LaGrange, Wisconsin: The town of LaGrange is nothing much to speak of. A crossroads with a feed store and an auxiliary dry goods shop marks the T-intersection of an old state road with a county highway. The irregular commerce that occurs there takes place with small green ration coupons, worthless outside the boundaries of the Madison Triumvirate. Across from the feed store is the house and ringing stable of the blacksmith. The blacksmith and his wife are old work-hard, play-hard bons vivants, and the breezeway between their house and garage is the nearest thing to the local watering hole. One or both seem always ready to sit down with a cup of tea, glass of beer, or shot of backyard hooch. The blacksmith's wife also gives haircuts, and longtime residents can tell how many drinks she's had by the irregular results.

The real LaGrange is in the surrounding farms, primarily corn or bean, hay, and dairy. The smallholds spread out beneath the high western downs that dominate the county. Their produce is transported to Monroe, and the thrice-a-week train to Chicago.

Survival here depends on having a productive farm and not drawing unwanted attention. During the day, the patrols drive their cars and ride their horses, looking for unfamiliar faces. Vagrants and troublemakers disappear to the Order building in Monroe and are seldom seen again. At night the residents stay indoors, never able to tell if a Reaper or two is passing through the area.

The residents live as a zebra herd surrounded by lions. There is safety in numbers and the daily routine, and sometimes years pass before when anyone other than the old, the sick, or the troublemakers gets taken. Their homes are modest, furnished and decorated with whatever they can make or salvage. The Kurian Order provides little but the ration coupons in exchange for their labor, although a truly outstanding year in production or community service will lead to a bond being issued that protects the winner's family for a period of years. The Kurians provide only the barest of necessities in food, clothing, and material to maintain shelter. But humanity being what it is, adaptable to almost any conditions, the residents find a kind of fellowship in their mutual deprivations and dangers. Barn raisings, roofing parties, quilting bees, and clothing swaps provide social interaction, and if they are punctuated with "remembrances" for those lost to the Kurians, the homesteaders at least have the opportunity to support each other in their grief.

Valentine remembered little of his first few days with the Carlsons. Gonzalez's condition worsened, and as his Wolf sank into a fever brought on by the shock of his injury, Valentine found himself too busy nursing to notice much outside the tiny basement room.

For three long, dark days Valentine remained at Gonzalez's bedside, able to do little but fret. The wound had seemed to be healing well enough, though just before the fever set in, Gonzalez had complained that he either could not feel his hand at all or that it itched maddeningly. Then, on the second evening after their arrival, Gonzalez had complained of light-headedness, and later woke Valentine by thrashing and moaning.

Kurt, the little boy from Beloit, had been sent on his way westward, and the Wolves had the basement room to themselves. Mrs. Carlson blamed herself for not properly cleaning the wound. "Or I should have just amputated," she said reproachfully. "His blood's poisoned now for sure. He needs antibiotics, but they're just not to be had anymore."

Valentine could do little except sponge his friend off and wait. It seemed he had been in the darkness for years, but he could tell by the growth on his chin that the true count was only days. Then on the third night, Gonzalez sank into a deep sleep. His pulse became slow and steady, and his breathing eased. At first Valentine feared that his scout was slipping toward death, but by morning the Wolf was awake and coherent, if weak as a baby.

He summoned Mrs. Carlson, who took one look at her patient and pronounced him in the clear then hurried upstairs to heat some vegetable broth. Rubber limbed, Valentine returned to his own cot and lost consciousness to the deep sleep of nervous and physical exhaustion. That evening, with the rest of the house quiet and Gonzalez in a more healthy slumber, Valentine sat in the darkened living room talking to Mr. Carlson.

"We owe our lives to you, sir. Can't say it any plainer than that," Valentine said from the comfort of feather-stuffed cushions in an old wood-framed chair.

"Lieutenant," the shadow that was Mr. Carlson replied, "we're glad to help. If things are ever going to change, for the better anyway, it'll be you boys that do the changing. We're rabbits in a warren run by foxes. Of course we're going to help anyone with a foxtail or two hanging from their belt."

"Still, you're risking everything to hide us."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Lieutenant. A way to reduce the risk."

"Please call me David, sir."

"Okay, David. Then it'll be Alan to you, okay? What I wanted to say was with your buddy sick-"

"He's getting better."

"Glad to hear it. But I spoke to my wife, and she says he should stay for at least a couple of weeks. Between the wound and the fever, it'll be a month before you can do any hard riding, maybe. Your horses could use a little weight anyway."

Valentine gaped in the darkness. "A month? Mr. Carlson, we couldn't possibly stay-"

"David, I don't know you very well, but I like you. But please let a guy finish his train of thought once in a while."

Valentine heard the ancient springs in the sofa creak as Carlson shifted his weight forward.

"What I'm going to suggest might seem risky, David, but it'll make your stay here a lot safer if we can pull it off. It'll even get you papers to get out of here again. I mentioned to my brother-in-law that I might have some visitors in the near future, within the next week. I told him about a guy I met during summer labor camp up by Eau Claire. Summer labor is something we get to do now and then, keeping up the roads and clearing brush and such. While I was there I met some Menominee, and as a matter of fact you look a bit like them. Anyway, I told Mike that I met a hardworking, nice young man who was looking to move down here, marry, and get himself a spread. I hinted that I had in mind that this young guy would marry my Molly and told him that I invited him down to meet her. Of course, he's just made up to fit your description."

Valentine's mind leaped ahead, making plans. "And you think he'd get us some papers? Something official? It would make getting out of here again a lot easier if we had some identification."

"Well, it wouldn't cut no ice outside this end of Wisconsin. But it would get you to Illinois or Iowa at least. You'd have to lose the guns, or hide 'em well. You could keep to the roads until the hills begin; if questioned, you could say you're out scouting for a place with good water and lots of land, and that's only to be found around the borders. Also, I'd like to bring your horses down from the hill corral. I hate having them up there. Too much of a chance of their getting stolen. Or us getting the ax for withholding livestock from the Boss Man."

"If you think you can pull it off, I'm for it," Valentine decided.

"Give you a little chance for some light and air. Also you can get a taste of life here. Maybe someday a bunch of you Wolves will come up north and liberate us. Or just bring us the guns and bullets. We'll figure out how to use them."

Two days later, Valentine found himself standing outside the sprawling home of Maj. Mike Flanagan, Monroe Patrol Commissioner of the Madison Triumvirate. Valentine wore some oversize overalls and was barefoot. Carlson had driven him the twenty-three miles starting at daybreak in the family buggy.

"I don't know about the rest, but the major part fits him," Carlson explained at the sight of the little signboard on the driveway proclaiming the importance of the person residing within. "Major asshole, anyway."

Valentine did not have to feign being impressed with the major's home. It was opulent. Half French villa, half cattle-baron's ranch, it stretched across a well-tended lawn from a turret on the far right to an overwide garage on the left. Its slate-roofed, brick-covered expanse breathed self-importance. A few other similar homes looked out over Monroe from the north, from what had once been a housing development. Now the mature oaks and poplars shaded only grass-covered foundations like a cemetery of dead dreams.

"Listen to this," Carlson said, pressing a button by the door. Valentine heard bells chime within, awaking a raucous canine chorus.

The door opened, revealing two bristling black-and-tan dogs. Wide-bodied and big-mouthed, they stared at the visitors, nervously opening and shutting their mouths as if preparing to remove rottweiler-size chunks of flesh. The door opened wider to expose a mustachioed, uniformed man with polished boots and mirrored sunglasses. He wore a pistol in a low-slung, gunfighter-style holster tied to his leg with leather thongs displaying beadwork. Valentine wondered why the man needed sun protection in the interior of the house, as well as a gun.

"Hey, Virgil," Carlson said, nodding to the neatly uniformed man. "I've brought a friend to see the major."

Something between a smile and a sneer formed under the handlebar mustache. "I guess he's in for you, Carlson. Normally he doesn't do business on a Saturday, you know."

"Well, this is more of a social call. Just want to introduce him to someone who might be a nephew someday. David Saint Croix, meet Virgil Ames."

Valentine shook hands, smiling and nodding.

Ames made a show of snapping the strap securing his automatic to its holster. "He's in the office."

"I know the way. C'mon, David. Virgil, be a pal and water the horses, would you?"

Carlson and Valentine passed a dining room and crossed a high-ceilinged, sunken living room, stepping soundlessly on elaborate oriental rugs. Valentine hoped he could remember the details of the story Carlson had told his brother-in-law.

The major sat in his office, copying notes into a ledger from a sheet on a clipboard. The desk had an air of a tycoon about it; carved wooden lions held up the top and gazed serenely outward at the visitors. The dogs padded after the visitors and collapsed into a heap by the desk.

Mike Flanagan wore a black uniform decorated with silver buttons and buckles on the epaulets. He exhibited a taste for things western, like a string tie with a turquoise clasp and snakeskin cowboy boots. He looked up from his work at his guests, drawing a long cheroot from a silver case and pressing a polished metal cylinder set in a stand on his desk. An electric cord ran down the front of the desk and plugged into a wall socket, which also powered a mock-antique desk lamp. Bushy eyebrows formed a curved umbrella over freckled, bulldog features.

"Afternoon, Alan. You look well. How's Gwen?"

Carlson smiled. "Sends her best, along with a pair of blueberry pies. They're outside in the basket."

"Ahh, Gwen's pies. How I miss them. Siddown, Alan, you and your Indian friend."

The electric lighter on the desk popped up with an audible ping. Flanagan lit his cheroot and sent a smoke ring across his desk.

"How are things in Monroe, Mike?"

Flanagan waved at the neat little piles of paper on his desk. "The usual. Chicago's pissed because the Triumvirate is diverting so much food to that new fort up in the Blue Mounds. I'm trying to squeeze a little more out of everyone. I'm thinking about upping the reckoning on meat out of the farms. Think you can spare a few more head before winter, Alan?"

"Some of us can," Carlson asserted. "Some can't."

"Look at it this way: Your winter feed will go farther."

"Well, it's for you to say, Mike. But I don't know how it will go down. There's been some grumbling already."

"By whom?" Flanagan asked, piercing Carlson with his eyes.

"You know nobody tells me anything on account of us being close. Just rumor, Mike. But this visit isn't about the reckonings. I want you to meet a young friend of mine, David Saint Croix. I mentioned he'd be visiting and helping me with the harvest."

"Pleased to meet you, David." Flanagan did not look pleased. In fact, he looked perturbed. "Hell, Alan, first you take in Little Black Sambo, and now a mostways Indian?"

"He's a helluva hard worker, Mike. After I teach him a few things, he could run a fine farm."

"Let's see your work card, boy," Flanagan said.

Valentine's mind dropped out of gear for a second, but only a second. "Sorry, Major Flanagan. I traded it last winter. I was hungry, you know. It didn't have my real name on it anyway."

"Dumb thing to do, kid. You're lucky Alan here has connections," Flanagan said, putting down his thin cigar. He rummaged through his desk and came up with a simple form. "Fill this out for him, Alan. Just use your address. I'm giving him a temporary work card, six months. If he improves an old spread, I'll give him a permanent one."

"I need two, Mike. He brought a friend. There's a lot of guys in the north woods looking for something a little more permanent."

"Don't press me, Alan. Jeez, these guys are worse than Mexicans; another one is always popping up outta somewhere."

Carlson leaned forward, spreading his hands placatingly. "With two men helping me this fall, I can clear off an upper meadow I spotted. I was also thinking of building a pigpen across the road and raising some hogs, since meat is becoming such an issue. These men can help me, and I can be ready to go in the spring."

"Fine, Alan, two work permits. Your place is going to be a bit crowded."

"It's only temporary. Thanks a lot, Mike. Gwen and I really appreciate it. So does Molly, of course. Stop by anytime."

"Yeah," Flanagan mused, "you're a fortunate man, David. She's a real beauty. Some of my patrollers say she's kinda standoffish, so I wish you luck." The major pulled out a seal punch, filled out the expiration dates, signed both cards, and punched them with a resounding click. "You're lucky I take this with me. I don't trust my secretary with it; she'd probably sell documents. She can forge my signature pretty good."

"I'm in your debt, Michael," Carlson said, handing over the work cards.

"You've been in my debt since I let that little Fart or whatever his name is stay with you."

"Frat."

"Whatever. That big place and nothing to work it but women; I pity you. I'd offer you lunch, but I'm too busy to make it, and Virgil's hopeless. My girl is out at her parents' place this weekend."

"Thanks anyway, Michael, but it's going to be a long way back. The horses are tired, so they'll have to walk most of the way."

"Thank you, Major Flanagan," Valentine said, offering his hand. Flanagan ignored it.

"Thank my brother-in-law and his wife, not me. Guess they want a bunch of little half-breeds as grandchildren. Up to me, I'd take you to the Order building and let you wait for the next thirsty blacktooth, seeing as you don't have a work card and you're in Triumvirate lands."

Carlson made a flick of a motion with his chin. Valentine moved past the sleeping dogs and out the door, followed by his benefactor. Flanagan tossed away his cheroot and returned to the papers strewn across his desk.

Outside, the horses were very thirsty. Ames was poking in the picnic basket.

"Virgil, please take that in, will you? We'll water the horses ourselves. The pies are for Michael, and Gwen put in a jar of preserves for you. She remembers your sweet tooth."

The smile-sneer appeared again. "That was kind of her. You know where the trough is. I'll bring the basket back out to you."

As Carlson and Valentine brought the horses over to the trough, Alan spoke softly to Valentine. "See what I mean by Major Asshole?"

Valentine clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Seems like he's trying hard for a promotion to colonel."

That evening, after the long ride back, the Carlsons celebrated the "legitimate" arrival of their guests. Even the Breit-lings attended, filling the dinner table past its capacity. As they made small talk, Valentine drew on his memories as a forester in the Boundary Waters to flesh out his David Saint Croix persona.

Valentine ate at Mrs. Carlson's end of the table, across from Molly, grateful for the room the corner chair gave his left elbow. Frat sat on his right, eating with the single-minded voracity of a teenager. The Breitlings were next to Mr. Carlson at the other end of the table, with the younger Carlson girl, Mary. Gonzalez stayed in his bunk in the basement, still too weak to socialize. Mrs. Carlson explained his absence to the Breitlings as being due to illness and a fall from his horse during the journey south.

