The Totem

ONE

The map was spread out on the desk, and Slaughter stared at it. He glanced up at the five men grouped around him: Rettig, Dunlap, Lucas, Owens, and the medical examiner. "I wanted you to be here because each of you has been involved in this and I need your opinions."

They were silent. Outside, traffic was unusually dense for a Sunday.

"Good," Slaughter said. "I'm glad you want to help."

"There isn't any choice."

And Slaughter looked at Owens who was scowling out the window. Slaughter waited, then continued.

"As I see it, we've got two main problems, although they're really both the same. The first thing is to keep the people in town safe."

"By this afternoon, there won't be anybody to protect."

Slaughter looked again at Owens, then at where the man was scowling, at the cars and trucks that filed past toward the main road from the valley. "Okay, so word spread fast and lots of people are leaving. That can help us."

"To do what? Protect a ghost town?" Owens asked.

"That's exactly what I didn't want to hear. You've worked hard on this. I thought I could depend on you."

"But what's the use?" Owens demanded. "You know we can't beat this."

"We can try."

"Well, you don't have a family. My wife and kids are packing right now."

"So are mine," Rettig said. "That doesn't mean I'm going with them."

Owens stared at him and then at everyone. His gaze was disbelieving. "You still don't get it, do you? Everything we've found out, the way they don't like light and how they come out in the darkness, how the moon affects them, how these incidents have been increasing." He pointed toward a calendar on the wall.

Slaughter shook his head. "I don't understand."

"It's the moon. The moon is getting fuller. We've got just today and Monday and then Tuesday. When the moon is at its fullest, this whole valley's going to be a madhouse."

They looked startled.

"What he says is in a way correct," the medical examiner added. "There's a kind of logarithmic pattern to this."

"Will you please make sense?"

"The numbers, Slaughter. They're increasing at a faster rate. What you told me, all the calls that you've been getting, all the incidents your men are investigating. We start with one thing. Next it's two, the next night four, and eight, and sixteen. As the moon gets fuller, all the incidents are doubled in proportion. After sixteen, thirty-two. You see the kind of ultimate it's leading toward."

"Then that can help us."

"If it can, I don't see how."

"The moon will start to wane then, and the incidents will be reduced. The stimulus won't be as strong. If we can get through Tuesday, then we've got a chance to gain control."

"Except that it's not just a full moon," Owens said. "Look at the calendar. Tuesday. What's the date?"

"June twentieth."

"That's right, and what's it say about the next day?"

Slaughter leaned close to the calendar. "It says the twenty-first, the first day of summer."

"And you still don't get it?"

Slaughter frowned, confused.

"The summer solstice," Owens told him. "Christ, you're a cop. When you were back east in Detroit, surely you noticed how the crazies started acting up when the moon was full or when the seasons started changing. You don't even need to be a cop to notice it. Just talk to doctors or to me about the way my animals begin behaving. Talk to people at complaint departments out at Sears or Ward's or K-Mart. The moon does crazy things. And now the full moon and the summer solstice will be coming together. All those ancient stories about pagans losing control and worshiping chaos on Midsummer's Eve. Chaos. Think about it. We've got a virus that affects the limbic brain and makes us act the way we did when we were animals. Tuesday night, you're going to see hell."

They gaped at him, their faces drained of color.

"Jesus," Dunlap said.

"Yes, you've scared me," Slaughter said and looked down at the map, then at the window, then at him. He took a breath. "Yes, I admit it, and I guess after what I've seen, you're likely right that anything can happen now. But I don't know what I can do about it."

"Leave before you don't have a choice," Owens said.

"I can't allow that."

"Why?"

"Because I have a job."

"That's just as crazy as the things you've seen," Owens said. "You won't do any good, and even if you do, who's going to thank you? Parsons? He looks out for himself. You think the people in the valley will be grateful if you die for them? Don't believe it. They'll just say you didn't have control, that you were foolish. Take the chance and get out while you can."

"But I'm not doing this for the town. I'm doing it for me," Slaughter said. "If I run now, I couldn't tolerate myself. And I don't think you could run out either."

"No? Just watch me."

And they did. They waited, staring, and Owens returned their stares, and for a moment, it seemed certain that he would walk away, but then he didn't.

"Something wrong? You're bothered?" Slaughter asked.

Owens kept looking at him.

"Maybe you had something more to say?"

But Owens only swallowed.

"I tell you what. It's daylight. Things won't get too bad until tonight. Just stick around a little. Tell your family to leave, that you'll catch up. And in the meanwhile, keep helping us the way you did just now. You've given us more information than we had. I don't know how to use it, but you're really quite important."

Owens kept staring. "Until tonight at sunset."

"That's no more than I could ask for."

And then Slaughter did an unexpected thing. He reached close to shake hands with him, and Owens seemed a little better, and the other men relaxed then.

"We're a team again. Let's do it."

TWO

Parsons pulled the roadblock across the two-lane highway. It was like a sawhorse, only bigger, longer. He had found it by the roadside where a highway crew had been repairing asphalt, and he pulled the second one across so that both lanes were barricaded, and he faced the backed-up traffic. His intentions were uncommon to him. All his life he'd learned to occupy a still point, to let power channel through him rather than be active and pursue it. He had earned his station simply by agreeing to what everyone already was committed to. That government is best which governs least, he always said. A public servant's job is not to lead, instead to follow. And for twenty-five years of being mayor, he'd found that notion was successful. Now it failed him. From his house on the outskirts of town, he'd seen the people leaving. He had begged his friends to stay and trust him, but that moment when, if he had only acted, now was past him, and he saw the town dissolving, saw the power he had passively received dissolving with it. For the first time in his life, he was a failure. More important, he would never occupy his same position. If the town were ever saved, if the people ever came back, they would surely not be loyal to him. They would change things, choose a new mayor, want to do things differently, and he would be like presidents who once were influential, leaders who were set aside and even an embarrassment. He knew that these analogies were grandiose, but this had been his country, this town in this valley. He had ruled it absolutely, and he couldn't bear the thought that he'd soon be deposed and useless.

It was Slaughter's fault, he told himself, Slaughter who had screwed things up and let the situation get so out of hand, Slaughter who now with that reporter was determined to abuse him, to publish stories that would damage him, hell, ruin him. Slaughter maybe had ambitions. Parsons hadn't thought of that, but maybe Slaughter planned to claim that Parsons had been weak and ineffective. Slaughter then would show how he himself had taken charge and he would soon become the mayor. Like hell. Parsons would be damned if he let anybody take his power away. Who did Slaughter think that he was dealing with, and what made Slaughter think he could suddenly take charge? This valley wasn't ruled like that, and Parsons was determined to instruct him.

He had both his roadblocks set up, and with his shotgun in his hand, he stalked ahead toward where the first car waited. He was bulky, towering above the car. That was the first thing he had learned: to use his size, his presence. "Turn around. We have to work together on this."

"Get those roadblocks out of there before I ram right through them."

"And what then? If everybody leaves, there won't be anybody left to stop this."

"Look, the guy next door was mangled by his German shepherd. Two doors down, the husband went berserk. I know of twenty people who've been missing since last night. Something's going on, but it's been covered up, and I don't plan to wait around to find out what it is."

"I'll shoot your tires out."

"And what about the other cars behind me? You don't have enough ammunition. Just clear those roadblocks. Let me on my way."

"I can't permit that. We don't know what this thing is, but if I let you from the valley, you'll be spreading it. This valley, starting now, is quarantined."

Parsons knew that he was being contradictory, that what he'd said to Slaughter went against what he was doing now, but he was in a fight with Slaughter, and if using Slaughter's tactics meant success, then he would use them. What was more, the situation was so uncontrolled now that this tactic really was the best way, and besides, as he was saying to the driver, "If you leave now, if this valley goes to hell, you won't be coming back. There won't be anything you want here or can trust here. Take a stand, for God sake. Go back into town and fight this."

