The Commissioner stood in his doorway when they arrived-never a good sign. It meant he was looking forward to having them at his mercy. They filed into his office and sat down across from his desk. The air in the room felt hot and becalmed and Caxton wished she could undo the top button of her uniform shirt, loosen her tie, but she knew it wouldn't be allowed. There was a dress code to maintain. Arkeley just sat down in his awkward fashion, his fused vertebrae making it impossible for him to sit comfortably. He did his best at appearing as if this were just a routine meeting, perhaps a chance to prepare a new strategy. While Caxton stewed in uncomfortable silence the Commissioner busied himself at the front of the desk for a while, saying nothing, working with paper and tape.

When he was done five letter-sized color laser prints hung down from the edge of the desk. Portraits of state troopers, probably taken the day they graduated from the academy. They wore their hats with the chinstraps actually under their chins (by the next day, Caxton knew, they would learn to wear the strap across the backs of their heads) and looked out of the paper and over her shoulder as if toward some bright tomorrow.

"Would you like to know their names?" the Commissioner asked when they'd had time to look at the portraits. "There's Eric Strauss. And Shane Herkimer. And Philip Toynbee. And-"

"I resent your implication," Arkeley said. As evenly and dispassionately as he said anything. His left hand gripped the desk and he leaned forward to stare right into the Commissioner's eyes.

"I haven't even begun to imply," the Commissioner fired back. He leaned forward in his chair and grasped either branch of a pair of antlers that had been turned into a pen and pencil set. "These five men died two nights ago. They were Troop H and they responded to a call for backup. Their deaths are inexcusable-five men lost to bring down one bad guy? These were well-trained troopers. They would have known how to handle themselves in a hazardous situation. That is, if they knew what to expect. They were not given sufficient information and they died because no one told them they were facing off against a vampire."

Caxton was confused. She knew it wasn't her place to speak out-the two men expected her to remain silent throughout this interview-but she couldn't help it.

"We didn't know either, when we called for them," Caxton tried, but Arkeley held up one hand to quiet her. He looked at the other man as if he was ready to hear what came next.

The Commissioner made a low sound in his throat. "And let us not forget the two troopers and the local policeman who died watching the hunting camp. They died because they were sitting on a porch."

Caxton shook her head. She wouldn't speak, not after Arkeley warned her off, but she had to make some gesture of her incomprehension.

"I sent my two best trackers down to that camp," the Commissioner said, looking at her as if he wanted to see her reaction. "They were Bureau of Investigations hotshots, top marks at the academy, life-long hunters, mountain boys-these two have bow-hunted for bear and come out on top. They set up shop in a hand-made blind a hundred yards from the camp and they waited to see if anybody was coming back to the scene of the crime. At least, that was the plan until your man Arkeley here called them and told them they were perfectly safe and they could sit on the porch, out in the open, where anyone could see them. Now they're dead."

She glanced across at Arkeley. He only nodded. He must have made the phone call while she was sitting with Vesta Polder. But why? What had made him think the porch was a safe place for the troopers? He must have at least suspected that the half-deads were coming back.

"I have their pictures here, too," the Commissioner said, shuffling some papers on his desk. "Want to see?"

Arkeley stirred in his chair and cleared his throat before speaking. "I'm not entirely sure what you're getting at, but I do know what you're missing. The thing you don't understand, Colonel, is that we are not fighting gang-bangers, or terrorists, or drug dealers. We are fighting vampires."