During the dinner, Carlson told stories about his summer labor, mixed with fictitious ones about how he came to know "young Saint Croix here." Valentine played along as far as he dared but worried that the younger girl might say something about the Wolves or their horses that would blow the story. Mary kept her eleven-year-old mouth shut; her only comment during dinner was a request to ride Valentine's Morgan someday.

"Of course, once he's rested. Any time I'm not using him, that is. Of course I'm going to do some riding, looking for some nice land to get a farm going."

"Maybe Molly can show you around the county," Mr. Carlson suggested.

Molly focused her eyes on the plate in front of her. "Sure, Dad. Since you went to all this trouble to find me a husband, it's the least I can do. Glad you've given me so much say in the matter. Should I get pregnant now, or after the wedding?"

"Molly," Mrs. Carlson warned.

The Breitlings exchanged looks. Valentine figured that discord was rare in the Carlson house.

Molly stood and took up her plate. "I'm finished. May I be excused?" She went to the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

Valentine could not tell how much of the byplay was real, and how much was acting.

Two days later, he and Molly Carlson rode out on a fine, cool morning with a hint of fall in the air. Valentine's indomitable Morgan walked next to Molly's quarterhorse. She wore curious hybrid riding pants, leather on the inside and heavy denim elsewhere, tucked into tall rubber boots, and a sleeveless red flannel shirt. They chatted about their horses as they headed west toward the high, bare hills.

"Lucy here is great with the cows," Molly said, patting the horse on the neck affectionately. "They'll follow her anywhere. It's like she can talk to them."

"I've always wondered if animals talk to each other," Valentine ventured.

"I think they can, sort of. In a real simple way. Like if you and I had to communicate by just pointing at stuff. We couldn't write the Declaration of Independence, but we'd be able to find food and water and stuff. Warn each other about enemies. Hold it, Lucy's got to pee."

Molly stood up in her stirrups while the mare's stream of urine arced into the grass behind her.

"You know horses," Valentine observed. "Those are fine riding pants. Do you ride much?"

"No, too much to do at the farm. My sister's the horse nut. But I did make these breeches. I like working with leather especially. I used to have some nice riding boots, but some creep in the patrols took 'em off me. These rubber ones are hotter than hell, but they're good for working around the cows. I sewed a leather vest for Dad, and when Mom does her calving, she's got a big leather apron that I made."

They trotted for a while. Watching the up-and-down motion of Molly posting left him desperate to switch the conversation back on.

"I get the feeling you don't like us staying," he finally said when they slowed to cut through a copse of mixed oaks and pines. The sun had warmed the morning, but Valentine was flushed from more than the heat of the day.

"Oh, maybe at first. Still don't know what you're doing here-"

"Just passing through. I tried to find out what was going on up at Blue Mounds," Valentine explained.

"You probably wouldn't tell us the truth anyway. I don't know much about the insurgents, but I know you wouldn't tell what you were doing so they couldn't get it out of us, just in case. Or is it because I'm just a girl?"

"It's not that. We have plenty of women in the Wolves. And I hear over half of the Cats are women, too."

"We've heard about you. Werewolves, always coming in the dark, just like the Reapers. Don't you guys go into Kansas and Oklahoma and kill all the people there, so the Kurians have nothing to feed on?"

"No," Valentine said, somewhat taken aback. "Nothing... quite the opposite. Just this spring my company brought over a hundred people out of the Lost Lands. That's what we call places like this."

"Lost Lands," she said, rolling her eyes skyward. "I'll buy that. We're lost, all right. How would you like to spend your life knowing it's going to end with you being eaten? I've developed a lot of sympathy for our cows."

"Your uncle seems to be watching out for you all," Valentine said, trying to reassure her.

"My uncle. I should tell you about him. No, my uncle doesn't mean shit. A hungry vampire could still take us any night of the week, good record or no. Uncle Mike has done everything in his life exactly as the Kurians want, and he still doesn't have one of those brass rings. And even if you get it, any Kurian can still take it away if you screw up. And if I'm all testy over the husband thing, it's just because it makes me think about something I'd rather not think about. Let's go up this hill. The view's pretty nice from up top."

They walked their horses toward the grassy slope. They crossed a field with a herd of the ubiquitous Wisconsin Hoi-steins in it, and Molly waved to a man and a boy mending a fence.

"That's the Woolrich place. The poor woman who lives there is on her third husband. The first two got taken, one while doing the morning milking, and the second when a patrol came through just grabbing whoever they could get their hands on because a bunch of Reapers dropped in for a visit."

They rode to the top of the hill and dismounted, loosening the girths on their wet animals. The horses began to nose in the tall, dry grass at the top of the rolling series of hills. Farmland stretched below in all directions, crisscrossed with empty roads. A hundred yards away, an old highway running along the top of the hills had degenerated into a track cleared through the insistent plant life.

"Is that why you don't want to marry?" Valentine asked. "You're scared of becoming a widow?"

"Scared? I'm scared of a lot of things, but not that in particular. If you want to talk about what really scares me... But no, to answer your question, I don't want the life my mother has. She's brought two children into the world, and is taking care of another, and for what? We're all going to end up feeding one of those creatures. I don't want any children, or a man. It just means more fear. It's easy to talk about living your life, trying to get along with the system, but you try lying in bed at night when every little noise might mean something in boots and a cape is coming in your house to stick its tongue into your heart. The way I see it, the only way for us in the Madison Triumvirate to beat these vampires is to cut off their food supply. Quit pretending life is normal."

"I see."

"My grandmother on my mother's side, Gramma Katie Flanagan, she was a teacher or something in Madison before everything changed. When I was about eleven, we had a long talk. She was getting old, and I think she felt her time was coming. As soon as the old people slow down, the patrols show up, sometimes with some bullshit story about a retirement home. She told me about in ancient times there were these Jewish slaves of the Romans who rose up and fought them from a fortress on top of a mountain. The Romans finally built a road or something so their army could get up to the fortress, and all the Jews killed themselves rather than be slaves again. Gramma said if everyone were to do that, it would cut off their power, or whatever they get from us."

Valentine nodded. "I heard that story, too. It was a place called Masada. By the Dead Sea, I think. I always used to tell Father Max-he was my teacher-that I wouldn't have killed myself if I were up there. I would have taken a Roman or two with me."

"If it had just been another battle, would anyone have remembered it?" Molly asked.

"That's a good question. Maybe not. I think Gandhi, you know who he is, right? I think he suggested that the Jews should have done something like that when the Nazis were exterminating them. To me, that's just doing the enemy's job for them. Maybe some of you should try to sell your lives a little more expensively."

"That's easy for you to say. You have guns, friends, other soldiers to rely on. About all we have is a broken-down old phone system and a set of code words. "John really needs a haircut' for 'We have a family at our place that is trying to go north." Not much help when the vampires come knocking."

Strange how her thoughts mirror mine. I was thinking the same thing the night I got here, Valentine mused.

"Maybe we can't all commit suicide," she continued. "But for God's sake, we should quit helping them. We feed the patrols, work the railroads, keep the roads repaired. Then when we get old and sick, they gather us up like our cattle. They got it pretty good just because it's human nature to ask for another fifteen minutes when you're told you have an hour to live."

"Brave words," Valentine said.

"Brave? Me?" She sat down in the grass and plucked at the burrs clinging to her jeans. "I'm so scared at night I can barely breathe. I dread going to sleep. It's the dream."

"You have nightmares?"

"No, not nightmares. A nightmare. It's only one, but it's a doozy. Wait, I should tell this properly. We have to go back to Gramma Flanagan again. She told me a story about when the Triumvirate had first got things organized in Madison. I think it was in 2024, in the middle of summer. They had a group of men-well, some of them were Reapers, too-called the Committee for Public Safety. About two hundred people were working for this committee, in charge of everything from where you slept to where you went to the bathroom. The three vampires on the committee were kind of the eyes and ears of these Kurians who were dug into the State Capitol building. I don't know how much you know about the Kurian Lords, but they sure love to live in big empty monument-type buildings. I bet a bunch of them are in Washington. But back to the story my Gramma Katie told me. There was this woman, Sheila Something-or-other, who got caught with a big supply of guns: rifles, pistols, bullets, equipment for reloading, all kinds of stuff. I think even explosives. One of the vampires said her punishment was up to the people who worked for the Committee, and if it wasn't to their liking, they'd kill every last one of them and get a new bunch.

"So with that incentive, the whole committee goes over to where she's being held. And they tore her to bits. With their bare hands. They took the pieces and stuck them onto sticks. Gramma said the sticks looked like pool cues, or those little flagpoles from school classrooms, stuff like that. They put her head on one, her heart on another, her liver, her breasts, even her... you know... sex parts. They made streamers out of her intestines, and painted their faces with her blood. Then they paraded back to the basketball court at the university where the Committee met and showed what they did to her to the vampires. Some of them were drunk, I guess. The Reapers looked at it all and told them to eat the bits, or they'd be killed. Gramma said there were fistfights over her liver."

She sat silent for a moment. "Maybe I was too young to be told that story. It gave me a nightmare that night, and pretty often ever since. I'm always dreaming that I've done something wrong, and the crowd is coming for me. They're all around, and they grab me and start pulling me apart. That's when I wake up, cold and sweaty. Mary says I sometimes say 'no, no' in my sleep. She calls it the 'no-no' dream. It seems silly in the daylight, but try waking up from it at two in the morning on a windy night."

"I have a dream, or nightmare, I guess, that keeps coming back," Valentine began. "Never told anyone about it, not even Father Max. My mom and dad and little brother and sister got killed by a patrol when I was just a kid. I come into the house-I remember it smelled like tomatoes in the kitchen that day, but that's not in the dream-and there's my mother, lying in the living room, dead. Her legs were... Well, I guess they had raped her, or started to anyway. They shot my dad in the head. But in my dream, it's like they're still alive, and I can save them if I just could fix the bullet wounds. I press my hands against the blood that's coming out of my mom's throat, but it just keeps pulsing and pulsing out, while my little brother is crying and screaming. But I can't save them. Can't..." he said, voice trailing off. He looked up at the clouds to try to get the tears to go away. High white cirrus clouds painted the blue sky with icy white brushstrokes.

"I guess everyone has their own set of nightmares," Molly said.

"Well, we're getting plenty of help. Whatever happened to your grandmother?"

Molly Carlson wiped tears from her own eyes with the back of her hand. "Oh, she injured her back and got taken away. The vampires got her in the end, I'm sure. She got driven away by my uncle Mike. Her son. Her own fucking son."

The following Saturday, Molly taught Valentine how to drive the four-wheeled topless buggy. The thicker reins felt funny in his left hand, the buggy whip held up in his right. Valentine was used to riding English-style with split reins, although he mostly used his legs to control the horse while riding. Driving was a completely different skill.

"You're doing great, David, really great," Molly said, beaming for a change. They were driving well ahead of the family cart, which held the rest of the Carlson clan as well as the Breitlings. "Of course, normally we drive the buggy tandem, which is tougher to manage, but they need the two horses for the big cart. And remember, if you ever have a load to carry in back, to place it evenly in the bed and secure it if you can. An unbalanced load will exhaust a horse faster than anything."

The combined families of the Carlson farm were on their way to Monroe. Mr. Carlson explained that there was a speaker in town, a visitor up from Chicago to give a lecture for the New Universal Church. A Kurian organization, the New Universal Church did not demand weekly assemblies but rather encouraged people in the Kurian Order to come to the occasional meeting to catch up on new laws and policies. But now and then a true "revival" took place, and attending them was a way of keeping in the Order's good graces.

The clouds piled up and darkened, threatening rain. Carlson opined that some would use it as an excuse not to attend, but this made him all the more determined to go. Showing up in spite of precipitation would just make their presence all the more notable, considering the long round trip to and from Monroe. "If we're going to play their game, we should really play it," he added, stowing tarps in the two horse-drawn vehicles and reminding everyone to bring rain slickers and hats.

Only Gonzalez-much improved but still not up to a long trip in the wet-and Frat stayed behind. The young man wanted to keep an eye on the stock and said he felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb in a sea of white faces.

So it turned out that Molly and Valentine ended up together in the buggy, bearing four baskets full of lunch, dinner, and gifts of food for Mrs. Carlson's brother, with the rest following in the larger wagon. Valentine's Morgan trotted along behind the buggy, brought along as the equine equivalent of a spare tire.

At lunch, a few miles outside of Monroe, the first sprinkles of rain came. When they climbed back into the buggy, Valentine draped the tarp over himself and Molly and drove on, the heavy raindrops playing a tattoo on the musty-smelling oiled canvas. They used the buggy whip as an improvised tent pole and peered out from a cavelike opening, their faces wet with rain. Valentine felt the warmth of her body against his right side, her left arm in his right, helping him hold up the tarp. The rich, seductive smell of femininity filled his nostrils without his even using his hard senses. She also had a faint, flowery smell of lavender.

"You smell good today," Valentine said, then felt himself go red. "Not that you smell bad normally... I just mean the flowery stuff. What is that, toilet water?"

"No, just a soap. Mrs. Partridge, the blacksmith's wife, she's a wonder at making it. Puts herbs and stuff in some of them. I think she started doing it in self-defense; her husband picks up animals that have died of disease or whatever, turns them into pig and chicken feed. Dog meat, too. I guess he smelled so bad after working with the offal, she went into scented soaps as a last resort."

"It's nice. Hope I'm not too bad. This tarp kind of reeks."

"No. For a guy who traipses around in the hills, you're really clean. Some of the county men could take a lesson." Valentine felt a stab, remembering Cho's near-identical joke. "A lot of them are going to use this rainstorm as an excuse to skip their Saturday bath." She turned her face and pressed her nose to his chest. "You just smell kind of tanned and musky. Like the saddle from a lathered horse. I like it."

Valentine suddenly felt awkward. "So who exactly is this we're going to hear?"