All the cars were lined up, honking, drivers getting out and swarming toward him. He was ready with his shotgun. "If you'll trust me, I can show you how to beat this."

They were yanking at his roadblocks.

"It's those hippies. Don't you see it?"

Yes, he knew about that too. He had informants everywhere, and he'd been talking to them since he'd been with Slaughter. There were still a few things that he didn't understand, but he knew just enough that he'd found a scapegoat. Plus, the hippies really were the enemy, and if he'd worked this angle back in 1970, he could work it once again.

"Those hippies?" The drivers paused with the roadblocks in their hands. "But they're long gone."

"I'm telling you that they're still in the mountains. Oh, they moved to some place else, but they're still up there, and they're crazy. God knows what all they've been doing, using drugs and living like a bunch of animals. They've picked up some disease now, and they're coming to the valley. Oh, sure, I know dogs and cats have got it too, but we can handle them. Those hippies are the ones I'm afraid of."

It was a prehistoric argument that took advantage of their tribal instincts, conjuring the image of some hairy foreign thing that no one understood and hence that everyone feared. Parsons was almost ashamed to use it, but he nonetheless believed it, all those hate-filled recollections of those hippies, latent, ready to be triggered, and his anger was intense enough now that he wanted to get even. Damage Slaughter. Kill those hippies. Get his town back as it was for him. Oh, yes, by God, the way Slaughter had spoken to him, he meant to see that someone paid.

He waited as they stared at him. "You don't remember nineteen-seventy? Hal there lost his boy in Vietnam while those damned hippies crudded up our town. And now those hippies are on their way back. They're going to come down from the mountains and kill us unless we make plans to stop them."

The crowd kept staring.

"I don't even need you. I'll go see the ranchers. They know what's important. They know how to keep what they've worked hard for. I'll go find some men who aren't afraid!"

Now Parsons felt emotion stirring in them. In a moment, he would ask if anybody knew the people who'd been murdered. He would tell them that the state police were heading into the mountains, that they needed help-yes, he had heard about that too-and he would tell them about Slaughter, how their chief was so inept that he himself, their mayor, was forced to come down here and take charge of his people.

THREE

Slaughter scowled down with the others at the map. They'd made arrangements for their message to be broadcast on the TV and the radio, for everyone to stay inside, to keep away from animals, from strangers, to report a bite or any odd behavior, then to call the police station for assistance, and to watch for the cruisers that were out in force along the streets. He himself had called the state police, but there was only one man on duty at the local barracks and no word had come from Altick. He had called for help from Rawlins, Lander, Sheridan, and Casper. If he had to, he would call in the state militia. But right now, his main objective was to find the commune. "You men know these mountains more than I do. Tell me where the commune is."

"It's too much area to figure," Rettig told him.

"Yes, but…" Slaughter paused and rubbed his forehead.

He'd been having pains there for several hours, from lack of food and sleep, the tension building in him, and his argument with Parsons. He was hoping he could handle this, but he was overwhelmed by what he faced, gradually more doubtful. "Yes, but there must be a couple places you can think of, caves or canyons where a group of people could live undetected."

"If you want to think about it that way, there are hundreds," Rettig said. "I remember when I was a kid there weren't even terrain maps for those mountains. Hunters, fishermen, oh yeah, they go up through there, but I used to know an Indian who lived there as a hermit for three years and never came across another person."

"What you're telling me is that we won't find any answer."

"What I'm saying is, we don't have the time for trial and error."

"Look, there has to be some logic to this," Dunlap said.

They turned to him, the city man who planned to tell them about mountains.

"Logic? Where the hell is logic?" Slaughter demanded.

"You'd know the way to do this if you were still in Detroit. Think of everything that's happened as a group of crimes you're plotting on a grid of city streets. Diagram it for the pattern."

"But there isn't any pattern," Rettig said.

"Of course, there is. Don't think about what's happened in the town. Just concentrate on incidents near the mountains. I've been here only since Friday, but I spotted right away that everything has happened on the western section of the valley."

"Don't you think I know that?" Rettig said impatiently.

"Use it!"

Slaughter shifted his attention to the map. "Okay, if you're so confident. Why not? It's worth a try. We haven't anything to lose." He drew an X. "That's Bodine's ranch, pretty close to where we found the abandoned truck. Here's the lake where Altick's men were lost."

"And here's the deserted compound."

"Don't forget your own place," Rettig told him. "It's obvious those weren't bobcats. You live near that section, too."

"Can you think of any other things?"

"The ranchers who reported mangled cattle live over there, and that hippie staggered into town from that direction."

There were X's all across that section of the map.

"I don't see what that accomplished," Slaughter said.

"I do," Lucas answered. "Draw some lines up toward the mountains. Intersect them."

Slaughter did, and the men grouped around the table, frowning toward the map.

"Well, it's high up. That's what you expected," Slaughter told Rettig.

"High enough that people don't go up there much. You see that there aren't any trails marked."

"What's this broken line here?" Slaughter asked.

"That's the railroad that went up to where they used to mine the gold back in the old days. It's all broken down now."

"Mine the gold? Mine what gold?"

"This was once the richest section of the state. Back in eighteen ninety-five. There used to be a town up there."

And Slaughter felt the chill begin.

"Dear God, the answer's been there all along, and we were just too dumb to see it," Owens said.

"The ghost town," Rettig said. "They called it Motherlode. It's hard as hell to get there now that we don't have the railroad up there. I mean, there's no wagon road, no trail. That's why they built the railroad in the first place."

"Motherlode, and there are shafts that cut in through the rock walls. If you knew what you were doing, you could live up there a long time. All those miners did."

"And now the hippies," Slaughter said.

"And now the hippies," Owens echoed. "There's no telling what we'll find up there."

"I'm sorry, Slaughter. "Parsons' voice came strong across the room. They whirled and looked beyond the glass partition at the group of men with rifles who were hurrying through the main door, standing in the middle of the larger office. Parsons was ahead of them, looming huge and staring toward the glass partition.

"You keep barging in. It's not a habit I admire," Slaughter said.

"Well, this will be the last. You'll have to come with us."

The room was silent. The shuffling feet had stopped. The officer on duty at the radio was frowning. The three men who'd been answering the telephones halted in mid-sentence. They made brief remarks and set down the phones. At once, the phones started ringing again.

"Pull the jacks on those things," Parsons said. "I don't want to hear them."

They were looking first at Slaughter, then at Parsons.

"Pull the jacks, I told you."

They leaned down quickly, pulling out the jacks.

"That's better. Now we won't be interrupted. Well, you heard me, Slaughter. Let's get moving."

"Where? What for?"

"I just declared emergency conditions."

"I don't-"

"This is what you'd call a citizen's arrest."

"You're joking."

"Am I smiling? Move before we make you."

"But you can't be serious."

"I'm not prepared to argue. It's a known fact that you wouldn't follow orders."

"That's because you didn't want to deal with this."

"Do I appear as if I'm not prepared to deal with this? Your logic's not convincing. You've been acting on your own without authority. Your methods have been irresponsible. You've let this thing get out of hand while you, the medical examiner, and Owens were conspiring to hide evidence of murder."

"What?"

"The boy the medical examiner slashed open in the morgue. The boy was still alive. You think I don't know about that? Once I figured that the parents would be suing us, I had a second autopsy performed. That slash is hardly what you'd call professional. Oh, sure, the medical examiner worked hard to make it seem a part of his procedure, but he didn't do it well enough. We're holding all of you until we learn the truth about this."

"Not including me." Dunlap stepped ahead. "I don't know anything about this."

"But you've seen enough to be a circumstantial witness. Slaughter bragged about that. And this fellow here. I don't know how he's involved in this."

"I'm passing through," Lucas said.

"You're Wheeler's son. I know that much by now. You used to chum with all those hippies, and we can't afford to trust you. How much money do you have?"

"I don't see-"

"How much money?"

"Ten, maybe twelve dollars."

