Full Wolf Moon

FULL WOLF MOON

Book One of the

Full Wolf Moon Trilogy

A Novel By

K.L. NAPPIER

Copyright © 2004, 2007, 2009 owned by K.L. Nappier

All rights reserved under United States, International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Joe Kleinberg

www.directaccess.tv

Publishing History

Double Dragon Publishing eBook Edition/2004

Aisling Press Paperback Edition/2007

Presse Libertine eBook Edition/2009

Presse Libertine Paperback Edition/ 2009

Acknowledgments

How could I begin an Acknowledgments page with any other than the Indiana Writers Workshop? IWW has seen me through literary thick and thin for over twenty years.

But, during the rewriting and re-release of this novel, IWW suffered the loss of one of the founding members and matriarchs of our group, Patricia Watson Grande. No one was more dedicated to the principles of the group than Pat. No one could be more sorely missed. What she gave to me shows in everything I write. Pat, may you and Marge and Bob Stonehill spend eternity having "a marvelous time looking at God."

Above all, my deepest appreciation goes to my family. From the Florida Gulf to the Windy City region to the Gateway to the West to the California Coast, you are all never farther from me than my own heart.

R.I.T.R.

FULL WOLF MOON

A Novel By

K.L. NAPPIER

Prologue

Navajo Reservation, Northern Arizona

March, 1942

First Night. Full Moon.

The beast crested the lip of the plateau, the sands of the desert like sharded bone, blanched under moonlight. One mile away the lights of Long Walk glittered, the scents of the settlement dilute at this distance but sorted easily inside an unnatural muzzle, over broad tongue, through scythe-like fangs.

Its pelt sparking silver under the full moon, the beast tensed on haunches grotesque with power, its nose tilted to the cold desert night, lust for fear and blood rushing upward into a howl that ruptured the night's hush.

Its eyes narrowed. Its maw settled into a steady panting. When it was ready, the beast galloped over the dunes, swift as plague, until it was in the streets of Long Walk.

Chapter 1

Lakeside Post Assembly Center

Disjunction Lake, Eastern California

August, 1942

Midmorning. First Quarter Moon.

After the accident, Max learned to lean on his lesser senses to compensate the blur of his eyesight. So, with the window down in the taxi, it was the lack of scent that he noticed most about this place. It seemed odd to him that the dark, moist-earth aroma of water would be absent from a lake town. He had expected this post to be similar to his old station in Washington state, where the loamy scents of timberland were heavy in the morning air. But this tour's locale had more in common with the deserts of Arizona that he had just left behind, their smells fleeting and delicate, laced with sage.

The cabby steered beneath the assembly center's main watchtower and, at last, Max was greeted with a strong aroma. The tower's beams smelled of new lumber. Two M.P.'s gazed down from above, their vigil striking him as both noble and gargoyle-like. According to the briefing he had received, just last year this place was a sprawling collection of campgrounds and cabin rentals. Now the cabins housed the military, and long, bare dormitories rowed the grounds where families once pitched vacation tents.

The cabby pulled into the officers' graveled parking area. Max paid him and walked toward the bare wood building marked in large, white letters UNITED STATES ARMY and, under that, ADMINISTRATION. Even with the aid of his thick glasses, the letters were fuzzy around the edges, but he could read them well enough to know that was where he needed to go.

The building was only big enough to house essential offices. The processing of internees was being done next to it under a large, khaki awning that billowed and sagged in the lumber-scented breeze. Max could make out the forms of eight soldiers -probably corporals- seated at a table beneath it. The soldiers flanking them would be M.P.'s.

Before them stretched eight lines of people. From this distance, their clothing formed a multicolored bar to Max's eyes. But he estimated there were, perhaps, two hundred of them. Two hundred lined up in the dust, far from their homes, waiting to be taken away. Waiting in silence, every one of them, down to the babies. The drone of information being given at the front of the lines was the only sound.

As he neared, he made out the familiar shape and color of an American Legion Women's Auxiliary hat. A few people ahead of that hat, the sun's rays glinted off polished disks, flashing against someone's chest. War medals. That would be an old man, of course, a Great War veteran, because the latest war had only just begun for the Americans. What wasn't clear to Max's wounded eyes was obvious to his mind. That woman and old man were making a point with their patriotism as they waited silently in line in the dust.

American clothes. American mannerisms. American hairdos. Japanese faces. Max didn't need to see well to know the common features of those in line. He saw shapes within the blur of color shifting, as if turning to watch him pass, and he looked ahead quickly, toward the doorway that was his goal.

The WAAC lifted her gaze from her work, then stood when he entered. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning. Captain Maxwell Pierce to see Captain Eshelmann."

"Of course, sir."

She escorted him down a hollow corridor, interrupted here and there with square entryways still waiting for doors. Uniformed occupants, exposed to Max's view, had their noses to paperwork as if embarrassed to be so denuded. At the end of the hall, directly before Max, was the captain's office. The only one with a door.

Inside, the office was barren and unfinished, its new wood scent overwhelming. Max was close enough now to see faces, and this duty hadn't been the commanding officer's cup of tea, from the looks of him. His skin was gray as ash. Still the C.O. rose gamely from the box he was packing and shook hands, his demeanor relaxed, captain to captain.

"Victor Eshelmann," he said, by way of introduction.

"Maxwell Pierce. Max, if you like. Good to meet you."

"Have a seat." Eshelmann fished about in his shirt pocket. "Cigarette?"

"No, thank you. I don't smoke."

"Mmm." Eshelmann settled behind his desk and flicked the lid back on his lighter. "You may start before too long, with this assignment." He smiled wanly as he lighted up, then saluted Max with the cigarette. "Welcome to the wasteland, new C.O."

Max smiled in return. He was on his best behavior, but in reality he had little sympathy for this man. He removed his wire-rimmed glasses, pulled his handkerchief from a back pocket and wiped at the thick lenses.

"I'm not the commanding officer yet. And I know it's not always a pleasure to serve," he said as sincerely as he could.

Eshelmann didn't reply. He looked out the dusty window to his right and changed the subject. "Where were you stationed before, Captain?"

"In Arizona, Fort Morriston. I was expecting cooler weather and greener hills here at Lakeside. But looking around, I almost feel at home."

"Well, you have to keep in mind we're close to the Nevada border."

"Beautiful country back in Arizona," Max said, "if you're inclined to desert. Morriston's north, just outside the border of the Navajo Reservation there. I got to know a number of the residents from the town of Long Walk..."

He had intended to entertain the C.O. with tale about the locals, but stopped. Eshelmann didn't seem all that interested, nodding absently and looking toward the window, the one facing Processing. "Indians corralled on reservations, foreign nationals herded to Lakeside. Lord only knows where people like that get their resolve."

So where's your resolve, Captain? Max thought, but he left it unsaid. There was no point in admonishing Eshelmann. And it would be borderline hypocrisy. Max had yearned for assembly center duty as soon as Relocation was announced. He was glad Eshelmann couldn't cut it.

"I'll do everything I can to make the transition as easy as possible for them, Captain," Max replied.

"The general said you were the right man for this." Eshelmann stubbed out his cigarette in a saucer-turned-ashtray. "But, then again, you haven't had the chance to meet Doris Tebbe yet."

"Who?"

"Doris Tebbe. She's the Center Administrator for Tulenar Internment Camp. That's where our transferees are headed."

"The War Relocation Authority has a woman as C.A.?"

"Believe it or not."

"She there because of a favor or because she's good?"

Eshelmann gave a short laugh. "She has connections. But she's the toughest damn skirt I've ever met, and I suppose that makes her good. Pushy broads get on my nerves, personally. But maybe that's your type, Captain, and you two will get along fine." He sighed, fingered through his shirt pocket for another cigarette. "I'm just damn glad my transfer came through... It's not that I'm soft on the Japs, you understand..."

"I didn't think --"

"And I'm not blind to the hysteria, either. Those people out there will be safer in the camps than their own homes."

Eshelmann stood and walked over to the window, lighting up on the way. When he spoke again, Max wasn't sure if Eshelmann was addressing him or just talking to himself.

"We'll just all be safer."

/ / / /

When Max left the C.O., his heart was pounding. He could barely wait until Eshelmann was packed and out. This tour had real purpose to it, real meat. At this particular relocation project, the commanding officer's duties even included authority over the military police stationed at Tulenar. The workload was enormous, more than enough to keep him occupied, more than enough to put him to bed at night too exhausted to think. He was nearly out the reception room door when the secretary's phone rang and the WAAC said, "Captain Pierce, a call for you."

He turned to the secretary. "Already?"

"It's Mrs. Tebbe, sir."

Max took the phone. "This is Captain Pierce."

"Captain, Doris Tebbe, C.A., Tulenar. I just wanted to say welcome to the zoo."

"Thank you..."

"We need to arrange a get-acquainted session as soon as possible."

"Certainly, Mrs. Tebbe. When I get settled I'll --"

"Will this evening work out for you, Captain?"

"No. No, it won't. I've only just arrived today."

"Well, I assume your kitchen cupboards are bare, then. Why don't I meet you for dinner at a location convenient to us both. Are you staying at the Starbright Motel or the Red Shore?"

"Mrs. Tebbe, I plan on a very early meal. I'll be back at Captain Eshelmann's office by six tomorrow morning."

"That won't be a problem for me. I plan on an early morning myself."

Max bit back a curt refusal. There was no use in starting off on the wrong foot. He gave her his address.

She said, "Have your driver take you to 'Yow Lee's Dim Sum'. Do you like Chinese food?"

"The usual fare.."

"Then a change will do you good. Is four too early?"

"Four o'clock...?"

"See you then, Captain."

Max handed the receiver back to the secretary, who was smirking. He smiled. "Civilians."

/ / / /

Walking through the restaurant's door, Max couldn't even tell which patrons were men and which were women. He moved toward the lone figure sitting at a far table on assumption. But once he was close enough, he would have known Mrs. Tebbe had there been women alone at every table. Like a man, she stood when he approached. She looked just the way he had expected after their telephone conversation; tallish, in her mid-thirties, broad-shouldered beneath her prudent, gray suit. She was the first to offer her hand. Her dark red hair was sensibly fashionable - but mostly sensible - tucked into a black, no frills snood.

"Captain," she said, "I knew it was you when you walked in the door. You look just like your voice sounds."

"It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Tebbe." They sat.

"Yow Lee's is a favorite of mine," she said. "Only dim sum. It's really a lunch item, but Mr. Yow's no fool. He knows most government people don't keep regular hours, so he's extended his. Plum wine, Captain?"

"I've never tried it."

Mrs. Tebbe pushed her wine glass toward him, then hailed a waiter. "Give it a sip. I'll order a bottle."

Max was tempted to decline the bottle. Mrs. Tebbe's manner irritated him as much in person as on the telephone. But he had to admit to himself that he liked the plum wine, thick and sweet on his tongue, and he thought it was ridiculous to refuse out of some vain principle. He told himself to relax. He'd been fairly warned by Eschelmann and, in any case, would he expect a woman in her position to be dainty and coy?

Max looked around the restaurant, then caught sight of Mrs. Tebbe and himself in a mirror on the near-by wall. He thought he looked like the dainty one, slender-faced and lanky, thick glasses flashing. Annie used to tell him that he was the Jimmy Stewart type, gracefully handsome. He touched the silver that spanned his temples to his ears. He was suddenly aware that Mrs. Tebbe was watching him.

"You look just fine," she said.

/ / / /

By the end of the meal, Max had control of the chopsticks. He sampled every dim sum in the carts as they were rolled to the table. Mrs. Tebbe had been insistent: "Try this one, it's shrimp in garlic sauce. And this one's pork in plum sauce."

Max worked his way through them, clumsily at first, then becoming more adept at lifting the little dumplings. Foreheads shining from the food trays' pungent steam, the servers tread back and forth to Mrs. Tebbe and Max. Two other tables were still peopled, but by five-thirty, it was clear the owner was ready to close. Short and round, Mr. Yow stood attentively behind the cash register, too polite and business-minded to hint more overtly.

As Max poured the last of the wine, Mrs. Tebbe said, "Captain, you're the fastest student of chopsticks I have had the pleasure to teach."

"Oh, yeah? When does the cramp between my finger and thumb ease up?"

Mrs. Tebbe smiled, pleasant and all business, then posed a question like a newspaper reporter. "So, what can you tell me about yourself?"

"Want me to start with my childhood?"

"How about just telling me the path that brought you to Lakeside?"

"I was stationed in Arizona, but I was only there six months when the Relocation was announced. I requested a transfer immediately. The need seemed more urgent than standard duty. But for most of my career, I was at Fort Bete in Washington state..."

He thought of Annie. But he didn't speak of her to Mrs. Tebbe. It was painful enough, just to think of her. He wouldn't risk the torment of saying her name aloud.

"Fort Bete?"

"It's close to the Canadian border. Very wild country."

The attack came to mind, as inevitably as thoughts of his wife. He could never speak of Fort Bete without either happening. Max was quiet a moment, as reluctant to tell Mrs. Tebbe about the attack as he was to talk of Annie. It hadn't occurred to him he might have to deal with it so soon here at Lakeside. But from time to time, Mrs. Tebbe's eyes flitted up to where the scar, eight months old and still baby pink, jutted past his hairline. It was probably best to just get it over with.

"I even went on a wolf hunt while I was there, near the end of my tour," he said, and reached to the scar. "I got this then, and the white temples."

At least Mrs. Tebbe didn't pretend she hadn't noticed the scar until he pointed it out. Neither did she pretend that she heard such things every day.

"You were attacked?"

"Yep."

"You must have seen your life pass."

Max took a breath. "The wolf had become a man-eater for Who-knows-what-reason. It'd made several kills in Alderquest, near the Fort. Needless to say, the townspeople were in a panic. A few of us volunteered to help the civilians hunt it down."

"Isn't that strange behavior for a wolf? I don't know myself, it's just that I read somewhere..."

"I understand it is. There was a veterinarian that made rounds through the county. He was sure the wolf was rabid." Maxwell smiled. "But the group of old backwoodsmen I wound up hunting with were convinced Alderquest had a werewolf."

Mrs. Tebbe leveled a doubtful look at him. "You can't be serious."

"They were, Mrs. Tebbe. There were four of us... I was the kid there at forty. The youngest after me was sixty-two. They even had special cartridges made up with silver casings..." Mrs. Tebbe laughed and that startled Max, but he managed to smile. "I'm not making this up. These old boys insisted I use them. I figured, sure, what the heck. We were after a man-eater and if silver cartridges gave them a boost in confidence, what could it hurt?"

Then came the image and he lost his humor, he lost his smile. His palms felt slick, as if they were bleeding.

"It was our party that found the wolf. Or maybe it found us. It didn't look ... surprised. We broke into a clearing in the forest and it was just standing there, facing us. You'd think it was waiting..."

Max looked at Mrs. Tebbe but he was only dimly aware of her face, tense with attention. He swallowed and said, "It was enormous. It was the most awful and most beautiful thing I'd seen in my life. And I believe ... no, I know the others were thinking the same thing. The pelt looked like brushed silver, and the eyes... I can't come close to the eyes, how to describe them."

He had to stop a moment, rub his palms against his trousers. "I suppose it was those eyes that froze us once we'd come upon it. It was on the old man in front of me before any of us lifted a rifle. Like it already knew who to take. I had no idea an animal could move that fast. Not a hesitation, not a glance at the rest of us. Just ripped through and..." Maxwell caught his breath, stopping himself short from telling her what the wolf had done to the old man in a matter of seconds, just before: "It came for me."

"Oh, my God..."

"I'm not sure if I raised my rifle or if it discharged from the force of the blow. But I remember...I remember the inside of the wolf's mouth, feeling its breath on my eyes...then red. Lots of red, lots of noise. I guess I opened my eyes... my head was resting on one of the old men's laps... the wolf was a few feet away with a hole through its chest..."

Maxwell touched his temple. "My vision was 20/20 before the wolf attack. The doctors think it's related to the head wound. The wolf tore back my scalp, cracked the skull..."

Mrs. Tebbe closed her eyes and put a hand to her mouth.

"I'm sorry," he said, quickly. "I don't know why I told you that. You can see the scar, I didn't need to..."

The image of the dead woodsman flashed across his mind again, and he felt a surge of nausea.

"Don't be, Captain," Mrs. Tebbe replied. "Really. Here..." She handed him the napkin he'd discarded on the table. "You're sweating."

Max looked into the mirror and saw the streams flowing down his face. He mopped at his forehead, embarrassed, wondering why he hadn't realized he'd been perspiring so heavily. He pulled off his glasses, polished them reflexively, then gestured toward his eyes and tried to smile.

"Cost me five years worth of favors and the promise of my right arm when I retire," he said, hoping to lighten the mood. "But I managed to convince the brass to keep me."

The attack also cost him the hope of ever getting a truly plum post. But those aspirations weren't important to him anymore. After all that had happened to him, he had acquired a fondness for the remote.

After an awkward moment, it was Mrs. Tebbe who said, "Well. I need to get back. Thank you, Captain, for joining me."

"It's been a pleasure." Maxwell reached for the check but, to his surprise, Mrs. Tebbe was quicker, snatching it up.

"Now, now, Captain. I did the inviting, remember?"