"My dad says he's a speaker from Illinois, someone affiliated with their church. Kind of a bigwig. This church the Kurians run, it's not like you worship anything. The Triumvirate doesn't discourage the old churches, but they do listen to what gets said. As long as the ministers stick to the joys of the afterlife, and God's love in troubled times, they're fine. Anyone who speaks out against the Order is gone real fast. Most of them get the hint. No, this New Universal Church is more designed to get you to like the Kurian Order. They are always trying to recruit people into the patrols, or to come away and work their machinery, railroads, factories, and stuff. The real slick ones try to convince you that the Kurians came as the answer to man's problems. Some answer."

"So we just sit and listen, then go home?"

"That's about it. They try to recruit people right then and there. Take them up on stage, and everyone is supposed to applaud. Just clap when everyone else claps, and don't fall asleep. You'll be fine. I've got a feeling today's topic is going to be the importance of motherhood. They want more babies in Wisconsin."

The tent they eventually reached dwarfed the old public tent in the Boundary Waters. From a distance it resembled a sagging pastry. But as they grew closer, the mountain of canvas turned into an earthbound white cloud, complete with festive little flags atop the support poles that jutted through the material to either side of the center arch.

Horses, wagons, and vehicles of all description including cars and trucks were parked in the fields of the fairgrounds. Most of the people were already sheltering from the intermittent rain beneath the tent. The Carlson wagon pulled up, and the families all got out and released the horses from their harnesses. Tied to numerous posts in the field, the horses munched grain from their nosebags and stamped their unhappiness at being left in the weather. Carlson nodded to the uniformed patroller navigating the field, wearing a poncho that also covered much of his horse against the rain.

"Major Flanagan is inside. He's got some seats lined up for you, Carlson," the patroller called.

"Thanks, Lewis. Are you gonna get a chance to come in out of the rain?"

"Naw, we had our meeting this morning. All about how duty isn't the most important thing, it's the only thing. Your brother-in-law gave a pretty good speech. Be sure to tell him I said that."

"Deal. If you get real desperate out here, we got a thermos with some tea that might still be hot in the buggy. Help yourself."

"Thanks, Alan. Enjoy."

True to the patroller's word, Major Flanagan had some seats set off right up in front. There was a main stage, with a little elevated walkway going out into the crowd connecting it to a much smaller stage. The Carlsons, with the addition of Valentine and the subtraction of the three Breitlings, sat in a row of folding chairs lined up parallel to the walkway. A few hundred chairs formed a large U around the peninsular stage, and the rest of the spectators stood.

As part of the day's festivities, a comic hypnotist warmed up the crowd. His show was already in progress when Valentine sat at one end of the row. Molly sat to his right, then her sister, with Mr. Carlson next to her. Mrs. Carlson took the seat in between him and her brother, and they chatted as the hypnotist performed. He had a pair of newlyweds on stage; the young groom was hypnotized, and the wife was asking him to bark like a dog, peck like a chicken, and moo like a cow. The audience laughed out their appreciation for the act.

"I saw this guy in Rockford," Major Flanagan explained to his guests. "I recommended him to the Madison Bishop, and he got him up here for this meeting. Funny, eh?"

The young woman finished by having her husband lie down with his head and shoulders in one chair and his feet in another, four feet away from the first. The hypnotist then had her sit right on his stomach, which did not sag an inch. "Comfortable, yes?" the hypnotist asked.

"Very," she agreed, blushing.

The audience cheered for an encore, so she had her husband flap his arms and be a bird. As he flapped and hopped around the stage, the hypnotist finished off with a final joke, "Most women, it takes ten years till they can get their hus-bands to do this. How about that, ladies, after only two weeks of marriage?"

The audience laughed and applauded. "Let's hear it for Arthur and Tammy Sonderberg, all the way from Evansville, ladies and gentlemen."

After the befuddled Mr. Sonderberg came out of hypnosis, and his wife told him what he had been doing on stage, the hypnotist gave a good imitation of him to further laughter before they left the stage and returned to their seats.

A heavyset man in a brown suit that was simple to the point of shapelessness came onstage. He applauded the hypnotist as the latter backed off, bowing. Valentine marveled at the man's hair, brushed out at the temples and hairline until it looked like a lion's mane.

"Thank you, thank you to the Amazing Dr. Tick-Toe," he said in a high, airy voice.

"That's the bishop of the New Universal Church, David. From Madison," Mr. Carlson explained quietly across his two daughters.

The bishop stepped to the podium on the small stage at the end of the runway and picked up the microphone. "Thank you all for coming out in the rain, everyone," he said, looking at the speakers mounted high on the tent poles which broadcast his voice. "The Harvest Meeting is always a serious occasion. We have a lot more fun at Winterfest, and the Spring Outing. But I know everyone has all the coming work on their minds. Well, today we have an expert on hard work on loan to us from the flatlands in the south. Won't you please welcome Rural Production Senior Supervisor Jim 'Midas' Touchet, visiting us all the way from Bloomington."

A middle-aged, hollow-cheeked man strode out on stage, dressed in a red jumpsuit. He had thinning hair combed neatly back and held in place with an oily liquid, giving it a reddish tint. White canvas sneakers covered his feet. He took the microphone out of the bishop's hand with a flourish and a bow to the audience. He exuded the energy of a man younger than his years.

"Can you all see me?" he asked, turning a full 360 degrees. "I know it's hard to miss me with this on. You see, we're all color-coded in downstate Illinois. Red is for agricultural workers, yellow for labor, blue for administration and security, and so on. In Chicagoland, you can wear whatever you want. I mean, anything goes up there. Any of you guys been to the Zoo? You know what I mean, then."

A few hoots came from the audience, mostly from the patrollers, Valentine noticed.

"Oops," Touchet continued. "I forgot we have children present."

Valentine shot a questioning glance to Molly, who shrugged. He suddenly noticed how charming she looked with her wet blond hair combed back from her face. It accentuated her features and the tight, glowing skin of a vital young woman.

"Never mind about that. I bet you're out there wondering, "Who is this guy? What does he have to show me, other than what not to wear, ever?" Anyone thinking that? C'mon, let's see your hands."

A few hands went up.

"I bet you're thinking, "How long is he going to speak?" Let's see 'em!"

A lot of hands went up. Major Flanagan, smiling, raised his, and the Carlsons followed suit.

"Finally, some honesty. Okay, since you've been honest with me, I'll be honest with you. I'm nobody, and to prove to you what a big nobody I am, I'll tell you about myself.

"I'm from Nowhere, Illinois. Actually, more like South Nowhere. Just off the road from Podunk, and right next to Jerkwater. Typical small town, nothing much happened. I grew up quick and brawny. You wouldn't know it to look at me now, but I used to have a nice set of shoulders. So I ended up in the patrols. And the patrols in downstate Illinois, let me tell you, they're really something. I didn't have a car. I didn't even have a horse. I had a bicycle. It didn't even have rubber tires; I rode around on the rims. The highlight of most days was falling off my bike. It's a little better now down there, but back in the thirties, we were lean when it came to equipment. In the winter, I walked my route. We didn't get paid back then, just got rations, so there was no way I could even get a horse at my rank.

"I spent ten long, empty years riding that bike. Farm to farm, checking on things. I carried mail. I delivered pies and pot roasts to the neighbors. "Since you're going that way, anyway," they always used to say when they asked me. I was bored. I started reading a lot. I was curious about the Old World, the good old days, people called them. Do they call them that up here, too?"

A couple of "yeps," quietly voiced, came from the audience.

"It was lonely in the patrols, and when you're lonely, you need friends. So when I found a little hidden pigpen or chicken coop on someone's farm, and they said, "Be a friend, forget you saw this, and we'll let you have a couple extra eggs when you come by," I went along. Hey, everybody wants to be a friend. So I went along, got a friend and a few eggs in the bargain. On another farm, I had another friend and a ham now and then. On another farm, some fried chicken; down the road, a bottle of milk, a bagful of corn. I had tons of friends, and I was eating real good to boot. I had it made."

The red figure paced back and forth, microphone in one hand and cord in the other, first facing one part of the audience and then another.

"Eventually, I got caught. Like I told you, I'm nobody special. And I wasn't especially bright. One day my lieutenant noticed me wobbling down the road with a ham tied to my handlebars and a box of eggs in the basket in back. I think I had a turkey drumstick in my holster, I don't remember.

"Boy, it all came crashing down in a hurry. I think I died the death of a thousand cuts as my lieutenant walked up to me. I made the mistake of asking him to be a friend, and I'd give him everything I was collecting from the farms. He didn't have any of that.

"So within six hours of my lieutenant spotting me, I was sitting in the Bloomington train station, waiting for my last ride to Chicago. I was bound for the Loop. I was very, very alone. All those friends on all those farms, they didn't come get me, or turn themselves in and take their share of the blame. They weren't my friends after all.

"Well, it's a good thing for me I got caught in the spring of forty-six. I'm sure you remember the bad flu that went around that winter. It killed thousands in Illinois, and thousands more got so weakened by it, they caught pneumonia and died just the same. So we had a serious labor shortage in Illinois. I got put to work shoveling shit. I'm sure many of you know what that's like. But that's all I did, every single day. I-worked at the Bloomington railroad livestock yards, taking care of the hogs and cows bound for Chicago's slaughterhouses. Of course, I was just on parole. Any time they felt like it, they could throw me on the next train to Chicago, and no more Jim Touchet.

"The first day shoveling, I was happy as a dog locked up overnight in a butcher shop. The second day, I was glad to be at work. The third day, I was happy to at least have a job. The fourth day, I began to look for ways to cut corners. By the fifth day, I was trying to find a nice spot to maybe take a nap where my boss couldn't find me.

"Of course, my boss noticed me slacking. He was a wise old man. His name was Vern Lundquist. Vern had worked at the railroad station in the olden days, and he still worked there. He didn't threaten me, not really. He just called me into his office and said that if I wanted to stay in his good graces, I'd better come in tomorrow and give an extra five percent effort.

"Even though he didn't threaten me, I got scared. That night I couldn't sleep. I was worried that I'd show up at work the next day, and the boys in blue would throw me on the first train to Chicago. I could be in the Loop in less than twenty-four hours."

He stood still, next to the lectem, wiping his sweating brow. His eyes passed over the Carlson family, and he smiled at Valentine. His face took on a scaly, cobralike cast when he smiled.

"That twenty-four hours changed my life. All that night, I thought about giving another five percent. How hard could that be? Vern wasn't asking me to work seven days a week, which is what most of you out there do on your farms.

"The next day, I gave the extra five percent. It was easy. I just did a little extra here and there. Did a job without being asked, fixed a loose gate. If old Vern noticed, he didn't say anything. I got worried; what if he wasn't noticing the extra five percent?

"So the next day, I did just a little bit more. Spent an extra fifteen minutes doing something I didn't have to do. Cleaned some old windows that hadn't been washed since Ronald Reagan was president. I found it was easy to give that extra five percent.

"It turned into a game. The next day, I gave another five percent. I was compounding my interest, to use an old phrase. In tiny little baby steps I was turning into a real dynamo. Jim Touchet, the guy who leaned his bike against a tree for a two-hour lunch, who always rode home on his route faster than he ever rode it while patrolling, was trying extra hard even when no one was looking.

"Vern was real happy with me. After a month, I took the job of his assistant. Within a year, I was old Vern's supervisor. I always gave that extra five percent no one else was giving. I always did more than my boss, and usually within two years I had his job.

"I said the same words to people under me. I asked for an extra five percent. That's all. An extra five percent, when you have a whole bunch of people doing it, can turn things around.

"Before I knew it, they were calling me 'Midas' Touchet. Everything I turned my hand to seemed to turn to gold. Me, the guy who never learned his multiplication tables as a kid, who couldn't stay upright on his bike, went from shit-shoveler to production senior supervisor. I'm responsible for farms from Rockford to Mount Vernon, Illinois. I answer to the Illinois Eleven. You think you have tough quotas? What are they called up here, reckonings? I've seen the figures; the Illinois Eleven are a lot more demanding than your Triumvirate up in Madison. And last year, we were over production. I know what you're thinking; we broke quota by five percent, right? Wrong. We doubled the quota. That's right, doubled. The New Universal Church is handing out brass rings to my best people like lemon drops. See mine?" Touchet asked, holding up his hand. The coppery-gold ring glinted on his thick pinkie. He passed it through his oiled hair, removed it, and flicked it into the crowd before the platform. A woman caught it, screamed, and almost fainted into her husband's arms.

"Oh my God, oh my God," she blubbered, shoving it onto her thumb as the audience gaped.

"It's no big deal, that ring. I'll get another one this fall. Not that I need it. If I could have your attention back, I'll let you in on a secret. I've already given you one secret, the secret of the extra five percent. I'm a generous man. I'll give you a twofer.

"The secret is that you don't need a brass ring. That's the beauty of the New Universal Order," he said, lowering his voice.

Valentine looked around, trying to shake the feeling of being almost as hypnotized as the young Mr. Sonderberg.

"All the Order demands is production. Efficiency. Good old hard work. The things that made this country great before the social scientists and lawyers took over. I see some old-timers out in the audience. How was it when the lawyers ran the show? Did they make things more efficient, or less?"

"Are you kidding? Anytime lawyers got involved, things got cocked-up," one old man shouted.

Touchet nodded happily. "In the old Order, how far you went depended on going to the right school. Getting the right job. Having the right degree. Living on the right side of the tracks. Being the right color. Ten percent of the people owned ninety percent of the wealth. Anyone want to disagree?"

No one did.

"And not just the society was sick. The planet was sick too. Pollution, toxic waste, nuclear contamination. We were like fruit flies in a sealed jar with an apple core. Ever done that little experiment? Put a couple flies in with some food, knock some tiny holes in the lid, and watch what happens. They eat and breed, eat and breed. Pretty soon you'll have ajar filled with dead fruit flies. Mankind removed every form of natural selection. The weak, stupid, and useless were breeding just as fast as the successful. That isn't in nature's plan. And there's only one penalty for a species that breaks the laws of Mother Nature.

"Now you can drink out of any river, and you fishermen know the streams are full of fish again. The air is clean. It sounds crazy to say, but I'm one of the people who believes the Kurians were a godsend. The scale is back in balance. We're a better people for it. The Kurians have winnowed out the useless mouths. They don't play favorites; they don't make exceptions. They keep the strong and productive and take the slackers."

