CHAPTER 26

.....Behind the sanctuary of the Main Desk, the recruiter held the sobbing receptionist tightly. Over the honk of alarms, Wolfe could feel the thud of rotors approaching the school before he finally heard the angry CHUP CHUP CHUP.
.....The cavalry was on its way.
.....Wolfe wasn't reassured. He realized that they would probably get about setting up perimeters, communication posts and other war game postures before actually attempting to storm the school.
.....His ass was puckered enough as it was, and he wasn't all that eager for the storming part of being rescued. He had an uneasy feeling about how these things tend to work out. And he hadn't exactly been given a reason to think that the Harding police department was all that up to handling something like this without collecting a little collateral damage along the way.
.....Wolfe didn't have a problem with his mortality, even though it seemed more impending than ever before, but when the end came he sure as hell didn't want it to happen because of some fool couldn't tell his black from the white.
.....He glanced over at the recruiter. The man's lips were locked over the receptionist's, and her hand was moving up a sharply creased pants leg towards...
.....“Hey!” Wolfe hissed. The red-nailed claw twitched, stopped. A tongue throbbing in his cheek, the recruiter opened his eyes, balefully considering Wolfe. The tongues kept tangling.
.....Wolfe threw up his hands. Well? “Aren’t you gonna do something?”
.....Hutchins broke the lock, a strand of saliva keeping him and his date connected. “Like what?”
.....The receptionist inhaled sharply, exhaled raggedly. Her hand started to crawl upwards again.
.....Wolfe rolled his eyes in exasperation. “You’re a soldier, right? You’re trained for this kind of shit!”
.....“Right,” the recruiter snarled. “And if I wanted to get shot at, I wouldn’t be a fucking recruiter now, would I?”
.....He gasped. The hand suddenly had his complete attention. He forgot about Wolfe and went back to sucking on the receptionist's face.

.....Outside the high school, the thunder of rotors rattled the glass of the cars parked below. The nose of the chopper reared up as it paused to hover, a burst of feedback shrieking from the squawkbox. A cloud of grit began to churn below, a rising virtual dust storm that obscured everything in the parking lot.
.....Black-suited forms rappelled from the sides of the beast and disappeared into the maelstrom. From the squawkbox of the chopper poured a keening guitar riff, followed by a bass line that throbbed like bad blood.
.....Out of the roiling dust the SWAT team approached the high school in slo-motion, Jerry Bruckheimer blockbuster-style.
.....Their pace was perfect, their poise dead-on...
........ until one of them staggered, grabbed on to the arm of a team member to recover. The formation splintered, and the moment was broken.
.....They looked at each other: they were just a bunch of slobs in expensive gear, with very expensive toys. They glared at the schmuck who shattered the delusion.
.....It was Kyle, of course. Asshole.
.....Kyle blushed. “When’s the National Guard gonna arrive?”
.....Clyde puffed up his chest as he stood tall in the parking lot, considering the front of the high school. It looked quiet enough...
.....He spat and sneered. “We don’t need the fucking National Guard.”
.....Because of his cottonmouth, it wasn’t a very convincing spit. Still, lack of saliva aside, he was feeling particularly badassed at the moment, having managed to put away a couple of rails in Doc’s bathroom before joining back up with his team. Clyde was humming like a tuning fork. He sniffed and wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand.
.....Damned dust.

.....Wolfe was done with sitting around waiting to die.
.....When the final tally came, he didn't want to be marked down as having just sat there and taken it. That, and he didn't want to go out watching other people dry-humping. It hadn't reached that point between the two yet, but he decided not to wait until it did.
.....In the words of Admin, it was time to be proactive. He was taking some comfort in the softball bat he had retrieved from beneath the receptionist's post, but not a whole hell of a lot. Like taking a knife to a gunfight, but sort of less cool, he thought.
.....He eased up to eye the line of sight over the desk. Beneath the wail of approaching sirens and the continued honk of alarms, the popping of his protesting joints was barely audible.
.....They sounded like gunshots to Wolfe.
.....The coast seemed clear. Crouching, he eased one of the batwing doors to the desk open. Well-oiled, it glid through silence...
........ but the silence was sliced open by the metallic rattle of an belt buckle being unclasped, the hiss of a fabric belt impatiently whipped through belt loops.
.....Oh, gawd...
.....Wolfe didn't look back. He eyed the front doors, daylight spilling in bright as a mother's promise. What's it gonna be, boy?
.....He eased around the desk, the bat in hands as he moved in a spiderwalk batting position. Hallway to the left, freedom to the right. Fight or flight?
.....He tried to swallow, but there was nothing left to swallow.
.....Wolfe turned left and stepped around to face the hallway...
........ and found himself staring down the barrel of one nasty-looking monster rifle. The unblinking eyes that looked back at him over the gun looked as deadly as the depthless open bore. Wolfe did what any rational man would do when looking sudden, senseless death in the face.
.....He wet his pants.

.....Mike stares down the barrel of the Mini-14 at the interloper, finger whiteknuckled on the trigger. Despite the bat in the man's hands, he doesn't seem like much of a threat. The bat slides through the man's hands and clatters to the floor.
.....Make that no threat. He smells piss, glances down at the puddle around the soles of the man's Doc Martens.
.....Ew.
.....His finger eases on the trigger.

.....Hands free, Wolfe slowly raised them up, palms out towards the gunman. The kid from the parking lot, gone postal. He felt like sobbing, the warmth of urine soaking his Dockers, burning like a badge of dishonor.
.....He didn't hear the slap of sneakers on linoleum until the kids were almost on him, moving from the opposite hallway in a break towards the front doors.

.....His eyes dart from the shaking old man as two bodies enter his line of sight, two silhouettes with linked hands, suddenly frozen against the daylight blazing through the two glass doors.

.....Too late to warn them, too scared to turn his head, Wolfe took in the two kids from the corner of his eye. It was that Lolita girl and her idiot wigger boyfriend. Behind them, he could see the other two kids playing statues just out of sight of the gunman. Wide, unblinking eyes for everyone.
.....The barrel of the assault weapon eased away from Wolfe and he almost cried with relief, almost cried in shame for feeling relief at someone else about to take his bullet.
.....The wigger wasn't about to take anyone's bullet standing still. He dropped Lolita's hand and spun on his heel, lunging towards the door with adrenaline-fueled grace.
.....The gunshot was a thunderclap. Glass exploding, a young girl's scream.
.....Wolfe took the opportunity to run the other way.

