Showdown by Ted Dekker

of the room. “You yelling?”
    â€œNothing. Just seeing if my mom’s back.”
    Roland turned back into the room, dropped facedown on Johnny’s bed.
    Johnny walked past him and peered out the window. Wind howled. Roland lay as if dead.
    â€œYou okay?” Johnny asked.
    Roland groaned, pushed himself up on both elbows. “How late did we stay up?”
    â€œMidnight. You want to see what’s happening?”
    Roland glanced at the clock, rolled off the bed, and grabbed his jeans. “Sheesh, it’s ten o’clock! I have to mow. I’ll see you at the Starlight later.”
    â€œYou sure you don’t want to see what’s up?”
    â€œWhat do mean, what’s up? Nothing’s up.”
    â€œAfter what happened last night? Trust me, something’s up.”
    â€œMy mom’s going to kill me if I don’t mow this morning,” Roland said, pulling a worn yellow T-shirt over his head.
    â€œIn this wind?”
    â€œGotta go, trust me. See ya.”
    Roland left. Except for the wind moaning occasionally through the rafters, the house was quiet.
    Too quiet for Johnny’s peace of mind.
    STEVE SMITHER pulled himself from a groggy sleep late Thursday morning, dressed in blue jeans and a red plaid shirt, and headed out to the kitchen.
    Not until he passed the picture window that looked over the back lawn did he remember the dream.
    The details fell into his mind. Black, stakes, Paula, stakes , shed, STAKES , screaming. A gust of wind whipped at the shed—no sign of Black or Paula. He had half a mind to check behind it. For stakes.
    Steve swallowed, unnerved by the strong impulse. Then he remembered the stake in his hand. He ran back into the room and scanned the bed, the floor.
    No bloody stake. That had been part of the dream too?
    He headed back into the living room. Where was Paula?
    Maybe he was still in the dream. Or maybe it hadn’t been a dream.
    He took a step toward the back door.
    â€œSteve?”
    â€œHmm?” Steve stopped and turned toward Paula’s voice. His head swam and for a second he thought he might fall, but the dizziness passed, leaving him with a headache.
    And a lingering case of grogginess.
    Paula leaned against the kitchen door frame, arms crossed. She looked a bit fuzzy to him. A bit loose. Her bathrobe draped over her body, untied, and her hair hung in tangles, straddling that terrible-looking white streak—God only knew why she’d let Katie do that to her.
    Looked like a worn-out mutt.
    He chided himself for the thought.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she asked.
    He headed for the front door. “What does it look like I’m doing? The saloon doesn’t open by itself.”
    She let him go without comment.
    Steve paused in the wind, noticing it only as a faint distraction from an uncommon drive to check out the shed. Just to be sure. He had a dream, sure, but this feeling wasn’t a dream. He had to check out the shed.
    Steve rounded the house, approached the shed, and stopped three feet from the corner. His heart was hammering with an almost palpable desire to turn the corner and find the very stakes Black had used in his dream. Maybe even with blood on them. Why?
    He took a deep breath and stuck his head around the corner.
    Nothing.
    â€œFor the love of . . .” He clenched his teeth. “I can’t believe he’d do this.”
    Do what, Steve? Who would do what?
    What was he thinking? He put his hand on the fence, patted it once, and turned to leave.
    Pain shot through his palm. He swore and jerked his hand away from the fence. A splinter the size of his little finger had sliced into the heel of his palm. He stared at it, speechless. Pain throbbed and his hand began to tremble. The thing was in deep, buried at an angle.
    Steve dug at it with his fingernails but couldn’t get a grip on the wood. He gripped his wrist and held his hand for a better view.
    A stake. There was a stake