Gut felt like part of the tree he was lookin' past; he couldn't move at all. These shadows was really doin' the job on Scott-Boy, the likes of which turned even Gut's breadbasket. "Gut, Jaysus ta Gawd ya gotta help meeeee!" screamed Scott-Boy, crushed and scalped but still alive. One of the shadows was givin' it to Scott-Boy something fierce up the tail, while the one with the shank took to cutting off Scott-Boy's ears, and whittling the skin off his fingers, and chopping off his toes like they was carrots for stew on a butcher block. Gut shuddered frozen behind that tree, not able to move but knowing if he didn't, these fellas would surely do the same to him.

Gotta move gotta get out of here right now!

When the one fella finished havin' his nut up Scott-Boy's tail, he slid that tire iron right up the same hole and jiggled it around fierce up there, and that other fella with the big buck cut Scott's throat so deep you could hear the blade sc.r.a.pin'bone, and that was about it for Scott "Scott-Boy" Tuckton, yes sir.

He sh.o.r.e did pick the wrong folks to razz tonight.

Then them shadows, what they did next was they hauled what was left of Scott-Boy back to that beat-ta-h.e.l.l pickup of theirs and throwed him in the back like he was a sack of farm feed. And then- Another fella stepped outta the shadows.

f.u.c.k, Gut thought.

This fella was taller than the others, and Gut guessed he'd been standin' back in the dark whiles his buddies did the job on Scott-Boy. He stood there a speck and kind of made to sniff the air, and then he turned in the moonlight and- f.u.c.k!Gut thought.

-looked right at Gut squattin' behind that there tree.

Gut's eyes bugged like they might jump out his head as this big killer dude took to staring at him, and Gut figured he'd just up and die, but what he did instead was p.i.s.s and s.h.i.t his pants both at the same time. He only saw the big fella's face a second but a second was enough, a face squashed up worse than the gal's with one ear twice as big as the other and f.u.c.ked-up teeth stickin' out of his smile, and then he pointed right at Gut with a long, crooked finger, staring back at Gut with eyes just like that gal's.

Eyes that were blood-red...

Run, boy, Gut heard in his head. We'll getcha next time...

And Gut ran, and he didn't stop runnin' till the sun was comin' up over the ridge about five hours later.

Five.

Phil slowed as he pa.s.sed Krazy Sallee's, flagged by its great flashing road sign. Place is jam-packed, and it's barely 7:30, he observed. Sallee's wasn't just the only strip joint in town, it was the only bar-period. Phil had only been in there once or twice back when he was eighteen, the old days before the drinking age went up to twenty-one, and all he recalled were a few docile-looking women with bad tattoos and floppy b.r.e.a.s.t.s clopping around a strobe-lit stage; he'd be more aroused watching pigs snort in a mudhole. But as he pa.s.sed, he realized he'd be paying some close attention to the place. Vices, he'd learned on Metro, always tended to mix together. Booze begat dive bars, which begat strippers, which begat prost.i.tutes, which begat drugs. Sallee's would be the most logical place for Cody Natter to use as a distro point. Phil couldn't imagine punks stopping by Bouton's Farm Supply or Chuck's Diner to pick up their weekend angel dust.

He parked in the little gravel lot behind the station. First day on the job, he reminded himself. Look sharp. He adjusted his gunbelt and Sam Brown strap-Mullins had purchased good leather-and the starched uniform (navy-blue shirt, powder blue pants) fit pretty well. The gun on his hip, a Colt Trooper Mark III, dragged annoyingly; its hot dog six-inch barrel made it weigh more than the Smith 65 he'd carried on Metro, but of course it was better than carrying a lone can of Mace, which was all he had as a security guard. Just as he turned to enter the station, he heard a door chunk shut, and saw Chief Mullins coming out of the small brick building which sat on its own behind the station house-the town lockup. As Phil recalled, it had only three cells and was rarely used for anything more than a place for drunks to dry out.

"All ready for work, I see," Mullins remarked, loping heavily across the lot. His bald pate shined like a crystal ball of flesh. "Lookin' like a regular Dirty Harry."

"I didn't know Dirty Harry was a town clown," Phil came back. "And who you got in the jail?"

"The jail? Oh, no one," Mullins said, hauling, open the back door to the station house. "For your info, whenever we book someone, we use the county lockup in Mayr now. You know where Mayr is, right? Down past the mobile home dealer on Route 3?"

"Yeah, I know where County HQ is, Chief. And if we don't use our own jail for prisoners, what's in there now?"

"Supply room. I was checking the inventory."

Inventory? Phil couldn't imagine a small-town department like Crick City needing any significant supply s.p.a.ce. "Oh, the SWAT and riot gear, huh? You keep the department helicopter in there, too?"