A few, perhaps surprisingly few, murmured disagreement.

"I'm not asking you to agree with me. Just hear me out and go home and think about it. And do one more thing. Think about how you can give that extra five percent. I know you all work hard. But I bet each of you can do what I did: figure out some way to do another five percent. You'll feel better about yourself, and your life will be more secure. Like me, you'll find you've got a brass ring in your pocket and not even need it because you're going the extra mile. How many of you slaughter your best milker for steaks? None, right? The Kurians are the same way. They're here, they're staying, and we've got to make the best of it.

"You've heard my story. You know I wasn't born special. No great brain, not much drive. Not even good-looking. But I've got a beautiful house-I've got pictures if any of you want to see it afterwards-a real gasoline car, and a nice house picked out down south for when I retire. So I guess that brass ring is worth something after all. Napoleon used to say that every private of his carried a marshal's baton in his knapsack. Each of you should carry a brass ring in your pocket.

You can do it. Any of you out there spend ten hours a day shoveling shit? No? Then you've all got the jump on me. You're already way ahead of where I was when I decided to give that extra five percent. Whether you're sixteen or sixty, you can do what I did, believe me. Give the extra five, and it'll happen to you, too.

"Now, before I leave for the flatlands, as you call my home, I gotta do the usual recruitment drive. We're looking for young men and women, seventeen to thirty, who want to take some responsibility for public order and safety. I won't give the usual gung-ho speech or list all the perks: You know them better than I do. I will guarantee that you won't be mounted on a bicycle with no rubber on the tires. And don't forget, even if you go to boot camp and flunk out, you still get your one-year bond, no matter what. So who's going to be the first to come up on stage and get the bond? Okay, moms and dads, aunts and uncles, now's your chance to tell those kids to come up and get the bond."

Valentine listened to the forced applause as a few youths took to the main stage, then joined in. It seemed safest to do what everyone else was doing. He wondered how many in the audience believed the story, and how many were just going along to get along.

Touchet shook hands with the bishop who'd introduced him. The bishop patted his back and said something in his ear. Touchet returned to the microphone.

"Before you leave, I have a couple of announcements. The Triumvirate has changed your quotas, or reckoning, I mean. They'll be discussed individually with you by your local commissary officials."

The audience knew better than to groan at the news, but they did quiet down and stop filing out of the aisles.

"On the good news side, there's an exciting announcement from the New Universal Church and the Madison Triumvirate. Any couple that produces ten or more children in their lifetime automatically wins the brass ring."

Valentine and Molly Carlson exchanged a significant look, and she tweaked up the corner of her mouth at him.

"The New Order recognizes the importance of motherhood and family life," the snake oil salesman continued, "and wants to get the northern part of the state repopulated. Any children already born to the family count, so you big families with five or six children are already well on your way to the brass ring."

Some more applause broke out, probably from the bigger families.

"And finally, we've had some problems with insurgents and spies recently. The standard reward of a two-year bond has been upped to a ten-year bond in exchange for information leading to the capture of any undocumented trespassers in the Triumvirate's lands. Thank you for your cooperation."

"Thank you for your cooperation," Molly whispered. "Now go home and start making babies. God knows what you're going to feed them, since they are upping the reckoning."

"Now, Molly," Mr. Carlson said quietly. The tent was emptying fast, save for a few people with questions for either the bishop or Touchet. Valentine escorted Molly to the exit, following her parents, and paused to look back at the podium. Touchet was looking at him and speaking to the bishop. The Wolf smelled trouble at that look. He hurried out of the tent, racking his brain as he tried to remember if he'd ever seen the lllinoisan's face before.

What was there about him that would draw the golden touch?

* * *

Back at the wagon and buggy, the Carlsons ate a quick dinner out of their baskets. Flanagan joined them, helping himself to a choice meat pie.

"He left a few things out, you know, Gwen," Flanagan said, treating them all to a view of half-chewed food. "In his lecture to the patrols, he elaborated a bit about how he got out of the jam after he was caught helping those folks hide animals from the commissary. While he was sitting in the depot, they offered him his life back if he would turn in each and every farmer who withheld so much as an egg or a stick of butter from the commissary. Turned out he had a real good memory," Flanagan chuckled.

"It was all part of the talk he gave on duty this morning. Oh, and the brass ring he threw out into the audience is a phony. But don't tell anyone I told you. Don't hurt nothing to have those folks believing they got it made, as long as they stay in our good graces."

"Duty, Mike?" Mrs. Carlson said. "I bet you could tell Mr. Midas there a thing or two about devotion to duty. Like putting it before family. You're an expert at that."

"Don't start, Gwen. That's in the past. I've done plenty for you since, even a few things that would get me on the next train to Chicago. Oh, shit, it's starting to rain again," Major Flanagan grumbled, looking at the sky. "Bye, kids. Stay out of trouble. Glad to see you showed up for the meeting, Saint Croix. Maybe you're smarter than you look."

On the ride back, Molly drove the buggy. Valentine was unsure of himself on the rain-wet surface, and they decided a pair of experienced hands on the reins would be best. Valentine and Molly sat together under the tarp again, but he couldn't recapture the half-excited, half-scared mood of the trip down when he first felt her close to him.

"You didn't fall for any of that baloney, did you?" Molly asked.

"No, but he did know how to tell a good story. He had me spellbound for a while."

"Yes, he's one of the best I can remember hearing. That's what you'd expect right before they increase the reckoning." She paused for a moment. "You seem a million miles away."

"I didn't like the way he looked at me. At the end, when he was talking to the bishop. Almost like he was asking about me.Funny, because I've never seen him before in my life."

"Well, according to Uncle Mike, he really is from Illinois. You ever been there?"

"I passed through it on the way here, but we stayed in the uninhabited part. Or mostly uninhabited, that is. Sorry if I seem preoccupied. You sure pegged the baby thing. How did you know?"

She smiled at him. "Just because I'm eighteen and hardly been more than twenty miles from home, you think I'm ignorant. There's a fresh batch of vampires up in New Glarus. Nobody knows when they came in with their Master exactly, but it seems like they're here to stay. That's more hungry mouths. How often do they need feeding, anyway?"

"That is one of the many things we don't know about the Reapers. According to the theories out of this group that studies them down in Arkansas, how much they need "to eat depends on how active they and their Master are. We think a lot of times the Kurians have about half their Hoods shut down. This is just guesswork, but the fewer Reapers a Kurian has to control, the better he can control them. Sometimes when he's trying to work all thirteen at once, they just turn into eating machines and do stupid stuff like forget to get in out of the daylight. But the Kurian can't control too few, either. He takes a risk when he does that. If the link for feeding vital auras to the Kurian Lord gets shut down, like say if he's got only one Reaper left and it gets killed, we think the Kurian dies with it."

Molly rewrapped the thick reins in her hand. "That's interesting. It's funny to just be able to talk about them with somebody. Discussing the Kurians is a taboo subject here. Too easy to say the wrong thing. So a Reaper can be killed?"

"Yes," Valentine said, "but you need to put that at the top of your 'easier said than done' list. I've seen six trained men pump rifle bullets into one at a range of about ten feet, and all it did was slow it down. Of course, those robes they wear protect them a lot. If they're hurt, you can behead them. A lot of times we're satisfied just to blow them up or cripple them so they can't move around much and they're easier to finish off. But again, even catching one where you can gang up on it is hard. They're usually active only at night, and they see better than us, hear better than us, and so on."

"So how do you do it?"

"It's a long story. Kind of hard to believe, too, unless it's happened to you. Now I know I've told you there are also people like the Kurians, but they're on our side."

"Yes, the... Lifeweavers."

"Good, yes, you have it. Long time ago, I think we worshiped them, and made them out to be gods. But they have the ability to awaken latent... I don't know, I guess you'd call them powers... within a human. About four thousand years ago, they made it very totemistic so the people would accept what these gods or wizards or whatever were doing. "The spirit of a wolf is in you.""

"Can they do it with anyone?"

"I don't know. The Lifeweavers select you for it, I know that much. Down in the Ozark Free Territory, they have three kinds of warriors they create, each named for an animal.

Maybe they use different animals elsewhere, like lions in Africa maybe. We're called the Hunters. We all carry a blade of some kind to finish off the Reapers. In the Wolves we just use a short, broad-bladed knife. It's a very handy tool in the woods, too. The Wolves are like the cavalry. We move fast from place to place, scout out the enemy troops, and fight guerrilla actions, mostly. There's lots of Wolves. Those Cats are spies, assassins, and saboteurs. I don't know about the Cat training, seems like they're just really, really good Wolves who prefer to work alone. I've known only one Cat. They go into the Kurian areas and mess with the Reapers. Maybe there's one around here somewhere. But if there is, he or she probably doesn't know I'm around. As I told you, I was just running the mail up to Lake Michigan. Then there are the Bears. They're the meanest bunch of bad-asses in the Southern Command, I can say for certain. I don't know what the Life weavers do to the Bears to make them the way they are, but I've heard of a single Bear taking on three Reapers and killing them all. They're like human tanks. We Wolves always make room for them at the bar when they come in."

They listened to the clip-clop of hoofbeats. Luckily it was an asphalt road, with only a few gravel stretches. The Morgan trotted steadily behind at the end of his lead, enjoying his exercise. Molly slowed the buggy to a walk and let the horse breathe, to give the rest of the family a chance to catch up a little in the plodding wagon.

"Do you win often?" Molly asked. "I mean, actually go out and beat the Reapers?"

"Sometimes. The Ozarks are still free, aren't they? But it costs people. Good people," Valentine said, remembering.

"Don't think about that too much," she suggested. It makes you look all old and tired. You're what, twenty?"

"I feel older. Maybe it's all the miles."

Now it was Molly's turn to be lost in thought. "You beat them," she ruminated. "We've always been told you just hide out up in the mountains. Starving to death in winter, stuff like that. Even the lodges, our organization for getting people out of the Triumvirate's reach, discourage anyone from going down there."

"It's a long trip," Valentine agreed. "Long and dangerous."

"You must really trust us, David. I could turn you in and get a brass ring for sure. A Wolf, an officer even, they'd love that. Uncle Mike would shit himself to death if he knew. He even gave you a work card." She giggled.

"At first I didn't have much of a choice except to trust you. Seemed like we were going to get caught anyway. Gonzalez wanted me to leave him, but I couldn't do that. Now I'm glad I gambled."

She cocked her head and smiled. "Why?"

Valentine shook his head and averted his eyes. That smile was irresistible. "Father Max used to say, "Women and six-year-olds never run out of questions.""

"Only because men and four-year-olds never have the right answers," she countered.

"Listen to you," Valentine laughed.

"C'mon, I mean it, David, why are you glad? Do you like this little charade we're playing, the courtship thing?"

At the word charade, Valentine felt a glass splinter pierce his heart. He forcibly brightened his voice. "It's been fun, sure. I've enjoyed talking to you, being around your family. I haven't had a family since I was little."

Molly started the horse again at a slow walk. "I've had fun, too, David. Sometimes I can't tell if it's a role that I'm playing or not. I'm almost sorry it has to end. Not that I want to bring a baseball team of your kids into the world to win a brass ring, of course."

"Of course," Valentine agreed. I'm sorry it has to end, too, he added mentally.

Back at the Carlsons' home that night, Valentine and Gonzalez talked in the basement. Valentine told him about the pep talk that took place at the tent and the funny look he received from the speaker.

"I don't know, Val. All the more reason to get out of town soon. You don't think it's going to look suspicious if we just disappear?"

"No, I already talked about that with Mr. Carlson. He's going to say Molly and I didn't get along, and we took off for parts unknown after a big argument. How's that arm-can you ride yet?"

Gonzalez removed it from the sling. His fingers were curved, and the skin looked dry and unhealthy, like an octogenarian's arthritic hand. "It's bad, Lieutenant. I think the nerve is gone. It kind of burns and itches sometimes. I can still ride, but it'll be one-handed."

"You can't shoot one-handed. Looks like you're heading for a well-deserved retirement"

"I'll use a pistol."

"That's for Captain LeHavre to say. Speaking of which, I haven't had a good dressing-down in weeks. I'm ready to go home and get yelled at again. How about you?"

"Say the word."

"I want to wait another day or two. You still look kind of pale, Senor Gonzalez. I want to cook us some biscuits and see to the horses' shoes. Anyway, how was your day holding the fort with Frat?"

"He's a tough kid. We could use him in the Wolves."

Valentine was intrigued. He could not remember the last tune Gonzalez had called anyone tough. "What do you mean?"

"We got talking while you were away. I told him where I come from, and he told me about Chicago. When he was little, he got put in the worst part of town with his mom and dad. In the center of the city, inside the river, there's this place called the Loop. It's got a river to the north and west, and the lake to the east. A bunch of those frog-Grogs live in the shallows. In the lake, you know? Then to the south, there's a big wall made out of an old expressway.

"According to Frat, trains still run people in, but no one can come out. The buildings are so tall, it's like being at the bottom of a canyon. No lights. The people there live on rats, birds, garbage that gets dumped in the river. He said they eat each other, too."

"You sure he wasn't just making it up?" Valentine said.

"Tf he is, he's good at it," Gonzalez argued. "The only people that go in are the Reapers. All the bridges are down, but they use a tunnel system under the city to get in and out. That whole Loop area is like the happy hunting ground for the Chicago Reapers. They just leave the bodies for the rats or those frog-Grogs."

"That's how the kid got out. Through the tunnels. Can you believe it, crawling in the dark through a tunnel the Hoods use? I couldn't do it, that's for sure."

Valentine shuddered at the thought. A pitch-black tunnel, Reapers maybe at either end. Of course, maybe the kid's bravado came from ignorance of how easily the Reapers could spot him.

Engine sounds from outside the house penetrated their refuge. Valentine's heightened hearing detected a vehicle slowing as it approached.

"Hey, sir..." Gonzalez said, startled.

"Shh, I hear it, too." Valentine identified a car engine with a bad muffler. It pulled into the Carlsons' yard, and he heard two car doors open and shut. Muffled voices came from upstairs.