"Not enough. You're a vagrant, and we'll likely find a record on you once we start investigating. All of you, I'm tired of waiting."

"What about me?" Rettig stepped forward.

"I have nothing I can claim against you. Actually I'm putting you in charge, although I'm still suspicious of your friendship with Slaughter. Make one move to help him, and you'll join him. This department's been in bad shape for too long. I mean to put some muscle in it. I won't ask you anymore, " he told them. "Rettig, take his gun."

But Rettig hesitated.

"It's all right," Slaughter told him. "Every second we argue, there's more trouble outside. Do what he tells you. I'll make good on this."

Parsons laughed. "Sure you will. In your own jail. Let's get this finished."

Rettig looked at Slaughter, then took Slaughter's gun. The men with rifles stepped ahead to form a cordon, and the five men went out, guards around them.

Rettig watched as Parsons remained in the office and studied the map.

"How much help did he call in?" Parsons asked.

"Sheridan and Lander, places like that."

"Well, I think that I can keep them quiet, keep the word about this strictly in the valley. I don't want those ranchers ruined. Did he call in the state militia?"

"He wasn't sure yet." Rettig had troubled speaking.

"Good," Parsons said. "I stopped him just in time. Slaughter meant to ruin everyone."

"I hardly think so."

Parsons tapped his fingers on the map. "Rettig, what I need now is cooperation, someone who can do the job. Are you prepared to help, or aren't you?"

"Yes, I want to help."

"Then there isn't any problem, is there? You stay, and you work to keep the town safe. I have people who'll be downstairs watching Slaughter."

"But that reporter. Surely you don't think you can muzzle him. Eventually he'll write about the valley."

"What, a drunk, a common lush? When I'm through smearing his reputation, there won't be anyone who'll listen to him. Plus, there won't be anything for him to see. He'll never have the story."

"He can try."

"But he'll need evidence, and if you think your chief was good at cover-ups, you haven't seen what I can do. When I'm finished, this place will be happy valley. We'll have had a small exaggerated rabies scare."

"And Slaughter-"

"He'll be on his ass in jail or on the road to nowhere. He can't take charge of a town the way he planned and not get punished for it. We still have laws, you know."

"I guess it all depends on how you look at it."

"You're learning, Rettig. I might have a place for you. Let's get these phones in order."

"Tell me how much force you'll let me use."

"Enough to get the job done."

"That's too vague."

"I mean it that way. Walk the line. It keeps you careful. This town's economy is based on animals, on livestock. If you have to shoot, take time to get permission. Get in touch with anyone who owns a cat or dog. The court house has the license records. If you see a hippie-"

"Yes?"

"Well, I think you know how to handle it." Parsons looked at him, then slowly walked across to where he paused in the doorway, looked again, then went off down the hallway.

Rettig stood there, silent, stunned by what had happened. Glancing toward the window, he saw people in the front yard, mostly men, and they were angry, holding weapons. He felt suddenly exhausted.

"Tell me what that bastard thinks he's going to do," the officer beside the radio said.

"I don't know. He saw the pattern on the map. He heard us talking. It's my guess he plans to go up to the ghost town, pick a fight with them, and kill them all."

"But that's crazy. He can't get away with that."

"Oh, can't he? If those hippies have the virus, they'll attack for certain, so the killings will be justified. And even if they aren't, if Parsons takes enough men with him, we can't prosecute the whole town."

"But he's instigating them."

"No, he's just doing what they tell him. That's what he'll say later, and that's always been his pattern. Oh, he'll get away with it all right, and he'll come back with twice the power he started with. We're going to see some bad times, and I don't know how to deal with them. I wish Slaughter were in my place."

"Go downstairs and spring him."

"Do it for me."

"No, thanks."

"Then you see what I mean. We'd only end up in there with him."

Rettig turned to face the window once again. Outside, the crowd had shifted so that Parsons could go through, haranguing them. The phones were ringing. Officers were answering.

"I hate to say it, but no matter how you look at it, we've got some bad times coming, and God help us, there isn't any way to stop them."

FOUR

He was feeling strange now. They had warned him this might happen, but the bite had not been deep across his finger. Lots of scratches on his face and neck, but just the one slight bite where he had reached up to defend himself against her. When she'd started last night, he'd assumed that she was crazy from her grief. Their only child and he was dead now. Then he'd vaguely understood that even grief could not account for how she acted, and he'd tried to get away from her. She wouldn't let him. If that woman hadn't clubbed his wife, he doubted that he would have had the strength to fight her off much longer. Now more grief. His wife unconscious. Although grateful, he was sorry that his wife had needed such strong force to be subdued. He wondered if their lives would ever regain normalcy. He worried that his wife might even not survive.

And now the knowledge of the virus she and Warren had contracted, of the virus he himself might harbor. They'd explained to him that, if he had the sickness, he would demonstrate the symptoms in the next full day, and they had put him in this chamber. Locked him in the chamber really. It was padded, floors and walls and ceiling, without windows. It was for hysterics, and the thought of what he might become was reinforced by these conditions.

He glanced at his watch. They'd let him keep it, which to some degree was comforting. He saw that it said three o'clock- fourteen hours since he'd been bitten. Maybe he'd survive this, but he felt the strangeness in him. Only grief? Depression? Was it something else? Was this the way it started?

Angered, suddenly he punched against a padded wall. He kicked it, cursing. Yesterday his life had been perfection. Driving home with Warren from the doctor, he had felt relief and happiness, togetherness. Now everything had been destroyed for him. His son was dead. He punched the padded wall again. He growled at it. So easy to imagine how this day could have been different. Then he understood that he had growled just now.

He stood immobile, startled. No, he'd merely been angry. It was nothing. But the sharp salt smell of sweat in here was powerful. He sniffed. It came from the walls. He stepped close, sniffing harder. This was how it started then, he guessed. There wasn't any question. Although he should have felt more fear, his grief and anger had wearied him. He didn't at last care. And maybe that passivity was part of this thing too. He didn't have a choice. It forced him to accept it.

And that sharp salt smell of sweat. He leaned close, sniffing. He was licking. Then he realized that he was licking, but he couldn't stop himself. The urge was irresistible. His tongue scraped against the rough canvas. For an instant, he could recognize his double personality, but then analysis was past him. When they came ten minutes later, he was raving.

FIVE

Parsons waited in the field beside the fairgrounds. There were many who were here already, but he knew that soon there would be more. He had sent messengers to all the ranchers in the valley. Other men from town were driving in now. He saw ranchers whom he knew well just behind them. It was almost time to start. He climbed up into the Jeep and stood and raised the bullhorn.

"Listen to me." Amplified, his words boomed stridently toward them.

They stopped talking, checking their weapons, or organizing gear in the back of their pickup trucks. They turned to face him, tense from expectation. Small motions rippled through them. Then the group was still, and they waited.

Parsons stood straighter, using his weight and size to gather their full attention. "Everybody knows the risk." His voice blared through the bullhorn. "Second thoughts? You'd better say so now because we won't turn back once we get started. If you want to go home, we won't think less of you, but make your minds up now before you don't have a choice."

They didn't move or speak. They just kept watching.

"Good. I knew I could count on you. Now there'll be outsiders who don't like what we're doing, who'll call us vigilantes. They don't understand the spirit of this valley, how our fathers' fathers got this land and more important how they kept it. These outsiders sympathize with weakness. If they had their way, we'd all have nothing. But I don't intend to give up what I've worked for, and it's plain that you don't either."

The group nodded forcefully.

Parsons watched as more Jeeps and pickup trucks drove in. "We have to look ahead to what they'll say against us. And I want it understood that we're no lynch mob. Our only goal is to defend ourselves. We'll go up, and we'll face them, and we'll make them stop what they've been doing. If they want to fight, they bring it on themselves. But we're not looking for that. What we want is peace. Remember that. If anyone accuses us, you know what our intentions are."

They murmured in agreement.

"Understood?"

They murmured louder.

"All together on this?"