Maxwell's cheeks flushed. "Mrs. Tebbe, how can I allow--"

"Come on, Captain. Compliments of the War Relocation Authority. If you must save your male ego, leave the tip."

"I...well. If you put it that way."

Max stood with Mrs. Tebbe and fumbled in his pockets long enough for her to gather her things and walk toward Mr. Yow, waiting by the cash register. He didn't have any change left and would have to over tip with a paper dollar. He didn't want Mrs. Tebbe thinking he was a spend thrift. He'd given up the last of his coins for the cabby's tip, a roll and half of pennies. The cabby had given him a squinty, perplexed look, something Max had become accustomed to and had even developed an answer for: "Sorry. I couldn't make it to the bank in time to change them."

The truth was, since the attack, he never kept any coins except copper. Just the touch of silver made his skin crawl.

Chapter 2

Tulenar Internment Camp

Twenty Miles North of Disjunction Lake

Eastern California

Morning. Second Quarter Moon.

Doris raised the bow, sighted, took a deep breath and held it...then released the arrow. It struck just short of the bull's eye. The next one struck slightly further from the goal. The third hit the mark true.

Over her shoulder, Doris heard, "Wow."

She turned to Maxwell Pierce, knowing she was hiding her irritation poorly, but apparently, the captain didn't notice. Without asking permission, he walked toward the target until he was close enough to see her shots, one finger to his glasses as he peered at the arrows.

"Where'd you learn to do that?" he asked as he walked back.

She returned her attention to the bow. "At Sarah Lawrence."

She sighted, repeated her ritual and fell far short of the mark. Damn, she hated it when strangers watched her shoot. It was what kept her off varsity. She set her bow and quiver on the folding chair she used as a stack table and jacket hanger, then turned to Lakeside's new commander.

"You're here early. How're the first days going? Settled into your new office?" She removed her arm brace and protective half-vest.

"All settled."

"I phoned Eshelmann yesterday to say bon-voyage. He never sounded better."

"You two didn't get along very well, did you?"

"No." Doris tossed the leather garb onto the chair, then grabbed her suit jacket. Tugging it on, she asked, "Did Harriet tell you I was out back?"

"I saw you as I left my car."

"How was your drive from Lakeside?"

"It seems longer than half an hour."

"Sometimes it does." As she escorted the captain to the administration building, she said, "Well, come in, Captain, and we'll start the tour."

The C.O.'s driver was lighting a Chesterfield as he sat on the back steps, but he stood quickly and held the door open for them. Doris escorted Pierc through the broad rectangle of building, walking as diagonally as possible through the sprawl of desks and folding tables. The supervisors, the social workers, the secretaries -all civilian, mostly internees- were even more exposed than Lakeside's personnel. Here at Tulenar, the only true office belonged to the Center Administrator.

They were near the main entrance now and Harriet Haku looked up briefly from her typing as they came up behind her, then set back to it. Doris tapped the secretary's desk and said, "Get us a couple of coffees, okay?"

Doris and the captain walked into her barren, wooden office, its walls jutting outside the building's main frame like an afterthought. She was determined to resist the comforts she had in storage until the evacuees had a few comforts of their own. She knew other Center Administrators were not of the same mind, and she considered that poor judgment. Only the necessities were here; desk, chairs, a picture of her late husband and a file cabinet filled with information that would be mundane outside the camp confines.

"Sorry we're so Spartan," she said perfunctorily as she settled behind her desk.

The captain pulled one of the two straight-backed chairs to the side of it. "It's the same at Lakeside."

"It's bad for attitudes, this empty space. Still, I've never seen the government move so fast. Once the Relocation was decided, the camps almost sprang up overnight. They never went into action like that while I was politicking. If they'll only be as quick now for the internees' needs, we might have an element of respect to find from our 'residents'."

She didn't disguise her contempt for that euphemism.

"You have a political career, Mrs. Tebbe?"

"No, my husband did. He was a senator..."

"Not the late Abel Tebbe?"

She reached to his picture and turned it so the captain could see. "The same. And so you can get your focus back, I'll get rid of that question bulging behind your brow. Yes, Captain, there was a twenty-five year difference between us." She turned the picture back to its usual place. "But, even before I married, I was politically active. When I started squeaking my wheel for involvement in the camps, the powers-that-be thought they'd found the perfect spot to keep me happy and out of their hair." She smiled. "'Best laid plans', as they say."

"I'm sorry..."

"Excuse me?"

"About your husband's passing. I'm sorry."

It took a moment for the captain's words to register. The thought of her widowhood seemed to genuinely affect him.

"Well...thank you, Captain, but... if you're familiar with my late husband, then you must know he died almost ten years ago."

She thought Pierce was about to say more, but he didn't. Thankfully, Harriet knocked on the door and entered with the coffee service, setting it on the desk between Doris and the captain.

Doris was already standing, pouring her own cup, as she said, "Grab your poison, Captain, and we'll get started."

/ / / /

From the hills where the Center Administration Building and WRA officials'living quarters perched, the bulk of Tulenar Internment Camp could be viewed. The ground was raw, flat and brown beneath the tarpaper barracks, divided into blocks of fourteen. There was activity at the camp's perimeters, where the fence was being erected, and the M.P.'s motored slowly along their posts in hoodless Jeeps, keeping clear of the construction. The buses with the day's transferees had not arrived yet, so the goings-on in the camp were reasonably languid as people moved about. By eleven o'clock, that would change.

The captain looked amazed as he gazed out at Tulenar's sprawl. "I knew the numbers. I came here prepared for the size of the camp, but...seeing it...it's like a small town..."

Doris nodded. "Almost a thousand souls here already, Captain." She pointed to the closest set of buildings. "Each block has smaller, central buildings that hold the laundry, latrines and lavatories. Most also have at least two buildings that function as churches. Or temples. A lot of the elderly internees are Shintoist, of course, and you might as well know now, Captain. I don't much like the official policy of prohibiting Shinto worship in the camps."

Pierce's reply was expected. Standard issue. But the lack of rigidity in his manner was not. "I'm sure you understand, Mrs. Tebbe, there's a risky aura to Shinto practice, oriented to emperor worship as it is. A religious practice that deifies the leader of an enemy nation, innocent as that practice may be, could be misinterpreted in confines like these. And times like these. I sympathize with your frustration, but I have to officially support that policy. However...suppose a Shintoist family, or a group of friends, have a get-together to discuss... oh, say... comparative religion. Perhaps they study rituals that relate to that topic...on an academic level, of course."

He shrugged, and Doris understood. Given a viable way out, if no trouble came of it, he would look the other way. Okay. A good sign. There might be a difference or two between Pierce and Eshelmann after all.

She cleared her throat, relaxed a little and brought Pierce's attention back to the nearest block. "A block houses two-hundred-and-fifty. This one's mess hall is the structure on the east end. The residents there are some of the 'veterans' of the camp. They've been here since late May, early June, and have their recreation hall pretty well established."

"Where's the hospital?"

"That's the double-sized, two story 'tar' at the far side of the camp. Can you see it?"

"Yes, of course. The schools...?"

"Elementary and high are side-by-side at the southern end of the southern most block. I'm sorry, Captain, about that clumsy question, you being able to see. I didn't mean --"

"No offense taken, Mrs. Tebbe."

There was a moment of awkwardness, then Doris said, "Well, let's go for a walk around one of the blocks."

It might have seemed easy to use the standard, black sedan issued to her by the WRA. But it was bad judgment, the way Doris saw it, to drive into camp unless she had to cover a lot of ground in a small amount of time. Only WRA and military personnel were permitted to have motor vehicles. But even if it didn't make the Center red more conspicuous, driving was simply uncomfortable. The tires spewed suffocating, red clouds that engulfed the car in seconds.

As it was now, dust swirled with every step. She felt the grit in her mouth, all the damn, inescapable dust that was as much a part of her offices and tarpaper house as it was the evacuees'. She was more aware of it when she came into the camp, though; that, and the early morning quiet. But there was always a sense of quiet in the camp, even when the place bustled. It's the undercurrent, Doris thought, the disorientation of displacement mixed with the all-too-clear understanding of what's happening.

They walked past a few women doing the first sweep of the day, the dust billowing like smoke out their doors; past children dressed in fresh, crisp clothes already powdered with a light, reddish coating. Between two barracks, some men were picking pieces of lumber from one of the scrap piles; leftovers from camp construction.

"By tomorrow that lumber will be serviceable furniture," Doris explained when the captain asked. "Uncle Sam isn't providing much more than food and shelter yet. Presently there are four families to each barracks. They don't have much privacy, but we hope to build solid partitions between each family as soon as more materials come in. Right now, they have to make do by stringing blankets across rope. We're encouraging tree planting, flowers...but, of course, that's not uppermost in their minds at this stage. For the time being, they're just trying to get some sort of organization back into their lives."

"Do you have many professionals in the camp, Mrs. Tebbe? Doctors, professors...?"

"Some --"

"What are they doing now?"

"What everyone else is doing, Captain. A few have filled out applications to work in their fields, but really everyone is just trying to get settled."

"May I make a suggestion?"

She didn't want to say, yes, of course, but she did.

"You may consider encouraging the professionals to concentrate on career-related matters," the captain said. "Let the others take up what slack there might be while the professionals focus on the schools, hospital, what-have-you. Your residents are feeling pretty dazed by what's happened, I assume..."

"While you're at it, assume they're worried and bitter."

"Giving the professionals tasks equal to them might help diffuse some of that. They'll likely emerge as the leaders here. Getting them occupied as soon as you can might expedite organization."

Captain Pierce stopped and looked around. "Sad business. Sad, sad business," he said.

Doris had to admit, the tone of his voice seemed genuine. So did the concern in his face. And his advice was sound, if obvious. She was already working on that angle, though she hadn't particularly thought about the professionals as leaders.

But she doubted the captain understood the opposing dynamics of the camp: the Nisei, Japanese-Americans, and the Issei, the Japanese Nationals. Already there was tension growing between the older generations in the camp -Issei, mostly - and their Nisei counterparts, virtually all in their twenties or younger.

Balancing two traditions was tricky enough in normal times, let alone these. And the tension was only made worse by the lack of middle-aged men, who were taken practically en masse to the nearest federal prisons months before the Relocation. With rare exception, none had yet been transferred. There were the women of the camp, of course, mostly the wives or relatives of the absent men. But to even consider women as social leaders would be anathema to the Issei, especially the eldest among them. Without the middle generation of men, the very young and the very old had few mediators.

"Your suggestion is sound to you or me, Captain, but the evacuees see leadership in a different way."

The captain shrugged and Doris cursed herself. Why hadn't she just said that she appreciated his suggestion and left it at that? She was already forgetting the commitment she had made to herself to get on well with Captain Pierce. Now here she was shooting down a simple suggestion when a plain sure, thanks would do.

"Let's head back," she said. "I've got a file load to clear before the new evacuees come in. I'm sure you do, too."

They began walking back toward the hill and the captain asked pleasantly enough, "So give me an example of a typical day for the C.A., Mrs. Tebbe."

Thank God, yes, let's move on to a little trivia. "Well, the relocation is too new for there to be any typical days, just yet. But, administrative tedium's already arrived. This morning, I'll be issuing permission to Block Three to create a small ornamental pond. Decision like that mean the world to them in a wasteland like this. And several blocks want to begin vegetable gardens. You know what some of the evacuees are saying, don't you? Especially the Issei population. They're saying the government is planning to manipulate the food supply of the camps."

"They've said that to you?"

"To me? Don't be silly."

"Good Lord. Where did they get that idea? Wild rumors don't make things easier ..."

"They know what's going on outside these confines, Captain. The Center canteens sell plenty of newspapers. And it's not as if one 'rumor' hasn't already proven true, is it? Remember that plan to allow resettlement inland, away from the coast? Instead here they are, American citizen and foreign national alike."

At the door, Doris offered her hand. "Thank you for coming, Captain." She wanted him out of there. Too much work to do, too much wasted time touring him around.

Captain Pierce took her hand in a firm shake. "Mrs. Tebbe, I'd like to be frank about something, if I may."

Now what? "Always. Please."

"I know this is a difficult responsibility. I admire you for requesting this duty, particularly because of your gender. By your manner, you've made it clear that you disapprove of Relocation. I appreciate how you feel, but we both know it's necessary. I think we both know, as well, that there will be officers and administrators who'll abuse their positions during the Relocation. But I feel that you and I are like-minded enough to see that Tulenar and its assembly center will be run without prejudice."

A stony silence piled up between them. Doris surprised herself by keeping her tone even when she said, "Well, me too, Captain. But I'm not doing much about it by standing here. If you'll excuse me..."

/ / / /

The half-moon rose in the east, translucent against the sky as it chased the sun, red and raw-looking, into the western mountains. There was a twenty-minute break in the madness of the day, and Doris was flinging arrows at her target. She wasn't doing a very good job. Harriet Haku cleared her throat as she walked up behind her.

"Thanks for the warning, Harriet."

"I just wanted to let you know I was heading back."

Heading back. Harriet never called the barracks "home." Doris turned to her secretary.

"Anything new I should know?"

"Not really," Harriet replied. "I put a reminder on your desk about Block Four. They've chosen a manager and he wants to see you after Ten's council meeting tonight."

"I remember."

Doris had a good, professional relationship with Harriet, one of the "older" Nisei, in her late twenties. But the distance was always there between them. Now she looked at Harriet's features, those of her heritage and those that were uniquely her own. Her face was more triangular than round. Her cheekbones were set unusually high. The faint lines at her eyes would someday be crow's feet. Her forehead was broad and small. Harriet was looking back just as frankly.

"Something else before I go?"

"No, Harriet, thanks. Sorry." She rubbed her eyes. "My spark plugs aren't all firing right now."

"Good night."

What had she tried to see in Harriet's face, just then? Maybe nothing. Doris felt more tired than usual, and she knew part of it was disappointment. Things were already edgy between her and the new C.O. She would be lying to herself if she didn't own up to how badly she'd handled things, but ...

Necessary. He'd called the Relocation necessary. Damn. He was just another military man, after all. She had really hoped he might be a different animal.

Chapter 3

Lakeside Post Assembly Center

Evening. Second Quarter Moon.

Max sat in the dark in Eshelmann's little cabin, eyes closed, glasses perched on the easy chair's arm. The house didn't feel like home yet. It still held the scents of Eshelmann.

He was thinking about the long day he'd just spent. He had awoken full of enthusiasm, but that enthusiasm had taken some hits once he'd begun the tour with Doris Tebbe. Civilians and military. Oil and water. Who the hell thought up the grand idea of having the Army run the assembly centers and a civilian council run the camps? It was a bad arrangement. The Relocation would go more smoothly if it were fish or fowl, but not both.

He put his glasses back on, rose and went to the kitchen for a beer. He reached into the Frigidaire, popped the bottle cap at the wall-mounted opener and drank a quarter of the brew in one gulp, knowing his inner argument was a pointless one. The Army was here, the War Relocation Authority was here and that was that. He moved through the little cabin's rooms, feeling Eshelmann everywhere.

How did things go so wrong so fast between Doris Tebbe and him? She sure as hell didn't try very hard to things easier. She was pissed from the moment he walked up behind her while she was at her archery.

"Screwed up right at the get-go," he said to himself.

Of course, her attitude had a lot to do with how she obviously felt about the Relocation. She didn't simply dislike it, she was opposed to it. Grudgingly, he had to give her credit for the conviction he saw in her small, cool eyes. Especially since she wanted an appointment as a center administrator. Bet she had to fight tooth and nail for it, considering her views and her sex. There was a lot to admire about a woman like that, rather he liked her or not.

He smiled a little, remembering how she bristled when he called the Relocation necessary. Yeah, that one was his fault. He could have waited a day or two before delivering his little speech, but he was eager to test the waters. One way or the other, it had to be said. She had to know where he stood on the matter. The Relocation was necessary.

He thought about the newspapers and the official reports, warning of the dangers of subversive activity near coastal military installations. He thought of the accounts of angry, fear-struck Americans taking the war out on other Americans who happened to have yellow skin and almond eyes. He remembered a newspaper picture of the San Francisco Chinese with large lapel buttons reading "I AM CHINESE," hoping avoid being spat on or molested. He took four more gulps, finishing off the beer.

He thought of the anguished faces of the transferees as they boarded the buses that morning at the assembly center. They knew less about their destination, Tulenar, than Max did. He doubted there would be a single subversive in twenty busloads of Nisei and Issei; a true fifth columnist, the favored term these days for a disloyalist. One whose heart beats for Japan. One who might be willing to work subtly, seditiously for the sake of the emperor.

But that one possibility did exist, whether Max doubted it or not. And that one, theoretical subversive was dooming the whole coastal population of Japanese and their North American children -from southern California to northern Canada- to barbed wire and dormitories for as long as the war might last. Prison. Mrs. Tebbe no doubt thought of Tulenar as a prison, and she was right. Life was detestable at times like these. And there wasn't a goddamned thing a man could do about it.

He walked out the front door and stood on the little porch. The scent of the house's wood ambled past his nose. Tomorrow he'd try to find the time to unpack some of his personal things, spruce up the rooms, add some comforts.

He looked out at the administration building of the assembly center. Then his gaze wandered to the dormitories, where the transferees were housed with nothing to do but wait on the Army's decision to bus them to Tulenar. He couldn't see well past the administration building. The golden lights of the dormitory windows seemed fuzzy and distant.