Valentine gestured toward the hidden room. Gonzalez kept watch at the stairs, and Valentine worked the pine knot that allowed him to pull open the door. The secret room was a little more spacious with their cots out in Frat's part of the basement. Their packs and weapons were still concealed within.

The ventilation duct let him hear the voices in the living room loud and clear. Mr. and Mrs. Carlson received Major Flanagan and his assistant Virgil in the main room. Even the squeaks of the old chairs could be heard through the air vent.

"What brings you out tonight, Major?" Carlson asked.

"It can't be a second helping of meat pie," Mrs. Carlson added. "I'm all out, and with the rain, there's no rabbits in the traps today. I can roast you a potato, if you want."

"It's a social call, Alan," Flanagan said. "Well, fifty-fifty. It's about the meeting at the tent today."

"What, did we miss an encore?" Mrs. Carlson asked. "Pull himself up by his bootstraps so hard he flew out of the tent?"

"Gwen, your sense of humor needs a good curb bit," Flanagan growled. "But it does have to do with Jim Touchet. He saw someone in your family who really intrigued him. Wants a personal interview, you might say."

Valentine reached for his rifle. It felt comforting in his hand.

"Who, Saint Croix? I'm not sure he's even going to be in the family yet, Mike."

"No, Alan," Flanagan said with a sardonic laugh. "It was Molly. He wants your daughter."

There was a silent pause in the room above. After a full ten seconds, Mr. Carlson's voice echoed forcefully down the vent. "Fuck you, Mike."

Valentine smiled with approval. He had never heard Mr. Carlson say anything stronger than heck before, but the occasion deserved it.

"Are you going to take-7" Virgil's voice demanded.

"Fuck you, too, Virgil."

"Now just wait-"

Flanagan interrupted his lieutenant. "Okay, before we get into a pissing contest, which you'd lose and you know it, Alan, just think this deal through. Listen to what I have to say. Not only would you be doing me a big favor, and I think you owe me one after all these years, but you'd be helping your family, too. They're offering the whole family a two-year bond. Actually it's a five-year bond; they said I could go up to five if I had to. Don't look at me that way, Virgil, she's my niece and they ought to get everything they can out of it.

"Alan, I'll be honest with you. The next five years are going to be tough. You know there are new Reapers in Glarus. I've already got orders to make up lists of who is going to make the cut and who isn't. Your farm is doing good now, but what if you have a bad year? What if the cows catch something? You'd be damn glad you had that bond if something like that happens. And even if you're not on the list, maybe a vampire is passing through and happens to get hungry by your place. You know it happens as well as I do. The lists don't mean shit when they're prowling, but bonds do."

After a moment to let the threats, spoken and unspoken, sink in, the major continued. "It ain't like she'd be gone permanent. I have that from the bishop himself. Touchet is giving talks in Platteville, Richland Center, and Reedsburg, then going back through Madison. Three weeks, she'd be gone. He said he wanted some companionship on the trip. And the bond starts as soon as she shows up at the Church Center in Monroe, so she'll be safe in Madison, even. What can I say, Alan. You've got a real honey of a daughter. She caught his eye."

"Quite a time for this to happen," Carlson said. "I wonder how Saint Croix would like her disappearing with that old lech. So much for them settling down."

"Don't worry about him. Worry about your family, Alan. Saint Croix might understand, after all. I'll have a word with the bishop. Since Saint Croix is practically family, maybe we can offer him the bond, too. Even make getting married to her a condition. That might close the deal. If he's a smart kid, he'll know five years is just what he needs when he's trying to get a farm up and running."

"He's a smart kid, all right," Valentine breathed. "Smart enough to blow your ass off through the floor."

"Let's talk to Molly tomorrow," Mrs. Carlson suggested, obviously to her husband. "And maybe David, too."

Valentine counted twenty heartbeats.

"Okay, Gwen. Listen, Mike. I'm sorry I got riled. You, too, Virgil. I was just a little surprised is all. When you're a father, your little girl is always six years old. She's a grown woman; I forget sometimes. But why her? There were prettier girls at the meeting."

"Not according to Touchet. Virgil, go wait outside. Alan, if you don't mind, I'd like a private word with Gwen."

"Okay, Major. I'll sleep on it. Call you tomorrow. Good night."

"Night, Alan."

Valentine listened to the footsteps move about as Virgil was escorted to the door and Mr. Carlson retired to the kitchen. Valentine thought he heard him exchange a few words with Frat.

"Now listen, Gwen," Valentine heard Flanagan say to his sister, keeping his voice low enough for it not to travel out of the room. Not quiet enough for my ears, though, Valentine thought.

"You know I'm not the law. The law is whatever the Triumvirate says it is. This Touchet is a big wheel in Illinois, one of the biggest outside of Chicago. The New Church wants him happy, and I'm going to see that he's happy. I'm making it look like Alan has a choice in this, but he doesn't. Neither does Molly. You follow me?"

"I follow you," Mrs. Carlson said in a low tone. Valentine picked up the anger in her brittle voice. He wondered if her brother did.

"Touchet's going to have her one way or another. I know what you have to say cuts a lot of ice with Alan. So you might as well profit from it and get that bond."

"Is there a bond in it for you, too, Michael?" she asked.

"Can't fool you, can I, Sis? Maybe there is. This is pretty important. I think the Kurians want Touchet to consider moving here permanently. That is, if we can pry him away from the Illinois Eleven. They want him running the Wisconsin farms like he does in Illinois."

"We, Michael? Are you a we with the Kurians?"

"Always have been. I know which side of the bread my butter is on. I always figured I got Mom's brains. I think all you got was Dad's stubbornness."

Mrs. Carlson sighed. "Okay, Michael, you're right. I'll see what I can do."

"There, that wasn't so hard now, was it?"

"Harder than you'll ever know."

"Wow, man, you're losing it," Frat exclaimed, eyeing the mountain of cordwood.

Valentine was turning logs into firewood with his usual vigor. He stood outside one of the many little buildings budding from the barn's walls, filling the woodshed with fuel. During his stay with the Carlsons, he had chopped a little every day to keep himself exercised. Valentine did not use an ax. He preferred a saw to reduce the trunks into manageable two-foot lengths, which he could then split with a wedge. He followed his routine with robotic precision. He grabbed a length of trunk and placed it on his chopping block: an old stump that had no doubt served in this capacity for years. Then he picked up the wedge in his left hand and the twenty-pound sledgehammer in his right, gripping the latter right up under the rounded steel head. A vigorous tap seated the triangular metal spike. Then he'd step back, shift his grip on the sledge by letting gravity pull the handle though his callused fingers, and whirl it in a sweeping circle behind him, up and then down to the wedge. He would then stack the halves and quarters in a nice, tight pile.

The day's woodcutting began after a halfhearted appreciation of one of Mrs. Carlson's epic breakfasts. Everyone ate with a preoccupied detachment, as if the family dog had gone rabid and no one wanted to talk about who would have to shoot it. Molly looked drawn, her mother pale and tight-mouthed, and Mr. Carlson sported a dark crescent under each eye. Frat gobbled his breakfast like a starving wolf and fled to the backyard and his chores, taking the dog with nim. Even young Mary seemed to pick up on the tension; she shifted her gaze from her sister to her parents and back again.

Valentine decided Frat had the right idea, cleared his plate, and went outside. He had played the role of a forester the past few days and brought down several likely looking trees from the wooded hills to turn into split-rail fences and fireplace fodder.

He lost himself in the chopping, thinking about how to im-provise a pack for his Morgan and some spare saddles. He could tie together a sawbuck rig, and there was enough worn-out leather and canvas in the old tack trunk to strap it to his horse. By having the Morgan carry feed for itself and Gonzalez's horse, and with Valentine loaded, as well, they should be able to get within striking distance of the Ozarks before the oats and corn ran out. He planned to cross the Mississippi farther north and move quickly across Iowa, returning to the Free Territory somewhere southwest of St. Louis.

But despite the hard work and plans to get his crippled Wolf home, thoughts of Molly continually shifted his train of thought to emotional sidings.

Frat's comment brought him out of his sledge-swinging meditation.

"What was that?" Valentine asked.

"You've been chopping wood almost every day since you got here; you're a regular Paul Bunyan. We've got enough to get us through two winters. It's going to rot before we can use it."

"Well, maybe your dad can sell some of it."

Valentine realized his back and arms ached. He looked at the sun; the warm September afternoon had already begun. Even better, his mind was relaxed, tranquil.

"Hey, David, why are they watching the house?"

Valentine put down the sledge, leaning the handle against his leg. So much for tranquillity. "Who is watching the house?"

"The patrols. There's a car down the road toward La-Grange. One guy in it, so his partner is probably in the hills somewhere with binoculars or a spotting scope." Frat shaded his eyes and looked up into the hills and shrugged.

"How do you know there are two?"

"They always go in pairs. Uncle Mike talks about it. They switch around the partners a lot so no one gets used to working with anyone. Keeps them honest, I guess."

"You're pretty sharp, Frat."

"Naw, it ain't that. It's just when it's the same thing day after day, you notice the patterns. Like you-anytime you're worried about anything, you cut wood."

"I do it for the exercise."

Frat shook his head, a triumphant grin on his face. "You sure needed a lot of exercise before meeting Uncle Mike. And when you and my mom talked about the damage to Gonzo's arm, you cut a lot then. Before you went riding with Molly, too. And that same day, after you got back and cleaned up your horse, you chopped until dinner."

Valentine sat down on the stump, staring at the youth. "Hell," was all he could think to say. He looked over at Frat. "Do you know about the deal with your sister?"

"Yeah, Mom and Dad were up most of the night talking about it. They talked about packing up and asking you to lead them out of Wisconsin. My mom said that wouldn't work because Mike was having us watched. Turned out she was right. They woke Molly up early and talked about it upstairs first thing this morning."

"Did they decide anything?"

"I don't know. Molly started crying."

Valentine concentrated on keeping his face blank.

"Frat, do me a favor. You have a few rabbit snares around, don't you?"

"Uh-huh. There's a warren up in one of the pastures, and there's rabbits in the hills, too."

Valentine scanned the hills. "Go up and check your traps. See if you can see where that other patroller is. Can do?"

"Sure. Can do."

"Come and look for me in the stable if you spot him. But first of all go in the house for a few minutes. Like you were just sitting around, and your parents came up with something to get you out of their hair. Now get going."

Frat scampered off toward the house.

Valentine forced himself to put away his tools for the benefit of the hidden observer. He wandered to the stable, in no particular hurry. The ancient stalls, missing their doors, enclosed the horses with short lengths of rope. The rich smell of horse sweat and manure filled the warm afternoon air.

Five horses, he considered. Three belong to the Carlsons, then his and Gonzalez's. Mrs. Carlson on one, the girls on the second, Gonzalez sharing the third with Mr. Carlson, taking turns riding it. He and Frat could walk; the boy looked lean and capable. They're farm and riding horses, not packhorses. Best keep the load under 150 pounds for travel up and down hills. Blankets and tenting, rope and equipment. Farrier supplies for the horses, or losing a shoe means losing a horse. Maybe a week's food for man and beast. Would a week get us out of reach? God, the lifesign. Extra Reapers in Glarus to think about, they'd cover the thirty miles to LaGrange between dusk and midnight, running. Shit, we'd be drawing to an inside straight. And Gonzalez can't shoot.

"Hi, David," a scratchy voice said.

Molly.

"Phew, you're sweaty. Frat said you were cutting wood."

"Oh, yeah. Well, I thought I'd leave your dad with a good supply. Or he could sell it, help pay for all the food we ate. Don't know how to pay him back for saving our lives. Are you okay?"

She ran her hands through uncombed hair, pulling the sun-kissed blond strands behind her. "So you know, then."

No point in lying, he thought. "Yes. I sort of eavesdropped last night through the basement air vent. None of my busi-ness, I know, Molly. Your uncle painted a pretty ugly picture. What did your parents say?"

"They just told me to do some thinking, and we'd talk about it more today. But I've already made up my mind."

"Not the Masada solution, I hope."

A hint of her old smile crossed her face. "No." She took a deep breath. "I'm going to do it, of course." It came out as a single word: I'mgoingtodoit. As if by saying it faster, it would be over with all the more quickly.

Valentine had a feeling all morning that would be her decision. What alternative did she have? Perhaps he could offer one.

"Did you tell your parents?"

"Not yet. I... wanted to tell you first. I know that sounds dumb. I mean, it's not like you're my husband, but-"

"Molly," he interrupted, "I've been thinking about getting your family out of here. And not just since yesterday, either. It's a slim chance, I'll admit. Here's what we do-"

"David, don't start. It's okay."

"No, listen to what I've-"

"No, I want you to listen to me. Your slim chance, it involves us trying to slip out, becoming runners, right?"

"Not just us, everyone. Your parents, the horses, even the dog."

"Listen, David, you're crazy. None of us are in shape to ride or walk for days and days. And they're watching us. If my uncle's letting us see two men, that probably means there's six more all around somewhere. He's no doubt let the Breitlings know that if we try something stupid, they can get the five-year bonds just for calling the patrols.

"They're only giving me an illusion of choice in the matter. My mom didn't say it, but I think that one side of the coin has the promise of the bond, but the other has a threat. If the bishop says frog, my uncle jumps. He's not going to let something like family get in the way of orders."

Valentine opened his mouth, but she stepped toward him and gently cupped her hand over it. "David, I'm glad you were thinking about getting us out. Before this stuff with Touchet, it would have worked, I'm sure. No one would have expected us to up and disappear. We could have done it with you guiding us. You know, almost nobody has maps anymore. None of the roads have signs. I couldn't find my way to Madison if I wanted to, or anywhere else outside a twenty-mile circle." She pulled her hand away and hugged him. He put his arms around her, strangely unhappy at the embrace. "You're being good and brave," she said. "But let's face facts. I'm not a damsel in distress, and there are too many dragons anyway. This guy is a big shot. He's going to get what he wants. I see a few cow farms I've never seen before, and some backwater towns. I get a trip to Madison. Maybe he just likes having a girl on his arm to impress people, who knows. So I sleep with him. One thing's for sure, I don't want a baby. My mom said there's a way-"

"Molly, don't say it. I don't want to think about you doing that," Valentine said, twisting his mouth in disgust.