.....The troopers jumped at the gunshot, then crouched. They eyed the school, each other, their fingers tight on the triggers of the M-16A1s. But not too tight: they didn’t need a repeat of Saturday night.
.....A fine mist of dust swirled about the bullet hole that had appeared at just above head level in the front door, the safety glass glazed with cracks. Then Scot T exploded through, arms over his head against the released glass swirling about him.
.....The SWAT team ducked for cover, skittering off behind the student’s vehicles as Scot T hit the landing and launched himself over the stairs. In mid flight, his baggy pants finally dropped south and tangled up around his ankles. He arced forward...
........and hit the pavement with his chin. He lay sprawled on the sidewalk like a soggy towel, unmoving.

.....In through the shattered glass of the front door and frozen where she stood in the center of the high school foyer, Lolita was looking over her shoulder at Scot T’s exit.
.....Debbie and Pierce backpedaled from the branch in the hallway, turned and ran back the other way. Pierce glanced back as Lolita slowly turned and faced the unseen shooter, gunsmoke curling around the corner from his position.

.....The SWAT team looked up from their positions of safety as Clyde screamed into his radio to Dispatch:
.....“Where’s the fucking National Guard?”

.....Back at the Dispatch Desk, Julia checked the logs.
.....“Fullajah again, this week.” She finished off the McMuffin, then keyed the mike again. “They might take awhile to arrive.”
.....She was finally able to get a sense of order to her environment for the first time since setting off the Code Red. It had helped immeasurably when she had disabled the phone bank. It wasn’t as if she could tell anyone calling what the hell was going on in the high school. It wasn’t because she didn’t know, because she did. The monitors were giving her a front row seat in the biggest thing to hit Harding since Primus had played at the 1990 Senior Prom.
.....She just couldn’t tell anyone what was going on.
.....Department regulations.

.....Clyde sighed, considering the high school.
.....“How long?” one of his troopers asked. A distant roar answered for him.
.....The thunder from an approaching battalion of helicopters built to a roar and Clyde smiled, finally. His smile faded as the helicopters grew near enough to read the insignia on the sides.
.....It was the media: CNN, FOX, choppers sporting all sorts of newsworthy initials. Their crews leapt from open doors and secured their perimeters with paramilitary precision.

.....With the shattered glass of the doorway behind her, Lolita remained frozen, a deer in the headlights.

.....She looks like a teenybopper Lara Croft, all boobs-n-legs in that formfitting cheerleader outfit.

.....All Lolita could see was the silhouette of the shooter, a stray ray of afternoon light gleaming off of the school jacket.
.....He lowered the rifle and nodded. Lolita blinked up at him, and he gestured: Scoot!
.....Lolita didn’t need any encouragement. She bolted through the shattered glass, bounded down the stairs.
.....She paused, dropping to a knee by Scot T. With a sob, she touched his shoulder. Without opening his eyes, he snarled from the corner of his mouth.
.....“Keep moving, you stupid bitch.”
.....Her back was to the parking lot, so the SWAT team and the news crews setting up could only see Lolita’s back as she knelt closer to the fallen boy. Cameras zoomed in on the scene, the lucky ones getting the shot that was guaranteed to be the iconic image of this particular event: The Last Kiss.
.....Her back to the onlookers, they didn’t see Lolita spit in Scott T’s face. He winced, but didn’t twitch. Her last kiss was a hiss in his ear:
.....“Fag.”
.....She stood and threw a look back to the school, then kept moving.

.....He follows the sound of the remainder of fleeing teens. Screams echo distant from outer reaches of the school.

.....Pierce backslapped the screaming girl and she shut off like he had hit mute. She fired off a dropkick at his nuts and he brushed her foot aside.
.....“Don't get us killed, you idiot.”
.....She looked back at him silently, eyes cold. If we live through this, you are so dead.
.....Being that it was the only door that wouldn't lock, Pierce and Debbie found themselves back in the dubious shelter of the bathroom again. Pierce hoped that whatever was happening to Scott T and Lolita was going to take some time. At least enough time for him to...
.....Suddenly, the chickenwire-laced window looked like a workable exit. Pierce grabbed the trashcan and began to smash the heavy base of it against the reinforced glass.
.....BANG. BANG. BANG.
.....The glass spiderwebbed, but held firm. Pierce increased his efforts.

.....The smashing echoes down the hall, and he moves to follow...

.....SWAT leader Clyde interviewed Lolita, enjoying his turn in the spotlight as a circle of news cameras swarmed in and fed hungrily on her statement.
.....“I didn’t see his face, but he was wearing a school jacket...” she sniffled, then added: “It was one of ours...”
.....Clyde nodded and stepped back to address his boys, M-16A1 over his shoulder and presenting his best authoritative posture and voice for the benefit of the home viewers.
.....“The perp was observed wearing a Harding school jacket, which doesn’t mean start shooting anyone wearing...”
.....Ignoring the cop and free of his interference, the news jackals jostled each other and tried their best to ruin the others shots as they swept in on Lolita, cameras and microphones shoved into her face to record every reaction, every sob, every tear. Images and sounds to be analyzed back at the editing docks and then restructured for maximum emotional impact.
.....Virtual verité.

.....“Were you scared?”
.....“Will you ever feel safe again?”
.....“How did it feel when you saw your boyfriend shot?”
.....“Laying dead on the sidewalk?”
.....“Did you love him?”
.....“Are you still a virgin?”

.....In the hubbub, no one saw Wolfe steal away from the side exit of the school, a painful duckwalk back towards the motel. It was best that no one saw him, as urine shows dark on gray cotton slacks. But cotton dries out, the stain washes away.
.....It was the indelible stain of his shame that was going to take some getting used to.