He lifted his face to the black sky, the stars too small for his wounded eyes to discern. But the moon was easy to see, half-born and moving to maturity.

Chapter 4

Tulenar Internment Camp

Midmorning. Full Moon.

The new arrivals -over two hundred of them- squinted at Doris, perched on the little grandstand, the morning sun relentlessly in their eyes. Paper tags tied to the fronts of jackets, shirts and blouses twisted in the gusty breeze. Evacuees were told the tags ensured that family members wouldn't be inadvertently separated. True. But this was a secondary value. Doris had no doubt her charges understood the real advantage of having the internees neatly reduced to numerical code.

Elsewhere in the melee of people, stood long tables overburdened with suitcases and duffel bags. The camp's Interior Security Police -Nisei, mainly, but overseen by WRA supervisors- checked batches of luggage for any contraband that may have slipped past Lakeside Assembly Center. Nearby, an official pulled a Kodak from a steamer trunk and handed it to the supervisor, who said to the guilty woman, "I'm sorry, Ma'am. Photographic equipment is not allowed." Doris raised her megaphone and her voice over the woman's protests to begin her speech.

"Good morning. I'm Mrs. Doris Tebbe, Center Administrator for Tulenar. The War Relocation Authority hopes to make your stay here as comfortable as possible and wishes to reassure you that the government is doing everything it can to make this stay as brief as possible. To the east are the registration tables. Besides registering, if you have any loose ends regarding your homes or property storage, any questions about the security of your monetary assets, the registrars will direct you to the Federal Reserve Bank's station. You will also receive information about your coupon allotments. After you've registered, you will be escorted to your assigned dormitory blocks.

"Conditions here are not as monotonous as at the assembly center. Most of the blocks have well-supplied recreation halls, many have playgrounds with swings, monkey bars and volleyball nets. Several have libraries and toy loan centers. And there are plans for a Shibai Theatre to be erected within the next few months. There are also many positions to be filled, such as medical and academic, farming and food production, our local printing press. Once you are settled into your quarters, staff interviewers will visit to discuss all the options. May I stress, however, that no one is required to work, and that the War Relocation Authority will indeed carry out its obligation to see to your needs. But for those who wish to help improve the quality of life here at Tulenar, there are many paying options. Salaries begin at $14.00 a month. Now please step over to registration."

Twice more she had to deliver her speech. Twice more she heard the startled complaints crackle through the masses: More registration! How many times must we line up and be counted? At last Doris could step off the stand, the long day still ahead of her. She made her way over to the high school.

Classes were not yet in progress, but the long, flat structure was taking in and returning a steady stream of people, both evacuee and staff, readying the place for the coming school year. It would have been an almost homey sight, actually, except for one thing...whitewash graffiti scrawled across the tarpaper: JAP PRISON. SET US FREE.

It wasn't the first case of vandalism since the camp opened. Probably wouldn't be the last. And her heart wasn't really in the dead-end task of trying to find the culprits but she was, after all, Center Administrator. A few of the Issei had requested something be done, and the present WRA head of the internee's police force, a fellow by the name of Eaves, was less than enthusiastic about his duties.

She watched the comings and goings a while. She was no closer to figuring out how to start investigating than when the complaint was first brought to her. Then she saw a clergyman emerge from the school, his sleeves rolled above his elbows, his Anglican collar stiff and white above the black shirt.

"Reverend..." She headed toward him and remembered to bow, courteously but with brevity, then thrust out her hand. "Doris Tebbe, C.A."

He smiled a polite, distant smile and accepted the handshake. Without returning the bow. "Is it Mrs. or Miss Tebbe? I'm Arthur Satsugai. Something I can help you with?"

The inflection in his voice startled her. It was completely American. In spite of his collar, she had assumed the minister was an Issei, a Japanese-national, because he was clearly in his forties. Middle forties, Doris estimated.

"Well...uh, it's Mrs. And I don't know really. I was asked to do a little investigating by some of the Issei residents of Block Four." She motioned to the defiled school wall. "The graffiti..."

"I see." His smile remained aloof. "I assure you, Mrs. Tebbe, I didn't do it."

Doris laughed too nervously, still frustrated by her mistake. "And I'd so hoped for a confession. Are you from one of the blocks near the school, Reverend? Is it Reverend or Father or...?"

"In the Episcopal tradition, Mister and Father are both correct. I have no preference. Your choice. And yes, to your first question. Block Four. You're wondering if I've seen anything?"

"Or heard something. Perhaps a teenaged boy boasting to his friends. I'm aware of a group of Nisei youngsters who like to call themselves the Inu Hunters. Inu is Japanese for dog, isn't that correct...that is...do you know?"

"Yes, I do and, yes, it is."

"Mrs. Haku, my secretary, has had an encounter with one or two of their membership. They jeered her, called her an informant stooge. It seems to me someone from the group would be the likely suspect."

"I see."

"You've not heard anything that might be helpful?"

"Is it the graffiti you're concerned about, Mrs. Tebbe, or the cat calling?"

Doris's chagrin evaporated. "Mr. Satsugai. I don't want to clap leg irons on a group of young boys who have every right to their anger. But appropriate discipline is in order. Whoever these young men are, they're upsetting the older residents because their frustration is manifest here." Doris pointed to the white wash. "Do you know something or don't you?"

"'Appropriate discipline.' In a prison camp surrounded by military police. Believe me, Mrs. Tebbe, I'm being completely honest when I say that I don't know who painted those words on the school. But if I did -under the circumstances- I wouldn't tell you."

Doris crossed her arms, but Mr. Satsugai continued:

"Much as I'd like to trust my government, I wouldn't turn our children over to your police because of cat calls and white wash."

Her first thought was to object. She wasn't a bully! She wasn't going to toss them into a military brig! She looked into his calm, steady eyes, at level with her own, and something occurred to her. This had to be the minister she had been hearing about through the social workers. Only three months in the camp, but his reputation for leadership was growing with Issei and Nisei alike. An idea lit up inside her.

"All right, Mr. Satsugai. What about policing them yourself?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you think you can do a better job organizing the internee police force than I can?"

She watched Mr. Satsugai's face reflect confusion, then skepticism. "Are you serious?"

"Very much so."

When he smiled this time, it seemed to Doris the distance was lessened.

/ / / /

Her palms were clammy and her stomach queasy. Too much coffee and no lunch. But it had been a productive afternoon with Mr. Satsugai, in spite of the contentious sparring:

"How much authority do the internee police have, Mrs. Tebbe?"

"You have it all. There's a reason M.P.'s aren't seen within Tulenar's confines. Their duties are limited to unauthorized ingress or egress. By law, they can't interfere with internee matters, barring major emergencies."

"Major emergencies. Like peaceable dissent, for instance...?"

"Legal, peaceable dissent is your birth right, Mr. Satsugai."

"Yes, of course. The government wouldn't dream of infringing on our birth rights."

His inclination to treat her like an adversary rankled. Doris's insistence that she didn't like the circumstances any more than he only seemed to grate on him more. Still... she had to admit she felt a certain zing when the arguments flared. The particular importance she placed on his good will caught Doris by surprise.

In the end, they managed to wrestle out a basic plan for the internee police. There was no getting around the fact that the police had to be overseen by a WRA supervisor, but there was no policy forbidding the Center Administrator from being the supervisor. All Doris had to do was delegate a couple of other responsibilities to one of her staff, and she knew exactly who. Eaves, the present police supervisor.

Mr. Satsugai would be her liaison and, effectively, police chief. Neither of them foresaw a problem with that. This wasn't exactly the Wild West and, from the looks of things, the mischief of the Inu Hunters was about as exciting as policing would get.

Now they grew quiet. Mr. Satsugai sat across from Doris at the desk and seemed to toy with the idea of pouring another coffee for himself, but withdrew his fingers from the pot's handle. They were slender fingers. He wore no rings. Did Episcopal ministers marry, Doris wondered?

She watched as he rose and walked to her window, where he looked out at the sun sinking behind the camp. He was taller than most of the evacuees. His eyes were large and brown, somewhat rounded, perhaps, yet still distinctly Asian. The laugh lines at their corners were generous, and occasional white streaked the blue-black of his hair. He was a nice looking man. Doris felt a sudden need to get him out of her office.

"I've kept you too long, Mr. Satsugai," she said and stood, joining him at the window. "I appreciate your input. I think this has been a very good start."

"I do, too," he replied.

They watched Harriet Haku's husband and little daughter come up the hill toward the offices. From time to time they did that, to walk Harriet back to their dormitory. That child was one of the lucky ones, having both mother and father in the camp already.

"They want some time alone together," Mr. Satsugai said.

"Oh? Do you know the Hakus?"

"I know the pattern. We don't have much privacy in those barracks."

That was particularly true of the bachelor quarters, made up mostly of Issei widowers, at least until younger, unmarried men would be transferred from prison. Like Harriet's husband, Mr. Satsugai was one of the exceptions to the rule. One of the early releases.

"You surprised me this morning," he said, changing the subject. "I wasn't expecting ... well, I wasn't expecting the Center Administrator to be so...conciliatory." He turned to her, looking at her much too long for comfort, then walked back to his chair.

She watched as he slipped on his black suit coat and said to him, "I look forward to the meeting with the blocks' council heads. I appreciate you co-chairing it with me."

"I'll get back to you Wednesday with a date." He began toward the door, then stopped. "I'm very glad we ran into each other, Mrs. Tebbe."

"Me, too," Doris replied crisply, nervous with the warmth in her guest's voice. "This plan might not have happened otherwise."

Mr. Satsugai looked at her a moment more. He seemed amused. "Good night," he said.

She watched him from her window as the evening gloomed and he made his way toward camp. She felt suddenly and keenly alone in her barren, wooden office, as the night fell and the full moon, nearly risen, rolled toward emergence.

Chapter 5

Tulenar Internment Camp

First Night. Full Moon.

There wasn't an inch of earth the beast didn't know. It had roamed the world since the dawn of humanity, its memory rich and full, flowing through muscle and brain. Loping along the road to Tulenar after the long, burning run, it was confident in direction, comfortable with the path, eyes bright and fixed toward its goal.

A quarter mile before reaching camp, it veered toward the hills and climbed to a weather-ravaged point that overlooked the high, new fence and lighted windows. The moon shone down from a cloudless sky, the beast's silver pelt sparking where the breeze rippled the fur. Here, it waited for the camp's lights to wink out.

There were tales in the scents floating up to the beast. The guards at their posts evoked little interest. The wooden structure on the hill and its little village of fresh, wooden houses, leaked intriguing anxieties but the beast would ignore them tonight. The scents told the beast that the best kills were in the camp proper. It padded down the hillside and circled to Tulenar's eastern edge.

The barbed wire snapped like sparrows' bones between its jaws, the metallic taste reminiscent of blood and teasing the beast toward its desire. The kill was warm and moving two structures ahead, an old male. By the way his scent filtered through the smell of wood, the beast knew he was still in the barracks.

It swiveled its ears toward the prey's shelter, the smells and sounds of future kills dulling as they settled into sleep. But in a moment the distinctness of the chosen one sifted away from the others. His were lazy murmurs and shuffling, then gradually he became more active, moving to the far end of the barracks.

The kill emerged. But with him were two young ones, a male and female, their redolence betraying apprehension well before their gestures and noises did. The prey walked a few paces from the barracks with them, his head down as he listened intently to the young ones. When their nervous chatter quieted, the old man stopped walking with them and spoke, his voice low and earnest.

The prey's soothings and motions didn't hint of his own anxieties. But this was often true with the old, wise ones. That was what made them choice kills. The beast found it hard not to fidget. The more outwardly calm the old man appeared, the more tenderly he comforted, the keener became the beast's hunger.

But at last -at last! - the young ones went back into the barracks, leaving the beast and its kill to one another.

The old man settled gingerly onto the steps of the barracks, lit a cigarette and looked into the round, blanched face of the moon, his white hair glowing. The beast began to salivate. It stayed tucked in the shadows, waited, reining temptation, reining exhilaration. Wait, now. Wait.

In time the cigarette was smoked. The old man stood, stretched, stepped away from the barracks and sauntered toward the fence, away from the beast. It tensed, eyes darting, ears swiveling, as it considered the need to stalk. But after stopping for a moment, gazing past the strained tendons of the barbed wire, the kill turned back, directly into the path of the beast.

So very easy, this one.

The beast stepped into the full light of the moon. The old man saw it. The beast caught him with its steady gaze, sensed and smelled the amazement, knew the man was glamoured by its awful beauty, shimmering under the moon. It curled its lips back from its teeth, the saliva glistening on the fangs, and that was when it was struck with the tangy must of awe lurching into terror. Now.

The beast leapt with the grace and strength of millennia. The old man hadn't even time to gasp as the jaws locked around his head, and he was dragged through the fence, shards of barbed wire tearing through his shirt to the flesh.

Chapter 6

Lakeside Assembly Center

Dawn. Full Moon.

The nightmare again. The hot, rusty smell of blood, a cracking sound like the snap of dead branches. Yet he knows the cracking is of bone, popping in protest. Again the steaming remains of the old woodsman, again Annie's scream, the blood rising in her mouth. And now there is a new face, the features bunched and distorted, blood bursting through tears in the flesh...

Awake! Awake, yes, Max was awake now. He looked around, naked and sitting against the bed's headboard, the room gray-lit by dawn. He was sweating, and it seemed the headboard and bedclothes were sweating, too.

He moved over to the dry side of the bed and stretched out to rest a moment, then rose and grabbed his glasses. He was heading to the bathroom when the telephone started ringing in the living room. When he answered his throat was raw, his voice gravelly.

"Hello..."

"Lieutenant Walker, sir, I'm sorry to disturb you so early."

"I was up."

"There's a problem at Tulenar, sir. It looks like one of the internees has escaped."

"What?"

"Yes, sir..."

"Shit. Get over here. Fill me in while I get ready."

Max hung up and restarted his interrupted trek to the bathroom. God, the taste in his mouth was terrible.

/ / / /

Doris Tebbe's greeting was, "Good Lord, you look rough."

"I didn't sleep well."

"Sorry to hear that. And I'm sorry you had to come out here for this."

I'll just bet you are, Max thought. The first internment camp to lose an evacuee. This wasn't going to look good in her portfolio. Then, again, it wouldn't look good in his either. The M.P.'s were ultimately under his command. He sat in front of Mrs. Tebbe's desk.

"Where are the men who were on duty last night?" he asked.

Mrs. Tebbe reached to her intercom and pressed the button. "Harriet, send in the M.P.'s now."

The C.A. didn't look so well herself. The corners of her small eyes seemed brittle. She kept poking at the folds of auburn hair at her nape, where the dark blue snood couldn't quite contain it. She fidgeted until she noticed Max watching then, abruptly, pulled her hand away. He felt a twinge of sympathy for her. This blunder could result in an immediate replacement and the upper echelon would make sure that replacement was male.

Six M.P.'s and their sergeant walked into the office and stood at attention. Each of them, to a man, was visibly tense, and it wasn't the crisp alertness drilled into them since boot camp, either. This had happened on their watch.

Maxwell rose from his seat. "Let's have it."

"Sir, my men were at their posts and patrolling as usual. The escape occurred between Hatch and Richards' round and Vester and Aldrich's."

Max squinted at the privates' name patches, then asked Hatch and Richards, "And you saw...?"

"Nothing, sir," Hatch replied, too quickly. "Not a thing. Everything was normal when we passed by."

"Apparently everything wasn't normal, Private."

"No, sir."

He turned to Vester and Aldrich. "When you came by, you were the first to find the clipped barbed wire?"

"Yes, sir," Aldrich said.

"You pursued immediately?"

"Yes, sir, as soon as we radioed the tower."

Max turned to the sergeant. "Search party?"

"Right off the bat, sir."

He gave his attention to Mrs. Tebbe. "What's the internee's name?"

"Tsuko Ataki."

"You have his family in custody?"

Mrs. Tebbe crossed her arms. "It's just he and his wife. They're elderly. His son is still in federal prison awaiting transfer. We have her confined to her block, yes, but I don't think Mrs. Ataki knows a thing, Captain, she's extremely distraught --"

"Confined to her block is all I needed to hear, Mrs. Tebbe." He turned back to the sergeant. "Lead the way."

There wasn't much to be seen at the point of escape. It remained as the M.P.'s had found it, though the ground was trampled from the initial bustle and search. Ataki was an old man, in his early seventies. He less than ten minutes between patrols to make his escape. Max looked at the endless wasteland flattened out before him, then turned west to look past the camp at the scraggly foothills that eventually gave way to high, coniferous mountains. The foothills were at least a quarter mile away. That was the most likely direction that Ataki would have fled, but how did a man in his seventies run fast enough to escape notice by the towers? No official vehicles were missing. An accomplice, then, with a car waiting?

Damn, but where? Where could an unauthorized car wait without being noticed by the tower? Last night had been as clear as spring water, there had been a full moon. No one had reported seeing a vehicle anywhere near the perimeter. But Max would check again. What other explanation was there?

/ / / /

Mrs. Ataki sat in Max's usual chair, he behind the C.A.'s desk, Mrs. Tebbe standing in a corner, arms crossed. Such defiance in Mrs. Ataki's eyes. The old woman looked at him as if she thought Max had murdered her husband.

