had expected since noon, of course, but that didn't make it any better.
Cat excused himself and stepped through their disapproving looks. Crow put an arm about Cat's shoulders and turned away with him, speaking in an obvious but inaudible whisper sure to be taken as the insult it was.
"Don't you see what's happening, goddammit?"
Cat sighed. "Yeah." He looked hurt. And was, Crow reminded himself with more than a little amazement. "Damn," continued Cat, "I liked these people. Y'know that banker guy, Foster? He's planning to build - "
"Planning to cheat your ass blind and mine both."
Cat frowned. He glanced in the direction of the townsmen without seeing them.
"Yeah," said Cat at last.
They lit cigarettes and started walking toward the trucks.
"But, y'know, Jack? Not really," cried Cat in an abrupt plaintive whisper. "They're just trying to pull themselves up outta the hole they're in." He stopped. "You're the one who told me all this yourself."
Crow was adamant. "Then they shouldn't have got themselves in the hole in the first place."
"The vampires did that, Jack."
"Like hell they did. No sympathy, Cat. If they'd had the damn guts to face it... And now they're trying to take it out on us for doing it for them."
"Right in front of them, and the whole town. Their town."
Crow stopped and looked back the way they came. "No sympathy," he repeated.
"Look, just because they're feeling a little... I don't know - ashamed, I guess - "
"Did it ever occur to you that they have something to be ashamed about?"
They were silent for several seconds.
"All tight," said Cat at last with a sigh. "I'll get it ready."
Crow shook his head. "No need. Not this time. I'm not gonna put up with this shit this time."
Cat eyed him briefly. "Just the same I think I oughta - "
"No, dammit!" Crow all but shouted. "Look! I'm so tired of these bastards crawling over and begging us on bended knees because they aren't man enough to stand up to the creatures turning their wives and daughters into blood-whores. And then they try to pretend they aren't groveling little cretins by haggling over the price, like this is just another business deal, this had nothing to do with the fact that we just cratered when it counted."
Crow stopped and panted with the anger, slamming his cigarette to the ground and lighting another.
Cat waited him out until he was calm. "Well, just in case," he began as casually as so guileless a man could, "I'll set up the - "
"Do what you want," Crow interrupted fiercely. "But I'm telling you I've fucking had it with these twerps and all the others like 'em. I'm putting my foot down." He jabbed his trembling index finger under Cat's nose. "Do you hear me?"
Cat nodded meekly. "I hear you."
Crow nodded with satisfaction. He tossed his new cigarette to the ground, hitched up his pants, and stalked toward the circle of men still at the Jeep. He paused and jerked a ferocious glance back at his friend. "I'm putting my foot down!" he snarled.
Then he stalked ahead even faster. Halfway to the townsmen, Cat overheard his harsh whisper to himself: "Putting it fucking down!"
Part One Chapter 2
It was a nice jail - if you liked old westerns.
Crow's cell reminded him of every Rifleman he'd ever seen. It had a cot, a stool, a chamber pot without a lid, and a door that required the keys to the city to open it.
But the deputy was something so special it was almost worth it.
The deputy was a miracle.
To begin with, he had a gut Crow considered an anatomical triumph. But it was in the region of nose-picking where the man achieved greatness. Never in his lifetime (and, he suspected, anyone else's) had Crow seen anybody pick his nose with such fervor - not to mention tangible results - for so many hours at a stretch.
He had other virtues. Besides being a social slug he was also the town bully. During his first hour in the slammer Crow saw him grovel obscenely to his mayor's son-in-law, thump a large red-stoned ring off the crown of some high-schooler for being late to pay a parking ticket, and smash Jack's fingers with a reinforced flashlight to keep them off the bars.
The idea of killing him made Crow feel all warm and tingly. It made the hours bearable. Or rather, setting him up did. "Bullies don't like to fight," Crow's grandaddy had long ago told him. "Bullies are scared of fighting. Bullies