They shouted, "All together!"

"What's that?"

"All together!"

"Now you sound like you deserve to live here!"

He gave instructions. They obeyed, getting in their trucks and Jeeps, starting motors, moving out to form a line. Others followed. Parsons slid down in his seat beside the driver. Other engines started. Other vehicles moved out. He heard the roar of motors, the crunch of tires. They headed across the rangeland, one long caravan of trucks and Jeeps, dust cloud rising.

SIX

Altick slumped exhausted on the gametrail. "This is no good. There's no time left," he gasped.

"But it can't be very far now."

"We'll need cover in the darkness." Altick squinted toward the dimming sky. The helicopter had gone back to town a while ago. It needed fuel. Besides, in the night, it would have been useless as a lookout. Altick had explained the places where they might seek shelter, and the helicopter would return at sunrise. They were on their own now, and although angry, Altick was hardly foolish. He studied the gametrail. "On that level up there. Grab some dead branches, bushes, anything. We're going to make a barricade."

They ran up, taking turns, some working while the others aimed their rifles toward the forest, then exchanging jobs so everybody had a chance to rest. They built the wall in a circle, a thick barricade made of fallen tree limbs with pointed branches sticking out. It was like the makeshift outposts he had sometimes helped to build in Vietnam. There were pointed branches projecting from the top as well, and anything that tried to breach them would soon be impaled or scratched damned bad for certain. Meanwhile, Altick and his men had their flashlights and their rifles and their handguns, lots of ammunition, seven men all told, forewarned this time and scared and angry and determined to put up a fight.

"There'll be no fire. I don't want to draw attention to us. Not until I'm ready for them. Let's find out tomorrow where they're hiding. Then we'll stop them. Help me make these torches. If we need them, we can light them."

They hurriedly gathered dead pine-tree branches, tying their needles into packets for torches. Their shirts were soaked with sweat as they worked breathlessly, others watching with their rifles as the sun sank behind the mountains. At once they entered the barricade, blocked off the entrance, and huddled silently in the darkness.

SEVEN

Wheeler had never worked this hard in his life. After he had buried what he'd shot, he'd led his bait to water. It was no good if his three steers fainted when he needed them. He brought them back and staked them again, and then he dug a trench around them, not deep, just five inches. He brought five-inch plastic drainage tubing from the barn, cut it into manageable sections, sealed one end with a screw-on, glued plastic cap, filled each section with gasoline, then sealed the other end. He was almost ready.

He'd been careful not to fill the tubes near where he planned to use them. Fumes from gasoline would only scare his targets away. His only compromise was that he drove his truck to the trap he was preparing. There he struggled with the tubes as he made several trips from truck to trench, but then he had the tubes in a circle, and he drove the truck back to the barn.

A trigger now. He needed something to ignite the gasoline. He doubted that a bullet would do the job, but for sure a dynamite cap would. He had the plunger and the wires from when he'd been blasting boulders that blocked the stream to his pond. When had he been doing that? Two years ago. He'd never finished that chore, but at least he had a use for his equipment now, and he rigged the dynamite cap between two sections of the tubing, and he strung the wire and plunger to his vantage point up in the tree. He sprinkled dirt across the tubing and the wire. He glanced sternly around in search of anything he'd forgotten. Then he slung his rifle across his shoulder and climbed the tree. Jittery from Benzedrine, he stared at the darkness. When the moon came up, he knew he'd have no trouble seeing. It was brilliant, even brighter than last night, almost full. He wouldn't have to strain to see their movements out there. He would hear them as well, hear his cattle, because this time he intended to permit the steers to die. He wanted to catch as many of those hippies as he could, to trap them as they swarmed upon his cattle.

At first he thought that the cattle fidgeted and lowed strangely because they were tethered. Then the night was suddenly in motion out there, figures crouching, darting forward from all angles. Jesus, this was going to be much better than he'd hoped.

He waited until he couldn't tolerate it any longer, until the cattle were sprawled on the ground and bellowing with madness. When he pushed the plunger, night turned into roaring day. A circle of tall flames entrapped the figures. He shot repeatedly. Through the whooshing flames, he couldn't see his targets precisely, only fire-enshrouded movement.

He kept shooting. Abruptly he was out of bullets, and he frantically reloaded. Laughing, he shot again. His shoulder ached from so many recoils. He shot and shot. He heard the screams. He smelled the burning flesh amid the roaring circle of flames. He shot, reloaded, and shot again, laughing.

The fire diminished. He scanned the mounds of lifeless bodies and continued shooting at them. Then his rifle clicked on empty, and he fumbled in his pocket for more cartridges. Finding none, he tried the other pocket, but that was empty as well, and then he heard a noise below him. Staring down, he saw a figure. No, several of them, clawing at the tree trunk. In the brilliance of the moon, the dying flames around the charnel mound, he heard them climbing, their bearded faces looming toward him, and he kicked. He jabbed with his rifle as hands reached up to grab him. He was screaming.

EIGHT

Five men in the cells downstairs, two other men with rifles watching them. The guards were leaned back in their chairs against the wall. There was a desk, a door that led out to the stairs up to the main floor, and a second door that led through to the tunnel toward the courthouse. That way prisoners could be escorted to the judge without their ever going outside, and the tunnel was both dank and fetid, odors that came underneath the bottom of the second door and filled the cell room. Slaughter had been down here only when he was required. Certainly he'd never been a prisoner, and he was understanding the humiliation, vowing that he'd make things better if he ever got the chance, although that didn't seem too likely. He was finished in this town. He knew that. Parsons had been much too clever for him. He was sickened, and the damp oppressiveness around him didn't help things.

He at least had gotten some sleep. At first he had been anxious, pacing back and forth across his cell. He'd even tried to reason with the guards, but they just looked at him and didn't answer, and his friends who were imprisoned with him, when the arguments had lagged, exchanged diminishing complaints, then gave up, sprawling in defeat across their bunks and finally were silent. Slaughter gave up with them. In his weariness, he slept.

The cells were in a row, five units with a prisoner per unit.

Lucas, who had come back after all these years to see his father, only to discover that the wheel of time had swung around to trap him. He had stayed a prisoner down here when he had testified against his father at the trial. The prosecution had been worried that he'd flee town before telling the jury about his father's temper, so he'd been jailed for what was jokingly described as his protection. He had thought he'd never come back, but his dying mother had been forceful. She'd wanted him to claim the birthright she had worked so hard for. Plus, he intended to make amends. He knew that he'd been wrong, that if he'd told the truth about the compound there was every chance his father wouldn't have been punished. He had stolen two years from his father. With the passage of too many seasons, hate had turned to pity, and with one remaining parent, he was determined not to lose the father he'd never had. He wanted to get to the ranch, to make peace with his father, to warn him, to see if he needed…

The medical examiner, who was puzzled how he'd let himself become committed to this. All his life, he'd tried to keep a distance from other people, and now he was close to being prosecuted for his rare social behavior. If only he'd persisted in his concentration on the dead and not the living. Yesterday when he had found the virus-ridden dog, he should have phoned the police station and been done with it. Instead he had become involved, and now he surely would be forced to…

Owens, who was worried about his family waiting for him. He'd been denied a chance to call them, and he wished that he had left the office upstairs when he said that he was going. But he'd stayed for stupid reasons, loyalty to people other than his family, to this group of men who'd said that they had need of him when his first duty was toward home. Now he would maybe face a jury because Slaughter and the medical examiner persuaded him that they all would lie about the boy's death. What had he been thinking of? What power did these men have over him? Did he want that much for them to like him? He'd be punished for protecting people whom he had no obligation to, and he was wishing now that with his family he had fled to some new place beyond the…

Dunlap, who a while ago had dreamed about that antlered figure, turning, staring past its shoulder at him. He had never dreamed it with such vividness, as if each visitation were more real, more clear until he'd wake up one last time and see it there before him. But it wasn't in his cell when he awakened. Just the memory of what had happened, and beyond the bars the two guards who leaned, chairs against the wall, and held their rifles. He was sweating from the dream and from the absence of the alcohol that gave him strength. His hands shook as they had all day and yesterday, and he was thinking that if he could only have a drink his troubles wouldn't be so fierce and he'd be able to handle this. But in a way he was delighted. In his agony he at last had gotten his story, and if Parsons thought that his imprisonment would keep him from the truth about this, Parsons didn't know how good this loser once had been, although he was not a loser any longer. He would find the truth and neutralize the nightmare and save himself. He clutched at every instant, wondering what…

Slaughter, who was thinking of five years ago and old Doc Markle and the secret they had shared. Slaughter was a coward. If the others had their secrets, that was Slaughter's own grand secret. He had walked too many darkened- alleys in Detroit. He'd faced too many unlocked doors and silent buildings. He'd chased too many unseen figures.