"Yes, I can think of reason, very good reason," Mrs. Ataki replied to Max's question. Her voice was brittle. "His reason would be same as mine. Same as anyone here. But he did not run, Captain. Somebody took him. I know somebody took him! He would not do this for my sake, for our son. He is not fifth column and he is not spy! Our child is citizen in United States!"

He watched the tears well up in Mrs. Ataki's eyes, admired how she blinked them back and glowered at him. But he didn't believe her accusation. Tsuko Ataki escaped. He either couldn't deal with internment life and went berserk or he was a fifth columnist. Max thought the former was the likeliest. Mrs. Ataki probably knew that, too, but couldn't bring herself to admit it. Max didn't see much reason to keep her any longer. He ordered the M.P. to escort her back to her barracks.

As soon as Mrs. Ataki left he stood and looked over at Mrs. Tebbe. "Thanks for accommodating me like this."

"I didn't accommodate you, Captain, you took over."

God. He worked his thumb and index finger under his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mrs. Tebbe --"

"This is my camp, Captain. It's under civilian control. Who the hell do you think you are, rushing in here and barking at me like an attack dog? I'm not some simpering, little kitten that'll curl up and take that kind of crap --"

"Mrs. Tebbe, I could not have those soldiers hear you sympathizing with the fugitive. The man has committed a crime. His wife knows he has committed a crime--"

"A crime, my Lord, how about looking at the whole picture here, Pierce!"

"I am, Mrs. Tebbe, you're the one with tunnel vision! I know why the old man fled, I'm not any happier with this business than you. But, the law's the law. We can't change it. You believe that, too, damn it, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"Don't tell me why I'm here--"

Max held up both hands quickly to stop the warfare. Shit! He could have handled this better, he knew he could. He had always been good with damage control, he just...felt...drained today.

"I'm sorry," he said, certain he didn't sound any more sincere than he felt. "Perhaps I should have handled your comments earlier with more tact. But, Mrs. Tebbe, you know as well as I that in circumstances of unauthorized egress, the Army has full authority. You know that."

He watched her, using silence to force a reply. She stared back, and he knew she was weighing the consequences of her rebuttal. With one word and the right paper work, Max could have Mrs. Tebbe lifted from her seat as Center Administrator. Especially under these circumstances. Especially because of her gender. He wouldn't, of course. But he wanted her to be afraid for a moment.

He wasn't sure if she was afraid, but she definitely was sarcastic. "Yes. Sir."

"Come on, Mrs. Tebbe. We're on edge, you and I. This problem belongs to us both. I need you with me, not against."

What he said seemed to have an effect. Her shoulders relaxed a little. She walked over to her seat, sat down, then motioned for him to do the same.

Max did and said, "I know it's difficult to understand the military mind sometimes, but --"

"Please, Captain, don't patronize me," she replied, but the tone of her voice was more weary than angry. "Damn it. Damn it! hy would Ataki run? I know this man, Captain, he's the block manager for Number Four. He has a reputation for calm, for good sense, and it's well deserved, too, I can tell you. I don't understand..."

"It's amazing what a man will do under stress."

"But not this man. You can't honestly think he's fifth column..."

"No, of course not. I think the old gent just snapped. It's possible he'll even come back after he settles down."

"Will you take him when you find him?"

"I'll have to."

"He's just an old man, Captain. He could stay here under confinement..."

"No, Mrs. Tebbe. I'm sorry."

Max expected an argument, but she only nodded. He leaned forward, elbows on knees and said, "Mrs. Tebbe, I wish there were more people in both our capacities that feel as you do."

She had been rubbing her temples when he said that, her hand shielding her eyes. She stopped rubbing and looked at him.

"I met somebody yesterday that doesn't share your view. You and I are two of a kind, in his opinion. We're both government. We're both oppressors."

Her words stung. He said as objectively as he could, "I think we're two of a kind, too. But I think that way because we both don't like the situation. That's why we're here, isn't it, to be buffers in this whole operation?"

Mrs. Tebbe sighed and nodded.

"Who'd you meet yesterday?" Max asked.

"A minister, a Nisei."

"Oh. Well, what else did you expect him to think?"

"Good question." She pushed at the paper work on her desk. "We've still got a whole day's worth of work to go, Captain."

Max was glad to take the hint and stood up. "Yeah. Thanks again for accommodating me."

Mrs. Tebbe's mouth curled into a wry smile. "Oh, you bet."

As he was driven toward the main gate, it occurred to Max that, in a certain way, Doris Tebbe reminded him of Annie. Annie had been more doll-like in stature, had a much quicker smile. But she'd had Mrs. Tebbe's spunk. Then he was sorry the comparison came to mind, because it tugged up the nightmares. Instead of images of picnics or anniversaries, there was her mouth gaping in that shuddering wail.

He clenched his jaw, determined to drive the picture from his mind and almost didn't see the M.P. standing at the gate with a copper-skinned man. The guard was taking papers that the man offered, an old green truck parked a few feet away. Max abruptly ordered his driver to stop, then rolled down his window.

"What's going on, Private?"

The soldier snapped to attention and saluted.

"At ease, what's up?"

"Just routine, sir." The soldier nodded toward the man. For the first time, Max could see that the fellow was an Indian. "Says he's a farmer and wants permission to sell his produce to the residents."

Max stepped out of the car. Once he was close enough, he knew the man's tribe immediately. It was evident by the bandanna -folded to a three-inch width, worn around his head- and the way he bound his steel-gray hair. It was long and pulled into a ponytail, which was doubled back onto itself and wrapped with yarn so that only the looped end showed.

But it was the man's jewelry that caused Max a moment's hesitation. Navajo jewelry. Highly praised as elegant and beautifully rendered. But during his days near the reservation, Max discovered he didn't like it. In fact, he had a particular aversion to it. It was almost always bulky. Even now this man wore a wide bracelet on each wrist. An oval pin, half the size of Maxwell's palm, was fastened at the top shirt button.

But really, it was the materials he didn't like. All that turquoise. All that silver. Especially the silver. Even so, the coincidence of meeting a Navajo delighted him and forced him past the jewelry. He greeted the man, saying, "Ya'at'eeh."

"Haala' 'ahoodzaa," the fellow replied with a polite smile and then asked in his native tongue if Max spoke Navajo.

"Only enough to understand your question, I'm sorry." Max offered his hand. "Captain Maxwell Pierce. I just transferred from Morriston. Do you know it?"

"David Alma Curar," the man replied. He looked at Maxwell's upturned palm for a moment before accepting his hand. "Sure, I know it. Not far from the Reservation's border. Close to Long Walk."

Alma Curar's eyes lingered on their clasped hands before looking up again. Max was the first to let go, relieved that his fingers hadn't touched the bracelet. Alma Curar suddenly didn't seem as pleased with this chance meeting as Max.

Max tried small talk. "Happen to have family at the 'rez', Mr. Curar?"

"Alma Curar," the man corrected politely. "No, I don't."

That was it. No elaboration. After an awkward moment, Max asked the private for Alma Curar's papers and brought the wrinkled leaves close to his face.

"Alma Curar. That's not Navajo, is it?"

"Spanish."

"How long have you been at Disjunction Lake?"

"I was called to this place three months ago."

"Called?"

"I'm a healer, Captain."

Max lowered the papers. He felt suddenly suspicious of Alma Curar. "Your papers say you're a farmer."

"That, too. There's a demand here at the camp for oriental vegetables. The government doesn't provide them, isn't that correct?"

"So did you come all this way to sell a little bokchoy or is there a Navajo reservation nearby?"

"No, there isn't."

"Too much competition where you come from?" Max peered closely at the papers again. "At Tohatchi, New Mexico?"

"Too little, I'd say."

"Well. I've never known a medicine man to take his business so far from home..."

A trace of a smile finally came to Alma Curar's face. "You know so many healers, Captain?"

Behind his pressed lips, Max drew his tongue across his teeth thoughtfully. He looked at Alma Curar's papers again. Even if he had had the authority, he could find nothing in them to deny the man access, much as he'd like to. Max returned them to him.

"Your documents are in order," he said, "the private here will show you to Center Administration. You need to be cleared by that office, Mr. Curar. Alma Curar... sorry. Tulenar is a War Relocation Authority installation, not a military one."

Alma Curar folded the papers and tucked them into his wallet. "Thank you." He pushed the wallet into his back pocket and glanced briefly at Max's hands again before looking up. "I'll look forward to meeting you again, Captain."

Max slid his palms into his pockets. "It's unlikely we will, Mr. Alma Curar. Unless you get into mischief."

"I don't like mischief, Captain. I don't like it at all. But as a healer, sometimes I have to deal with it."

Chapter 7

Tulenar Internment Camp

Sunset. Second Night of the Full Moon.

From her office window Doris watched Harriet Haku and her family descend the hill, the child walking between the parents. Darling little round-faced girl, pigtails pinned like a laurel wreath around her head. Doris wondered if the Inu Hunters had ever seen Harriet walking with her family. She wondered if Tsuko Ataki was safe. Should she call on Mrs. Ataki, see how she was doing, or would her presence be resented?

Doris decided not to think at all. Instead she spent time in the area between her little house and the administration building and readied her bow. She worked at her archery for thirty minutes, doing well, just before glimpsing Mr. Satsugai walk up the hill. Doris came around to the front and greeted him.

"I thought I'd come a little early," he said, "and help you set up."

"Thanks, but Harriet prepared the meeting area before she left. All we have to do is plug in the coffee makers. Will there be that many coffee drinkers, do you think? One is filled with hot water for tea, but we can do that with both."

Doris knew she was prattling. She'd lectured herself earlier to avoid doing that, but here she was babbling on. She wasn't foolish enough to pretend she didn't know why. She was attracted to the man. A Nisei. An internee. A clergyman, for crying out loud. Facing up to the attraction didn't make it any less absurd. But it did allow her to recognize it and resist. She was thirty-eight years old and in a position of profound responsibility. She'd snap out of it or die trying.

In the meantime, Mr. Satsugai was smiling at her as if he knew her every thought. "I'm sure everything's fine."

"Well, come in, please..."

"How about if we sit here on the steps for a while," he said. "I don't feel like going in yet."

It took a moment, but Doris finally managed to reply, "Certainly."

She sat beside Mr. Satsugai, and they watched the sun graze the mountains. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

To break the silence, she said, "Have you gotten much feedback from the council heads regarding this meeting?"

"They were positive," he replied. "Mr. Ataki's disappearance has dampened the enthusiasm, though."

From the corner of her eye, Doris saw Mr. Satsugai turn to look at her.

"What's being done about that?" he asked.

She met his eyes. "You're the police liaison. You already have all the information. I'm not holding out on you, if that's your real question."

"Mr. Ataki's disappearance is being treated solely as an escape, isn't it?"

"Mr. Satsugai --"

"None of you have considered the other possibilities have you? Could any of the good citizens around Disjunction Lake be behind this, for example?"

"Yes. We have. But none of you want to believe the obvious. That Mr. Ataki likely panicked, that he's just a poor old man whose mind couldn't handle the stress of internment. Jesus, everyone thinks there's a huge conspiracy one way or the other." Doris took a moment to collect herself. "I'm sorry, I forgot who I was talking to." She looked into the sky. "Sorry, Jesus."

Mr. Satsugai chuckled and Doris felt a little better. She said, "Mr. Ataki's disappearance has put a strain on us all."

"I know. Just, please, don't stop looking at all the possibilities. You and I both know what people might do if they think the law is looking the other way."

"Nowadays I'm beginning to think anything's possible."

Mr. Satsugai looked back at the sun as it began to slip below the mountain ridge. "I've always felt that way."

Doris didn't know what to say to that. But she felt an urgent need to keep the talk bland and safe as she looked down at the minister's long, delicate hands.

"I met the strangest man today. An Indian. He's a farmer and a medicine man of some sort...correction...healer. He prefers 'healer'. He put in a request to sell produce to the camp residents." She stopped for a moment, the man's bearing in her mind's eye, then repeated, "The strangest man."

"What makes him so strange?" Mr. Satsugai asked.

"Well, his hair, for one thing. It's as long as woman's and he ties it funny, all wrapped in yarn. But that's normal in Indian culture, I guess. But...really, it isn't that. There's something about his manner." A little disgusted with her own uncertainly, she gave herself a dismissive wave. "I don't know. I suppose Mr. Ataki's disappearance just has me on edge." She glanced down at her wristwatch. "Well, the council heads should be starting this way any minute. I'd better get the coffee and water plugged in."

Mr. Satsugai touched her. Just a quick gesture, lightly on her forearm, as if to stop her from rising. It worked. "We'll see them walking up from here. Could we just sit and chat? If you don't mind."

The thought of sitting with Arthur Satsugai...just sitting there with no desk between them, no agenda to delineate...

"You need to understand. I'm not going to discuss the Ataki case, not until the meeting."

"How about discussing yourself?"

Doris's eyes narrowed.

Mr. Satsugai smiled broadly. "You should see your face. Relax! I just thought it'd be nice to get to know you a little better. We'll going to be working together, after all."

"Well...I..."

"How about if I go first?"

"By all means."

"I was born in Sacramento," he said. "My parents are dead, but I have a brother who's lived in Japan for fifteen years. He's a monk."

"I didn't know there were Episcopal monks."

"There are, but my brother is Buddhist."

"Oh! I beg your pardon."

"No need to..."

"Is that an awkward situation for you?"

"Not at all, we're very close. Of course, we can't get letters to each other right now."

Doris leaned her arms across her knees, her curiosity relaxing her a little. "Did your parents live to see you both take vows?"

Mr. Satsugai moved forward onto the edge of the step, much like Doris. He was looking at the sunset again, his long, pleasantly lined face soft with a memory.

"Oh, yes. They died five years ago and I've been in the priesthood since my late twenties. It took a little getting used to for them, but eventually it was a matter of pride for them to have a son in each tradition. They preferred to see it as a marriage of their native and adopted cultures." He chuckled and looked at Doris again. "So long as, at least, one of us could marry and give them grandchildren."

In spite of herself, Doris was disappointed by the implication. She kept her eyes fixed on the foothills as they turned deep blue.

"So you're married?"

"No..." He paused, as if unsure if he should elaborate. Then he said, "I'm divorced. It's not something I'm proud of. Especially..." He gestured toward his collar. "I had to find another parish because of it."

Doris tried to swallow her curiosity, but couldn't resist asking, "Why did you? Divorce your wife, I mean."

"Actually, it was the other way around. A clergyman's wife can have a rough go of it. We married young, before I answered the Call. I left it up to her to accept it instead of asking how she felt about it." When he looked at Doris, he seemed pensive. "What do you think? About me being a divorced man."

"Oh, well, Mr. Satsugai ... it's none of my business, especially as Center Administrator."

"What about as Doris Tebbe?"

There was danger in that question. It was clear to her what he was really asking.

Pointedly, she didn't answer, asking instead, "Do you have children?"

He watched her quietly a moment, then replied, "I have a son. He's a college freshman at New York State. He lives with her mother in Newark. He can almost pass for white which, quite frankly, I consider a blessing right now. That's his mother's blood in him."

There was no longer anything casual in what he was saying. He was showing her his history. Doris still didn't look at him, startled anew by his words. His wife had been Caucasian. Doris didn't know what to think of that. She had never really met anyone who was in a mixed marriage before.

She knew she shouldn't reciprocate. She knew to offer her own history would be a permission of sorts that should not be given. "I'm a widow, myself."

"Oh? I'm sorry."

"He had a heart attack several years ago, but he got a lot done before he went. He was a senator. What a bulldog he was."

"He would've had to have been, to keep up with you, Mrs. Tebbe."

"No, it was the other way around. I was hardly more than a naive ingenue when I met him. I learned a great deal that I'm especially grateful for now."

"Sounds like a man who never relaxed."

"Relax? Abel? He didn't know how."

"Do you, Mrs. Tebbe? When was the last time you watched the sunset, like you're watching it with me now?"

He turned and looked directly at Doris and she wished he wouldn't.

She replied, "There's too much to do."

"More important things...?"

"Yes."

Mr. Satsugai smiled. "You're wrong. There's nothing more important." He straightened his shoulders and did a little parody of her. "All your administrating. You'll do it much better if you look at the sunset. Every day. Every single day."

Doris wasn't sure if she was amused or irritated by his teasing. She took refuge in the irritation. "That's very spiritual. I appreciate the advice."

His smile never dimmed. "No, you don't." He looked back at the sunset. "Come now, Mrs. Tebbe, just look at the color that's pouring out of that sun. Red like a red you can't find anywhere on earth, isn't it? Watching something like that helps you live more consciously. Maybe, deep down, the reason you've been too busy all these years to watch a sunset is because you feel tiny when you look at it. Does it make you feel like all your dreams and all your nightmares add up to nothing? But, trust me. If you look at the sunset enough times, you'll understand that it's only your flesh that's tiny, not you. Flesh? It can't contain any of us. That's why God made the universe, Mrs. Tebbe. To contain all of you."

Chapter 8

Lakeside Assembly Center

Sunset. Second Night. Full Moon.

Max prepared for the night. He set a large pail of iced water and several towels beside the easy chair in the living room, then settled into the chair with a book. He'd read until he couldn't hold back the sickness any longer, then spend the rest of the night in the dark, naked, enduring the seizures, bathing himself between attacks.

