asked.
    â€œI don’t know. Enough, I hope.”
    She returned to the stove. It felt so strange, cooking again.
    But Robin had to eat.
    â€œIs anybody going to answer the door?” a teenage girl asked, walking into the kitchen.
    â€œYes,” her father said, but there was reluctance in his voice. He hoped that he could pull this off. He had to make this reporter believe.
    Exasperated, the girl plopped down in a chair. “Mother, why