"What, pregnancy? Well, you're a man. I guess you don't have to think about it if you don't want to. You seem a little old not to know the facts of life, but women have to consider the possibility."

"No, I've just heard things. About women dying that way, you know."

She looked down the aisle of horses and patted Lucy on the nose. Valentine looked at her, in an old pair of her father's pants cut off at the knee, breasts swelling under a T-shirt. In her disheveled state, she looked younger than her eighteen years, too young to be cold-bloodedly discussing abortion.

"Well, with luck, the old fart's incapable," she said, closing the discussion. She walked down the line of horses. "Great, the hay nets are empty. Mary only wants to ride and groom horses; she leaves the mucking out to Frat and me. Poor things! Sorry, guys, we can't turn you out in the new field until the fence is done! These two new horses ate up what grass you guys left in your pasture. Do me a favor, David. Can you get two bales from the loft? I'm going to water these two."

Valentine crossed to the barn and climbed into the hayloft. He liked the sweet smell of hay and alfalfa up there, masking the cow odor from beneath. A couple of sparrows hopped and played in the air, and spiderwebs caught the sunlight like little silver flowers.

He heard the ladder rungs creaking. Molly joined him in the loft, a determinedly cheerful smile showing off her good teeth. She had washed her face at the horse-pump, her T-shirt had a wet, face-shaped patch over the belly where she'd used it to dry herself.

"Thought I'd give you a hand with the bales. They're really loose. Sometimes they're hard to handle. But if you bale hay tight, it gets all mildewy and rots. We can't afford to waste anything."

Valentine sniffed .a bale. "Hey, you're right. I didn't know that. All the hay I've ever seen has been packed too tight. Doesn't smell as good as this."

"That's the clover. We grow that on the other side of the road."

She cut a bundle and spilled it onto the floor of the loft.

"Very funny," Valentine said. "How are we going to carry it now? Or do you want to make a scarecrow?"

"Sure, David," she said, her eyes big and bright. "We can use your clothes. Why don't you take them off and give them to me."

"What's that?" he said.

She knelt in the hay. "Too shy? Okay, I'll start."

With a quick, graceful movement she pulled her T-shirt up and over her head. Her shapely young breasts bobbed enticingly as she leaned back into the hay. Valentine stood and gaped, feeling his groin swell, otherwise utterly dumbfounded.

"David, do I have to spell it out for you? Let's make love. I need you to do this for me."

"Molly... I mean, we've never even kissed, this is kind of-"

"Sudden?" she finished. "Well, yes, I suppose you're right. Actually, I've only kissed a couple of guys. And one, he was in the patrols, I didn't even want him to kiss me. But he did, and he put his hand on my chest. I yelled, pushed him away, and ran for it. That's the sum total of my sexual experience.

"David, I'm a virgin. I'm going to be with this guy, and the thing that bothers me the most about it... well, other than that I'm being forced to do it in the first place... the thing that bothers me the most is that he'd be my first time. Not a memory I want to have for the rest of my life. I know you, I like you a lot, and I think you like me. You're nice. You're better-looking than some, and brighter than most. You're an officer. A gentleman, too, otherwise you'd already be on top of me."

"It's not like the thought hasn't crossed my mind, Molly."

"Just go slow, okay, David?" she said, scooting her hips up off the floor of the loft and slipping the oversize shorts down to her feet. She kicked them off with the flick of a leg.

Valentine sank to his knees beside her, placing his mouth on hers. He was also inexperienced, his innate shyness and quiet manner made even youthful kisses and pettings few and far between. Molly Carlson, perhaps the most beautiful girl he had ever known, was in his arms and his for the taking. Animal instinct came to his rescue. His young, demanding lust took him where his self-confidence feared to tread. He felt her probing hand reach the hardness in his pants. She fumbled with his belt. He wanted to take off his shirt, but her soft, yielding mouth felt so exquisite against his, it was impossible to break contact. She undid his belt and the worn-out stitching of the fly gave way to her hearty pull; skittering buttons flew in all directions. He managed to tear his mouth away from hers, laying a series of gentle kisses across her face and down her neck. She giggled and squirmed, thrusting her breasts against his chest. He pulled his shirt up and off his head and thrashed out of his pants.

She came up to his mouth, pressing him with a hard kiss that went all the way down to his soul, and he lost balance, falling onto his back with her on top of him. Coppery-blond hair tickled his face and neck like tiny dancing fingers as she kissed him. Her hand trailed down across his stomach and found him, first touching, then exploring, and finally gripping his hardness. His own arms traced the muscles on her back and caressed the soft skin of her buttocks. She responded, rubbing herself against his thigh, one of her hands playing with his black hair as the other stroked him below."

"God, Molly, that's good," he groaned, a deep and sensual rasp in his voice. He returned the favor, his gentle hand tracing the outlines of her sex, from the curly triangular mat of pubic hair to the soft folds of flesh between her legs. Their kisses became a rapid staccato, and he felt a rush of moisture come to her.

"Please, David. Slowly, okay?" she breathed in his ear. She turned over on her back, and he followed her movement as if in time to a waltz. She gazed up at him, pupils dilated in the dimness of the loft. He suddenly wanted this moment to be forever, Molly in his arms and the smell of womanhood and clover and a hint of lavender-sweet nepenthe in his nostrils. He pressed himself against her, kissing her softly and slowly as she guided him inside, and they were one. He took her in a series of slow strokes, each one slightly deeper than the last. A wince of pain washed across her face and then turned, as an ebb tide gives way to the flow, into a flush of passion. Her hands alternately clawed and caressed his rippling back with each deep, slow penetration. They lost themselves, together and yet apart, until at last he climaxed, emptying himself into her as spasm after spasm racked his body, mouth gaping open as if in a scream, but producing only an intense, unintelligible moan.

Afterwards she lay in his arms, drowsing away the afternoon. He teetered on the pleasant point between exhilaration and exhaustion.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Wonderful," she said, drawling out the word. She reached between her legs and brought up her fingers. A smear of blood coated her forefinger and thumb.

"Funny. I figured it would be gone after all the horse riding," she mused.

He kissed away the blood from her hand. The girl named Molly who walked into the barn that afternoon would have been disgusted at the gesture, but the woman in her lover's arms thought it touching.

"Ha, fooled you. My time of the month," she said.

He glanced up at her, eyebrows lifted.

"Joke," she said, twitching her nose at him and rolling her eyes.

"Well, since this chore is done, I really have to look into making a pack for my horse," Valentine said, not letting her get away with it. She restrained him, tightening her grip around his neck.

"Chore indeed! When I took off my shirt, you about passed out."

"Yeah, the blood drained out of my head, all right," Valentine agreed.

"I know where it all went. I'm going to be walking funny for a while, I think."

They kissed, laughing into each other's mouths.

"Seriously now, David. This whole thing actually helps you, too. If you and Gonzo pack up and go right after I do, it will fit perfectly. I'm sure they're expecting you to get pissed and leave. You can keep the story about looking for a place to farm west of here. Your work cards are legit. Even if they call Monroe to check it out, your story will stand up."

He rolled onto his back in the hay with a sigh. He did not want the afternoon to end.

"When are you going to Monroe?"

"Tomorrow afternoon. Touchet is leaving for Richland Center the day after tomorrow. Tuesday morning, I guess. That's what Uncle Mike told my dad on the phone today. Is this guy that important that they kidnap young ex-virgins for him?"

Valentine shrugged. "You'd know better than I. But if he gets production out of the farms, I suppose he's pretty important. Their army has to eat, too. Speaking of eating, I wonder if Frat found any rabbits. Your mother makes a great game pie. Oh, God! Your parents... I'm going to have a hard time acting normal in front of them."

"You and me both. But-what do we have to feel guilty about? You're my fiance, right?"

He chuckled, nuzzling her with his chin. The shyness had magically vanished. Or perhaps it had been exorcised by a far stronger and more ancient magic.

"Molly Valentine," she mused. "Ugh!"

"Hey!" he objected.

"No, I just hate the Molly part. I love Valentine. Melissa Valentine? That's better. Nobody ever called me Melissa. Molly is way easier to shout."

"Put your pants on, Melissa. Or we'll be here all night," he said, looking out at the setting sun.

"That wouldn't be so bad. I wonder if the patrolman watching the place got an eyeful."

Dinner passed self-consciously, but Valentine found he could talk to her parents without feeling too uncomfortable. Her parents seemed to have other things on their minds. All Valentine could do was look at Molly's red, raw lips. How could they not notice that?

Gonzalez noticed something else in the basement as they got ready for bed.

"Hey, Val, what happened today?" he asked.

"Split a lot of wood."

Gonzalez snorted. "You stuck your wedge into something."

Valentine turned around. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, your fly's been unbuttoned all night, and your back looks like two alley cats went about fifteen rounds on it. Unless you've been rolling in barbed wire, I'd say someone was moaning in your ear."

"Just go to sleep, funnyman. I was just doing some chores for the family, really. Molly had something she needed fixed, so I took care of it for her."

Gonzalez shook his head and turned over, carefully positioning his injured arm. "You officers get all the good jobs," he observed.

Valentine awoke in the middle of the night to a light tread on the stair. In the dim light shining down from the kitchen, he saw Molly cautiously entering the basement.

"David?" she whispered.

"Over here," Valentine breathed back.

"No, over here," Gonzalez answered.

"Shut up, you," Valentine said, throwing his pillow at the scout.

"I wanted to talk to you. Sorry, Gonzo," she said.

Gonzalez swung his feet to the floor with a groan and pulled on his pants with his good arm. "I just remembered how long it's been since I've watched a sunrise. Don't make too much noise 'talking," you two."

"Thanks, Victor. I mean it," Valentine said.

"You owe me one. See you at breakfast."

He moved soundlessly up the stairs.

Molly scuttled into Valentine's arms. He kissed her, grateful for her surprise.

"Did you want to talk?" he asked.

"Sort of," she said. "But not anymore. Let's go into the secret room. It's dark, and we can make a little bit of noise. But just a little."

Valentine opened the panel in the wall, and they nipped into the deep shadows, holding hands.

"Hey, you used one of those soaps," Valentine whispered, smelling her clean skin.

"Yes, this one's-"

"Roses," Valentine said, caressing her hair. "Beautiful."

She shut the door, and they were in blackness so total there was nothing but touch, and the faint smell of roses.

They kissed and kissing, lay down together. They melded in the darkness, learning new ways to please each other, delight each other, and, finally, love each other.

They said good-byes in a steady, spirit-sapping drizzle. As Flanagan and his ubiquitous shadow waited out of the rain in the patrol car, family, friends, and lovers shared a few parting hugs. Valentine, Molly, and her parents all wore the same air of false cheerfulness that appears at a funeral, after a septuagenarian drops dead in perfect health. "Never knew what hit him," one relative will say to another. "Yes, I'd love to go that way. No pain, no suffering, no illness. Lucky man," the other will agree, jointly looking for the tiny patch of sunshine among the dreary clouds.

The same forced tone was present in Mr. Carlson's voice as he said good-bye to his daughter. Molly wore her oldest cow-mucking work clothes, clean but nevertheless permanently stained. "Country girl he wants, country girl he gets," she had said to her mother after turning down the suggestion that she wear her prettiest dress, a blue-checkered barn-dancer that matched her eyes, to cheer herself up. "No, give that to Mary. Something to remember me by," she said, leaving the room before her mother could ask what she meant.

"Take care of that arm, Victor," Molly said, shaking his left hand. "My turn to see the big city, Frat. At least Madison isn't Chicago, thank God. Mary, there's more to horses than riding and brushing them. I'm putting you in charge of the stables while I'm gone, and you'd better keep it clean."

Her words to Valentine, in hindsight, also hinted at her dark mood under the steel-gray clouds. "David, you're going tonight, right? When it gets dark?"

"That's the plan. I'm still working on that pack for my horse. We'll be miles away by morning."

She smiled up at him, satisfied. They wandered to the side of the house, where they could kiss without watchful eyes on them. "I'll think of you fighting Reapers, David. You know, now that I've thought of it, maybe your Masada solution is the better one. Take a few of them with you."

"Molly, don't get so grim. You'll look back on this in a couple of years and laugh. Or maybe throw up. But it's not forever. It's really kind of pathetic of him if you think about it. Sending your butt-kissing uncle out into the woods to bring him a dinner date at gunpoint."

"That's the first thing I'll tell him," Molly said, beaming at the thought.

"Come back and work the farm. And just because my plan won't work right now doesn't mean it won't three years from now. Some night a team of Wolves will show up at your back door. We'll get your whole family out."

"If my dad will go. He's pretty committed to smuggling people out of here."

"Well, I owe your family a very big favor. You're going to collect on it. I'll come for you someday in the fall, if I can."

She looked into his eyes. "I think three years from now, you'll have more important things to worry about. Be careful with promises. You know that saying, "Tomorrow is promised to no one," right? That's like the law of the Kurian lands."

"You've got five years promised to you and your family."

"We'll see, David. That bond might be as worthless as the ring he tossed into the audience. Just go tonight, okay? But can you tell me one thing, David? Was I your first time... you know... lovemaking?"

Valentine owed her the truth. "Yes. I hope you liked it. I've never been very... lucky with women."

"Good. You'll remember me, then."

"I'll remember you as the Wisconsin beauty who was re-ally good at pointing out the obvious," he said, giving her nose a gentle tweak.

They embraced, kissed, and touched each other's faces as if trying to record memories with their fingertips.

"Believe it or not, I'll come for you. It's a promise, Molly." He read hurt disbelief in her eyes. "No, not a promise: a vow." Now only the hurt remained.

"Don't," she said, unable to look at him. "A lot can happen in three years."

"A lot can happen in three days. Like falling in love, Melissa."

"David, stop. You're just making this hard, making it painful. This is an end. I don't want you to talk like it's a beginning."

He kissed her, trying to win a concession through sheer sensual power.

"No," she said, lowering her eyes from his. "I can't. Not when I have to... go like this."

She turned and fled.