There was a rhythm to all this. The nightmares began on the first night. The severe seizures, the second. The lesser ones on the third. And then he was fine again. Better than fine, really. Afterward, he would float through the next several days on a warm wave of euphoria. Always the same. Nothing he couldn't handle.

Still, his hand trembled as he held the book. He set it on the arm of the chair and walked out onto the cabin's porch to watch the sun as it set. For a moment he felt a surge of despair... no, don't go... but, then he had control once more. He went back in, sat down and tried to read again.

Chapter 9

Tulenar Internment Camp

Night. New Moon.

There was no moon out. Harriet Haku had only the silhouettes of the barracks to show her the way. Occasionally the black-on-black was interrupted by dim squares of yellow, hinting of evacuees that had not yet gone to bed. But these were few and overwhelmed by the long darkness of buildings to either side of the dirt road, featureless and flat in the night.

Harriet was late coming back from the Shibai theatre where she was helping with the final touches. Next month was September, and the theatre would have its first production, a modest Kabuki put on by some of the residents of Block Six.

She walked blindly but confidently down the road that led to Block Three, because she had walked this way twice weekly since theatre construction began. But she stopped when she heard the noise, a kind of shuffling. She turned to the sound behind her, seeing nothing but the black walls of tarpaper barracks. She began walking again, then stopped abruptly when she heard whispering. But both the whispering and the shuffling could have come from inside a barracks, so she went on.

The blow came from behind, not a hard hit, but a blunt push that knocked her to the ground, forcing the breath out of her. She struggled under the weight. At first it seemed the weight was her lungs straining to capture the breath they had lost, but soon she realized it was the press of someone on her back.

"Please," she managed, "I can't breathe."

"It'd be a waste of good air anyway, lady stooge."

"Please..."

"Please, please," the voice mocked her.

The right side of Harriet's face was mashed into the dry, grainy dirt. When she finally regained her wind she sucked in a mouthful of dust and coughed uncontrollably. She could hear laughter, guarded chuckles full of wariness, and tried to guess how many attackers there were. At least three. The one atop her was a young man from the sound of his voice, and he kept her head in his control by sinking his fingers deep into her pinned hair.

She was angry and terrified, and it was her anger that asked, "What do you want?"

"We want you to remember who you are. You're nihonjin! Come back to the fold, stop being Tebbe's stooge. You better quit tomorrow, or you'll end up like the rest of the informants are going to, you'll end up like Ataki. You understand me, lady inu?"

He tugged at her hair, she felt some of it tear loose from her scalp, but she refused to reply. Her face was forced into the dust, rubbed into it until she finally had to take in another mouthful with a breath. She heard the wary chuckling again as she gagged.

"You understand me, lady inu?"

"Yes. Yes!"

"Tomorrow better be the last time we see you walk up that hill."

She felt the weight lift, felt his foot press against the small of her back as he stepped on and over her, then heard them pounding away at a run as she rolled onto her back and screamed for help.

/ / / /

Doris hadn't been in an evacuee's apartment since the camp had opened. Then the quarters had been raw, wood flooring and walls. Small wood burners had squatted in the midst of the twenty-by-twenty-four foot rooms. Most of them had not yet been properly partitioned from each other. Privacy had to be improvised by hanging blankets and bed sheets.

Now, at least, the partitions were in place. The Hakus had done a nice job with their unit. Harriet's husband, Jesse, had made a sturdy table and three chairs. There was even a settee built onto one of the walls and the furniture had cushions and covers, ordered from Sears Roebuck. The walls were painted a winter white and held shelves for essentials; tea and a few snacks to nibble between meals at the mess hall; knick-knacks and family portraits brought in when the Hakus were transferred.

Harriet's daughter, Joy, sat on one of the Sears rugs, busy with her dolls. Mr. Haku sat at the feet of his wife who was propped up in bed. The first rays of the morning sun slanted into the window and onto Harriet's face, cruelly scratched and inflamed. But she was as calm and all-business as ever. Mr. Haku stood and brought one of the chairs over for Doris.

She sat down and said, "I am so sorry, Harriet. Was it the Inu Hunters?"

"Yes, we think it was them," Mr. Haku said for his wife. "They attacked her and threatened to do worse if she didn't quit as your secretary."

"If you feel you should resign, Harriet, you know I'll understand."

Harriet shook her head matter-of-factly. "Of course not."

"Well...thank you for that. I'd be lost without you. But I think you should take the day off to recoup a little."

"No, I'm fine, just a little scratched up. They intended to scare me, not hurt me."

But they did hurt you, Harriet, Doris thought, look at your face. Aloud, she said, "If you change your mind about that any time today, just let me know."

"Thank you. I'll be up to the office as soon as I make that report to the police."

"Take your time."

Doris rose to leave. Mr. Haku turned to his wife, said, "I'll be right back," then walked Doris out the door. He escorted her to the dusty road, and just when Doris was about to let him know she would be fine on her own, he touched her arm and stopped.

"Listen," he said, "Harriet didn't want to mention this because she thinks it was just bravado. But those boys mentioned Tsuko Ataki."

"What do you mean?"

"They told her that if she didn't quit, she'd wind up like poor Mr. Ataki."

"You can't be telling me what I think you're telling me, Mr. Haku."

He was a small, thin man and he looked out at her from deep set eyes, appearing so much older than he really was. The result, perhaps, of being among the first of the young Nisei men to spend time in federal prison before being transferred to Tulenar.

"It may be the empty boasting of young toughs, but I don't want to take that chance," he said. "If it were up to me, Mrs. Tebbe, Harriet wouldn't go back to work for you, you understand? But she's more American than Japanese and won't listen to me. Since she's determined to stay on, I want you to know what she's up against. I just hope this new police force can clip all this in the bud. Things are escalating. This was a physical attack and, next time, this pack of delinquents will do worse to her, I'm sure."

"Will Harriet tell this to the police?"

"I've already told her if she doesn't I will."

What now? Doris didn't want to bring Captain Pierce in on this. Damn. She said absently, "Thank you, Mr. Haku, for your honesty," and began walking toward the hill.

Would a band of bitter teenagers really do something grievous to an old man? Then again, they'd just attacked a defenseless woman. Doris did not want to think of the Inu Hunters as anything more than a group of frustrated boys misdirecting their anger. But were they more? Were they kidnappers? Were they worse?

No. She simply couldn't think in either of those directions. Besides, how and where could they realistically hold a hostage? And why hadn't any contact made, any bargaining for Ataki's return? There was no evidence to steer her to such thoughts, and she absolutely would not let herself think the Inu Hunters might have done worse to Mr. Ataki. She should turn back, tell Mr. Haku to keep that information confidential, not to tell anyone but the internee police. It would be as dangerous as dynamite in this place.

"Good morning, Mrs. Tebbe."

Doris looked up to see David Alma Curar leaning on his truck, its bed stacked with oriental vegetables. She gave herself a mental shake and said, "Good morning, Mr. Alma Curar. How are your sales going?"

"Better than I could hope."

It had been two weeks since Mr. Alma Curar began selling his produce, but Doris still wasn't used to him. Always his battered, green truck was poised between the camp proper and administration, so any time Doris needed to trek between the two, she was forced to encounter him.

Doris wanted to pass by quickly. "Well, good luck today..."

"You seem troubled, Mrs. Tebbe."

It was a calm statement, made in the same passive yet interested tone a doctor might use with a patient. It was that strange authority in his voice that caused her to stop as Alma Curar left his truck and walked toward her.

"Do I?" she replied, feeling pensive. "I'm just sorting out the day."

"Anything new on Mr. Ataki?"

The soft, downy hair on her neck prickled. "How did you know about him?"

"How could I not know about him? His disappearance is all my customers talk about. Is Mr. Ataki what troubles you?"

"Of course his disappearance troubles me," she replied curtly and tried to move on.

But Alma Curar took a step closer, his face softening with what seemed melancholy. Doris stiffened, but held her ground.

"You're troubled, Mrs. Tebbe, because you know he's dead, don't you?"

"Dead! It's my fervent hope that he's very much alive and safe."

"That's your mind's hope. But your heart tells you differently."

Doris managed to step back and gather her anger. "Mr. Alma Curar, if I hear of you spreading such wild rumors and throwing this camp into a panic, I'll not only ban you from Tulenar, I'll have you arrested. Do you understand?"

Alma Curar didn't so much as blink. "Mrs. Tebbe, there's already enough fear in this place to feed on for generations. The last thing I want is to plant more of it."

The thick crunch of someone walking up the gravel road pulled their attention from one another. A frail Issei couple was coming toward them. When she looked back at Alma Curar, he was already walking toward his truck, a pleasant smile aimed at his customers.

Doris went straight away to Mr. Haku and had a talk with him. When she finally got to her office, there was a file clerk and a block manager waiting to report that delinquents had bullied them the night before. The clerk said that he was threatened with Ataki's fate.

Chapter 10

Lakeside Post Assembly Center

Morning. First Quarter Moon.

A sense of urgency had nagged Max even before he had awakened, agitating his sleep until he'd left the bed long before his alarm clock rang. But, he was determined to control it, to discipline it. He kept to his routine, having his breakfast, having his coffee.

In the newspaper, an article disputed the rumor that Mohandas K. Gandhi was starving himself while held at Poona. Surreal, to read something unrelated to the war. More related was the news about the Food Requirements Committee. Coupons allotting two-and-a-half weekly pounds of meat per household were going to be printed. Word of this was spurring panic buying, so now there was a meat shortage.

Max tried to keep his eyes off his watch and scanned the War News Summary. The Marines raided Makin Island in the Pacific...the Russians fought Nazi troops in the Caucasus...

He couldn't hold the urgency that churned his gut any more. Max strode out of his quarters and down the little gravel trail that led to his office, and if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn he saw someone silhouetted, standing on the rise behind his house. By the time the image really connected, the silhouette was gone. It made him think of the Navajo farmer, that so-called healer.

That was all it took to keep Alma Curar in his thoughts. The man's image mingled with that uncomfortable urgency, and by noon Max did something out of character. He did something impulsive. He pressed the intercom key and, when the WAAC's voice came tinny over the speaker, he said, "Corporal, call Mrs. Tebbe's office. I'm on my way to Tulenar right now."

/ / / /

Not two hundred yards into the camp's gate Max came upon Alma Curar's old truck, a handful of evacuees picking over the goods in the bed. Max couldn't stop himself from ordering the driver to slow. Alma Curar began walking toward his car. Max had the driver stop.

"Good afternoon, Captain."

"Hello, Mr. Alma Curar..."

"I was beginning to think I might not see you again."

Max smiled as best he could and avoided staring at the healer's jewelry. "How's business?"

"Business is good. But the day feels odd, doesn't it?" He looked evenly at Max.

"I don't know what you mean."

"I mean there a sense of. ..I don't know...urgency in the air?"

Max swallowed. "All things have become urgent since the war began, Mr. Alma Curar."

"Which war do you mean?"

Max pulled himself up. "Listen. These people are struggling enough without that kind of rhetoric. There's only one war, mister. And it's not the U.S. against the evacuees. I better not hear of you stirring up trouble."

"So I've been warned twice in as many days." He took a step away from Max's car. "On your way to see Mrs. Tebbe?"

"What I'm doing here is none of your concern." Max snapped at the driver to move on as if it had been the corporal's idea to stop in the first place. Alma Curar barely had time to step away.

/ / / /

When Harriet Haku showed Max to the C.A.'s office, Mrs. Tebbe was leaning back in her chair, arms crossed. "Captain, so nice of you to drop in without an appointment."

Max watched Harriet close the door and asked, "What happened to your secretary?"

"She was bullied by the Inu Hunters two nights ago."

"Is she all right?"

"Well enough. Is that why you're here, to pay your respects to Harriet?"

"Mrs. Tebbe, I wouldn't have come on such short notice if I didn't have a good reason. May I sit?"

Mrs. Tebbe nodded. Now all Max had to do was think of his good reason. "You're certainly hostile today."

"I have a lot to do, Captain, and unexpected visits disrupt my schedule."

"No, no, this is more than your usual gruffness. Come on, Mrs. Tebbe, I thought we made some progress during my last visit. What's up?"

Her face softened a little. She reached to her intercom and asked Harriet to bring them coffee, then leaned back. "Maybe it's this band of little hoodlums. The camp's ablaze about the problem, but trying to get to the bottom of it is like trying to help a child with a toothache. The kid's miserable, but sure isn't going to help you."

"I read your report on the internee police's reorganization. They having any luck at all?"

"No, not yet, but it's not even three weeks old. And it has taken care of a lot of problems. The occasional squabble, public intoxication, et cetera."

"They haven't happened to come across any leads on Ataki...?"

"Is that the reason for the surprise visit, Captain? To see if we're being good little Americans and telling you everything we know?"

Now that was defensive. Did that mean Mrs. Tebbe had a lead or that she was just frustrated because she didn't? Harriet tapped on the door, then brought in the coffee service. Suddenly Mrs. Tebbe was backpedaling.

"Sorry, Captain, that was out of line. I suppose I' m just on edge. All morning I've had this feeling that something's up that I don't know about."

Max's shoulders tensed. "Like what?"

"I didn't really mean anything by that, all right? I'm just edgy, that's all."

"How's that Alma Curar fellow been behaving for you?"

Mrs. Tebbe's brow furrowed. "What?"

"David Alma Curar. Has he been dredging up any trouble?"

Max thought Mrs. Tebbe stirred her coffee a little too abruptly. "No, why?"

"I saw him as I was driving through. He had some odd to say. You sure he's not upsetting the residents?"

"He's just a peculiar man, Captain. He's harmless."

"Are you sure?"

Mrs. Tebbe tossed her spoon pointedly onto the saucer. "Captain, was there something specific you wanted to see me about?"

Harriet's voice crackled from the intercom. "Mrs. Tebbe, Disjunction Lake's police chief is here. He says it's urgent."

"Well, bring him in then."

As soon as Max turned and saw the chief, he knew Mr. Ataki had been found.

/ / / /

"A couple of teenagers discovered the body in the mountains about two hours ago, just a ways past the foothills. It was in pretty bad shape...well, you can imagine, after all this time."

"So you're assuming he died not long after the escape?" Max asked.

The chief nodded, his face the color of putty. This whole affair was clearly upsetting him, but he managed to keep his tone neutral. "I'd say so. Of course, the official word has to come from the county coroner."

"Any educated guesses as to cause of death?"

The chief smiled without humor, looking first to Mrs. Tebbe across the desk before answering Max. "His brain was gone. That might've done it."

"What?"

The man sighed, as if the attempt at glibness had drained him. "The skull was cracked open and the brain case was empty."

Max's ears began to buzz, but he could hear Mrs. Tebbe speculate, "But, an animal could have done that after coming upon the body."

"The body was buried, ma'am. Buried good, too. Those boys wouldn't have found it if their beagle hadn't started digging around the head."

"God in heaven."

"Yeah, God in heaven," the chief said. He looked at Max. "We're just a tourist town. The worst we had before you people took over was rowdy kids or a drunk fisherman. Merciful Savior ... I've never seen anything like that dead man."

Max was suddenly aware that he had already known that Ataki was dead. Something in him had known...for how long? His throat began to tighten. His chest drew into itself. The brain case was empty. He'd known that, too. But how? He heard someone scream and he jumped.

He saw Mrs. Tebbe and the chief look at him. "Are you all right, Captain?" she asked.

"I'm sorry. That cry startled me."

"What cry?"

"You didn't hear it?"

Mrs. Tebbe looked at the police chief as if to ask if he had, but he shook his head. Max shrugged and tried to respond normally through the incessant buzzing. "I guess you've got my imagination going, Chief."

"This is nasty news. I'm glad this'll be your mess soon and not mine."

The buzzing in Max's ears was so great now he could barely hear. Images began to swim across his vision, faces he almost knew, faces he should know. Ghastly. Withered. He stood up, said something about going back to Lakeside to begin his report, asking the chief to call him as soon as the coroner's results were in. He was amazed at his own ability to sound and seem normal. He could see that his feigned normality had fooled his companions.

Driving back, it was Annie's face he saw before him, Annie's mouth gaping and wailing, filling with blood.

Chapter 11

Tulenar Internment Camp

Afternoon. Second Quarter Moon.

The gongs sounded all through the camp, white funeral banners waving at every barracks in Block Four. Doris stood at the back of the little building that served Buddhist, Shintoist and Christian alike, according to their holy days. Today, the tradition was Shinto. It was just a matter of time before the procession would begin, the regaled priest leading the dead man and his mourners to the camp gates, endless blocks away.

So strange to see all this white. It almost hurt her eyes. The color was surreal to Doris's western mind, bizarre and out of place, made all the more so by the weeping mourners and the droning priest. What were they thinking? What were they thinking, the Asians, to use white as their funeral color? It blanched everything, seemed to drain the blood out of every face.

Doris didn't know how much longer she could endure. The service threatened to sink into her bones; the gongs and the bells and the stifling incense, the droning, monotonous chants. And she was being stared at. No one could seem to decide if it were appropriate or outrageous for the Center Administrator to be there.

Neither could she. She was intensely aware of how she was dressed, in her somber navy skirt and jacket. But she just couldn't wear white to a funeral. She just couldn't.