The Commissioner sputtered, "I think I know-"

Arkeley cut him off. "In the dark ages a vampire could live for decades unopposed, feeding nightly on people whose only defense was to bar their windows and lock their doors and always, always, be home before sundown. When it became necessary to slay a vampire there was only one way it could be done. There were no guns and certainly no jackhammers at the time. The vampire slayers would gather up every able-bodied male in the community. The mob of them would go against the vampire with torches and spears and sticks if they had to. Very many of them would die in the first onslaught but eventually enough of them would pile on top to hold the vampire down." He paused and raised one finger in the air. "Let me be clear about this, they quite literally climbed on top of the vampire to keep him from running away, pressing their own bodies against his, exposing themselves to his toothy maw by necessity. Those who made it this far would usually die as the vampire struggled to get free. Often enough the vampire would get free and the process would start over. Eventually our forefathers would prevail, but only through sheer dint of numbers. The men-and the boys-in those mobs did not shirk from their duty. They understood their terrible, grievous losses were the only way to protect their villages and their families."

Fuming, the Commissioner stood up from his desk and came around to the front, so close to Caxton that she had to move her knees to let him pass. "I'll use that story when I speak at the combined funeral next week. The families will be comforted, I'm sure. It will help them understand why their children had to be cremated before they were even allowed to say goodbye. It will help them understand why you felt it necessary to throw their babies to the wolves."

Arkeley rose as if he would leave.

"We'll finish this right now, right here," the Commissioner told him. Arkeley was taller. It let him look down his nose when he said, "You have no authority over me whatsoever." He actually turned to go.

"Stop, Marshal," the Commissioner said.

Arkeley did as he was told, though he didn't turn to face the other man. The line of his back moved gently as he breathed. He didn't look like a man with fused vertebrae. He looked like somebody who ought to be holding a broadsword in one hand and a flag in the other. In the hot, close space of the office his body seemed enormous and powerful. He looked like a man who could fight vampires. Caxton wondered if she, herself, would ever come close to that kind of presence and confidence.

"I have authority over her," the Commissioner said. It made Arkeley turn back around. "I'm taking trooper Caxton off this case right now. You want to try to fight me? I'll suspend her for using unauthorized ammunition in her weapon. Ha. I think I got you right there."

Arkeley stood in total silence looking down at the other man. Caxton just did not understand what was happening. She was a nothing, a nobody, somebody barely fit to make phone calls for the Fed. The two men were acting though as if she were a bargaining chip. What did the Commissioner know, or at least, what did he suspect about Arkeley's motivations that was still such a mystery to her?

"You want her pretty bad, don't you? I saw it the last time you and I met, when you snatched her right up. I offered you ex-marines and special investigations boys but you wanted one little slip of a girl from highway patrol." The Commissioner's smile was a gouge in the middle of his bright red face. "She's special. She's special for some reason and you need her."

Arkeley waited for him to finish. Then he cleared his throat, glanced at Caxton (the look was inscrutable), and sat back down. "What are you asking me for, really?" he said, finally. "Please, just spit it out. I'm a busy man."

"I want to protect my troopers," the Commissioner said. His attitude changed immeasurably-he had won, and he knew it. He sat down on the corner of his desk. He and Arkeley might have been two old friends working out who was going to pay for lunch. "That's all. I want you to let me do my job. There will be certain safeguards for anyone involved in this investigation, alright? There are two more vampire kills to be completed, but we are not going to lose any more personnel. This will be done by the book, by our best practices. My best practices. I will not let you use my boys as live bait anymore."

Caxton's mouth fell open.

"The survivors told me all about you, Arkeley. I've already called your supervisors over in Washington. They were very interested in hearing about how you just let my boys die, one after the other, biding your time, hiding in the shadows. My troopers had no idea what they were up against and you didn't seem to care. In twenty-some years of law enforcement work I have never heard of such-"

"Done," Arkeley said.

"I-you-wait. What do you mean?" the Commissioner stumbled.

"I mean that I agree to your conditions. The rest of it, all this nonsense about using state troopers as bait, the threat of calling my superiors, is immaterial. I really don't care what you think happened the last two nights. I was there and you weren't. However, if you're going to hold trooper Caxton hostage then I am acceding to your demands."

Caxton's brain reeled in the heat of the office. "This is about me?" she asked. Apparently it was.