The grocery store. A February snowstorm. At midnight, Slaughter had finally completed his shift. It had been exhausting, the fierce weather making people feel on edge, causing him to be sent on more assignments than usual, mostly to settle violent domestic disputes and drunken arguments in bars. While doing his best to drive home without having an accident on the slippery streets, Slaughter had suddenly remembered that his wife had left a phone message at the precinct for him to pick up some milk, bread, breakfast cereal, and orange juice. The schools were closed, and his wife hadn't been able to leave the apartment to do her weekly shopping because she was busy taking care of their nine-year-old twins.

He'd skidded around a drift and glimpsed the snow-obscured glow of an all-night convenience store. Braking, fishtailing to a stop, he'd quickly left the car and entered the store, where he'd been surprised to find two boys in their early teens standing behind the counter, one of them munching potato chips while the other pocketed money from the cash register. The next thing he'd noticed were the legs of a man, presumably the clerk, projecting from the side of the counter, a pool of blood spreading around them on the floor.

His chest cramping, Slaughter had fumbled to unbutton his overcoat and grab his revolver, but the kid eating potato chips calmly dropped the bag and raised a shotgun, his eyes expressionless when he pulled the trigger. Slaughter had groaned from the blast's impact against his stomach. The stunning force had lifted him off his feet, thrown him past a rack of magazines, and hurtled him backward through the store's front window. Hearing glass shatter, he'd walloped onto the snow-covered sidewalk, in agony, unbearably cold, but worse than that, paralyzed from shock. No matter how hard he had strained to reach for his revolver, his arms refused to move. Snow lanced at his face, and he kept struggling, but he was powerless. Jesus! His hands felt like slabs of wood. Steaming blood gushed from the wound in his stomach, snow landing on it and turning red.

Christ! Oh, Christ! But his pain, as excruciating as it was, couldn't compare to the intensity of his fright.

The two kids ambled out of the store, paused before him, and looked bored as the one with the shotgun raised it, aiming at Slaughter's face. No! Slaughter had mentally begged, unable to speak, fighting for breath. He'd narrowed his vision toward the shotgun's barrel and inwardly winced, panicked, dreading the blast that would blow his head apart.

Then, absurdly, the kid who'd been eating potato chips had asked the other if he thought Detroit would beat Toronto in the hockey game tomorrow night. Still aiming the shotgun, the second kid had answered matter-of-factly that Detroit would. But the first kid responded that he thought Toronto had a better chance, and that had started an argument about being loyal to the local team. Through gusting snow, Slaughter had blinked in terror at the shotgun aimed at him.

Abruptly the shotgun wasn't there anymore. The kids had become so involved in their argument that they walked away, contemptuous of him, indifferent to whether he lived or died. As they disappeared into the storm, the kid with the shotgun rested it against his shoulder, the barrel projecting upward. And for a moment, just before they vanished, Slaughter-in his delirium-saw the shotgun turn into a hockey stick.

A passing patrol car happened to find him. Slaughter spent a week in intensive care, then four more weeks in the hospital while he recovered from two excruciating operations. His physicians told him that he'd nearly died from shock and loss of blood. The only reason he'd survived, they believed, was that his overcoat had provided a buffer against the full force of the blast. Otherwise, they concluded, he'd have been disemboweled.

After Slaughter was released from the hospital, the police department had given him a month's leave and then a temporary desk job to ease him into his regular, hazardous duties. All the while, a department psychiatrist had counseled him. But the counseling didn't help. Although Slaughter tried to hide his nervousness, the truth was that he'd had a breakdown. A nightmare kept haunting him, making him afraid to go to sleep because of the horrifying, snow-obscured image of the two kids aiming the shotgun at him-except that the kids would suddenly be wearing skates and goalie masks and the shotgun would be a hockey stick. With equal suddenness, the hockey stick would blow his head apart. Several times every night, Slaughter woke up screaming. When the department finally decided to see how he would perform if they sent him out on patrol, Slaughter flinched each time he heard the voice from the two-way radio sending him and his partner to a crime scene. As Slaughter's breakdown worsened, he finally had to take another leave of absence, and his nerves weren't all that had broken down.

So had his marriage. He was to blame, unwillingly, unable to control his temperament. At last, his wife couldn't bear the strain of his outbursts and had asked him for a divorce. Bitter, but not at her, instead toward himself, Slaughter had agreed. Why not? he'd gloomily decided. I'm no good to her. I'm scaring the children. I can't be any good to my family if I'm not any good to myself. Soon afterward, confused and desperate, he'd made the decision to put his past behind him, to go to Wyoming and the arbitrarily chosen town of Potter's Field. His horses were a therapy for him, but he was terrible at raising them. The only thing he knew was being a policeman, and the day that old Doc Markle told him to apply for this position, Slaughter had been shocked by something in the old man's eyes. The old man understood that Slaughter was a coward. Slaughter would have bet on that. "Go on. Try again," the old man's eyes had told him, and the old man had convinced him. Slaughter, with no option, had applied and gotten the job, and he had worked so hard at it because he meant to prove himself.

The bad part was that he had then ignored the man who saved him. Slaughter always told himself that he was just too busy to go see the old man, but the motive, he suspected now, was that he didn't want to face the man who knew he was a coward. Oh, he was a coward, all right. Seeing Clifford, walking through that moonlit field, trapping that dead boy, and running from the figures near his house, he'd felt the old fear rising in him. Hell, he'd panicked in the field and at his house. He'd lost complete control. He didn't understand now how he'd come this far. His bluff of manliness to all these friends, his arguments with Parsons. They were overcompensations, last attempts to keep his self-respect, because the one thing that he wanted was to get the hell away from here, to free himself from any need for strength and courage. Five years he had coasted. Parsons had been right. In fact the mayor had done him quite a favor. By imprisoning him, Parsons had relieved him of this burden. Slaughter silently was grateful. He had argued with the guards to let him free, but he had known there wasn't any chance, so arguing was easy. But the dream of old Doc Markle had enlivened ancient guilt, and he was caught between conflicting notions. Stay here. It's the safe place for you. Or find a way to get out. Prove that you're still worth a shit. He told himself he didn't have a choice. Regardless of his shame, he was imprisoned. Sublimate the shame. Get rid of it.

The night was deep upon him. Through the tiny windows high along one wall, he heard the howling and the shouting and the screaming outside. Thank God that you're in here, that you're safe. But he was growing angry at himself, at Parsons, at this trouble. He was just about to argue with the guards again. Although useless, that would help suppress his tension. Then the door swung open at the far end, and he stared as Rettig stepped in.

Both guards stood now, careful.

"Take it easy," Rettig told them. "Watch out for those rifles, or you'll maybe shoot your mouths off."

They looked puzzled, shifting nervously. "You're not supposed to be here," one guard said.

"Oh, really? Well, I'll tell the woman here to take the food back." Rettig turned.

"Wait a minute. What food?"

"For the prisoners. They haven't eaten."

"No one fed us, either."

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't think of that."

"Hey, you just bring the food in."

"I don't like this," the second guard said.

"It's only food, for Christ sake. What the hell, I'm hungry."