Good Lord, it was impossible to stay. Her heart would be crushed under the weight of Mrs. Ataki's stricken face. To have already witnessed the widow's suffering once this week was all she could bear.

What an inadequate surrogate she had been for Mrs. Ataki's only living family, her still-imprisoned son. But Doris refused to leave this woman in the hands of minor staff and had escorted her to Disjunction Lake's morgue. So pale and withered, like a flower left to die. All the way there. All the way back.

Doris saw the white-shrouded coffin hoisted by the pallbearers. The priest and widow moved forward, mourners rose like a pallid tide of death crested by the coffin, and the whole thing was coming toward her. It was too late to flee, but someone was touching her arm gently. Arthur Satsugai, wearing black, thank God, because he was in his collar.

"Are you all right?" he asked, and she nodded, but she used his arm for a crutch as they waited for the procession to pass. They tried to follow.

But Doris kept seeing Mrs. Ataki's eyes roll back into her head as the widow had collapsed to the morgue's flat gray floor. She saw herself again following the coroner into that cold, antiseptic room and the dead man's sunken face, the color of rotting straw. Buried for days, his brain case cracked and empty...

Doris's legs buckled. "I'm going to be sick."

Mr. Satsugai pulled her away from the tail of the procession and set her on the steps of the nearest barracks. He insisted she stay there while he knocked on the door behind her. But getting no response beyond the flapping of the funeral banners, he took it upon himself to enter, then returned with a hand towel, cool and wet. He sat next to her and laid it against her neck.

"Better?" he asked.

"Getting there."

Mr. Satsugai said nothing more, but curled his fingers through hers while Doris bent forward, letting him hold the towel to her nape. She fought against tears. She fought against a wrenching desire to lean her forehead to his shoulder.

"Mr. Satsugai..."

"Yes."

"Mr. Satsugai..."

He didn't reply right away. Then he said, "Call me Arthur. I want you to call me Arthur."

Doris's fingers curled all the tighter around his, but she couldn't raise her eyes to him. Arthur lifted her hand to his face, brushing her fingers across his lips before resting them against his forehead.

/ / / /

For the second time in sixteen days, Tsuko Ataki left camp. His cemetery plot lay just north of Monterey, not far from where the Atakis' ranch-style home sat boarded up and smeared with anti-Japanese graffiti. Mrs. Ataki was allowed to watch as the back of the hearse closed over her husband and disappear down the gravel road. Then the M.P.'s took her back to her barracks.

/ / / /

"What happens now?" Doris asked.

Her hands were unsteady around the coffee cup. She was still queasy and shaken, sitting with Arthur in her office. It was Saturday, she realized. Yet she had asked Arthur to escort her here instead of her little tar paper house. He sat at the side of her desk, one arm resting on the desktop as he leaned into his chair.

"I don't know."

She had hoped, on some level, that he would have replied, "What do you mean?" She wanted an out. She wanted a chance to say she was talking about the camp, talking about the murder. But he knew exactly what she was talking about, and now she had to continue. She concentrated on every sip of coffee for a while.

"I'm not very good at these things," she finally confessed, eyes fixed on her cup. Then she looked at Arthur. "I wasn't very good at them before Abel married me. After his death, I only seemed to get worse."

Arthur suddenly bristled. "This isn't a thing. You and I, we can't afford a simple thing. Look where we are, look at who we are. This is serious, Doris. You and I..." He took a breath. "Are we serious?"

"We don't need that question yet," she replied. "This is too complex to shove through the chute."

Arthur nodded, without smiling. His silence seemed intended to force more from her, but she wasn't ready for more, she wasn't ready to deal with what was happening inside her. Doris needed something to hide behind, and chose the biggest blind she knew.

"We're going to have to question those boys, you know. Somebody must be able to identify the gang members."

Arthur stared at her, the creases of his eyes hardening like ceramic. She wasn't sure if he was angry because she had changed the subject, or because he knew where she was going with it.

She said, "If we co-operate, we may be able to keep military involvement to a minimum."

"You can't honestly believe a handful of kids, whose greatest crimes have been graffiti and bravado, is capable of doing what happened to Mr. Ataki."

"Their greatest crimes are assault and battery. Three separate incidents. They even implied to two of the victims --"

"And you actually believe they murdered him."

Doris pushed her cup away and pressed her hands to the edge of her desk. "Those threats are sufficient to warrant questioning. Pierce is going to want those kids, he's going to want them badly. What else would you suggest we do?"

"Look in town! What about the hate group that's culling membership there? K.A.F.A. Keep America For Americans, isn't that their standard? Fully grown adults with enough animosity to do something every bit as repugnant as that murder."

"I'm sure they'll be questioned, too..."

"Are you?"

"Yes, I am. I promise you, I will not let this turn into a witch hunt. If those boys are innocent-"

"Don't make promises, Doris! When the military steps in, what good will your promises do?"

Doris leaned toward him. "I'm not impotent here, for crying out loud, I'm Center Administrator! And I can be a real bitch when I want to be!"

Arthur fell back, looking a bit surprised. Then, in the midst of his silence, he chuckled and his shoulders relaxed.

"I'll just bet you can," he replied.

Doris sat back as well, managing a smile and realizing how knotted her muscles were. She crossed her legs as she cast her gaze to the ceiling, then looked at Arthur again.

"Too much all at once," she said.

Arthur nodded. "I know."

"We've got to identify and question those boys --"

"I know," Arthur repeated, raising a hand in resignation, but his voice held only mild rancor. His head drooped a little and his gaze fell to her crossed legs, then flicked back to her face, as if hoping she hadn't noticed. "And so...?"

Doris shrugged. "And so. I'm meeting with Pierce tomorrow. But there's not much any of us can do until we know who the Inu Hunters are. K.A.F.A. is in Disjunction Lake's jurisdiction."

"Will you keep a tab on that investigation for me?"

"I'm keeping a tab on it already for myself. I'll tell you as much as possible. As my police liaison, you're entitled. But much of it will be classified, you know that."

Arthur didn't budge. "Tell me what you can, Doris."

"Of course."

They stared, no words left to say. Doris wanted badly to swallow and ease her dry throat but she didn't dare. It was finally Arthur who made the first motions of leaving. Doris stood.

Before he turned to the door, Arthur asked, "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I...I don't know. There's a lot to do..."

He didn't reply, but neither did he look away. At last he said, "Will you be all right, by yourself?"

"Absolutely," Doris replied, probably too quickly.

At long last, he turned to leave and Doris suddenly asked, "Do you still want me to call you Arthur?"

He stopped and looked at her, a near-smile on his lips. "Yes, I do."

"I never told you that you could call me Doris," she said, just to aggravate him.

He smiled more fully. "Well, we can't undo what's already been done."

Doris smiled, too. Then Arthur left her office, and she was alone again, standing by her desk like a sentry.

Chapter 12

Lakeside Assembly Center

Night. Last Quater Moon.

Mine. Mine!

Max runs, propelled by anger, propelled by greed. The gravel road to Tulenar clacks and grates, he feels it give under his bare feet, but he is unaware of any pain. The air is cold on his skin, naked and damp, his genitals retreating for warmth, but the cold and discomfort are nothing compared to his need to rush to the claim.

They have no right!

He swerves suddenly, clambering up a hillside, two-footed at first, then scrambling on hands and feet as the climb grows steeper. The sweat is dripping off him like tears, regardless of the cold. His lungs burn and he wonders vaguely how he can keep such a pace - shouldn't it be impossible?- when he bursts onto the clearing.

The full moon blazes down on Doris Tebbe and David Alma Curar. They are kneeling, digging like dogs, trying to disinter what they have no right to, no right at all. Alma Curar is telling her, "There's still time. If we hurry there's still time."

Inside the hollow they have dug Max can be seen one bloodless, white hand, stiffened and clawlike, as though the corpse had been scratching at its grave. Max looks down at his own hands with a start, because he is suddenly afraid it is he they are digging up. And when he can find no trace of himself, no trace at all, he knows for certain they are.

Then he feels the dirt in his mouth and the clots in his eyes, his heart is in pain and despair for being dead and buried so long, so long! Yet he is also still looking through altogether different eyes at Tebbe and Alma Curar, desperately digging at his corpse.

No, mine!

Mrs. Tebbe is screaming, "Max! Max!" as she yanks at his dead wrist and forearm, as if she thinks she can awaken him. But Max is no longer in his corpse. He is back in the thing again, the thing full of rage and greed, lunging at David Alma Curar as Mrs. Tebbe's eyes fly wide with horror. She flings her hands upward. Her right palm bears a silver-tinged pentagram.

Stop them, kill them! Mine! He feels Alma Curar's throat burst between his jaws.

Max clutched at his own throat when he awoke, gasping and staring wildly about the bedroom, unable to see a thing in spite of the beams of a brilliant half-moon streaking through the window. He groped quickly toward the nightstand where he knew his glasses lay and panicked a little when he almost knocked them to the floor.

Only when he had them shoved snugly in place did Max lean back against his headboard and try to catch his breath. A nightmare. Just a nightmare. But it was out of sync, out of rhythm. Nightmares as vivid as this one... it wasn't time yet. Max pulled the sheet up to his face, blotting his forehead and throat, so sore where he had clawed himself.

He thought suddenly, God, I miss Annie, God I miss her! He rose, pulled his robe over his damp shoulders and walked sluggishly into the kitchen. God... Annie.

Max pulled a bottle of orange juice from the Frigidaire and didn't bother with a glass. His heart was calmer now, as he leaned on the cool, enameled door, the horror of the dream fading. But his longing for Annie was still full and strong. It always was after the nightmares. How he needed her when thrust awake like that. But Annie was not there, had never been there. She had died the very night those awful visions were born.

Max let his head fall back against the refrigerator. How was he going to get through life without her? And then he wondered how Doris Tebbe, widowed just like he, managed for so many years.

/ / / /

The news from Mrs. Tebbe's office gave Max a surge of adrenaline, a burst of victory. Her police force had an Inu Hunter in custody.

This time, when his car passed by David Alma Curar's truck at Tulenar, Max made a point of staring straight ahead. Still, he could see the healer - imperfect though his vision was -see the man from the corner of his eye, see him in the side view mirror as the car trundled past.

Alma Curar stood by his truck bed, sacking something for a young woman, Nisei most likely, dressed in the crisp white of a nurse's uniform. Like the white and cut of the woman's uniform, so the general shape and identical colors marked the two children with her as twin boys. They circled the truck, making a game of not running, but walking very, very fast as they tried to tag each other. It was Alma Curar's posture that told Max the healer stared after him until the corner was turned.

Harriet Haku's face seemed all but healed as she escorted Max to Mrs. Tebbe's office. The C.A. finished scribbling on a note pad, poised in a nest of files, before looking up and nodding at him. He looked around the office as he took his usual seat.

"You've added some things."

It was still sparse, still intensely practical compared to his office. But, now, the wall behind Mrs. Tebbe displayed framed certificates, a political science degree from Sarah Lawrence, a few pictures of the late Senator Tebbe, with and without her, posing beside various politicians. One was with Herbert Hoover.

She'd added a slate blue carpet, too, that covered most of the office floor. A square oak table with four chairs was butted up against the window that overlooked the camp.

"I needed the table for small meetings and, with the carpet, the room finally doesn't sound like a stable when people walk in."

"It looks good."

There was a moment of silence. Mrs. Tebbe seemed reluctant to get on with it. She shuffled the paper nest, poked at the errant auburn waves against her nape.

Max finally prompted, "Well. Are they escorting the young man here, or do we go to the lock-up?"

Mrs. Tebbe sighed, then stood. "We go there, Captain."

/ / / /

There was nothing to hint of the teenager's Japanese features as Max walked into the little wooden jail. His wounded vision, glasses or no, couldn't make out the boy's face. But Max could read the posture, the typical American stance of a young tough, reared back on the bunk, one ankle crossed over his knee.

Not until he was at the long, thin bars could Max really see the boy's face. The Issei jailer produced a small ring of keys and unlocked the door for Max and Mrs. Tebbe.

The youth wore the trappings of his age and American culture, rebellious in a white tee-shirt, one sleeve rolled even though it held only a match box instead of a pack of Lucky's. Baggy, dark blue dungarees, cuffs folded a good three inches wide, brown loafers over white socks. He was worrying a match stick at the corner of his mouth to prove he was "hep," as the young people liked to say and, for the same reason, he wore his hair long enough to slick at the sides and comb into greased waves on the top. A perfectly normal teenager in a perfectly bizarre situation.

The jailer brought two stiff, wooden chairs into the cell for them before returning to his desk, obviously trying to mind his own business.

Mrs. Tebbe said without preamble, "Andrew, this is Captain Pierce. He's the commanding officer of Lakeside and, under certain circumstances, the final authority here at Tulenar as well. Captain, this is Andrew Takei."

How old was Andrew, sixteen? He had the constant, unsure expression of most boys his age, in spite of trying to seem self-possessed. The smoothness at his jaw line sprouted a few, long downy hairs that weren't quite whiskers yet. Sixteen.

The boy's eyes darted from Mrs. Tebbe to Max, his tough-guy posture frozen and betraying his fear. His voice betrayed him, too, nervous and unsure, though he did his best to seem in control. "I don't have to say anything until my mom gets here."

"You don't have to say anything, then, either," Mrs. Tebbe replied quickly, glancing at Max as if she thought he might have told the boy differently. Then she said directly to Max, "His father won't be transferred here for another week."

So I should go easy on the boy? he thought. Was that what she was implying? Again it stung to know she saw him as the military heavy.

He heard the door of the jail's office open, and the scent of blue violets wafted in. Perfume, tastefully applied. It was followed by the staccato of a woman's shoes on the wooden floor and, by the time Max had stood to turn, Andrew Takei's mother was at the cell. Andrew's rigid pose dissolved a moment and he sat at the edge of his bunk, his eyes riveted on his mother.

Mrs. Tebbe stood, too. "Mrs. Takei, this is Captain Pierce."

Mrs. Takei looked from her son, her eyes pained, to Max and her gaze grew cool. When she spoke, her smooth, educated voice held the faintest trace of her native tongue.

"This is ludicrous, penning Andrew up like a criminal. He is just a boy."

"Mrs. Takei," Max replied, "if the young man had bullied a neighbor or defaced property back in Sacramento, he would have had to answer for it in juvenile court."

"But he would not be thrown in jail like some hoodlum!"

"Madame, he is a hoodlum, if he's a member of the Inu Hunters."

"But he is not!" Mrs. Takei looked to her son for confirmation. Andrew was speechless, all pretense of rebellion evaporating as the adults argued around him.

Max turned to the boy. "Are you, Andrew?"

The youth hesitated and Max barked, "Answer me, son."

"I didn't do anything!" Andrew looked up at Max, fear clearly in his face, then his attention latched back onto his mother. "Ma, I swear to... I swear to God. Just some paint, is all."

Mrs. Takei strode to her son and clasped him against her hip. "This is madness," she said, her voice unsteady. "A prison inside a prison. For the love of Heaven, where do you people think he is going?"

"Mrs. Takei, please. Please." Maxwell approached her. "Sit with your son."

After a moment's hesitation, she did so slowly. She looked up at Max and Mrs. Tebbe, as if she were the jailed, defiant one instead of Andrew. Max pulled his chair a little closer to her and sat. Mrs. Tebbe did likewise.

"Your son," he began calmly, "was caught -red-handed- by the residents' own police, scrawling obscenities on the walls of Block Eleven. That alone is inexcusable, but that's not why he's in jail. He's in jail because he was seen earlier with a band of teenagers hurling rocks at one of the residents of Block Eight, a gentleman who has just begun working at one of the warehouses. He's become a favorite victim of the Inu Hunters."

Mrs. Takei looked at her son. Andrew fidgeted, but didn't reply. Mrs. Takei regarded Max again, clearly wondering if she could trust what he said.

"Mrs. Takei," he ventured in answer to her silent question, "why would I come all the way out here just to punish a boy for some graffiti?"

"In fact the Army may not, Captain. I know that is not within your jurisdiction. Likewise, I understand, neither are thrown stones."

The lady had been studying. But she didn't have him stymied.

"But the Army may," he replied, "if our assistance is requested by the WRA."

He waited for Mrs. Takei's rebuttal. It didn't come, and he knew why. Andrew's mother had to be aware that Max was really here to find a murderer. The connection between the Inu Hunters and Mr. Ataki's death was still tenuous and, therefore, classified. But who could doubt that the internees had long figured out the connection themselves. As they sat across from each other, Max watched Mrs. Takei's expression as the puzzle pieces began to fit together. She looked at her son again and basically changed the subject.

"Is this true? Did you throw rocks at someone?"

"No..." Andrew insisted, but his voice carried a qualifier in it.

"But you were there," Max prompted.

"It wasn't my idea."

"Whose was it?"

Suddenly Andrew seemed to find a steadying force within. He was still afraid, but his eyes took on a sense of purpose as he tugged on his tough guy posture again.

His mother prompted, "Andrew..."

He shook his head. "No, Ma."

Mrs. Tebbe spoke up, her voice full of worry for the boy. "Andrew, do you realize how much trouble you're in?"

Andrew looked at her a moment before his gaze swept about the jail cell. The sarcasm was thick in his reply. "I've noticed, yeah."