"No, funny man, I keep the really important cop stuff in there, like coffee filters, which we're out of, by the way. So that can be your first mission as one of Crick City's finest. Sometime tonight during your busy and dangerous watch, run on by the Qwik-Stop and pick up a box of filters. The boss needs his coffee in the morning."

"Ah, so that's why you hired me. Sergeant Straker the errand boy."

"d.a.m.n straight. Now why don't you s.h.i.tcan the jokes for a minute and let me brief you."

"Sure, boss."

Phil took a seat in the fold-down as Mullins rummaged through one of his desk drawers. The man's stomach bulged to the extent that if he leaned over any further, his shirt would more than likely burst. "One thing you need to learn fast, Adam 12, is we use the county signal sheet, not the f.u.c.ked-up codes you had on Metro." He pa.s.sed Phil a copy of the set of radio signal designations. "Learn it fast."

"Gee, Chief, I don't know. I've only got a Master's degree; this might take me a while to get in my head-like about thirty seconds."

"See how hard I'm laughing?" Mullins replied, poker-faced. "Just learn it and quit the wisecracks, unless you want to get fired your first day and go do amateur comedy for tips every Friday night at Rudy's Tavern."

Phil smiled. "So we're on the county commo band, huh?"

"f.u.c.k no. We've got our own frequency and our own dispatcher. Her name's Susan, and she's in the other room. Make sure you touch base with her before you start your shift."

"Susan, dispatcher. Right."

"She's nice, so don't break her chops like you do mine."

"Oh, one thing I wanted to ask. Does the department supply a bulletproof vest?"

Mullins looked back in grim hilarity, "What do I look like, f.u.c.king Santa Claus?"

Actually, with white hair and a beard... "Hey, you know, cops get shot at all the time," Phil pointed out.

"You're a Crick City cop, not the warrior of the apocalypse. Only thing you need a vest for around here is to keep the mosquitoes from stingin' your t.i.ts when cooping out by the swamps. You want a f.u.c.king vest, buy it yourself."

"Hey, I was just asking."

"You want to ask questions, fine. Just don't ask dumb questions."

"Okay. What's the department policy on impeachment use of statements obtained without Miranda warnings during spontaneous field situations after probable cause has been previously determined?"

Mullins glowered. "Just whatever they taught you in the academy."

Phil kept his smile to himself. He steps on my tail all the time, it's only fair that I step on his every now and then. It seemed only fitting. Plus it was a lotof fun.

Mullins packed a pinch of Skoal under his lip, then spit into the old coffee cup he was using for a spittoon. Phil hoped to G.o.d that the chief never actually drank out of it by mistake. "What I want you to do," Mullins said, "is refamiliarize yourself with the town first couple of nights. That shouldn't take too long considering you grew up here, unless of course all that smog you breathed on Metro for ten years rotted your brain. After that, everything's pretty routine. First part of your shift, keep on your a.s.s. Cruise all the TA's and residential areas real slow, let the lokes know we gotta night cop again. And keep an eye on the Qwik-Stop 'cos it's open all night. And whatever you do, don't f.u.c.k up the cruiser. It's brand-new, and it took me years to get the mayor and the town council to requisition it." Mullins spit again into his cup. "And I guess that's about it."

Phil's eyes narrowed. "That's it? I thought you were going to brief me."

"I just did."

"Yeah, sure, Chief, but you must have some particular operating procedures you want me to follow."

"For what?"

Phil sighed. "For the PCP thing. You say that's your biggest problem in town. What ideas have you got? How do you want me to handle it?"

Mullins looked momentarily confounded. "Oh, yeah, well naturally I want you to check it out. Buzz around, look things over. Just do all that good cop s.h.i.t you did on Metro."

Phil wanted to laugh. Was the man naive? If the town's biggest problem was Natter's PCP ring, didn't Mullins have any kind of plan? He seemed not to have thought about it at all. Phil could see he would have to use his own initiative; waiting for Mullins to come up with a strategy on his own would be less productive than waiting for his own hair to turn gray. "Well, the way I see it," Phil began, "is we have to isolate Natter's distro point, and the most logical distro point in Crick City is probably Krazy Sallee's. I mean, what else have you got here? Not only is Sallee's your only watering hole, it's your only strip joint, and chances are half the girls working there are turning tricks, so it's a good bet that's where the local dustheads go."

"Right," Mullins conveniently agreed. "Sallee's is where you'll want to keep your biggest eye out. So start staking the place out each night close to last call. What, I gotta tell you everything?"