CHAPTER 25

.....The neighbors who had no other plans than to be home on a Monday set up their lawn chairs and were gabbing away on their portable phones. They settled in comfortably to watch the Comanche hover over Doc’s house like an angry black wasp. Cracked their choice of cool beverages.
.....It was a slow day for television, the laundry could wait, and it wasn’t every day that set up an episode of C*O*P*S across from your own front yard. This would be a yarn that could be played out over fences or drinks for days. Months. Years maybe, if something really interesting happened.
.....Caught up in acting oblivious to his audience, Team Leader Clyde Kehoe almost didn’t hear the call on his walkie-talkie over the pounding of the rotors.
.....Finally, one of the men ransacking the house stepped out and pointed at him to catch his attention, then mimed talking on the radio.
.....Clyde pulled the walkie-talkie from his utility belt and put it to his ear. Officially it was called a Personal Combat Communications Device, and had dinged the department budget twelve large. A unit. He jerked the speaker away as Julia’s squawking almost took his head off.
.....He looked up at the chopper as he took the call, then swallowed as he finally made out what she was yelling about.
.....“You gotta be fucking...”
.....He slapped the antenna down, then grabbed his bullhorn from hip and strode towards the house:
.....“Abort mission, rally Point One!” he bellowed. “Move it, move it, move it!”
.....SWAT members boiled from the house and stumbled about blinking at the change in routine. This wasn't the way it went as practiced.
....."Move it, god damn it!"
.....The troopers grabbed onto the lines that still hung down from the helicopter, and were sucked up into its belly.
..... “What about the Doc?” one of the remaining deputies who was poised over the old man asked.
.....Kehoe looked down at the Doc. Doc looked back up at him. Their gazes locked. Backwash from the rotors of the Commanche ruffled the old man's hair, and finally he blinked. Shoulders slumping as he looked down at the torn sod of his lawn.
.....Kehoe nodded. “Uncuff him.”
.....The men looked down at their trophy, looked back to their team leader.
.....He sighed. “We may just need him down at the high school.”

.....As Mike continues down the hallways, the sounds of doors locking proceeds him.

.....Pierce jumped at the sound of the first whoop of the alarm, coughing in the middle of a drag.
.....“What the...?”
.....He threw the cigarette into the toilet and flushed, waving the smoke aside.
.....“Shit.” Scot T struggled to cut off his stream of piss.
.....They looked to Lolita, who cracked open the door.
.....“Everything’s gone all Code Red,” she announced in her best baby doll voice.
.....Debbie grabbed Pierce’s arm. “Honey...”
.....“Lock the door.”
.....Lolita gave him a disgusted look.
.....“It’s a bathroom door.” She demonstrated, opening it in and out. “It don’t lock.”
.....“Fuck me.” Pierce turned and considered his options.
.....“What are we...?” Debbie keened, her blue eyes wide and unblinking.
.....He shrugged her hand off of his arm as he began to pace. The windows were reinforced with chicken wire, so that left the way they had came in as the only way out. “We get the fuck out of here until we can figure out what’s going down.”
.....He shouldered Lolita aside, looked out through the cracked door.
.....The coast seemed clear. Pierce turned back to his friends, his best action hero look in place.
.....“Let’s roll.”

.....As the coach maintained his post, the sound of carefully placed footsteps neared the door. A backlit silhouette paused by the window. Breathing in the room stopped, held. Finally the form moved on. The footsteps faded.
.....Held breaths were released.
.....Marsh quietly -- slowly -- unlocked the door. A girl moaned behind him and he turned, finger to lips. Her name was Shannon, he recalled.
.....“Shannon...?”
.....“Molly,” she corrected.
.....“Molly, lock this behind me...”
.....The girl nodded, eyes wide. Mascara ran like claw marks down her face.
.....“...and don’t open it for anyone unless we get an All Clear, alright?”
.....The girl nodded again, more enthusiastically this time.
.....He eased the door open and stepped quietly into the hall. Molly eased the door shut and twisted the lock.
.....With the coach gone, cellphones came out. Absent of adult supervision, roles were cast aside. The girls became proactive, speed dialing and text messaging away on their cellphones.
.....“Hello? 911?” Molly whispered into her phone. “There’s a psycho here with a gun...”
.....“CNN?” murmured the real Shannon into her Nokia. “We’re being attacked by a bunch of terrorists...”
.....“...I think it’s that creep, Charlie Bierce...”
.....“...they’re all running around going, ‘Allah is Cool! Fuck the Great Satan!’”
.....“...y’know, that Goth guy...”
.....“Bierce ain’t here,” another girl corrected. “His folks sent him to one of those church camps for reeducation...”
.....“Maybe he broke out, and he’s off his meds...”
.....The guys were getting ready in their own way: each had pulled a piece, and were checking their ammo.
.....“I bet it’s those damn Mexicans.” one snarled.
.....Dave McShane snapped the chamber of his hawgleg shut, just like he saw on TV.
.....They all waited...

.....Marsh frowned at the sudden hushed murmurs from behind the door, then began to tread lightly down the hall.
.....Although from all outward appearances, it would appear that Marsh was all steely resolve and Action Movie Star heroics. Appearances aside, the man was literally about to piss himself. He knew he should have relieved himself of those three cups of bad teacher’s lounge coffee before heading off to class. Of course, no one ever expected to go to homeroom and have it interrupted by some psycho teenager going all Columbine before lunch.
.....It also didn’t help that he was scared spitless.
....He couldn’t recall ever being so scared in his life. The thought that his life might come to a complete and random end at the age of thirty-eight would have been incomprehensible to him as he had driven on his way to the high school to go through the motions of what seemed to be shaping up as just another day.
.....Oddly enough, if he hadn’t have slowed down to allow a Coor’s truck to merge into traffic from out front of The Larkspur on his way to work, his route would have been bumped up by less than a minute. With the cosmic clock set ahead less than one minute, he would have been t-boned two intersections down by a battered white Ford van that was anticipating a green light. To his fortune, although he had no way of knowing it, the courtesy extended to the beer guy saved him from having two tons of tweaker-fueled vehicle slam into his driver’s side door at forty-miles-an-hour. He wouldn’t have even had time to have considered his impending death.
.....But in the hallway of the high school, he could hear that cosmic clock ticking.
.....Jesus God, he didn’t want to die, and he almost pissed himself thinking it. But there was no way he was going to allow one of his kids to die because of his inaction, and there was also no way in hell he was going to allow some god damned punk to diss his authority, as the kids said these days.
.....That didn’t make him any less frightened silly, however. He moved further down the hall. Occasionally he paused, listening.
.....Below the clicking of the lights turning in their cages and the steady honk of the alarm, there was no sign of movement in his line of vision.
.....He moved on, easing his way along the wall silently, alert. He paused at a branch in the hall and looked down. He inhaled sharply at the sight of waiting feet. He looked up: the descending butt of the rifle caught him just above the left eye.
.....THUD!
.....Marsh crumpled to the floor, unmoving.

.....Mike glances down as he steps over the still form. Marsh's eyes are open, expression locked halfway to horror. He looks almost silly, one eye knocked awry. A thread of blood winds its way down across his face, to the floor. He doesn't blink.
.....Mike looks back up and continues down the corridor. Moves to hang a left...
........ pauses at the slapping of running feet on linoleum floor, from the hall branch ahead.
.....Backs up against the first sentry in a bank of soft drink machines. Eases down and crosses the rifle across his lap, settling down on his heels. His silhouette just another pattern against the red, white and blue fluorescent glow of the Pepsi dispenser.
.....A halo reading "Generation Next" flickers above his head.