"Yeah, but they might pull a trick."

"We've got the rifles. Bring the food in."

"If you're certain." Rettig shrugged.

"Bring it in."

"Okay then." Rettig went toward the door and gestured.

Marge came in. She had two baskets. She looked at the five men in the cells and in particular at Slaughter. Slaughter tried to smile, but she seemed nervous, and the last few days had aged her. She had always borne her weight with pride, but now it sagged around her, and he couldn't stop his sorrow for her.

"Hi, Marge," Slaughter told her.

She just looked at him. "I thought you'd maybe like some food." She sounded weary.

"Something wrong, Marge?"

"It's the woman I hit."

"What about her?"

"She died half an hour ago."

Slaughter pursed his lips, glanced down at the floor, and nodded. Then he peered up at Marge. "I still think you did the right thing."

"Do you? I wish I could be as certain. Nathan, I killed her."

Slaughter didn't know what to say.

"What's in those two baskets?" the first guard asked.

"Sandwiches and coffee," Rettig answered.

"That's just fine. You bring them over to this table."

"Hey, there's plenty to go around. Don't eat it all."

"Who us? Why, we'll be sure to throw them scraps from time to time. Don't worry."

Rettig frowned.

"I told you, don't worry," the guard said. "They'll be fed. I promise."

Rettig debated, then nodded, motioning for Marge to set the basket on the table.

"No, I don't like this. Something's wrong," the second guard said. "They're giving us this food too easily. What is it, drugged?"

"It's only coffee and sandwiches," Rettig said.

"And in a while we'll be sleeping like babies. Hell, no, they eat this first. We're not dummies."

"If you say so." Rettig picked up the two baskets, moving toward the cells as the second guard stopped him.

"No, we check it first."

"You think we've got a hacksaw in the meatloaf?"

"How about a rifle up your nose, friend? First we check the basket."

So they sorted through the sandwiches and looked inside the thermoses and shook them. Everything was fine.

"Okay, you stand back here while I distribute them." The first guard walked past Rettig, left some sandwiches before each cell, set down plastic cups, and then the thermoses. "All of you listen. Just as soon as I step back, you can reach out for them. Since you've only got two thermoses, you'll have to pass them to each other, but the moment you're done pouring, put the thermoses back out in front where I can see them. I don't want somebody throwing them."

Slaughter kept his gaze on Rettig. "What about outside?" "Don't ask. All the animals are going crazy. Everybody's got their doors and windows locked. There's random shooting. Prowlers. Two of our men have been wounded." Slaughter shook his head. "We found two hippies by the stockpens." Slaughter waited. "They'd been clubbed to death."

And Slaughter made a gesture as if he didn't want to hear any more. He glanced at Marge, then at the sandwiches and plastic cups and thermoses. He cleared his throat. "Well, listen, thank you, Marge."

She didn't answer, only started from the room. Slaughter looked at Rettig. "Hey, take care of her." "You know it," Rettig said, and then the two guards scowled at Rettig. "Yeah, okay, don't get excited. I'm already gone." Then Rettig scanned the cells and paused, and he was leaving. "See you, Chief." "Take care now."

The door was closed. The room became silent. The group studied the guards.

"Get started," the first guard told them. "Let me see if the food's been drugged. I'm hungry."

Slowly they crouched. Slaughter was the last to reach out for the food. He chewed, his mouth like dust, the meatloaf sandwich tasteless.

"Here, I'll pour the coffee." Troubled by the shooting outside, he reached through the bars and unscrewed the cap on the thermos. He poured the coffee into several plastic cups and passed the cups along.

But one cup he was careful to keep only for himself.

Because as he had poured, a slender pliant object had dropped with it, splashing almost imperceptibly, so soft and narrow that it hadn't rattled when the guard shook both the thermoses. He didn't dare look around to see if anyone had noticed. He just went on as if everything were normal. Then he stood and leaned back on his bunk and chewed his sandwich, stirring with his finger at the coffee. This he knew. He wasn't going to drink the damned stuff, although he did pretend to, and then his finger touched the object. It was like a worm. He felt it, long and slender, pliant. But what was it? For a moment, he suspected that it was an explosive, but that wouldn't do much good because there wasn't any way to set it off. Besides, the noise would draw attention. Rettig wouldn't give him something that he couldn't use. This wasn't plastique then, so what else could it be? He leaned to one side so that no one saw him as he picked the object from the coffee, glancing at it, dropping it back in the coffee. It was red, just like the worm he had imagined. But he couldn't figure what it was or how to use it.

"Christ, this coffee's awful," Dunlap muttered.

"Just shut up and drink," the first guard told him. "I was right," he told the second. "The food's been drugged. They'll soon be asleep."

"Or worse."

"That's all we need. Well, they can throw up all they want to. I'm not going in to help them. You remember that," he told the prisoners. "If anybody's sick, he's on his own."

They set down their plastic cups.

"It's true. This coffee's rotten," Dunlap said.

"Don't drink it then," the medical examiner said.

The first guard started laughing.

Slaughter stood and walked to the bars. "Well, I don't know what's wrong with the rest of you, but this coffee tastes just fine to me. If you don't want it, pass the other thermos down."

"Be careful, Slaughter," Owens told him.

"I know what I'm doing. Hell, I'm thirsty."

"Suit yourself." From the far end, Lucas passed the thermos down. They moved it, hand to hand, along the cells, and Slaughter set it by the thermos he had poured from.

"I'll save this for later."

"If you're not too sick," the second guard told him, grinning.

"You don't know what you're missing."

"I think you'll show us soon enough."

Slaughter shrugged and went back to his bunk, pretending that he sipped and liked the coffee. "All the more for me." And he was yawning. As he lay back in his bunk, he wondered if another worm was in the second thermos and if he would figure out what it was and how to use it. On the wall, the clock showed half past midnight.

NINE

In the barricade, Altick waited. He and his men had been hearing noises for some time, but that was normal. Night sounds in the forest. Animals come out to hunt or graze or simply wander. Coyotes howling. Nightbirds singing. There had been no evidence of danger. They had formed a circle within the barricade and stared out toward the darkness, reassured by what from all signs was another pleasant night spent in the mountains. Then the noises stopped completely, and the men inhaled, their stomachs rigid.

Silence in the mountains was something to be afraid of. One man jerked. An antelope or something big like that was suddenly charging down a wooded slope, its hoofbeats thundering, as if in panic to escape what chased it. There was scurrying through bushes, branches snapping, and abruptly the night became silent again, and they were sweating.

Altick tapped the man beside him. In the almost perfect fullness of the moon, the other man could see Altick pointing. Over to the left, a sound so vague, so indistinct that maybe it was only their imagination. Over to the right, another sound, and now there wasn't any question. Something cautiously approached them. From the forest on the far edge of the barricade, leaves brushed. Then a twig broke, and whatever was out there had encircled them.

Now take it easy, Altick thought. Three things out there can't encircle you. But then he heard a subtle fourth and then a fifth and howling.

"Jesus."

The howling wasn't like wolves or coyotes. It was unlike anything Altick had ever heard, first from the woods before him, then behind him, then no longer singly but in concert all around him. He remembered how the enemy had tried to spook him with their noises like this back in Nam. They'd shout or laugh or play rock and roll. Sometimes they'd talk in English.

But this howling. He'd never heard anything like it. Hoarse and crusty. At the same time, high-pitched and strident. Altick told himself that in Nam he'd endured about the worst thing that a man could live through. This could surely be no worse than that.

You hope, Altick thought. Again he tapped the man beside him. While they'd worked to build the barricade, Altick had explained the significance of each tap and gesture so they could understand each other without talking. Now he passed the sign that emphasized the need for silence. They would have their guns and flashlights ready, and he passed another sign, reminding them to hold their fire until whatever might be out there reached the barricade. He wanted to be certain of a target, but the howling was persistent and unnerving. Lord, it wouldn't stop.