At dinner that night, Valentine and Gonzalez decided to leave with the first light of dawn. A morning departure, with a quick good-bye to the Breitlings, would seem less suspicious than a midnight escape.

After a final farewell talk with the Carlsons, Gonzalez and Valentine lay in the basement, their guns and packs stored for the last night in the secret room. Gonzalez hid his anxiety about his injured arm well, but Valentine knew the worry dragged at his scout. Gonzalez worked best when the only thing worrying him was what might be around the next bend or over the next hill, so he talked frankly about how they would accommodate his injury on the trip home. The rest of the household had long since retired, and they burned only a foul-smelling tallow dip for light.

"You'll ride," Valentine said after rolling his maps back up into their tube. "I wish we could hang around longer, but it might be months before your arm is totally healed."

"You think it will get better?"

"Of course, Gonzo. Nerve tissue just takes forever to heal."

Gonzalez moved two painful fingers. "I don't know about that. Might never grow back."

"Well, you can move your hand a little. I think that's a good sign. In fact... Hey, an engine."

Both Wolves used their hard ears. It sounded like a truck engine. Perhaps one of the semi drivers was passing through with another foundling. But it stopped in the road, idling with thick coughs of exhaust.

Valentine and Gonzlalez exchanged looks. Without another word, they got up and moved to the secret door. They carried the tallow lamp behind the false wall with them and shut the panel behind. They ignored their packs, grabbing knives and guns. A crash sounded from above through the air vent, the house-shaking sound of a door being kicked in.

A whisper came from the other side of the secret door.

"Guys, are you in there?" Frat whispered.

Shouts from upstairs, a man's voice issuing orders to search the house.

"Yes," Valentine answered softly.

"Two men in a big van and two more in a patrol car. They're all armed and coming in. Gotta go," Frat said. Valentine finished tying his parang sheath on his leg and picked up his rifle.

"Hey, kid," an unknown voice barked. "Get outta that bed and get up here."

"I'm coming," Frat answered, voice cracking from strain. "Don't point that shotgun at me, okay?"

Gonzalez blew out the tallow dip in case the smell was wafting up to the living room.

They heard Mr. Carlson's voice, angry and scared, as he descended the stairs from the second story into the living room. "What in the heck is all this, Toland?"

"Orders. You're wanted for questioning."

"Orders? We'll see what Major Flanagan has to say about that!"

"He gave the orders, pard," the harsh voice answered. "Think your days of being under his wing are over. Your little girl stuck a steak knife into Mr. Brass Ring's neck-"

"Oh, my God!" Mrs. Carlson gasped.

"-a couple of hours ago," Toland continued. "Your brother is fucked, and he knows it, and he thinks the only way out of the jam is to arrest everyone here."

"Can I at least tell my hired help to take care of things while I'm gone?"

"The Breitlings? We're supposed to arrest them, too. Where's those two from up north, the guy who was seeing your daughter? The major wants him brought personal to his office."

"They left after dinner," Frat volunteered. "David was pissed about the whole thing with Molly."

"Shuddup, Sambo. If I want your opinion, I'll slap it out of you. Carlson, is he right?"

"Yes, you searched the house, didn't you?" Carlson said, voice still tremulous.

"Which way did they go, and when?"

"After dinner. They didn't even eat with us. I think they went north, but I dunno. I've had other things on my mind today than watching them leave. You should leave us alone and go after them; they probably put her up to it."

A rattling came from above. "I got them leg irons, Sarge. Should we link 'em up now?"

"Yeah. Pillow, go out to the car and radio that we got the Carlsons in custody. Also put out a general call to pick up two men on horseback. One's got a bum hand. You other two get busy with those shackles."

Valentine touched Gonzalez on the shoulder in the darkness, and they felt for the door. They cut across the shadowed basement, listening to the rattle of chains as the patrollers fixed the family into the leg irons. Valentine led the way up the basement steps, keeping to the edges to lessen the sound of boards creaking. They padded through the kitchen barefoot, Valentine with his repeater to his shoulder and Gonzalez with his held against his hip. Valentine paused for just a second to listen at the corner between the kitchen and the front living room, attempting to place the occupants by sound. All he could hear was a frightened crying from young Mary Carlson and the sounds of shackles being clicked closed and chains passed through steel eyes. He gestured to Gonzalez, who moved to the kitchen door of the house.

With a quick sidestep Valentine rounded the corner, gun tight to his shoulder, a shotgun-wielding man already in his sights. "Nobody move," he said, in a low tone. "You with the shotgun, put it on the floor, holding it by the barrel. You two with the chains, facedown on the floor!"

As he spoke, Gonzalez opened the back door, holding the rifle in his armpit, and disappeared into the darkness.

The patrollers, conditioned by years of practice in using their guns to bully unarmed farmers and townspeople, complied with alacrity. The Carlsons, dressed in their bedclothes, kicked the weapons away from the uniformed Quislings.

"Okay, you with the stripes, facedown, too. Good. Spread eagle, gentlemen. I've got eight shots in this repeater; the man who moves gets the first one. Frat, get the guns away from them, before they get any ideas."

Frat began collecting pistols and shotguns. "This'll cut it, Carlson," Sergeant Toland said, speaking into the floor. "Before, you were just wanted for questioning. This means you're all dead within a day or two. Not an easy death, either, if the Reapers-"

A pistol thrust into the sergeant's mouth cut off the imprecations. "Shut up, Sarge. When I want any of your lip, I'll blow it off," Frat said, cocking the revolver.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carlson, start putting the shackles on them, hands and feet, please," Valentine said.

The screen door swung open, and the fourth patroller entered, his fingers laced behind his head and the muzzle of Gonzalez's gun pressing him behind the ear.

"Pillow here just reported the situation as being under control," Gonzalez said. "Is it, sir?"

"Seems to be. Where are the Breitlings?"

"They hadn't gotten around to them, yet," Mr. Carlson said. "They're probably still asleep."

"Mrs. Carlson, after you've finished, do you think you could go get them?" Valentine asked.

"Could I get some more clothes on first?"

"Of course." The patrollers were now securely shackled and handcuffed. They're scared, Valentine thought, looking at the sweat stains on the blue uniforms. He was also pretty sure that the one named Pillow had pissed himself. Scared people confuse easily.

"Boy, that major is fucking things up, Carlson," Valentine said, winking at his benefactor. "Hey, Sarge. Do you know what you've stumbled into?"

"You're a corpse, boy. You're a corpse that happens to be walking and talking for a few more hours."

"Don't think so, Sarge. Look at this," he said, thrusting his rifle butt under Toland's nose. "You've just busted in on a Twisted Cross double-secret blind operation."

"What the fuck is the Twisted Cross? "Double secret' bullshit!" Sergeant Toland said, unimpressed.

"You wouldn't know, would you? We wanted Touchet dead, but we couldn't get at him in Illinois, because he's bought off so many of the people around him. But why am I telling you this? He was trying to spy out the operation at Blue Mounds."

"Bullshit," the sergeant responded. "Bangin' the Carlson girl ain't going to accomplish that, nor giving speeches, neither."

"Sarge, you don't have to believe me. But let me give you two facts. One is that you're still alive, and the other is that all this is way over your head. Something's gone wrong with our operation, or you wouldn't have gotten those orders to bring these folks in. I suggest that in the future you have Madison confirm everything before doing what Major Flanagan says. Gonzalez?"

"Yes, sir," his scout replied.

"We're switching to plan Red Charlie."

"Er... you're in charge, sir," Gonzalez said. Valentine hoped the patrollers would interpret Gonzalez's confusion for reluctance.

"Let's go outside and discuss it. Mr. Carlson, Frat, keep an eye on these four."

In the cool night air, Valentine patted Gonzalez on the back. "Good job with Pillow, Gonzo. You still haven't lost your touch, injury or no."

"Sir, what's our next move? Are we going to leave now?"

Valentine nodded and walked down the road toward the vehicles. A dirt-covered patrol car and a delivery-van-type truck stood in the blackness. The clouds had still not dispersed.

"Gonzo, I'm going to have to give you a lot of responsibility. Maybe it will take your mind off the pain in your arm. I want to get the Carlsons and the Breitlings out of Wisconsin. All the way to the Ozark Free Territory."

"We can do it."

"Maybe we could. But, Gonzo, it's not going to be a we. It's going to be a you. I'm going after Molly."

Gonzo's eyes bulged with surprise. "My friend," he said finally. "She's probably dead already."

"If she is, she's going to have some company. That asshole of an uncle, for one."

"What is more important, getting you and me and these people back safely, telling about what we saw behind all those skulls, or killing one Quisling? I hate to tell you your duty, but-"

"Fuck my duty," Valentine said. Just the words themselves could subject him to a court-martial and firing squad, but he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. "I've had too many people I care about die. Not this one, not this girl."

"I've already forgotten what you just said, sir. But you will still have to explain this if you get back. What am I supposed to do with these civilians? The prisoners? I'd have a tough time making it back to the Ozarks, just me and my horse, let alone all these people."

"Here's the plan..." Valentine said. Gonzalez listened as his lieutenant gave his final orders.

An hour later, everything was ready. The patrollers were locked in the feed shed, still shackled. The feed shed had the best lock and was the only all-cinder block construction on the farm. The delivery van waited with its ramp brought up and rear liftgate closed; horses were saddled and tied to the rear bumper. Inside the spacious interior, empty except for numerous eyebolts for fixing prisoners in position, were the Breitlings, Mrs. Carlson, and Mary Carlson, clutching a few blankets and some travel clothing, along with the family dog. Mr. Carlson was at the wheel, and Gonzalez rode shotgun. Both were dressed in blue patroller uniforms taken from the Quisling captives.

Valentine and Frat stood outside the passenger door. Valentine wore the best of the uniforms and carried the identity papers of the patroller who most resembled him, the pants-wetting Pillow.

"We meet south of the bridge outside Benton, okay, Frat?" Gonzalez asked, rolling Valentine's map back up and returning it to the tube. Frat nodded.

"Mr. Carlson, if I can't get your daughter, I'm going to leave one hell of a trail of dead Quislings," Valentine said. "They'll come after me with everything they've got. Should make it a little easier for you."

"No one's asking you to do this, son," Mr. Carlson said from the driver's seat. "Molly's probably already dead. Maybe she used the knife on herself after killing Touchet." Carlson's lips trembled as he spoke.

"I don't think she'd give up that easy, Alan. If she's alive, I'm going to get her back. I'm coming back with your daughter, or not at all." He turned to Gonzalez and shook his friend's good hand. "Gonzo, I know you can do this," Valentine said quietly. "You've got the brains and the skills. Just keep them moving. Eat the horses one by one if it helps. When you get back, tell them everything you remember, even if it doesn't seem important. They've also got to get a Cat or two up here to find out what's going on at Blue Mounds. One other thing: Get Frat into the Hunters, or at least have him posted as an Aspirant. He'll make a better Wolf than either of us, at least someday. Take every buckchit I've got and draw it to get the Carlsons started. I've got some friends in a little place called Weening."

Valentine racked his mind, searching for another suggestion to increase Gonzalez's chances. There was always one more order to give, one more contingency to consider.

"I will do it, all of it, sir. Vaya con Dios, jefe. And I'll be praying for you, sir. Every day."

"Back to praying, Gonzalez? I thought your mother was in charge of that."

"She's in charge of my soul. I'll take care of yours."

"You're going to have plenty to take care of in the next couple of weeks without my soul thrown in. But thank you anyway; I'm honored."

Carlson started up the truck, and Valentine hopped to the ground. Gonzalez gave a little salute from his perch. "Good luck, Lieutenant."

"Send my respects to the Zulus, Gonzo!"

The truck rolled off into the darkened west. Hours to go before daylight.

"Okay, Frat. You and me now. I wish I had learned how to drive better."

"It's okay, Lieutenant," Frat said, moving around to the driver's side. "I know the way, so it's just as well."

"You can call me David, bud. Drive slow and careful. Keep the headlights off."

"I know, I know. You told me. Where to?"

Valentine checked the contents of his pack and a spare feedbag, which held extra restraints and a few packets from the Carlsons' kitchen. "Your uncle's house. You can tell me everything you remember about it on the way."

Frat covered the twenty miles in just over an hour, switching to tractor trails and cattle paths as he drew close to Monroe. The roads were empty, and the night seemed to be waiting for the curtain to go up on the last act of the play. The radio squawked occasionally, reporting from the patrols looking for two men on horseback. Valentine mentally prepared himself for a tragic ending to the drama. As Frat drove, leaning far forward as if the extra foot and a half of viewing distance made a difference, Valentine applied a hacksaw to the double-barreled shotgun, taking off the barrels from the edge of the wooden grip onward. He then filled the pockets on its leather sling-bandolier with buckshot shells. A second pump-action shotgun lay on the wooden backseat of the car.

"Okay, we're in the fields behind his house. It's right beyond that line of trees there," Frat informed him. "We've stayed over here a few times, back when he had a wife."

"Whatever happened to her?" Valentine asked.

"Don't know. Nobody does. One day she was just gone, and we learned not to ask."

"So he's not much for answering questions, then?" Valentine stepped out of the car and took the pump-action shotgun, pocketing shells into his stolen uniform. "I'll try to change that. Keep the scattergun handy, Frat. Don't be afraid to use it, and pull out if something comes after you. Keep alert."

"I will, sir. You be careful."

Valentine walked silently up to the line of trees, listening and smelling for the guard dogs. Their scent seemed to be everywhere across the lawn. Perhaps they were around front.

The extravagant house had bright security lights mounted high up just under the roof, angled out to bathe the lawn in white light. Their brilliance threw the surrounding terrain into harsh, black-and-white relief, blazing white wherever the lights touched and utter black in the shadows. Valentine whistled softly.

One of the great black rottweilers appeared from around the garage corner. Valentine reached into his feed bag and placed a few strips of meat on the flat of his parang. He whistled again. The dog growled and took a few steps closer. Valentine stayed very still, offering the meat from the brush at the edge of the woods.

"Good dog, good dog," Valentine said soothingly. The dog licked its chops and padded forward. Valentine lowered the blade to the grass, and the dog began eating. Flanagan obviously used the dogs only for show; a real guard dog would be trained not to take food from anyone but its keeper. Having made friends, Valentine stood for a moment patting the hopeful-looking dog.