Max screwed up his tone to intimidate the boy. "Then you'll also notice you're going through it without your friends. Do you see any of them walking through that door, showing you the same loyalty you're giving them?"

"You can't sound off there, 'general.' They'd do exactly what I'm doing."

By the minute, Andrew was finding a courage that Max would have admired under other circumstances. But this wasn't a mere boy protecting his companions. This was a murder suspect.

The silence drew on as that thought seeped deeper into Max's mind. God in Heaven, the kid really was a suspect, their only suspect. This skinny, sixteen-year-old clutching his attitude like a life preserver; he was Tulenar's only link to the murder.

No. Not this kid, surely not. Max couldn't begin to imagine this boy crushing Ataki's head with a rock, couldn't imagine him scooping out the brain. Had Andrew done it with his own hands? Jesus. No. There would have to be something in Andrew's eyes, surely. Something psychotic. For a sixteen-year-old boy to act that horrifically, there needed to be something visibly odd in his behavior and Max couldn't see it.

His began to buzz again.

But...the kid might know who the psychotic one was. Yeah. The kid very likely knew. And wouldn't Andrew be terrified to betray someone as dangerous as that? If he knew the killer. Or maybe Andrew knew someone who did know. Perhaps start there, an easier confession for the boy-a safer confession- by far.

"Andrew," Max said, "you have before you two options. You can refuse to cooperate. You can protect these false friends, who have caused serious injury to a lot of people. People, Andrew, who are just like the Inu Hunters. Not stooges, not sympathizers. People who have no more choice in all this than you or your parents. But, in refusing to do the right thing, in refusing to tell us who the Inu Hunters are, you are in for a long, long stay right here in this jail cell --"

"Captain..." Mrs. Tebbe began, even as Mrs. Takei gasped out an outraged "No!" and drew her arm around her son. Max lifted his hand, a blunt order for them to keep quiet, though his eyes never left Andrew.

"The court will not hesitate to throw the book at you. Why shouldn't they deal harshly with a delinquent who has molested so many innocent people? We're talking assault and battery, Andrew. Those aren't misdemeanors, they're felonies."

"Captain..." Mrs. Tebbe tried again.

"But if you give this careful thought, if you dig deep inside, you're going to know what's right. Don't let anyone else get hurt, Andrew. The law will want to balance the good you do today against the bad you've done in the past."

Mrs. Takei was shaken. Andrew hardly had color in his face and he turned miserably to his mother. Max could almost feel the cold edge of Mrs. Takei's glare slicing into his forehead.

"My son is a citizen of your nation, Captain, and there is absolutely nothing, nothing more he is going to say without an attorney present."

"That's certainly his right, Mrs. Takei."

The woman almost sneered at the word. Max rose and Mrs. Tebbe did so as well, though not as quickly. Mrs. Takei was still clutching her son when she asked, barely controlling her voice, "With whom do I speak regarding bail?"

Max looked back at her. "There will be no bail for Andrew."

He expected attack from both sides, Mrs. Tebbe on his right, Mrs. Takei on his left. But only Mrs. Takei reacted, rising in disbelief and outrage.

"You cannot do this!"

"Mrs. Takei, it's already done."

/ / / /

Max was beginning to find Mrs. Tebbe's office soothing. He was beginning to think of it as a sanctuary, away from his own office at Lakeside. They were sitting silently together, though Mrs. Tebbe's desk barricaded her from him as usual. They had their standard cups of coffee between them. Something for Max's hands.

In his estimation, the interview with Andrew had gone very well, whether Mrs. Tebbe share that opinion or not. For the first time in several weeks, Max felt as if he was back in form. Why had it taken him so long to settle in, he wondered. When he thought about it, it had taken him just as long to move comfortably into his duties in Arizona. Before that, he had always been able to slip so easily into whatever tour of duty was his.

He shrugged. Maybe he was just getting older. No doubt much of it was due to Annie's death. Then again, first the Arizona tour and, now, this one had begun on very odd footing...

"Captain, you're thinking awfully hard."

Max looked at Mrs. Tebbe blankly for a moment. "What's that?"

"I said smoke's coming out of your ears. Thinking of the interview?"

"Yes and no. It went well, didn't it?" Mrs. Tebbe's expression forewarned him, so he said, "You know what I mean. Did you think we'd be able to send Mrs. Takei and Andrew off, waving and smiling, to their block?"

Mrs. Tebbe relented to reason. "No. Of course not. Really...you're right, Captain. It went as well as it could. We need to do something to shake the Inu Hunters up."

"Mrs. Tebbe, we gave that young man a lot to think about. Even if he doesn't know the real reason he's sweating it out in jail, his mother does. Somebody's going to come up with the name of the Inu Hunters' pack leader. When that happens, I think we'll make some real progress."

"It's just a pity we have to put the screws on somebody like Andrew."

Max took a long drink of coffee. "I know. Before they came here, I doubt any of those kids had done anything worse than soap a few windows on Halloween. But that isn't the case now."

"But the way Ataki died. I just can't believe a group of boys, no matter how angry--"

"The coroner's report isn't in yet. There's still the chance that the grisly details were secondary. Maybe the boys had only meant to intimidate the old man. Maybe they had him cornered and his fear triggered their mob instinct. Somebody went too far. A blow to the head with a blunt object. Panic. They drag his body through the barbed wire and haul ass. If you'll excuse my French."

"And they make it on foot, lugging dead weight, all the way to the hills, making sure they're just outside the government property line, then hoof it back without the guards seeing them?"

"They stow the body a little closer to camp, but not well enough to keep it from animals. You do have coyotes around here. Even cougars, I'm told. One of the search parties mentioned finding a couple of large animal prints the morning after Ataki's disappearance, remember?"

Max watched Mrs. Tebbe as she weighed the merits of his theory, and he felt a pang of resentment. Why did she always feel the need to second guess him?

"You've really thought this through, haven't you?" she asked, but her voice wasn't cynical.

"It's a viable scenario."

"What about that splinter group of K.A.F.A. in Disjunction Lake?"

Max opened his hands amiably. "I don't want to cross them off the list, either."

The C.A. sighed and retreated to her coffee. ax leaned toward her as best he could from across the desk.

"Mrs. Tebbe, do you think I want the murderer to be one of those boys?" Did she? Could she think him so cold?

Mrs. Tebbe looked at him. She seemed impressed by his question, her face softening more than Max had ever noticed before.

"No," she replied. "Of course not. I'm sorry, Captain. I treat you like an adversary, don't I?"

"Yes, you do."

She actually smiled. It wasn't the type of bright, full smile Annie was always so eager to give, but it was an honest one.

"I'll try to change that. I have enough adversaries already. I could use an ally."

Chapter 13

Tulenar Internment Camp

First Night. Full Moon.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death...

Nancy Tamura prayed those words over and over in her mind, afraid to call on the Virgin aloud, afraid the slightest sound might provoke it further. Her nurse's training told her that she was critically wounded. She knew it was blood loss and shock that blunted her pain. And yet, she could feel the blood everywhere, thin tendrils of warmth cast across her head like a net.

She knew her back was raw meat from being dragged such a distance. As she clawed along the ground, pushing against the earth with arms and legs, chest and belly, she felt the cold air where flesh was scraped away, exposing muscles and nerves.

But none of this, none of this mattered. Somehow, some way, she must get back to the camp, back to the twins. Her sons, dear God, her sons! Who would take care of them until their father was released?

A wave of vertigo almost stopped her in her tracks, but her will was strong enough to keep her pushing relentlessly forward. Which way is Tulenar, which way? The full moon gave no hint of direction. How long had she been crawling now, surely she was almost there. Shock blinded her to distance. Her struggle had covered only eight feet.

Long canines sank into her ankle and she was yanked backward, as she had been time and time again. She screamed with pain and despair. My God, she wanted to shriek at the thing, why don't you just kill me, damn you! Just kill me and get it over with!

But every time fear threatened, the image of the twins, the image of her husband sprang before her fading sight. She would pray to the Virgin again, begin crawling again, aware somewhere in the back of her mind that the creature walked by her side, watching every agonized move. No, don't dwell on that, think of your boys, think of them...

But the thought of that thing so near was beginning to overwhelm her. She couldn't see it any longer, it kept just out of view. But she could hear it. Hear its deep, barrel panting, its low growls. She saw it brilliantly in her memory, saw the silver fur glowing in the moonlight, its frame preternaturally huge. Saw its muzzle contorted in a snarl, its teeth gnashing. She could see the eyes. The eyes as human as her own.

And she could not keep the terror at bay any longer. She wept uncontrollably now, her arms stretched to their limit upon the barren ground. The terror of her own death coiled around the dread she held for her family as the beast stepped on one of her flayed shoulders and flipped her onto her back.

She reached for her scapular. She was a good Catholic and wanted to grasp the little relic-filled pouch against her heart at the moment of her death. She didn't realize it had been torn away, along with so much of her flesh, as the beast had dragged her relentlessly onward. Its silken cord, its two square velvet pouches -protecting her heart front and back- were lost in the wasteland.

Reach for the scapular. But her fingers thudded instead against the beast's snout as its great jaws stretched across her breastbone and started cracking.

Chapter 14

Tulenar Internment Camp

First Night. Full Moon.

The night was so sharp against Doris's senses, it was as if it would draw blood. She stood on the small front porch of her house, her terry robe cinched around her like a tourniquet, watching the search beams of the towers lance into Tulenar's lanes. The buildings dotted with light as internees roused to the commotion. At the far western perimeters, the rays of military torches pierced the dark.

She looked at the full moon as relief from the blanched beams in the camp, but its hoary, mottled face was no easier on her eyes. Had it really only been ten minutes since the sergeant had notified her? And now Arthur was there, too, at her side, but not as a comfort. He was angry, and saying, "You can't get deny this one, Doris. Mrs. Tamura was abducted!"

The sergeant was clearly shocked by Arthur's familiarity. "See here, mister, you can't talk to the Center Administrator that way!"

Arthur ignored the sergeant, Doris ignored Arthur. She was too numb, staring out at the chaos.

"Look at me, Doris!"

"That's it," the sergeant said, and took a step closer to him. "I want you out of here now!"

Doris heard Arthur take in a breath, as if to calm himself. He was so close, she could feel the warmth on her neck when he let it out.

"I'm sorry. Doris...call off your bulldog and, please, look at me."

"For the last time," the sergeant warned, "she's Mrs. Tebbe to you."

But Doris could hear the uncertainty in the sergeant's voice. Three times Arthur had taken outrageous liberty and she had done nothing to correct the situation. Through the numbness, she began to worry about how this must seem to the soldier.

"You want him arrested, Mrs. Tebbe?"

Doris couldn't make herself reply. The sergeant's expression hardened with resolve of duty. Arthur's, with the understanding of betrayal.

He left. God, the look on his face. And she just watched him go. I should say something, she thought belatedly.

She looked back toward the camp, toward the pandemonium, and was almost overwhelmed with the numbness again. A young Nisei mother, her twin sons no more than five. The boys had fled their dormitory shrieking, still in their pajamas. They had been spying from their beds, peering through the window at Mrs. Tamura. It had been her turn to give the Block Six vegetable garden its nightly watering.

A monster, they had said. A monster had swallowed their mother's head and dragged her through the fence.

What am I doing, just standing here? The numbing shock suddenly dropped away. Doris turned to the sergeant. "Get over to my office. I'll meet you there as soon as I dress."

Had Pierce been contacted yet? As the sergeant hustled away Doris headed for her door, but a voice called to her from the night's pale gloom.

"Mrs. Tebbe..."

She hesitated, turning toward the voice as a man stepped around from the house's north. In the ghostly light of the moon, the silvercraft at Alma Curar's wrists and throat almost glowed.

Gruffly, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

"We need to talk."

Doris began toward her door again. "Whatever it is, Mr. Alma Curar, I have another matter much more urgent."

"I know. Mrs. Tamura. That's why I'm here."

She stopped, full of interest now, as he came up the steps. "You saw something? Give me a moment and we'll meet the sergeant at my office..."

Mr. Alma Curar shook his head, his expression stony. "It won't do any good to meet the sergeant, Mrs. Tebbe. What I have to say is for you only."

"But why? There's no need to mistrust--"

"Mrs. Tebbe, Mrs. Tamura is dead."

Doris said nothing, her stomach in knots, her heart thumping.

"Her body can be found in the same general area where Mr. Ataki's remains were discovered. It wouldn't have buried her very close to him. It's too clever to have done that. But it does keep a pattern."

"How can you possibly--"

"I know its habits." The healer didn't seem to want to go on. But then he said, "I know them very well."

She needed time to think, but there was no time to think. Her first thought was that Ataki's killer -apparently Nancy Tamura's killer, too- was standing before her. But why would he do such a thing? And why would he be at her house now? Confession? And how could he be here so soon if what he was saying was the truth?

Cautiously, Doris said, "Mr. Alma Curar. Surely you realize you have to come with me. You've witnessed something. I swear to you, there's nothing to fear."

"You have no idea how much there is to fear," Alma Curar snapped. But then he calmed himself. "Speaking to the sergeant is pointless. The Army and all its power can't stop what's happening. But you and I might."

This was agonizing! But Doris didn't dare act too quickly, didn't dare try to contact the M.P.'s yet. She moved a hand slowly toward the porch swing as if afraid she might frighten him away.

"Shall we sit?"

"No."

"Then, please, Mr. Alma Curar, we're wasting precious time. If you know where Mrs. Tamura is, let's get the sergeant. Maybe it's not too late to save her."

"Of course it is! She was taken at least half an hour ago. It knows there's only so much time to leech its victims of fear before feeding. I told you, it's very clever."

Doris lost control. "What are you talking about, this 'it', 'it'!"

"The beast, Mrs. Tebbe. The werewolf, if you prefer."

A monster had swallowed their mother's head and dragged her through the fence. Damn it! Alma Curar was neither killer nor witness. He was just a nosy, superstitious Indian!

"Mr. Alma Curar, those children did not see a monster. They were terrified. They saw a horrible man or a band of horrible men--"

"Mrs. Tebbe, they saw what appeared to be a wolf, a massive wolf with --"

"Oh, for chrissake!"

"Mrs. Tebbe, was the moon full when Mr. Ataki died? Isn't it staring us in the face right now? There may be tracks, Mrs. Tebbe. The beast can cover most of them, but it must move in a hurry and may miss one or two. The beast relies on you not looking for --"

"This is ridiculous!" Oh, she couldn't believe this Navajo witch doctor had so easily taken her in. "Damn you, Alma Curar, how dare you waste my time! Get the hell out of my camp! And if you ever show your face anywhere near Tulenar again, know that I'm telling Captain Pierce tonight he gets the personal pleasure of throwing you in jail!"

"You won't be talking to the captain tonight, Mrs. Tebbe. Until the moons sets, he doesn't exist."

/ / / /

The line just kept ringing and ringing, until finally the operator interrupted.

"Mrs. Tebbe, I'd say the captain's not in his quarters. Is there another number you'd like me to try?"

"Assembly Center headquarters."

"One moment..."

Over and over again, nothing but the ringing.

Doris slammed the receiver down and the sergeant looked away uncomfortably.

Then he said, "We should try to contact the second in command then, Ma'am."

Doris shoved the phone in his direction and stared sullenly toward the office window. The search lights cut across the glass in slow, broad rhythms.

The sergeant gave the operator a number, then with the receiver to his ear, he began to say to Doris, "It could be that Captain Pierce is already on his-yeah, this is Sergeant Bauer, Tulenar. I need to speak with the lieutenant..." Bauer finished up and set the receiver back down. "Lieutenant Walker's on his way, ma'am. He's sending a man to the captain's quarters."

"Good," she said perfunctorily, giving him an equally perfunctory glance. Nothing to do now but wait. She stood. "Why don't we have some coffee, sergeant."

"Yeah. Yes, ma'am. Thanks."

Doris began toward the door, then realized the sergeant wasn't following her. She looked back at him pointedly. "It's out here by Harriet's desk."

"Oh... sure."

At the long folding table that doubled as the coffee service, Doris took the percolator from the hot plate and thrust it as Bauer. "You get the water. I'll measure."

In silence, they watched the coffee percolate until Bauer cleared his throat, apparently uncomfortable without small talk. He said, "Sorry about that little incident earlier, Ma'am."

Doris blinked herself out of deep thought. "What incident?"

"The Jap preacher. Sorry I didn't stop him from barging in. I didn't see him coming 'til it was too late..."

Jap preacher. Doris's shoulders tensed, but she only replied, "Don't worry about it."

"Well ... he was out of line, that's for damn sure. Pardon my French, ma'am, but...these people. Give 'em a little privilege and they forget which side of the fence they live on."

Arms crossed, Doris's fingernails pressed into her jacket sleeves. When she looked at the sergeant, her eyes might as well have been dripping venom. But, still, she didn't defend Arthur.

Instead she said icily, "Bring the coffee to my office when it's ready."

/ / / /

Doris had no intention of exchanging pleasantries when Pierce walked through her door. "Where the hell were you last night?"

He looked like crap, pale and tired. The creases at his eyes were magnified by his thick glasses. The scar at his hairline was blood red. He jerked the chair out and sat down, squinting against the sun's rays as they breached the horizon.

He didn't bother to answer question. "I've already been briefed. Any news since the drive over?"

