Chapter Forty.

"You folks okay? We got reports of gunfire in the middle of the night. Someone said it sounded like a war out here. Hate to think anyone got hurt."

Marty McConlon's easy grin didn't match his words of concern. Neither did his response time. He leaned on the driver's door of the cruiser that had pulled up under the canopy in front of the office, just behind the Lexus. Stepping out of the passenger seat was the young cop, Barry, who'd intercepted Paul at the Municipal Complex days before. He stared at the Lexus, his face full of thought, but said nothing.

"Took your time checking up on us, didn't you, Marty?"

The cop turned to the motel owner and cocked his head comically. "Did you say 'us,' Mona? Interesting. Like you've joined a club or something."

She gave him nothing, so McConlon shifted his gaze elsewhere. Everywhere. "We're also hearing from a lot of pissed-off employers wanting to know where their workers are. Someone declare a holiday?"

"No one's going anywhere this morning," said Paul.

The cop's gaze caught him. "Well, well," he said, trying to keep an affable grin that kept slipping. He turned to his partner across the hood of their cruiser. "Barry, you remember Mr. Highsmith from the other day, right?"

The younger cop mumbled a stilted greeting.

McConlon's eyes fixed on Paul's again. "You're...what? A union organizer? Keeping these folks out of work."

Paul returned the hard stare, gave the officer nothing.

Carl said, "Union organizer. Maybe that's what we need. What we got us here is unsafe working conditions. We all split up and head to work, we end up vanished like my friend Doyle."

"Your friend Doyle," McConlon said. "Way I heard, he didn't take much of a shine-excuse the pun-to this town. So he packs his bag and shuffles off for greener pastures."

"Or someone packed his bags for him," Mona said. "But you wouldn't know about that, would you, Marty?"

No love lost, Paul thought as Mona and the plump cop exchanged red-hot glares.

"You wanna try packing up my shit, cop?" Carl pulled open his shirt to expose a knife with taped handle and five-inch blade in the waistband of his jeans.

At least a dozen Sundowners now surrounded the uniformed men. McConlon kept tight control of his grin, but Barry wasn't even pretending to enjoy the attention.

Paul's stomach began to churn at the ridiculous challenge, Carl daring two armed cops to take his steak knife. They had no idea what they were up against.

It seemed that everyone at once became aware of a rhythmic beat that had been going on for some time. All heads turned to see Denver Dugan casually tapping the second floor balcony with the butt of his .30-.30 deer rifle.

McConlon gave his partner a curt nod and the younger man ducked back into the cruiser. Through the windshield glare, Paul could see the radio mic pressed close to his mouth.

Trouble, he thought. As if he hadn't seen enough of it over the last few days.

"Whooooeee," said McConlon, a high-pitched sound ending in tight laughter. "Must be the weather making everyone so hot and pissy." He mopped the back of a sleeve across his face to illustrate his point. "Not a great combination, all this Indian-summer heat and the anger and those guns I notice you all carrying. Another night like last one and we'll be filling body bags. No one got hurt, all that shooting?"

"Why don't you ask Mr. Chaplin?" Mona suggested.

McConlon's mouth puckered into an 'O' of genuine surprise. "James Chaplin? What could he tell me?"

"Not a thing," Jamey Weeks snickered.

Soft, nervous laughter tripped through the crowd. The cops' eyes danced from face to face, trying to track down the source of the humor.

As a second squad car crawled up the long drive and parked behind them, McConlon's smile broadened. Out stepped a woman in uniform who looked like she could handle herself. Before the crowd had a chance to fully absorb this shift in the power dynamic, a third marked Crown Vic pulled up to idle at the rear of the cop car convoy. Young, with traditional crewcut and cop mustache, this third driver pulled a nasty-looking scattergun out with him.

"What's up, Marty?" he asked.

McConlon locked glances again with Carl Haggerty. Still posed like an Earp facing off the bad guys at the O.K. Corral, but armed with a holstered steak knife, Carl didn't look so sure anymore.

"Maybe you oughtta take that thing out of your pants," McConlon said amiably. "Use two fingers, why dontcha, and set it down very carefully on the hood of my car."