CHAPTER 24

.....Mike grabbed onto the tire of the monster truck and started to pull himself up, barked at the sharp flare of pain in his side. His world pulsed red and he fought against the rise of bile in his throat.
.....He was a mess. His scalp was sweating but he felt cold, goosebumps skittering across his bare forearms.
.....Slowly, carefully he tottered the rest of the way up. Dragged Scot T’s jacket from the hood, used it to wipe the blood from his face.
.....He eyed the empty quad, a limp sheet of newspaper flapping along the grass.
..... “Daaaaamn, man...” a voice exclaimed behind him.
.....Mike creaked his head around as Wolfe broke from the sidewalk. The man approached him and paused, pulling back with a sympathetic look as he whistled at the damage that had been inflicted on Mike’s face.
.....“Looks like someone did a number on you. You should get that looked at.”
.....“Screw it.” Mike spit blood. “I’m okay.”
.....Wolfe looked down at the patch of blood on the pavement.
.....“You are definitely not okay...”
.....“Got a Band-aid?”
.....Wolfe didn’t like the look in the kid’s eyes, and he felt a chill creep up his spine. “I’ll tell you what... I’ll go get someone to take care of that for you.”
.....Wolfe headed off across the parking lot towards the high school. He disappeared inside.
.....Mike turned, hands on the hood for support. Breathing raggedly, he winced against the pain in his side.
....When he opened his eyes, he stared across the hood at the backyard assault rifle cradled in Pierce’s rear window gun rack. It was one of those pimped-out plinkers designed to make even a man with a thickening waistline and the skinniest legs feel like Rambo. Despite the promise of its Dogs of War packaging, only capable of delivering one round per trigger pull. Even so, still the perfect tool for plugging coyotes and other kinds of varmints.
.....Mike pulled on the letterman jacket, the H smeared with blood, then knelt gingerly by the side of the truck to pick up his skateboard.
.....He stepped back, took a deep breath and swung. No one else was around to hear the glass of the truck’s side window shatter.

.....Wolfe reached a branch in the hallway, and then hung a left at an indicator arrow reading the Main Desk. The recruiter from the arcade was leaning over the desk, flirting with the receptionist. She was a young lady on the verge of losing that distinction, her Paris Hilton knock-off wardrobe beginning to wear silly on her thickening frame.
.....Hutchins was in full charmer mode, flashing his expensive caps at the woman. “...it’s not as if anyone is going to notice that a couple of D’s and an F suddenly, somehow turn into a few C’s...”
....The receptionist was eating it up, a pleasant diversion from the day-to-day routine of the parade of snot-nosed teenagers and their occasional asshole parents. Not to mention the holier-than-thou staff that walked by her everyday as if she were something that they were afraid of stepping in.
.....Wolfe leaned in on the desk, interrupting the conversation. “Is there a school nurse here?”
.....Irked at the cockblock, the receptionist eyed him coldly. “Who the hell are you?”

.....The teacher clapped his hands, and the rag-tag assembly of summer school students fell quiet.
.....Relatively.
.....THE ORIGIN OF LIFE was scrawled on the chalkboard behind him.
.....Larry Marsh wasn’t happy to be there, but it was summer and in between seasons; the coach had to justify his teaching credential somehow. The whistle that hung from the lanyard around his neck swept briskly across the front of his Harding Broncos sweatshirt as he turned back to his desk.
.....“Look, folks... I don’t want to be here anymore than you do.”
.....Someone snickered, the "At least you're getting paid" left unsaid.
.....“Be that as it may,” Marsh sighed as he picked up the class roster and parked on the edge of the desk . “I can think of a few better ways to blow my summer than in a classroom, so let’s just get to work and make this as painless as possible. Okay?”
.....There was scattered muttering from the ranks.
.....Marsh nodded. “Thank you.”
.....He referred to his clipboard without looking up:
.....“Amberson?”
.....“Here.”
.....“Bucholder?
.....“Yo.”
.....“Crawford?”
.....No response. Marsh looked up.
.....“Crawford? Pierce Crawford?”
.....“He’s not here,” one of the students offered, stating the obvious.
.....“Thank you.” Marsh went back to the clipboard and made a note.
.....“Caymon?”

.....PHSST!
.....Foamed spewed from the mouth of the Coors Lighting as the bottle cap flew off. Parked on the commode within an open stall, Pierce took a healthy swig and offered it to Debbie.
.....Lolita stood sentinel at the door as Scot T pissed into the urinal. He sighed in pleasure as the stream went on... and on...
........ and on...
.....“Why do you bother to even zip your fly?” she observed, shaking her head in disgust as the smell of restructured beer filled the small room.
........ and on...
.....Debbie looked doubtfully at the beer. “Dude, we’re already late.”
.....“The key word there is 'already'.” Pierce waggled the bottle. “Drink up.”
.....She grabbed the beer, took a pull, and made a face. The shit tasted bad enough when it was cold. Warm, it tasted like monkey piss. She passed it on to Lolita.
.....Lolita was a little more thirsty, draining the bottle without a pause. She burped daintily and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, stepping from the door as she looked for a place to deposit the empty. Finally, she buried it beneath the soiled paper towels in the trashcan and returned to her post, cracking the door to see if the hallway was still clear. It was.
.....Pierce flexed his fingers and there was a distinct pop. “That fucker better not have broken my hand.”
.....“He broke your hand?” Debbie took injured hand and kissed the knuckles. Pierce winced and pulled it free.
.....“If he did and I can’t do basic training, I’m gonna sue his ass," Pierce muttered. He batted a cigarette from his deck and fired it up, his eyes narrowing through the smoke. "What's left of it."
.....Debbie contained an eye roll. “I suppose he broke your foot, too?”
.....“Of course not.” Pierce considered his boots and looked back up at her. “Why?”
........ as Scot T continued to piss an endless stream.

.....Mike mounted the stairs to the front entrance, rifle at port arms. He chambered a round, slid his finger through the trigger guard and pushed the door open with his foot...
.....In the foyer of the high school, the security camera paused in its rounds, swiveled back to consider Mike...

.....The camera’s lens zooms in, spins around the video version of Mike... his face remains unclear.
.....Beneath the image of his rifle is displayed text detailing the nomenclature of the Ruger Mini-14 semi-automatic...
........ collapsible stock....
........ thirty-six round banana clip...
........ full... with .223 copper-jacketed rounds, one chambered.