It must have hidden other noises because suddenly he felt the pressure on the barricade. He heard the snap and scratch of something climbing. As he switched on his flashlight, he was slammed aside, his gun went off, and he was struggling with a thing that clutched him. All around him, he saw flashlight beams and muzzle flashes, diving bodies, heard the shots and screams and gasps of struggle.

The scene was a swirl of chaos as he rolled and punched with his gun and pulled the trigger at the obscene thing that grappled with him. He was suddenly in Nam again, and that remembrance was familiar, helped to give him courage, but the thing that faced him, swinging with its club, was more grotesque than anything he'd survived in Nam, and for an instant he was fearful that his shock had slowed his reflexes. The club swooped toward him, and the angle of his flashlight showed the spike at one end, streaking toward his eye, as he stumbled to avoid it, firing again. Abruptly something struck his back. Oh, Jesus! He swung to fire. Too late. Shadows swarmed, and he was falling.

TEN

"What's that?"

"Your imagination."

"No, it's shooting."

"It's just thunder or a rockfall."

The ranchers and the men from town went back to their drinking.

They had their Jeeps and trucks parked in a circle on an upper mountain meadow. They had posted guards who watched the darkness, and they'd built several campfires which they sat around. They ate and drank and checked their rifles. They were anxious, glad to be enclosed in something, and with that accomplished, Parsons sat among some hunter friends, pretending to be one of the guys.

So far he had taken chances, inciting a mob, imprisoning those five men back in town, particularly Slaughter. There'd be trouble about that, he knew, but not as much as he could make for Slaughter. After all, so many people had gone along with this that few were left to make accusations.

But Parsons couldn't keep the pressure on. If for a brief time he had taken charge, he'd have to self-efface now, ease off, let inertia carry forward. Because the men had come this far, they'd keep going, and he'd have to make it seem as if from now on he just went along with what they all intended. That had always been his method, and he knew that it would work again. They'd solve this problem; he would still have power; and the valley would continue. With the precedent of 1970, he didn't see how clearing out these hippies could be anything but good for him. He'd have to do this with some care, though. He would have to stay in the background.

What was more, he'd have to take care that these men weren't drunk when they went up to face the hippies. Image was important. There couldn't be any accusations that this group was just a drunken mob. He whispered to a few subordinates, and acting as if on their own, they went around to tell the men to stow the whiskey. Anyhow, the night was well upon them. They'd need sleep if they expected to wake up by sunrise and start moving. There was plenty to do tomorrow, a lot of miles to cover yet, a long trek through the high, thick, twisted mountain ridges.

ELEVEN

They were waiting. They had crept up to the forest fringes, staring at the once familiar objects in a circle, at the fires and figures near them, hearing voices, watching shadows.

They were nervous, glancing toward the moon and trembling. On occasion, they couldn't resist the urge to howl, but the men across there only turned in their direction as they spread their blankets by the fires. Then the forest fringes were deserted. They were backing toward the high ground, moving deeper through the forest. They were eager for the taste which, although it sickened, they nonetheless craved, but this was not the moment or the place. Higher, deeper in the mountains where the quarry would be less protected-that was what they wanted. So they shuffled through the underbrush, and far beyond the upper ridges, they heard rumbles that rolled down like thunder. The echo of gunshots. They moved toward it.

TWELVE

Slaughter waited in the darkness. He was lying on his bunk, pretending to sleep as through his half-closed eyes he glanced out through the bars toward where the two guards, having dimmed the lights, were tilted back in their chairs, their heads against the wall. He knew he had to move soon, but if too soon, he would rouse them.

He was cursing to himself. He had been safe. A cell to keep him occupied while everything went on without him. Now the force of choice was on him once again, and if he didn't act, he knew that Rettig then would understand him. Did it matter? Yes, he finally decided. He would not relive his past humiliation. He had come here for a fresh start, and if he ignored this opportunity, he would never feel whole again; he would have chosen a progressive pattern of defeat; he'd just keep moving pointlessly. Of course, he could pretend to Rettig that he hadn't understood the objects in the coffee, but he didn't know if he would be convincing. Even so, he wouldn't be convincing to himself. He had to do this.

Cursing to himself, he studied both guards. Then he sat up slowly in his bunk. Because he finally had understood these objects in the coffee. They were obvious, so much so that he wondered why he took so long to realize their purpose, that he wondered how much smarter Rettig was than he had ever guessed. The plan was simple to the point of genius. Perhaps that was the reason Slaughter took so long to figure it. The objects in the coffee were pure phosphorus. The liquid kept them from igniting. That had been the word that solved the puzzle for him. Still thinking that these things were explosive, he had wondered how to detonate them. Detonation made him think of fuses, a bright light burning. But the blast would warn the guards. These things must have a silent function then, but if they were indeed explosive, how the hell could he ignite them? Since he didn't smoke, he didn't carry matches. Bright light, matches and their phosphorus, ignition, and he had it, suddenly in high school, watching as his teacher drew the worms of phosphorus from jars of water, waiting as the worms, exposed to air, abruptly were on fire. Later he would think how close he'd come to missing the significance, but now he understood and didn't have a choice.

He got up slowly from his bunk and walked with caution toward the bars. He saw that all his friends were sleeping. He stood motionless and waited for some action from the guards. There wasn't any, and he knelt to reach through toward the second thermos. Then he slowly opened it and poured the coffee into plastic cups. Another red worm slid out, dropping. So there was another one, and he was reaching in the cup to grab the worm and drop it quickly into the cup that held the other, the coffee safely over them. There was one thing that still bothered him. He knew that phosphorus was poison. If some portions had dissolved, the coffee might make them sick. But then he thought that its foul taste might not be from the phosphorus but from the way the coffee was prepared to make it taste so bad. Rettig hadn't wanted anyone to drink it. So they all had tried a sip and spit it out. They maybe would be fine.

He watched the guards and guessed that there wasn't any point in waiting further. He dipped his finger into the coffee, grabbed the worms, and as they dripped, he pressed them around the bolt that locked his cell. He wouldn't have attempted this if he'd been in a new and well-made jail. But this place had been built in 1923. When he had first come down here, he had been appalled. Oh, sure, the locks would hold if someone lunged at them or tried to break them, but the metal wasn't pure enough or thick enough for him, and he had asked permission to revitalize the jail which the town council had denied him. What did he expect? they asked him. Hacksaws or a bomb. There had never been that kind of trouble here, and if he did his job right, none of that stuff would get in here. Well, he had a trick to show them now, and he was grateful that they hadn't acted. Phosphorus burned at high temperatures. Although not sufficient to melt steel, the heat would weaken this poor metal, and the lock seams weren't that good to start with. Hell, he didn't have a thing to lose. He had to try.

He stepped back, but the phosphorus remained inert. Or maybe he was wrong, and these things weren't what he had figured. No, the coffee still was dripping from them. They weren't yet exposed to air. The coffee had to dry, as suddenly he saw what seemed to be a spark, and in a flash the phosphorus was burning. White hot, sparks, a thick cloud rising. He was staring toward the guards. The hiss was louder than he'd expected, like a thousand sparklers blazing on July Fourth, and one guard moved a little in his chair as Slaughter lunged against the cell door.

But it held. The phosphorus kept blazing around the bolt and lock seams, and he lunged again, and this time he could see the seams begin to part. The guard was shifting in his chair and in a moment would be fully wakened. Slaughter lunged against the door again, the metal clanging, and abruptly he was weightless, stumbling forward, almost falling as he realized that he was out, the cell door swinging free, the phosphorus still hissing, blazing. He kept stumbling, his arms out for balance, as the guard was sitting upright in his chair, and Slaughter lunged against him. While the guard fell, upsetting his chair, Slaughter grabbed the rifle, and he swung to grab the rifle from the second guard who now was sitting up as well, his face grotesquely startled, wincing from the rifle blow against his shoulder, falling. Slaughter dropped one rifle, aiming with the other, and the two guards paused where they were halfway to their feet now, and the worst part had been managed.