Carl's eyes under his deeply furrowed brow flitted everywhere at once. His face was shiny with sweat, his shirt soaked through at the chest and under the arms.

"I don't think so."

This came from D.B., sounding as good-natured as the cop. Stepping sideways to block Marty McConlon's view of Carl, he flicked a finger high over his head and rotated it.

Then he crossed his arms and said, "As many of our people as you see, Marty, there's as many you don't."

He paused to let his words sink in, and it seemed that they did. All four cops stirred uneasily, their eyes roving the grounds, moving up the balcony and to all of the many open windows and the layout of the pool and even toward the ravine they couldn't see for the building.

Paul took a quick mental count and his stomach roiled. So much for military discipline. Other than Todd Dunbar, who he couldn't find, it seemed that every last Sundowner had left his or her post to cluster curiously around the police cars. There were no hidden sentinels. He was with the gang that couldn't shoot straight. All Paul could do was keep his face as expressionless as the others and see how D.B.'s bluff and bullshit hand signal would play.

At some point, D.B. had unbuttoned his own shirt to expose his white belly and the rubber grip of his five-shot barely peeking out of the flat holster he'd fastened to his hip.

"Maybe your man better put away his scattergun," he said.

A ballsy approach for such a little gun. Marty McConlon seemed to have the same thought. Rather than giving the order, he continued to survey the crowd. His smile had gone taut and unsure again, but his voice still held a trace of what could be mistaken for wit. "Denver, Jamey, Kathy Lee, Jermaine, Tonya. Hey, I know all of you. Ain't that something." He broke into his widest grin. "I see a face or hear a name, I never forget it. The one talent I got. Always hoped it would count for something."

Mona said, "That does come in handy, Marty. So why don't you get on the horn to the nearest state police post and call for reinforcements. You could report us all in by name and have the cavalry here in fifteen minutes."

"And Mona Dexter," the cop said as if completing his list of familiar names and faces. "You I will never forget."

He made a quick gesture that sent his backup back in their cruisers. He started to do the same, but then came out quickly. "Almost forgot," he said. "Found this."

He held up a tissue thin vinyl wallet and made a show of eyeballing the crowd. "Is there a Darwin Wayne Gates from Ankeny, Iowa on the premises?"

"Dukey," Kathy Lee said in hoarse panic.

"Dukey?" the cop repeated. He chuckled. "Okay, I guess if the folks gave you the name Darwin, you might take on a nickname. Anyone seen Dukey lately? We found his wallet along the back roads early this morning."

Gunshots after dawn.

The crowd reacted with stunned silence. McConlon managed to look theatrically puzzled. He let the cheap wallet dangle from two fingers like a dead mouse as he pretended to examine it for the first time.

"Looks like he spilled something. Ketchup? Is this Darwin a messy eater, folks?" He grinned, tipped his billed cap to the crowd like something he must have seen in a movie. "Well, if you see him, tell him we got it."

He made another hand motion and the parade of squad cares reversed down the long drive. They turned around in the gravel lot and spat pebbles.

"Bastards," Kathy Lee said.

Chapter Forty-One.

"No problem so far," Mona Dexter murmured to the armed men on the floor of her Dodge minivan.

Paul, wedged between the first two rows of seats, could glimpse Mona behind the wheel, making a big show of smiling and nodding conversationally at Kathy Lee in the seat next to her.

"I'm a local and I drive these streets all the time," she told everyone in the car. "McConlon and the others wouldn't dare touch me. Not in broad daylight."

It sounded to Paul like she was trying to convince herself. But even if she was right, it would be a different story if any of the town's rebel cops knew that Paul, Todd Dunbar and Jamey Weeks huddled out of sight of the windows, armed with hatchet and knives.

"We almost there?" Jamey whined. "My leg's cramping."

"Just stay down," Dunbar snapped.

Paul could feel the van begin to slow.

"Looks good," Kathy Lee said. "Let's get those bastards."

"Uh huh," said Mona, her voice seeming to have leaked enthusiasm for the task at hand.

They'd already passed Paul's home during the course of their semi-aimless drive to determine whether or not they were being followed. Mona and Kathy Lee had decided they were alone, but Paul wondered how much experience either woman had shaking off a tail.