This guy's something. Must be getting too old for the job. Phil didn't bother shaking his head. "You want me to stake out Sallee's every night in the patrol car?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Now Phil did shake his head. "Chief, if Natter and his people see a cop car sitting in the parking lot every night, they're just going to move someplace else and make it that much harder to step on their tails."

"All right, smart boy, big city narc, what's your plan?"

"You want to catch these guys red-handed, I'll have to go undercover. First couple of weeks why don't I check the place out in plainclothes and my own car? n.o.body's going to remember me 'cos I never hung out there, and if anyone does, I'll have a cover story ready. It'll give me a chance to get some names, tag numbers, and some kind of a read on what's going on out there. If I'm lucky I might even be able to cultivate an informant or two."

"Well, sure, a little undercover work, that's what I was going to suggest next."

Yeah, right. "Okay, so that's what I'll do. Each night about an hour before last call, I'll change into plainclothes and check the joint out. You'll pay me mileage for use of my own vehicle, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Mullins complained. "Just go do your thing. Report to me in the morning. Oh, there's one more detail you should know, too. Natter owns Krazy Sallee's now."

How in the h.e.l.l? Phil thought. "How'd a Creeker manage to buy a strip joint? Most of them have no incomes."

"No legal incomes," Mullins augmented. "I had IRS investigate the buy, and the records were legit. Somehow he laundered his dope money and bought the place."

Phil nodded. Makes sense, he realized. There were all kinds of financial loopholes that seemed to exist solely for criminals-this was nothing new.

"Okay." Phil got up and prepared to leave, but Mullins, after spitting again into his cup, added, "And whatever you do-"

"I know, be careful."

"Well, that too, but don't forget to pick up those coffee filters either."

That's what I like, Phil thought, a police chief with real priorities. He went out into the front of the station to check in with the dispatcher Mullins had mentioned. Probably some old ditty on social security, he speculated. Looks like Old Lady Crane on a bad day.

"In here," he heard.

Phil turned toward a cubby of a room off to the side of the front door. Boy, did I call this one wrong, he realized. Sitting behind a big county scanner and Motorola transmitter was a pretty blond woman who looked to be in her late twenties, dressed simply in jeans and a plain pink blouse. Opened in her lap was a textbook of some kind.

Phil extended his hand in greeting. "I'm Phil Straker, the new cop."

"Well, I sure as h.e.l.l didn't think you were the new Good Humor Man dressed like that," she replied, and strangely did not shake his hand. "My name's-"

"Susan, the night dispatch," Phil cut in. "The chief told me to check in."

She seemed exasperated, though Phil couldn't fathom why.I guess I better change deodorants.

"We use the county signal sheet, so familiarize yourself with the codes, and do it fast," she said. "One thing I can't stand is a green cop who doesn't know his radio codes."

Phil frowned. "Do you know what a signal 72 is, by the county signal sheet?"

Her face darkened. "A 72? No."

"It's a juvenile complaint call. You can check on your sheet there you got taped to the wall. And if you got some problem with me, fine. Just don't break my chops for nothing, all right? And for your info, I'm not green, I've been a cop for ten years."

"Yeah. I know," she said choppily and went back to her book.

Phil walked out of the station, as discomfited as he was confused. He wasn't anti-social, but he didn't see any reason why he should take a load of c.r.a.p from some woman he'd just met.

It wasn't her rudeness that bothered him nearly as much as the look in her eyes...

They were probably the prettiest blue eyes he'd ever seen, yet in that last moment before he'd left the station, he sensed beyond a doubt that those same blue eyes were burning with outright disdain.

Six.

Such a precious little thing, Natter mused, a.s.sessing the new girl with his uneven eyes.

"How old is she?" he asked.

"'Bout sixteen, I thinks."

Such a precious harbinger...

"You think she's ready, Cody?"

But what did ready mean? What did it really mean, in the light of everything? Have faith,he told himself. He was, after all, a faithful man. These little people, his own kin, served in their own way. They didn't realize how, but what did that matter? They all fed the meaning of their providence...

She'd been cleaned up. Her straight black hair hung long and shiny black, shiny as a wet grackle. She was missing one ear, but that wasn't particularly noticeable, and her eyes were very nearly the same size; she almost looked good enough to use at the club.

Almost.

This curse, he thought in a deep despair. When will it end?

Druck stripped her, to reveal her flesh. Her red eyes cast down during Natter's perusal. Full, healthy b.r.e.a.s.t.s, despite a dual nipple on the left. The multiple navel was barely discernible, and though one leg was longer than the other, her limp, too, could barely be noticed.

Such a lovely thing...

Sometimes, he could cry.

"When?" Druck asked.

Natter's elongated hand stroked his chin. His red eyes, though dull, looked full of-something. What?