.....Boo-yah.

.....Back at the Dispatch Desk, Julia glanced away from the jewelry being hawked on the Samsung, her attention caught by an unsettling image being displayed on one of the side monitors; the figure of someone walking down the hallway of the high school. Someone carrying what was unmistakenly an assault rifle. She threw down her half-finished Egg McMuffin and hit a button. The image of the high school hallway switched to the main screen.
.....“Holy shit!”
.....She swivelled in her chair and slapped the Panic Button.

.....Along the hallways of Harding High School, red lights began to spin within their cages as a siren commenced to honking.

.....In Mike’s mind, the interior of the school takes on the pixelated hyper-reality of a video game.
.....His health bar reads full red.
.....He continues on, hangs a right turn at the branch in the hallway moves on down the avenue...
........ listening...

.....Coach Marsh paused in the middle of his discourse, the sound of the siren muted behind the closed door. The students looked back at him, wide-eyed.
.....Even the hard cases looked uneasy.
.....A cold chill slithering down his spine like a bead of ice water, Marsh broke from his chair and pulled down the shade over the mesh-laced window of the door. He paused, putting on his face of authority.
.....In an urgent, hushed voice he turned to the students. “Everyone down, and get up against the wall away from the line of sight of the door.”
.....As they complied, the teacher snapped the lock shut, hunkered down beneath the window of the door.
.....Waiting. Listening. Sweating.

.....Having taken cover beneath the counter of the Main Desk, Wolfe, Hutchins, and the receptionist hunched as the siren honked on.
.....“What the hell is going on?” Wolfe asked the receptionist, sotto voce. “Is this one of those tests or something?”
.....“It’s called a drill,” the receptionist snapped.
.....“I know what the fuck it’s called,” Wolfe snapped back at her. “I’m... I was a teacher.”
.....The receptionist’s eyes narrowed. She knew there was a reason she disliked the dude on first sight, and then her eyes continued darting about to see if any terrorists were breaching the defenses.
.....“Well, this ain’t, and there ain’t any scheduled for today.”
.....“So what is it?” he demanded.
.....“It’s a Code Red,” she sighed in exasperation. “We don’t do Code Red drills.”
.....“Well, damn,” Wolfe muttered as if he knew what the woman was talking about. He didn’t, and gave up trying to fake it. “And what’s that mean?”
.....A starched crease sliced through the air as the recruiter put an arm around the young woman... protectively, of course.
.....“It means we keep doing what we’re doing until we get an All Clear,” she clarified, making herself more comfortable under the arm.
.....Hutchins winced as a hairspray-stiffened tuft poked him in the eye. He wondered distractedly if he would be eligible for a Purple Heart if his eye was poked out by a stray strand of hair wielded by a chunky receptionist, and how dashing he’d look in full dress uniform with an eye patch as a styling accessory.
.....Pretty damned dashing he acknowledged, as his hand stole down to cup a breast.
.....His aim was only a little off, but the receptionist helpfully corrected it.

CHAPTER 23

.....Crawford opened the door and threw the keys to the Humvee in the tray, closing the door behind him. He paused, his back to the living room. It reeked of the night before, of stale cigarette smoke and spilled whiskey. He paused and sniffed, detecting a delicate smell underlying the funk.
.....He recognized the perfume. Sand and Sable.
.....“How’d you get in here, Tanya?” he asked as he turned to face the woman lounging in his leather chair. She had found one of his spare packs of Marlboros and smiled up at him as she lit the cigarette. She exhaled a greeting.
.....“Hi, Roy. Nice to see you, too.” Her jeans hissed across the surface of the chair as she crossed her legs and leaned back, her breasts pushing back against gravity through the sheer material of her blouse. She eyed him as she took another drag, her foot arching, bare ankle demanding attention.
.....He ignored it. He turned his back on her again and unbuckled his utility belt and rebuckled it, draping it across a peg on the coat rack.
.....Finally he turned and picked up the smokes, batting one out for himself.
.....“Have fun last night?” he asked, taking a deep drag. He let it out at the ceiling, avoiding her eyes.
.....“I could ask the same of you,” she chuckled. She eyed the empty bottle of Jack and the mess about the room. “I’d hope you didn’t do this kind of damage all by yourself.”
.....“It’s none of your business what...”
.....“But it’s your business what I do?” she interrupted. He finally met her gaze, a quizzical eyebrow cocked.
.....“If you’re gonna keep driving past someone’s window all night, you might want to use a quieter car. That damned Hummer isn’t exactly subtle-sounding.”
.....He shrugged. “I was worried.”
.....“Bullshit.”
.....He sat down, eyed the empty whiskey bottle and sighed. He felt like ants were crawling over his flesh and he was pretty sure it wasn’t a side effect of the hangover.
.....“Roy,” she said, her voice demanding his attention. He met her gaze. “I know what you feel, and while I truly do respect it, I can’t return it. You’re my brother.”
.....“I... ”
.....“Hush. You became my brother when I married Bryce,” she said softly. “Just because he’s dead doesn’t change that. I do love you...”
.....She caught the shift in his eyes. “Just not in that way.”
.....His face became neutral again and she continued.
.....“I appreciate all that you’ve done for Pierce, taking him in like your own and all that when I... when I needed you to.”
.....“He’s a good boy,” Roy muttered to his cigarette. “He needs a good father to become a good man.”
.....“And you’ve been one. Maybe even better than Bryce was...would have been.”
.....She shrugged. “But you’re it and I thank you for that. I know it’s not easy and I wish that there were something more that I could do for you.”
.....His gaze flicked to her legs and she sighed. “Just not that.”
.....“Tanya, why are you here?” He looked up, his throat dry for another taste of whiskey. “Did you just drop by to torture me, or something?”
.....“More along the lines of the something,” she nodded. “I want you to quit fucking with Dan.”
.....“What makes you think...”
.....“This is a small town, Roy. You don’t need cameras and microphones and phone taps and all other types of surveillance equipment to know what’s going on. I knew that you’d pulled in Dan before he was even at the station.”
.....“I didn’t...”
.....“I know, Clyde did. Spare me.” Her eyes went cold, the green sharper and more dangerous than he had ever seen them. “And that bullshit you pulled with Doc was...”
.....She shook her head. “Jesus, Roy. What the hell were you thinking?”
.....“He... I was just doing, you know...”
.....“He’s an old man, Roy. Your cheap power-tripping could have killed him. You want that on your conscience?”
.....“No. I wasn’t thinking.”
.....“Oh, you were thinking alright. You were thinking too much. The problem is, you’re not as smart as you think.”
.....She had more to say, and Roy took it like a man. One very miserable man, but a man.
.....Finally, she stood and made her way to the across the living room. He followed, and as she reached for the door he touched her arm.
.....“Do you love him?”
.....She paused, considering.
.....“I don’t know, Roy.” She turned, looking up at him. “All I know is that he’s the best thing I’ve had happen to me since...well, it’s been a while.”
.....“I don’t trust him,” Roy said. “There’s something about him. He’s weak, I think.”
.....Tanya chuckled. It wasn’t a pleasant chuckle. “And you’re so strong, right?”
.....“In most ways, yeah. In the important ways.”
.....“Maybe those aren’t the ways I need, Roy.”
.....Her green eyes had softened, and she stood on her toes to kiss him on the corner of the mouth. He shifted, and as their mouths met there was a sharp intake of breath. From both of them.
.....The lips stayed, and his hand cupped the small of her back and drew her to him.
.....Her eyes stayed open.

