deputies, that all three men were becoming, and that a rapidly
accelerating dementia would seize them, whereupon Bobby and I would be
surrounded by the high-biotech equivalent of a pack of werewolves in the
grip of bloodlust. Because we had foolishly neglected to acquire
necklaces of wolfsbane or silver bullets, we would be forced to defend
ourselves with my mother’s tarnished sterling tea service, which would
have to be unpacked from a box in the pantry and perhaps even polished
with Wright’s silver cream and a soft cloth to be sufficiently lethal.
Now it appeared that Feeney was the only threat, but a werewolf with a
loaded revolver is a lycanthrope of a different caliber, and one like
him could be as deadly as an entire pack. He was shaking, glistening
with sweat, inhaling with a coarse rasp, exhaling with a thin and eager
whine of need. In his excitement, he had bitten his lip, and his teeth
and chin were red with his own blood. He held the gun with both hands,
aiming it at the floor, while his mad eyes seemed to be looking for a
target, his attention flicking from Manuel to me, to the second deputy,
to Bobby, to me, to Manuel again, and if Feeney decided that we were all
targets, he might be able to kill the four of us even as he was cut down
by his fellow officers’ return fire.
I realized that Manuel was talking to Feeney and to the other deputy.
The pounding of my heart had temporarily deafened me. His voiced faded
in, ” … we’re done here, we’re finished, finished with these
bastards, come on, Frank, Harry, come on, that’s it, come on, these
scumbags aren’t worth it, let’s go, back to work, out of here, come on.
” Manuel’s voice seemed to soothe Feeney, like the rhythmic lines of a
prayer, a litany in which his responses were recited silently rather
than spoken. The bale fire continued to pass in and out of his eyes,
though it was absent more than not and dimmer than it had been. He broke
his two-hand grip on the revolver, holding it in his right hand, and
then finally holstered it. Blinking in surprise, he tasted blood,
blotted his lips on his hand, and stared uncomprehendingly at the red
smear across his palm.
Harry, the second deputy, to whom Manuel had at last given a name, was
already to the foyer by the time Frank Feeney stepped out of the kitchen
and entered the hall. Manuel followed Feeney, and I found myself
following Manuel, though at a distance.
They had lost their Gestapo aura. They looked weak and weary, like three
boys who had been playing cops with great exuberance but were now
tuckered out, dragging their butts home to have some hot chocolate and
take a nap, and then maybe put on new costumes and play pirates.
They seemed to be as lost as the kidnapped children.
In the foyer, as Frank Feeney followed Harry X onto the front porch, I
said to Manuel, “You see it, don’t you? ” At the door he stopped and
turned to face me, but he didn’t respond. He was still angry, but he
also looked stricken. By the second, his rage swam deeper, and his eyes
were pools of sorrow.
With light entering the foyer from outside, from the study, and from the
living room, I felt more vulnerable here than under the gun and the
yellow stare of Feeney in the kitchen, but there was something I needed
to say to Manuel.
“Feeney, ” I said, though Feeney wasn’t the unfinished business between
us. “You see that he’s becoming? You aren’t in denial about that, are
you? ”
“There’s a cure. We’ll have it soon.”
“He’s on the edge.
What if you don’t have a cure soon enough? ”
“Then we’ll deal with him.” He realized he was still holding the billy
club. He slipped it through a loop on his belt. “Frank is one of ours.
We’ll give him peace in our own way.”
“He could have killed me. Me, Bobby, you, all of us.”
“Stay out of this, Snow. I won’t tell you again.” Snow.