"Stay exactly where you are. Don't move or even fidget," Slaughter told them.

"How the hell…?" They stared from Slaughter toward the dimming remnants of the phosphorus.

"What's going on?" the medical examiner asked.

In the cells, the men were moving.

"Nothing. We're just getting out of here is all. Remember," Slaughter told the guards. "Don't even scratch your noses."

He was shifting toward the table, pulling out the drawer and grabbing for the keys. He watched the two guards all the time he edged back toward the first cell, Lucas waiting.

"Here. The big key," Slaughter told him, and he moved again to watch the guards while close behind he heard the scrape of metal as the key was turned. The cell came open. Slaughter glanced at Lucas coming out. He concentrated solely on the guards then as the cells were in their sequence unlocked and the men came out.

"But how did…?" Owens said.

"I'll tell you later. You two, get on in there." Slaughter pointed toward the guards.

They hesitated.

"Damn it, move, I told you." Slaughter started toward them, and they raised their hands.

"Okay. We're moving."

"You get in the first one. You get in the fourth."

"But why…?"

"No reason. Just do what I tell you. I just want you separated. Move, for Christ sake."

And they did, and Slaughter told the medical examiner to bind and gag them, using belts and strips of cloth torn from the bunk sheets. Slaughter watched them, aiming the rifle. Then the medical examiner stepped out, and Lucas shut the doors and locked them.

"Bring the keys. The other rifles."

Dunlap was already halfway across to reach one door.

"No, we're going this way," Slaughter told him. "That way leads upstairs. This other one is where we're going."

Dunlap was puzzled.

"You'll see."

Slaughter went across and took the keys from Lucas. He unlocked the second door and swung it open. Then he flicked the light switch in there, and they saw the damp, slick, brick-lined tunnel.

"It leads toward the courthouse. There's no time."

They hurried through. Slaughter stared back at the two guards in their cells. He waved and stepped inside the tunnel where he shut the door and locked it. Then he turned, and they were running.

It was slippery in here. Condensation on the ceiling dripped down on them, and the tunnel echoed from the clatter of their footsteps. Slaughter saw the vapor from his breath and felt the damp brick chill and kept on running. He was forced to stoop as he ran underneath the lights that hung from the ceiling. Then the tunnel curved a little, and they reached a second door.

"It's locked. I have to use the key."

But when he fumbled with the key, it didn't work. The door stayed locked.

"What's going on here?"

Then he realized the door had not been locked at all. What he had done just now was actually to lock it. He worked the key and turned the handle. Slowly, wincing as the door creaked, he pushed at the door, and they faced darkness.

"There's a hall. Just follow it. You'll reach some stairs."

Now Slaughter flicked the lights off.

"But we-"

"I don't want to be a target. Feel along the hall."

They inched through the darkness. Here the floor was tiled. It echoed from their halting footsteps. Owens struck an object, cursing.

"Quiet," Slaughter told him.

"There's a table."

"Quiet. People might be in here. "

So they kept inching forward. Slaughter felt ahead. We should have reached the end by now, he told himself, and then his boot struck wood, and he gripped the staircase bannister.

"We made it," Owens said, and Slaughter didn't take the time to caution him. He just continued up the stairs, and everything was dark up there as well, except that from some windows moonlight spilled in, showing the front door and the big main hallway.

"Shush," he told them, and they stopped while, breath held, Slaughter listened. "We'll use the back. For all we know, there are guards in front."

He moved down the murky hallway, and the layout in here was the same as at the police station. He passed silent offices and reached the back door, staring out, then looking at the others, pulling the door open, stepping into the moonlight.

"My car is in the lot behind the station. If we're careful, we can take it."

He shifted from the sidewalk toward the grass, concentrating on the parking lot as a man stepped from the bushes beside the courthouse. Slaughter, thinking of the two kids in the grocery store who'd shot him, almost raised his rifle, firing. But he managed to subdue his fear and resist the impulse. There wasn't a reason to kill this guard. The most he could hope for was to overcome the man before he could shout to warn other guards. Slaughter shifted his grip on the rifle, about to club the man, as Rettig came up close to him.

The other men sighed.

"Christ Almighty," Owens said.

Rettig stopped in front of Slaughter. "It took you long enough. I almost gave up waiting. So you figured what that stuff was."

"How come you're so smart to think of that?" Slaughter asked, relieved.

"I didn't. Marge did. She remembered what you said about the cells downstairs, how you complained that they were weak." Then Rettig explained what had happened while Slaughter was in jail, and Slaughter wished he hadn't heard.

"I think Parsons is going to kill those hippies," Rettig said.

"What?"

"He's going to pick a fight and kill them. He'll arrange it so it looks justified, but he'll kill them just the same, and he'll have so much help that no one'll say it wasn't self-defense. It's nineteen seventy again."

"But those hippies," Owens said. "Everything they've done. Why should we care what he does to them?"

From the farthest sections of the town, muffled gunfire echoed. Slaughter looked down at the ground, then turned to Owens. "Because they're people, or have you forgotten that?"

The group was silent.

"Oh, I know the townsfolk used to call them animals. But you more than anyone ought to know the difference," Slaughter said.

Owens stared. "It isn't worth it, Slaughter. They aren't worth it."

"Maybe not to you. So go on. Look out for yourself and your family. But I've got my own obligations. Those damned hippies don't mean anything to me, but I'll stake everything to help them."

Owens stared a moment longer. "If I didn't have a wife and kids."

"There's no need to explain. Go on. We'll talk about it some time."

"Sure."

Except they both knew that they wouldn't.

Owens lingered.

"You stayed until sunset. You made good on what you promised."

"Sure."

Owens hesitated, then backed off and turned, walking along the courthouse, disappearing into the shadows.

Slaughter watched him.

"Here, Chief," Rettig said. "Take my gunbelt. I'll get another one from the station."

The weight of the gunbelt was satisfying. Slaughter strapped it on. "Your family?"

"My brother's with them. They left this afternoon."

"That's all that Owens wanted, too, I guess."

"But he intends to leave with them. We need him, but he doesn't plan to stay. That makes the difference."

Slaughter stared off toward the sound of the gunshots. "Well, we'd better get moving."

"Be careful when you reach the parking lot. Parsons has men inside the station."

"I don't plan to advertise." Slaughter turned to face the medical examiner. "You coming?"

"I have work to do."

"Yourself?" he said to Lucas.

"No. I have to see my father."

"Without help?"

"I've had a chance to do more thinking. If there's trouble, I know where my place is."

"Yes." Slaughter studied him. "I understand that, I suppose. I'll see you." He started toward the parking lot.

"Hey, wait. I'm going with you," Dunlap said.

"You'd better not. I don't know how I'm going to stop Parsons, but tomorrow will be rough."

"You need a witness."

"Is it me, or just your story?"

"I'm not certain any longer."

"Just so you know the risks. I'm going to need a friend up there, that's certain. Rettig, you stay here and watch the town. I've got to count on someone."

"But you don't have any men," Rettig said.

"How many would I need? Ten? A hundred? If I take the men we have, this town will be defenseless. Even then, we wouldn't be a match for Parsons and what I assume must be an army. No, if Dunlap and I can't do it, then it simply won't get done. The numbers are against us if I try to beat Parsons on his terms. I'll have to beat him on my own terms."

Rettig studied him. "Take care."

"I mean to. I'll see you in a couple days."

"Sure." But Rettig didn't sound convinced.

Somber, they shook hands. Then Slaughter moved toward the parking lot.

The group was disbanding. Lucas went one way, the medical examiner another. Rettig watched as Slaughter reached the parking lot, scanned the police station, and walked toward his car. Slaughter had the rifle and the handgun. Dunlap got in the cruiser. Slaughter slid behind the steering wheel. The engine started, and they drove from the parking lot. Rettig waited until they disappeared. He frowned as the rumble of gunfire rolled across town.