One man said, "That beer had better be as cold as you pretend it is."

"I lied," Slaughter said. "It's even colder."

They laughed.

"Looks like we could use some new targets." Slaughter pointed. All the cans across there had more holes than metal, barely held together by the seams that joined them.

"Well, we figure once we blast them till there's nothing left, we can say we earned the beer."

"A hundred rounds per man. No less than that." Slaughter gestured toward Dunlap. "This man's from New York. He's a reporter, and he's doing research on that commune in the hills. I want you to cooperate. I don't know all that happened back then, but I don't see much use hiding it."

They studied Dunlap and nodded.

"How come you're not out here shooting?" one man asked Slaughter.

"I put in my time before you came."

"Oh, sure you did." They looked amused.

Slaughter glanced at Dunlap, then at them, shrugged, and drew his revolver.

Dunlap stepped back automatically. He stared at the gun as Slaughter approached his men and concentrated on the cans on the other side of the gully. He braced himself, his body sideways, his feet apart, and aimed, then squeezed the trigger. A can flipped, the shot loud, the recoil spreading smoothly through Slaughter's body, and he cocked again and fired, cocked and fired, six times altogether, the shots echoing on top of one another as the can went through its clattering dance and, with the last hit, fell apart. Slaughter had worked his hand as quickly as the eye could follow. His men were laughing, clapping, as he shrugged, then pressed a button that allowed him to swing out the handgun's cylinder. He pocketed the used cartridges and reloaded.

"I see you've got some rounds to shoot yet," Slaughter pointed toward the half-full boxes by their feet. "That beer is getting colder." He winked, then walked toward the barn. "And pick up all your empty cartridges this time."

"Yeah, yeah," they told him, looked toward the riddled cans, and started firing again as Slaughter led Dunlap and Rettig back to the house.

"That's impressive shooting." Dunlap said.

"Nothing that a little practice doesn't help," Slaughter said. "I wasn't kidding. I did my stint before they got here. Sometimes I shoot with them. Mostly I just sit up on that porch and welcome people. There's a western gentlemen inside me trying to get out." He noticed that Dunlap smiled then. That was good. The message from the mayor had been emphatic. Give this man a good impression. "You must find this country different, coming from the East and all."

"A little," Dunlap said.

"Yeah, I felt that way myself at first."

Dunlap shook his head. "At first?"

"I came here from Detroit. Five years ago. A little while out here, and you can get to like the easy way of life."

Which Dunlap didn't buy, so Slaughter didn't try to sell it anymore. Slaughter had been just about as friendly as he'd planned, but he had other things to occupy him, and he didn't have the time to give this man a guided tour.

They passed the police car Rettig had brought, walking toward the porch, and Slaughter saw that the medical examiner was up there, drinking beer, talking to the new man. Slaughter was just about to ask if Dunlap wanted any beer when the medical examiner interrupted him.

"Your man here says it's still down in that hollow. Look, I want to know if that thing bit you."

"No, I thought about it, and I checked," Slaughter said. I even took my clothes off back here, and the only mark is where it scratched me." The scab was thick on Slaughter's cheek.

The medical examiner persisted. "Scratched, not bit you?" "Does this mark look like it bit me? No, I'm certain." "Well, I want to check that cat regardless. Cats don't go at people that way."

"Some cats do. When I was in Detroit, I had my share of bites and scratches. Cats gone wild and living in abandoned tenements. I know exactly what you mean, though. This is different. Cats might fight back, but they don't come looking to attack you."

And the five of them were silent. Dunlap had been listening with interest. Slaughter turned to him. He noticed that both Rettig and the new man had been looking at him, too.

"You're right," he told the medical examiner and then explained to Dunlap, "You see, we've got a situation here, but it's not the reason you're invited. I could ask you to go in the house and have a beer, but then you'd think that we were hiding something from you. So I'm going to let you stay. But understand this. Anything about the commune, that's your story. What we're saying now is strictly off the record." Slaughter waited.

"Sure. I guess you have your reasons."

"You'll know soon enough." Slaughter turned toward the medical examiner again. "My handgun's a.357. I loaded magnums before going in that field. I told you, when I shot that cat, I blew its fucking head apart. I'm no pathologist, but I'm aware of this much. If you want to check for rabies in an animal, you run some tests on portions of its brain."

"That's correct."

"Well, brain, hell I can give you all the brain you want. It's scattered, bits and pieces, all across that goddamn field. But they'll be so contaminated, you won't have a use for them." Slaughter pivoted toward Dunlap. 'There. I've said it. Now you understand. If word about rabies ever gets through town, there'll be a panic."

Dunlap's face was ashen. "That's what happened to this fellow Clifford?"

Slaughter studied him. "You do your job. I'll give you that. No, we're not sure about him. We've been edging around this subject since last night." He asked the medical examiner, "You're sure it was a dog that killed him, not a cat?"

"I told you."

"Swell." Slaughter stared down at the porch. "I need a beer. He looked around.

"Sure," Dunlap told him. "I'll take one."

Rettig: "Me as well."

The new man and the medical examiner already had one.

"I'll just bring a cooler." Slaughter entered the house.

Christ, what's the matter with you? Slaughter thought, trembling once the door was closed. You're damn near cracking up. A cat attacks you, and it's like you never used a gun before. What's happening to you?

I'm out of practice.

Weak and soft is more the truth. That easy life you told that guy about-you really fell for it. Hell, life's so easy for you that you lose your nerve when some stray cat jumps at you.

No, that isn't true. I do my job. I'm good at it.

But you know you're lying. You can go through years and years of doing what you think must be your best. But then you get in some real trouble, and you understand that you were coasting, and you didn't even know it.

Hell, I don't know why I even bother trying.

Sure you do. That emptiness inside. That grocery store. Those two kids. What they did to you.

You want to prove yourself.

And that purely was the truth.

He stood inside his small, neat kitchen, staring at two coolers filled with ice and beer, and he was thinking that he'd open one can right away. But that would be a public show of weakness, drinking before he brought out the cooler for the others. Maybe not in their eyes weakness. But in his. So he lifted one of the coolers and returned to the porch.

They didn't even look at him, just concentrated on the cooler as he opened it, the glinting ice, the cans of Bud. They made a ritual, all snapping tabs at once and raising beers as if in toast, then sipping.

"All right, so what do you suggest?" Slaughter asked the medical examiner. He hoped the beer would relax him.

"Well, no matter what you say, I want to see that cat. Tell your men to keep watching for animals that act strangely. I'll check the hospital for anyone who comes in bitten. The truth is, though, there's not a lot we can do until we have another incident."