The Highsmith home had looked undisturbed to the women, but again Paul was left trying to figure how they'd know otherwise.

"Alright," Mona said fifteen long minutes later. "Only a couple junkers in the lot. No lights on, no sign of activity in the building. We're going in."

It was broad daylight, so of course there were no lights on. Paul wondered what would constitute activity with a quick glance from a moving van.

He didn't ask. The answer was destined to make him once again consider abandoning the raiding party planned shortly after the three police cars had left the Sundown that morning. He couldn't pull out, he told himself firmly. He'd already looked naive and undependable by entertaining Drake at his home while the others had been under an attack orchestrated by the head vampire. If he couldn't inspire their confidence and trust, he and Darby would have to face the town alone.

Although right now his wife was all alone anyway.

The van stopped, the engine gently idling. Paul raised himself enough to peek one eye out a side window. He studied the face of the narrow brick building. There it was, one downstairs window a concrete block slit, the large upstairs one covered by a drawn shade.

"Shit, let's do it," Dunbar whispered next to him. His face looked haggard and pale, eyes red-rimmed with sleep need, dark bags underneath.

Mona pulled into an unpaved alley behind the building and cut the engine.

"What we need," D.B. had said that morning after the police cars left, "is some kind of armed response to get their attention. To show them what they're up against."

Todd and Joy Dunbar, D.B., Mona, Carl and Paul had returned to the motel owner's tiny apartment where they'd huddled once more over the table in the dining room as if the police interruption had never occurred.

"Oh right, a road trip. Just pack up our white ash stakes and garlic cloves," said Joy, displaying uncharacteristic sarcasm.

"That's exactly what we need to do," said D.B. "We'll have the element of surprise. They think we're in here quaking in our boots."

"We are," Paul mumbled.

"Good. Then taking the battle to them is the last thing they'd expect. And don't forget, daylight's the time to catch them."

"And don't you forget," Joy shot back at him, "the reason sunup's such a good time is 'cuz we're dealing with vampires."

Good point. That shut everyone up until Dunbar scraped back his chair and stood up, still looking wobbly, but more animated than Paul had seen him lately. He slapped the table with an open palm and said, "Let's get the fuckers. Take Drake now and he'll never know what hit him."

"Good idea, wrong target," said Mona. She smoked a cigarette while her fingers played with a spoon. "You take out Drake, there's no order left in the town. We've got to keep him in power and eliminate his enemies."

"Jesus Christ, they're the ones came at us last night," Dunbar snarled.

The outburst seemed to take a lot out of him. He slumped back to his seat, his face pasty with sweat, eyes ringed in black.

Paul knew the other man had been rat-bit that night, like several of the others, but he was the only one who still seemed sapped by it. Paul briefly considered rabies, but pushed the thought aside. They had enough to worry about as it was.

Dunbar propped himself on his elbows. "It's that old fuck who attacked us, so why're we screwing around with the others?"

A fair question.

Mona set aside her spoon. "As bad as you think Drake is, Purcell's worse. We can at least bargain with Drake."

Todd said, "Just like our buddy here did last night," jabbing a thumb Paul's way.

Ignore it, Paul told himself.

"Never trust them," said Mona. "That doesn't mean you can't negotiate from a position of strength. Hurt his enemies and you bring something to the table as far as Drake's concerned. Besides, I know where to find Purcell. He's easier to hit than Drake."

All eyes tracked her now.

"Winking Dog Saloon," she said. "It doesn't open till the dinner hour. Bunch of them crash in an apartment over the place."

"We can't," Paul sputtered. "We can't get out of the motel. Look what happened to Duke Gates and the others when they tried leaving."

D.B. said, "They're expecting us to try to sneak out, not go on the attack. Duke and the Santanas got caught on the back roads. The trick is to stay public. Hit 'em where they're not expecting it."

"That's right," said Mona. "My van's big enough to hide several of you and it's a familiar sight around town. Marty wouldn't dare do anything to me in front of a town full of witnesses. Not until Purcell gets a whole lot stronger."

"I don't know," Paul said.

"Then don't go," Dunbar snapped.