CHAPTER 22

.....Wolfe paced the small motel room as the televangelist nattered on in the background.
.....“...but without your help, the Final Battle could be LOST! Imagine, the world in ruins, your children dismembered, DISEMBOWELLED by Satan’s minions...”
.....Wolfe blinked at the television and sat down on the bed. The dude was either touched by God, or just plain touched. The super beneath his image identified him as the right reverend Rev. Lamb. United States Air Force. Retired. He was still wearing his old uniform, insignia removed to meet federal laws.
.....Wolfe had heard about him at some point, most likely from a profile in one of the Time or Newsweek magazines left on the coffee table in the teacher’s lounge back in the day. The man was one of those End Time fundamentalists that took everything bad that occurred in the world as a Good Omen of the coming apocalypse.
.....What Wolfe had found most disturbing in the profile was the sidenote that Lamb maintained his own militia within the headquarters of his Florida-based media empire, all with the blessings and encouragement of the governor of the state.
.....“... hurled shrieking into the ABYSS, into the molten pits of HELL, their eternal howls of anguish an accusation: "Why did you not love me — LOVE CHRIST — enough to save me from this?”
.....He sighed. And this is the man that has the ear of the President of the United States? He imagined them huddled in an Oval Office prayer group, and the whispered calculations as to which current hot spots could be stoked into a conflagration, and fueled until the fire raged for the advent of Armageddon.
.....He shivered: he was giving himself the existential willies. The dufflebag was parked like a faithful dog beside him, packed and waiting to go for a walk. He wondered if there was really any point in going anywhere else, especially if the Rapture occurred and he and everyone else that was Left Behind were so left in a sea of suddenly vacated polyester.
.....He eyed the bag and considered unpacking it. Then he considered the scratches on his back, and left it packed. Reconsidered how he got those scratches and...
.....He remembered the roach of the joint he’d tucked in his pocket after Doc had left. It was a pleasant mix of tobacco and pot, and he had enjoyed the light buzz it had given him. The buzz was fading off so he pulled out his Zippo and lit it. He damn near singed his eyebrows off lighting the stub, but he got it going. Inhaling deep, the smoke went down wrong and he doubled over coughing.
.....Gagging, he fumbled the Zippo, which dropped from his hand to bounce off of the toe of his Doc Marten and careen under the bed.
.....“Fuck,” he exhaled, the smoke curling from his nose.
.....He dropped to a knee, lifted the blanket and looked under: a giant, organic-looking pod was wedged between the springs and the ratty carpet. It looked very unhealthy where it was.
.....He bolted upright: What the...?
.....There was a knock at the door. It was an official sounding knock.
.....He backed away from the bed and opened the door without turning to look through the peephole. He fumbled for the knob and turned it, swinging around as the door opened. A sneak peak wouldn’t have mattered anyway, as the sunlight was blocked by a very large silhouette that loomed on the threshold. The cop-shaped silhouette opened his mouth to speak, then sniffed.
.....A hand shot out, grabbed Wolfe by the collar and yanked him out of the room...

.....The wheels of the skateboard chewed up sidewalk as Mike kicked it along towards the school. Face pinched and shoulders hunched, he shivered against the early morning nip. His chill was more a reaction to the discomfort of going out without his ubiquitous trenchcoat than the actual balmy temperature. As he had prepped for getting ready to exit his room, he had found that some of the ballast from the beer bottle projectile had spilled across the green shoulder of the coat. The last thing he needed was a teacher sniffing him out for smelling of beer.
.....There was nothing he could do about the red half crescent tattoo the base of the bottle had left high on his cheek.
.....Wheeling a hard right into the parking lot of the school, he dismounted from the board and kicked it up, tucking it under his arm. He winnowed his way through the sparse parked cars...
........ and found his path abruptly blocked by Pierce. The rest of the Wrecking Crew flowed in behind him.
.....Pierce eyed the mark on Mike's face and the corner of his mouth curled into what might have been a grin, that is, if the boy had a sense of humor. He didn't.
....."Where's your blanky?" he asked, taking in Mike's exposed shirtsleeves.
.....Mike sighed. "My what?" He eyed the sanctuary of the school over Pierce and crew's shoulders. It was one long span and he knew that he wasn't going to make the distance in one piece. Again.
....."Your security blanket."
.....Mike wasn't in the mood for dancing. "Hey, Pierce... how many Iraqis did it take to bring down the towers?"
.....Pierce blinked, eyes narrowing at the non sequitur. "Nineteen. Why the...?"
.....Mike nodded at the answer. "You know, I take it back...you will make a good soldier."
.....If nothing else, he figured he'd get in the first blow, even if it were only verbal.
.....Still, he didn't see the fist coming. His world went red.