Valentine watched the sleeping house for a few moments then jogged across the lawn to the back door. The rottweiler trotted along happily. The second hound, curled up on the mat at the door fast asleep, startled at their approach. Seeing the other dog, it came forward to greet the late-night visitor. Valentine issued more tidbits to the dogs and began feeling along the top of the windowsill to the left of the door for the key Frat said was hidden there. He found it, placed on a small nail hammered into the top of the windowsill.

The key fit the dead bolt on the back door, but Valentine was able to open the door only an inch or two. A heavy chain across the inside of the door barred further progress. He reached into his bag of tricks for the rusty crowbar from the patrol car's trunk, fixed it to the chain near its mounting on the doorjamb, and pulled. The chain parted with a loud ting.

Valentine entered the kitchen behind the business end of the shotgun. The tabletop was a mess of dirty dishes and paperwork. The main light over the table was still on, bathing the littered octagonal surface in a puddle of yellow. A heavy electric typewriter sat before a chair, a cold mug of coffee next to it, nestled like a small brown pond in a forest of empty beer bottles. A raspy snoring echoed from the living room.

He looked at the typed report on the table, flipping to the second page. Apparently it was a statement by the one patroller standing sentry outside Touchet's VIP suite door at the New Universal Church building. A paragraph caught Valentine's eye.

When the cook entered with Mr. Touchet's nightcap of coffee, I heard him scream. I drew my gun and entered the bedroom. Mr. Touchet was facedown on the bed, nude except for a pair of socks. The young woman was trying to force up the window of the bedroom, not knowing that it was nailed shut. As I entered, she smashed it with an ashtray but I was able to restrain her.

After she was handcuffed and held down by the cook, I examined Mr. Touchet for a pulse. He was dead. He had a steak knife handle sticking out of the back of his head right were the neck meets the skull. His back was coated with some kind of oil and he lay on a towel. There was very little blood on the towel. Mr. Touchet's brass ring had been removed from his finger and was placed around the handle of the knife.

The young woman was screaming obscenities at us, so I hit her. She had not been injured by Mr. Touchet; the bruise on her face was from me.

Valentine walked to the living room and looked in. Virgil Ames lay stretched out on a leather sofa, sunglasses finally off, pistol belt looped around his arm. The air around him smelled of beer breath and stale flatulence. Beyond, in the glass turret-room, he could make out Maj. Michael Flanagan. The major slept in his chair, phone in his lap, widespread feet propped up on his desk.

The prowling Wolf shifted the shotgun to his left hand and took up the parang. No making friends with this dog, he thought, putting the wedge-shaped point just above Virgil's Adam's apple. At the swift inward thrust, the late Virgil Ames opened his eyes. Valentine wiped his knife on the rich leather sofa and moved toward the office.

Major Flanagan woke when the blued steel of the shotgun barrel poked him between the eyes. As Flanagan sputtered into surprised wakefulness, Valentine changed the angle of the shotgun barrel, pointing it between Flanagan's outstretched legs.

"You wanted to see me, Major?" he asked.

"What the-?... Virgil!" Flanagan shouted.

"Dead, sir," Valentine reported. "Better speak up, or you'll be joining him in five seconds. Tell me, is Molly Carlson still alive?"

"Virgil!" Flanagan cried.

Valentine stuck the shotgun toward Flanagan's screaming mouth. "Major, your screaming is not doing you any good, and it's giving me a headache, so cut it out. Or I might cut your tongue out and have you write down your answers."

"Fuck you, Saint Croix. We don't just have Molly, we've got all the Carlsons, as of eleven this evening. If you back out of here and never let me see your face again, they might live. You might even live."

The powerful, spearlike thrust of the shotgun shattered two incisors and left a worm-tail of lip dangling as it hung from a thin strip of bleeding skin. The major's hands flew to his wounded mouth, and Valentine clipped him on the side of the head with the shotgun butt. The major fell over, knocked senseless. Valentine busied himself with handcuffs and rope.

The house was dark when Major Flanagan came to. Valentine splashed cold coffee into his face. Groans rose from the Quisling just before he vomited all over himself. The paroxysm showed how securely he was tied into his office chair.

Handcuffs fixed his wrists against the arms of the chair, and heavy lengths of rope cocooned his chest and shoulders into the back. His legs were tucked under the chair and secured by ankle shackles with a short length of chain winding behind the central column that attached the chair itself to the little circle of wheels below.

No hint of morning could be seen through the windows of the office. Valentine stood next to the desk, a breathing shadow.

A metallic ping sounded, and Valentine picked up the silver cigar lighter, waving the lit end hypnotically in front of Flanagan's face. Its dim red glow reflected off piggish, angry eyes. "Okay, Uncle Mike, do you want to talk to me, or do I have to use this thing?"

"Talk about what?"

"Where Molly is."

"She's in the Order building in Monroe."

Valentine grabbed his pinkie and thrust the cigar lighter over it. An audible hiss was instantly drowned out by the major's scream. Valentine pulled away the lighter and stuck it back into its electric socket, pushing it down to turn it back on.

"Wrong answer. I read some of the papers in the kitchen. According to your report, you put her in a car for Chicago."

Ping.

"Why Chicago, Major?"

"We called the Illinois Eleven as soon as it happened. That's what they told us to do, send her to Chicago."

"Where in Chicago?" Valentine asked, extracting the lighten.

"How should I know? The Illinois Eleven don't like being questioned any more than the Madison Kurians," Flanagan said, watching the lighter wave back and forth in the darkness. "No! God, Saint Croix, I don't know."

This last was addressed to the approach of the lighter to his left hand. Valentine forced Flanagan's fist open and inserted his index finger into the cigar lighter. The smell of burnt flesh wafted up into his nostrils as he ground the glowing socket home. Flanagan screamed again, and Valentine withdrew the lighter. He pressed it back into the socket, reheating it.

"The pain will stop as soon as you tell me where she is in Chicago. You want me to stick your dick in this next?"

The tip of Flanagan's forefinger was a blackened lump of flesh and blisters. Even the fingernail was burned back.

Ping.

"I think they're putting her in the Zoo," Flanagan gabbled, seeing Valentine's hand move to pick up the lighter. "I've been there, it's on the north side of Chicago, near the lake. Lots of boats tied up permanent."

"Why there? I thought they just put everyone in the Loop when they wanted to do away with them."

"They knew Touchet. They asked me if she was a real looker. I told them about her. I mean, if she weren't my niece, one of the patrollers would have raped her a long time ago. Saint Croix, you haven't been around much. I've risked my job-my life even-to help my sister and her family. Molly was never going to be hurt." Sweat coated Flanagan's face, wetting his bushy eyebrows and running down his neck in rivulets.

"So what's this Zoo?"

"It's in a place called Lincoln Park. I've got a little map of Chicago in my desk, bottom drawer. Even has phone numbers for cab companies. The Zoo is... a big brothel, that kind of thing. There are a lot of bars there; they do sports, too. Kind of a wild place, anything goes, like Old Vegas."

Valentine popped up the lighter and left it resting lightly in its socket. "Good enough, Flanagan. There's one more thing I want before I go. I need a travel warrant made out for one Private Pillow. Giving him a week's leave or whatever you call it to go to Chicago. And some money to spend."

Flanagan's massive eyebrows rose in surprise. "Madison paper's no good there. Our guys bring things to barter. Jewelry, beer, food, stuff like that. But what you're thinking is nuts. I'd like to see Molly alive as much as her parents, but it ain't going to happen. There're hundreds of soldiers from Illinois, Indiana-Michigan, even. I've heard of officers coming all the way from Iowa and Minnesota to go to the Zoo. Even if you can find her, you'll never get her out. The Black Hole's a one-way-"

"Black Hole?" Valentine asked.

"I dunno where she would go for sure. But the Black Hole is kind of a prison. Women don't last long there. They're used... treated badly. Some of the men like that kind of thing. Never went there myself, but you hear stories."

"Just tell me where to find the papers to fill out."

Flanagan gave detailed instructions, and soon Valentine had his travel warrant. The major applied his seal and signed it; Valentine had freed the man's uninjured right hand to do so. The major wiped his face with his good hand. "You're tough, Saint Croix. I had no idea."

So he thinks fawning is his ticket to safety. Interesting. Has it gotten him out of jams with the Kurians? Valentine thought. He put his new papers and the folded map in one of the front pockets of his shirt. He then walked over to the front of the desk. The shotgun leaned up against one of the carved wooden lions.

"Take my car. It's in the garage, and the keys are in my breast pocket here. I'll tell them you went north. I'll keep the Carlsons under lock and key for a few days, then release them. We'll shout questions at 'em for a few hours; don't worry, they'll be fine. Of course, Molly can't ever come back here, but I'm sure you can get her somewhere safe up in the woods if your plan works. Watch yourself in Chicago, though. Must be a hundred Reapers there, easy. But if..."

The major stopped in openmouthed amazement as Valentine brought up the shotgun, pointing it at his head. "No, Saint Croix. Be fair! I gave you everything..."

Valentine put the butt tightly to his shoulder and placed his finger on the trigger. "You once said that if it were up to you, you'd hand me over to the Reapers for not having a work card. Well, now that it's up to me, I'm going to follow a little rule we have in the Wolves. I call it Special Order Twelve, section Double Ought. Any high-rank Quislings bearing arms against their fellow men shall suffer death by firing squad."

"You said you wouldn't kill me!" Flanagan shrieked, holding out his hand, palm outward.

"I said the pain would stop," Valentine corrected, pulling the trigger. The dark room exploded in noise and a flash of blue-white light like an old-fashioned flashbulb. At the last instant, Flanagan flung his arm across his face, but the blast of buckshot tore through his arm, head, and the back of the chair. Bone, blood, brain, and wood from the chair splattered the brick wall behind the chair.

Valentine went through the house, filling a pillowcase with anything of value he could find: Virgil Ames's sunglasses and beaded pistol belt, Flanagan's cheroots and electric lighter, a solid silver cigarette box, gold jewelry belonging to the missing Mrs. Flanagan. The liquor cabinet contained two bottles of bonded whiskey. They joined the other contents of the pillowcase.

He went into the furnished basement and flicked on one of the electric lights. A pool table filled one end and a small workshop the other. Three rifles hung from an ornate gun-rack, set between two eight-point deer heads. Valentine's eyes lit on an old Remington Model 700. He shouldered it. Then he crossed to the workshop and found a tin of kerosene. He opened it and splashed it along the pool table, carpet, and wood paneling. He struck a match and tossed it into the puddled liquid on the pool table. Flames began to race across the green baize surface. Sure that the fire was well on its way, Valentine climbed back up the stairs.

Frat pulled the car out of the field and onto the little path leading back to the road. "Now what, Lieutenant?" he asked. Oddly enough, Frat had asked no questions about what had transpired in his uncle's house.

"Where can I catch the next train to Chicago? Not a station, though. I mean to jump on."

Frat considered the problem. "The line connecting Dubuque goes right through Monroe. A train goes along that every day. Takes you right into Chicago, or the meatpacking plant, that is. You'd be in the city by tonight. You'll know you're close when you go through this big stretch of burned-out houses. Reapers burned out a huge belt around the city. Great Suburban Fire, it was called. Happened before I was born. Then they did something to the soil so nothing but some weeds grow. Mile after mile of old street and rubble. Of course, I was pretty young when I saw it. But you'll never find Molly in the Loop. You could look for days. How you gonna get her out again?"

"They didn't put her in the Loop. She's in someplace called the Zoo."

Frat smacked his head. "Zot me! I shoulda thought of that! They would put someone who looks like her there. My momma used to tell my older sister, "What you trying to do, get a job at the Zoo?" whenever she didn't like what Phila was wearing."

"What else can you tell me about Chicago?"

Frat turned the car onto a road heading south. "It's big, really big. But what you got going for you is that there's people from all over, so strangers don't get noticed. If you cause any trouble, they grab you and throw you in the Loop. They use the old United States money there, too, but it has to be authorized. The bills they've authorized have a stamp on them, kind of like the stamp on our work cards. I'm pretty sure some of your people who fight the Kurians are there, but I don't know how you would ever find them. And I'd hide that big curved knife of yours. Too many of the soldiers know about those."

They reached a bend in the road. Frat pulled the patrol car to the side.

"Frat, you've been a great help. You know what to do now, right?"

"Drive fast with all the lights on, like I'm hurrying somewhere," Frat recited. "Put the car in a ravine and then walk to that bridge. Go cross-country and keep out of sight. I think I can manage."

"I'm sure you can."

"All you have to do now is go south, and you'll hit the railroad tracks. They curve where they run along the Sugar River, and I bet they'll slow down. Lots of guys bum rides. As long as you got identity papers, you're okay getting into Chicago. Just take my advice and don't cause any trouble until you're sure you can get away with it. Getting out again isn't so easy. They check the trains heading out for runners."

Valentine offered his hand, and Frat shook it. "Listen to Gonzo on the way back, pup. You can learn a lot from him."

"Yeah, he's cool. He thinks a lot of you, by the way. Says the Wolves in Zulu Company call you the Ghost."

"The what?"

"The Ghost. On account of you walk so smooth and quiet, like you're floating. And there's another reason: Mr. Gonzalez says you can tell when there are vampires around. He says it's spooky, but kinda comforting."

"The Ghost, huh? Well, have Gonzo tell them to keep their rifles clean and oiled, or I'll come back and haunt them. Good-bye, Frat."

"Good-bye, Lieutenant Valentine. Don't worry, I'll get everyone out, if Mr. Gonzalez just points the direction. You ain't the only one good at smellin' out Skulls."

* * *

While Valentine waited for the train in the morning shade beneath a willow, he ate from a bag of crackers and a brick of cheese he had taken from Flanagan's kitchen. He had already improvised a shoulder strap for his pillowcase of loot and admired the manufacturing on the stolen Remington rifle; he figured it would bring enough money for a bribe or two, or serve as one itself. He studied his map of Chicago, memorizing as many of the street names as he could. It must be quite a city, he thought. Over a hundred Reapers. Great place to visit, but I wouldn't want to die there.