Fear Street

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Bruce Garret bent down to tie a shoelace that didn’t need tying. The street seemed to be deserted. But he glimpsed a shadowy movement half a block behind him as a stealthy figure melted into the darkness of a convenient doorway. Garret straightened up and continued his apparently aimless stroll along the back street. There was no longer any room for doubt. He was being followed.

He’d spent too many years trailing other men to miss the significance of this skulker at his rear. This was no prowling lush-roller, hopeful of separating a late-hour drunk from his cash. The man had cautiously kept his distance, since Garret left the Rocky Mountain House.

Strange. Garret didn’t know a living soul in this mining town. He’d never been in Stope City before. It was extremely unlikely anyone could have learned he’d drop off the Transcontinental Express here at six-forty tonight. At the hotel he hadn’t registered from Washington, D. C., but merely scrawled B. Garret, New York City.

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