.....Clyde threw Wolfe in a holding cell. The door clanged shut, the sound echoing throughout the County lockup.
.....In the next cell, a still form laying on a bench woke up and removed the Field and Stream magazine that was tenting his face. The former clerk from the former convenience store sat up and rubbed his face to life, eyeing the sudden activity with interest.
.....It had been a very long and boring night. The cameras had watched him, but they had given him nothing to watch in return. The blinking red light beneath the lens had grown old and fast. The magazine was even more boring. He had given up on it after ten pages of gun ads. At least it had been good for blocking off most of the light.
.....The Sheriff sidled up and eyed the new resident, then turned his head to Clyde.
.....“Did you read him his rights?”
.....His fingers fluttering in disdain, Clyde frowned. “You know I can’t remember...”
.....“Did he say anything?”
.....The deputy shook his head. “Anytime he opened his mouth, I tol’ him to shut it.”
.....The sheriff turned back to Wolfe. “You have the right to remain silent, that is to say nothing at all.”
.....“It was just...” Wolfe protested.
.....From his cell, Cody piped up: “You might wanna say nothing at all.”
.....“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” He seemed bored as he recited the Miranda Rights, the words coming easily off his tongue. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you at no cost...”
.....“Hah!” Cody scoffed.
.....Clyde glared at the clerk in the next cell and after a night of trying, the clerk finally found something interesting in the hunting magazine in his lap.
.....Apparently, Paris Hilton had recently taken up hunting Kodiak bears in the Great White North, and the centerfold spread offered a pose of her straddling the corpse of a bear with a head the size of large disco ball, her saggy breasts dangling in the shadow of her gaping camouflage blouse. The photographer had caught her as she leaned towards the camera, finger on the trigger of the Winchester 30-06 cradled across her scrawny cervix couch.
.....Her eyes were as vacant as those of the dead bear.
.....Colby looked at the breasts and wished that he had found the photo fifteen minutes earlier. Cameras be damned.
.....The legal obligations recited, the sheriff set about closing the deal: “Do you understand your rights?”
.....“Why am I here?” Wolfe demanded.
.....“Do you understand your rights?” Crawford insisted.
.....“Yeah.”
.....“Yes or no?”
.....Wolfe rolled his eyes and exhaled deeply. “Yes.”
.....“Where’d you get the weed?”
.....Wolfe gave it some thought, then looked the sheriff in the eyes: “I brought it with me.”
.....“Uh, uh,” Clyde countered. “I checked your car, and then checked your room while you were out.”
.....Wolfe blinked up at the sheriff. “That’s... that's kinda unconstitutional,” he finally managed.
.....The sheriff shrugged. "Yeah. Kinda."
.....Wolfe was trying to figure out whether he was more disturbed that they had tossed his room, or that The Man was so unconcerned about accountability that he would freely admit it.
.....Clyde laughed, and Wolfe turned to eye him coldly. “Why do you hate America?”
.....The cop bristled. “Fuck you, man.”
.....“He’s being ironic,” Roy sighed.
.....“Irony’s dead,” Clyde responded. “I saw it on the news.”
.....Crawford turned his attention back to Wolfe.
.....“Where’d you get the joint?”
.....“It’s prescription,” Wolfe countered, and then realized that he may have given the sheriff a little bit of too much information. Damn, he didn’t like the look in The Man’s eyes.
.....A smile struggling to get out twitched at the corner of the Sheriff’s mouth.
.....“Thank you,” he acknowledged.
.....Wolfe’s eyes went wide as he realized what was about to go down. “Hey... that doesn’t mean...”
.....Roy threw a set of keys to the deputy.
.....“You know what to do...”
.....“I’m on it, Chief.”
.....“And leave the fucking SAM where it is.”
.....Clyde gave the sheriff a two-fingered salute off the brim of his hat and rolled.
.....“Damn it, Crawford!” Wolfe grabbed the bars of the cell, glaring out at the sheriff. “If there’s anything going down between you and me, let’s keep it that way. There’s no need to drag anyone else into this...”

.....On the roof in a cinder block shed set off from the landing pad, a small group of men bustled through a locker room, slim steel doors slamming shut and the heels of tightly-laced combat boots pounding the tiled floor.
.....Black jumpsuits were zipped up...
........ flack jackets were donned...
........ hands grabbed from a row of state-of-the-art assault weapons...
........ banana clips were slapped in, rounds jacked...
.....Boo-yah.

.....Crawford pulled up a chair. “Now... let’s talk some about Tanya...”

.....Dark-clad forms scurried towards the prototype RAH-66 Comanche helicopter, their shoulders hunched against the backwash as it fired up. The SWAT team hurried in, boarded. With a whine of two turbines fighting to lift over ten thousand pounds of metal, the matte black helicopter lifted up and hung a few feet above the landing pad, the sound of its ascent suppressed by the unique five-rotor design.
.....Added to the lift was the combined weight of six fully-equipped deputies in full SWAT fetish gear clinging wide-eyed to the side rails the motor pool had welded to the sides of the machine. The Comanche was designed for two crew members only, but that was of little use to the Sheriff’s Department, and so the after market addition.
.....Rotors a nearly invisible blur against the cloudless blue sky, the helicopter leaned to the side as it swung around over the side of the building and thudded its way over a few blocks of rooftops, drew up and hovered.

.....Doc paused in the middle of a bong rip as he heard the roar of the helicopter near. He looked up as the sound paused overhead. The CHUP of blades continued.
.....The center pane of his stained glass bay window shattered as a canister burst through, rolled to his feet, emitting tear gas. He dropped the bong and lurched up out of his easy chair, gagging as he fumbled towards the front door. He threw it open and staggered out, choking and gasping for air.
.....A SWAT team member rushed up and tackled him. The old man’s arms were pulled roughly behind him as his face ground into the lawn, forcing him to eat grass. As a cop slapped on the handcuffs, Doc yelped in pain. Old bones weren’t meant to be treated that way.
.....More cops rushed into his house and the sounds of a rhubarb began, as they would have said back in the day.

.....Wolfe listened as Roy listed what was wrong with Tanya. Colby the former mini-mart clerk listened in without seeming obvious about it.
.....“... she’s bipolar, you know,” The sheriff noted, nodding as he gauged Wolfe’s reaction.
.....“You don’t say...”
.....“Takes her medication, but still likes her booze... not a good mix.”
.....“Is there something going on between you two?”
.....Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “She’s my brother’s widow, you ass.”
.....“You just seem a little obsessed.”
.....“I’m just looking out for Pierce.”
.....“Who the hell is Pierce?”
.....“She didn’t tell you?”
.....“Apparently not.” Wolfe shook his head ruefully. "Seems like there's a whole lot of things we haven't talked about yet..."
.....“Pierce is my brother’s son. Her son.” Crawford looked at Wolfe without seeing him. “Although she’s never acted like it. Still, he’s a good boy... even though I ended up raising him myself. Someone had to teach the boy to be a man.”

.....Mike blinked, wobbly on his feet. There was a coppery taste in his mouth. He didn't get much time to think about it. Another fist thudded into his face and he hit the ground. A gathering crowd of the summer school attendees stood around, some silent, some shouting encouragement. The smell of blood was in the air, and it smelled good.
.....Pierce stepped back, shaking his fist in pain.

.....“Bryce felt his calling during the first Gulf War, went off and joined the Army. Must’ve liked it, or at least liked it more than here, ’cause he never came back ’til they shipped his casket in.”
.....The sheriff paused, a far-away look in his gaze.
.....When the flag-draped casket had been smuggled through Dover Air Force Base and dropped off by a DHL van at the Elysian Fields Funeral Chapel, he had at his mother’s request asked that the casket be opened. Unable to leave the homestead, she had charged her remaining son with a velvet-wrapped heirloom to place in Bryce’s casket. In the time-faded cloth rested his grandfather’s Bronze Star and Purple Heart, paid for at deadly cost in The War to End All Wars.
.....Quite a few official and unofficial wars later, Bryce’s casket had been opened to reveal the sun-bloated body of a young black woman.
.....What was left of some suddenly anonymous Staff Sergeant. They hadn’t even bothered to tidy her up.
.....Wolfe watched as Crawford wandered off into his own little world, the silence building to a degree that was starting to unnerve him.
.....He cleared his throat, and the sheriff blinked back at him.
.....Nodded.
.....“Tanya now, Tanya felt her calling too,” the sheriff finally continued. “It was pretty obvious that she sorta resented getting knocked up straight outta high school and settling into the whole Harding dead end. So, right after Bryce shipped out, she dropped Pierce off on me, set off to make her fortune in Hollywood.”
.....Wolfe began to wonder why he had cleared his throat.

.....Scot T shrugged off his school jacket. He threw it on the hood of Pierce’s monster truck and waded in. He pulled Mike halfway up, drew back a fist, and let fly: CRUNCH! A tooth spun through the air, hit the asphalt. Everyone paused, Scot T with his arm jacked back to deliver a second blow, frozen in tableau as they looked down at the bloody shard of white glistening on the blacktop among the pebbles. It definitely stood out.
.....Even through his pain, Mike was impressed.
.....The crowd sighed in appreciation. One of the onlookers called out a caution: “Hey, Dude... watch out. You might get the AIDS.”
.....Scot T blinked at his fist thoughtfully and dropped Mike, then stepped back. He was pushed aside by Pierce.
.....Pierce stepped up and smiled a smile wholly lacking in humor, then hauled back a pointy-toed cowboy boot and let fly, delivering a solid blow Mike’s side. The crowd sighed in a sound that could almost be taken for empathy, if the sound hadn’t have been exhaled through smiles.
.....Mike grunted as he felt something give in his side, with a muffled sound not unlike a No. 2 pencil being snapped in a deep bowl of water.
.....The school bell rang and heads turned to consider the school in resentment. They didn’t get to see a good ass kicking every day, and now the moment had to go and be over.
.....The crowd began to disperse, reluctantly. As the future of America headed off to class, a Mexican dude bumped shoulders with one of the Anglos. They stared each down, short hairs bristling.
.....The bell rang last call, and they parted to move on towards the school in two separate packs.
.....The resentment lingered after them.

.....As the sheriff droned on, Wolfe was aware of activity of the drug raid that could be heard squawking over the radio at the front desk. Wolfe tried to ignore it, but then that meant listening to the sheriff’s continued character assassination of Tanya. Issues, the dude has some serious fucking issues, Wolfe mused.
.....“She finally came back when her old man died,” Crawford finally finished. “Tail between her legs. I guess there’s not much room down there for aging former cheerleaders with stretch marks.”
.....The two men sat across from each other, the silence sharing space with the bars between them.
.....“You know, I don’t recall a big red hourglass tattooed on her stomach,” Wolfe finally responded. “Why are you telling me this? Trying to scare me off?”
.....Roy offered him the open pack of Marlboros. Wolfe shook his head. Roy batted one out for himself and lit it. He exhaled smoke from his nose and leaned back, unblinking as he considered Wolfe.
.....Wolfe met his gaze. “It won’t work... this has been a long time coming and...”
.....“What did you think of Bring It On?”
.....“Say what?” Wolfe blinked at the abrupt change of topic. He gave it some thought, anyhow. “I think that it was an irresponsible thing for the president to…”
.....“I mean the movie, the cheerleader movie. With Lindsay Lohan? Cute, wasn’t she?”
.....“It was Hillary Duff,” Wolfe corrected. “What’s your point?”
....He found he didn't like the sheriff's point. Wasn't much argument over it, either.

.....Over the sound of the hovering ’copter, the sound of smashing glass and the thud of overturned furniture came from the house as it was being ransacked...um, searched. Doc was on the ground, hands cuffed behind his back. Two SWAT members stood over the desperado, automatic weapons at the ready in case he tried to do something silly.
.....Doc was of no mind to try anything of the sort.
.....A SWAT member swaggered from around the side of the house. In one hand he held up his trophy, a half-assed pot plant. The clump of dirt surrounding the roots outweighed the thin plant itself. One of the SWAT members turned around so that his backpack could be rifled, and finally a scale was withdrawn. The plant dropped on the scale and the LED bars fluttered about distractedly until they finally settled upon a number: 4.5 pounds.
.....Including the dirt and roots.
.....Clyde smiled. “Looks like we have a solid case of Felony Cultivation here...”
.....The two cops who stood by Doc’s shiny Lexus looked at each other, nodded, then Rochambeau'd for the spoils.
.....The loser tossed the other the keys.

.....At the Front Desk, Roy gave Wolfe back his possessions, belt and shoelaces.
.....“Can you call me a cab back to the motel?” Wolfe asked wearily.
.....“No cabs ‘round here.”
.....“Can someone here give me a ride?”
.....All Roy gave him was a stony look.
.....Wolfe started walking, his silhouette framed on the threshold briefly before the heavy oak door sighed closed behind him.
.....Julia didn’t meet his gaze as Crawford passed the dispatch desk. Her face was blank.
.....“What?”
.....She looked up at him finally, eyes wide beneath the blue eyeshadow. “Sheriff, I know it’s not my place...”
.....“Yeah? Spill it.”
.....“What we did today,” she explained. “With the Doc, and even that Wolfe guy... it was, well...”
.....“Well, what?”
.....“Fucked up.” she finally managed. “It was really fucked up.”
.....Crawford nodded. “You’re right.”
.....Her face softened. “I am?”
.....“Yeah,” the sheriff agreed. “It’s not your place.”
.....He turned and headed back down the stairs. He climbed into the Humvee and slammed the door shut behind him. He almost screamed aloud at the sudden pain that speared into his eyes.
.....The hangover was back with a vengeance.