"No." She wanted to ask him again, but even in her pique she knew she'd be out of line. Mrs. Tamura's disappearance was the important matter, not Pierce going on a bender during his off-hours. Before she could stop, she found herself repeating Arthur's words almost verbatim. "We can't deny this one, Captain. It's clear that Mrs. Tamura was abducted."

"But her sons are the only witnesses."

"As far as we know."

"You've interrogated the dormitory residences..."

"Of course. The whole block. Either no one else saw what happened or any other witnesses are too frightened to come forward. I doubt the latter. It happened too fast. Everybody's attention was on Mrs. Tamura's sons. The boys were so hysterical they couldn't even be understood at first."

Pierce took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "So there's nothing to do but continue with the search parties."

"I suppose."

"The F.B.I.'s sending in an advisor, but for the time being this is still our show. Disjunction Lake's already filling up with press people. I don't know how the hell they found this out so soon."

"Just great..."

"Don't worry, Tulenar's surrounded by a quarter-mile of government property. They can't get any closer to you than that." He gingerly reset the glasses on his nose and looked at Doris sternly. "I don't have to tell you that you shouldn't talk to them."

Doris didn't even bother to reply. When the intercom buzzed, she stabbed at the button like it was a cockroach. "Yes."

Harriet Haku's voice, reedy through the intercom, replied. "Milton Eisenhower is calling."

The national director of the War Relocation Authority. Doris released the button without acknowledging Harriet. "Here it comes."

Pierce was rising from his chair, either out of politeness or hoping to escape. But as Doris reached for the receiver, she said, "Stick around, Captain, I'm sure he'll want to chat with you, too."

/ / / /

Normally, Doris would have eaten supper on her little porch. But she thought it wise to stay indoors, even though the internee protesters were not allowed past the camp's fence. She finished up in the kitchen, then took a cup of coffee to her living room window. She could see their line, being watched intently from each military tower. Hastily painted signs of rage bobbed above chanting faces. She couldn't make out individuals, but she was certain Arthur would be among them, shouting for action and demanding the release of Andrew Takei.

Thank Heaven Pierce had seen things her way. When the formal request for peaceable assembly had been put before her, Doris had been certain the captain would insist

she deny it. That twit Eshelmann sure would have, had he still been in command. But Pierce had impressed her by agreeing the request should be granted. The tension in Tulenar was like a noose around both their necks. If they didn't allow it some slack, Lord only knew what would happen.

In the meantime, no internees were allowed to approach Administration without direct approval from Doris or the WRA supervisors. Harriet had approval, of course, along with most of the regular staff. But this afternoon, Harriet -along with that staff- had forfeited a day's pay to attend the protest.

Arthur had not even submitted a request to see Doris.

She tried not to linger on that thought. She looked over to the place where David Alma Curar usually set up his wares. There was no sign of him.

Good, she thought, good. Crazy, superstitious idiot. Monsters. My God.

Pierce's intuition about the man had been right after all. So, what had stopped her from telling the captain about last night's encounter with the healer? Doris couldn't pretend she had forgotten about it because Alma Curar's image had sped across her mind that morning at every opportunity. But she and Pierce certainly had enough to worry about without using up manpower chasing after a lunatic. Anyway, the problem had obviously taken care of itself.

She wandered back to the kitchen to refill her cup and tried to ignore something nagging in the back of her mind. She knew what it was. Alma Curar's werewolf tale wasn't the first of its ilk she'd heard lately. She remembered Pierce's story as they had sipped plum wine a little over a month ago.

But Doris wasn't a child to be spooked by an odd coincidence. Two coincidences, if she counted the healer's guess that Pierce wouldn't be in his quarters last night. Her decision to allow Alma Curar a graceful exit was just a way of balancing a lesser evil with a greater one. That's all.

Doris had never been one given to superstition.

Chapter 15

Lakeside Post Assembly Center

Disjunction Lake

Sunset. Third Night. Full Moon.

What Max needed most was a long evening walk. He wanted away from the assembly center, away from the bland dormitories and offices. Their new-wood scent was faded now, so that dust was almost all Max smelled.

It would have been nice to stroll down a street or two of the little civilian town that borrowed its name from the lake. But the press would have spotted his car before it even made the city limits. So Max ordered the driver to the eastern shore of Disjunction Lake. The late-day blue of the water would separate him from the town.

He brought his watch close to his face. It was important he not lose track of time. To be away from the shielding walls of his quarters when the seizures came would be more than humiliating. If witnessed, they would cost him his career. But the sun, though low in the sky, was still high enough above the horizon. He had plenty of time. And he just had to get away, even if it meant only gazing at the town's low buildings from a distance, their shapes fuzzy and indistinct.

Except for some signs -literally, signs- of the Pearl Harbor backlash, it was a pleasant, quaint little town. About a third of the merchants closed their doors to the flux of evacuees allotted temporary day passes. Large, hand-painted cardboard was taped onto the doors -NO JAPS!- like hands thrust defensively in the internees' faces.

But the rest of the shopkeepers were pragmatists. Or opportunists, depending on how one might look at it. Their doors were open to the daily chosen of Tulenar, who shopped the inflated prices under the wary eye of WRA escorts. Since the crises at Tulenar, however, the approved camp residents were a restricted trickle of staff workers.

At least the press corps were making up for some of the lost customers. Max lingered on the simple, low line of buildings a moment more before walking again. Their images shimmered as the red, dusty earth slowly gave up the day's heat, the scraggly foothills almost an extension of the little town's skyline.

He couldn't imagine anyone there doing what was being done to the evacuees, in spite of the prevailing mood. It just didn't seem possible. Not at any time since his arrival at Lakeside did he get the slightest sense of that kind of cunning. Malice, yes. That active, vocal little handful of anti-Japanese had been vulgar enough to applaud Ataki's death, though they didn't seem to have much to say about Mrs. Tamura's disappearance. Even bigots might cringe at atrocities against motherhood, Max thought.

But those people were as artless as they were crude and offensive. They may wish they were responsible but, frankly, Max didn't think they had the wit, let alone the training to execute the attacks. A buzzing in his ears began low, more awareness than sound. But Max ignored it, focusing all the more on his thoughts.

The attacks had been swift, surgical, with few or no witnesses. The attackers hadn't even left footprints. Whoever these people were, they were clever enough to drag the victim right over their tracks. Eventually, of course, the nature of the land itself hid the trail.

Which meant there couldn't be many of them. Or at least they didn't all strike together. No, these crimes were much too slick and professional for the local hate group to pull off ...

Damn, this buzzing!

Max swatted irritably at his ears for a moment, even though he knew from experience there was no stopping the affliction. It came and went of its own accord, just another side effect of his head injury. He managed to calm himself and focused all the harder on his theories.

Even if K.A.F.A. were sharp enough to pull all this off, it would be logistically impossible. They couldn't get far enough, fast enough on foot and there was no place to hide a get-away car. The tower guards would absolutely have seen something, either way. If not when Ataki was taken, then certainly when Mrs. Tamura was, because they were alerted almost immediately.

So who, then? Who had the savvy, who had the background? Certainly not the Inu Hunters. A small band of frustrated teenagers? No, it was becoming all too clear now that they were as much a dead end as the town bullies ...

Shit! Max pressed his hands to his ears, the buzzing becoming a stabbing pain, now. He began to feel dizzy. He sank down until he was sitting on the red, dusty shoreline, the lake water just inches from his shoe tips. He raised his eyes to the sun. It seemed as close to the foothills as the water was to his toes. Then he saw the fuzzy shape of two people strolling in the distance, their movement more a cue to Max's eyes than their form. They hesitated, as if catching sight of Max, then began walking toward him.

Clear your head, clear your head, he thought, and forced his mind back onto his conjectures in an attempt to ease the pain and the vertigo. Okay... maybe not the Inu Hunters directly. But could those boys... so quick to call their neighbors stooges...could they be the stooges? Somebody older, wiser... controlling these boys? A pro, now stuck in the camp. God, an insurgent. Making mischief as best he can. But to kill his own people! No... not his own people, he wouldn't see it that way.

There. Finally. The buzzing and pain began to recede, the rush of vertigo eased. By the time the two people became clear to Max's vision, he was pushing himself back onto his feet.

"You all right there, cap'n?" They were two elderly fisherman with equipment draped around them like the locks and chains on old Jacob Marley.

"I'm fine now, thanks," Max replied as pleasantly as he could, brushing the dust from his uniform. Behind the fishermen, he could see his car coming down the road.

"We saw you holding your head as you went down..."

"Yeah. I had a little dizziness, but it's passed. Working a little too hard and long, I guess." He nodded over their shoulders and the two of them turned toward the growling of the motor. "Thanks for your concern. My driver's coming now."

He got into the car, dizzy now with excitement over his new revelation instead of pain. The Inu Hunters. Some sort of pathetic front men. The buzzing in his ears was gone now and his head felt as clear as if he were breathing the crisp mountain air of Alderquest. He was onto something this time, and he would have felt euphoric about it, had the certainty of his second night of seizures not lay before him.

Chapter 16

Tulenar Internment Camp

Late afternoon. New Moon.

There were so many search parties, Doris could look out her office windows at any given moment and glimpse the distant movement. The mournful baying of hounds drifted over the foothills hourly. Volunteers had come out of Disjunction Lake in droves and even select evacuees were allowed to participate, under certain restrictions. Captain Pierce had personally organized the pattern of the sweep and assigned the search leaders.

Doris had begun the week with hope. Perhaps not the hope of finding Mrs. Tamura alive, but at least she had been certain the poor woman's body would be found. That had been Monday morning, though. Now it was late Saturday afternoon.

And as if the Ataki and Tamura crises were not enough, she'd endured F.B.I. interviews, press conferences and news headlines like: "Iron Lady of Tulenar Keeps Jap Residents In Check During Crisis!"

She hadn't seen Arthur since the sergeant of the M.P.'s had ordered him off her porch.

But Pierce, she'd seen or spoken with every day. He sat with her now at the meeting table in her office, both of them looking through the window at the camp. She had to admit, he'd done good work. His energy had been damned near limitless, his organization was impeccable, his diplomacy a hell of a lot better than her own.

Only once during this operation had she seen his easy rapport waver, early on, when she had questioned his plan for the search pattern. Her remark had been harmless, at least in Doris's opinion. A simple question, she somehow hadn't been able to resist, even if she was certain Alma Curar was a lunatic: Had the captain assigned searchers to the quadrant surrounding the Ataki site?

Pierce had looked at her as if she had questioned his loyalty to the nation. "Mrs. Tebbe," he'd said, "I can't believe you're asking that. What is it, would you like this job, too? Are thirteen, fourteen hour days not enough work for you?"

Doris had bristled right back, of course, indignant at his indignation. But she hadn't pressed the argument, given the source that had provoked her question in the first place. She'd snapped off some retort that had sounded lame, even to her, and that had been that. A small altercation. She didn't really hold it against the captain, and he had seemed to forget it minutes later himself.

That wasn't the reason Doris thought his behavior was a little smug lately. He'd seemed so all week, as if he knew something she didn't. Ah, hell. She decided she was just trying to find fault again.

Now, as he set his glasses on the table and yawned into his fist, she was thinking he wanted to call it a day. He certainly deserved a few hours off. Instead he said, "I could use a break, how about you?"

"A break? Captain, you've more than earned your pay scale this week. I think you should head back to your quarters."

"No, I mean, let's get out of here and grab some supper."

"Supper?"

Doris looked at her watch, any number of problems tumbling into thought. It was four-thirty. She hadn't worked on her archery all week. She'd hoped to get in some practice before sunset. The second shift search wouldn't be in for at least another hour. She wanted to learn what they might have to pass on to the third ...

"Come on, Mrs. Tebbe. My treat."

"Where?" she asked, still reluctant. "The press will mob us if we go into town."

"We'll sneak over to Shelton."

"We can't afford to be out of touch..."

"We'll be gone two hours max, for cryin' out loud. We'll call our people when we get there."

"Thanks, but...no. I better pass." Doris felt a twinge of guilt as the captain fell briefly into silence.

Then he said, "suit yourself," in a voice falsely light. He rose from the table. "I should be back at my office by six-thirty. Give me a ring there if anything comes up."

He pulled his jacket off the back of his chair. He looked a little tired, but still ready for the evening's business. Really, Doris would have liked to take that break with Pierce. Nice to think of getting away from the camp for a little while. But there was so much left to do. It was best if that break was a half-hour of archery.

They said their good-byes and Doris turned back to the window as the captain walked out the door. Dust hovered at the edges of camp, even the late afternoon sun looked red and dusty. It made her think of Arthur...

She caught up with Pierce just as he was climbing into the back seat of his car.

/ / / /

Shelton had a small Mexican style cantina, the menu limited, authentic and peculiar to Doris. Pierce ordered the tamales, but Doris played it safe with soft-shelled tacos. She wasn't sure what kind of cheese was sprinkled on top of the beef; it was mild, white and crumbly. When the captain offered her the little bowl of hot sauce, she shook her head.

The cocktails were good; tequila, a liqueur called triple sec and limeade with a salt rim. She forgot the name.

They sat outside on the cantina's modest veranda, and Doris felt a little like she was on vacation. Shelton wasn't much bigger than Disjunction Lake, but it had a decidedly Latino feel to it, and its citizens made the best of their desert surroundings. They didn't grade over the course native flora, then try to force midwestern grass to take puny, struggling root. Instead they just shifted the sage and cactus around to suit them.

The town was nice scenery in contrast to Doris's usual eyescape of dust and barbed wire. The warm, red sunset was putting on a show...

That was the second time today she thought of the sunset and she didn't like the sting it caused. She pushed her attention onto Pierce.

"Captain, I'm glad you talked me into this," she said, hoping her tone didn't sound forced.

If it did, Pierce didn't seem to notice. "I thought you'd be."

"You've been to Shelton before?"

"No. Heard about it." Pierce nodded toward the sunset. "Something to see, isn't it?"

"Mm," was all Doris replied, irritated by the reminder.

"Annie --," Pierce said, but then stopped short.

Doris looked at the captain. She waited for him to continue, but he stared at the sun and sipped his cocktail. Something had changed in his mood.

Still watching him, she took a drink of her own cocktail, then cleared her throat. "Well ... I could ignore this moment. But I won't. Annie?"

Another hesitation, then Pierce replied, "Annie was my wife. I was going to say she would have loved this place."

"Was...?"

"She's ... I'm a widower."

Doris was stunned speechless a moment. A man his age, with his work ethic; she had assumed Pierce was a military career bachelor. Doris hadn't even imagined him divorced because he'd never mentioned a woman's name, other than in a business context. At least not in her presence.

Now she could see it in his face. He hadn't been widowed long.

"I'm sorry," Doris said. This was the one emotion in her life that didn't feel awkward. She'd been there herself. "When did it happen?"

"While I was still stationed at Bete. It's why I requested transfer."

"Washington state, right?"

She saw Pierce's adam's apple work. This was hard for him. But he wanted to talk about it, that much was clear. And it was finally occurring to her; maybe this was, at least in part, why he wanted to buy her dinner.

She was both startled and flattered by the revelation. At first she couldn't imagine what he saw in her that even vaguely seemed to welcome confidence. But she'd walked the same road he was walking, hadn't she? He knew that. And she was the only woman around for miles that he probably considered his career equal. He wouldn't talk about this to his secretary. He probably wouldn't talk about it to another man.

So he lost his wife while he was stationed in Washington. Damn, no wonder he wanted out of there. His wife dies, he nearly loses his own life... Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

"That wasn't very long ago," Doris said as gently as she'd ever said anything to anyone. "These things ... they take time, Captain."

Pierce tilted his head back, and Doris wondered a little frantically if he were close to tears. She couldn't tell for sure. The thickness of his glasses obscured the corners of his eyes. She'd never seen a man cry, and she didn't want to now.

When he spoke, his voice was strained, but not tearful. "Yeah. I've got no choice there, do I?"

Doris shrugged. "Who does?"

As he lowered his head again, she looked quickly to the sun, slipping well below the horizon now. They both went for their cocktails.

"How'd it happen?" she finally asked.

Pierce looked over at her, began to say something, then shook his head as if to rethink.

"I'm sorry," Doris said quickly. "You don't have to."

He waved away her objection. "It's okay. This is supposed to be good for me, right? That's what my doctor said. Did it help you, Mrs. Tebbe? To talk about it?"

"Well, I'm... not very good at listening to advice..." Right, she thought, that's going to make him feel better. "But, you know...I should have talked about it. You should, too. You should. If you want, I mean. I'd like to hear about it."

He hesitated a moment, then said, "We had a cabin. A nice rental we used for special get-aways, on Remmel Mountain. It was the first time we'd really gotten some time together since I was released from the hospital." Pierce looked over at Doris and smiled. "It was beautiful. February. Wild and snowy. Every night was as clear as..."

The smile faded from his face. "That's what I don't understand about it. With the moon out, the snow would have been brilliant, her path couldn't have been better lit if she's been walking down a city street. But...somehow. There was a ravine just a short walk from the cabin. Very scenic, deep and craggy. Primal, all the more gorgeous with a good snowfall. Normally, Annie wouldn't have chanced getting too close to the rim after a heavy snow."

Pierce turned away from Doris and looked at his own hands, splaying the fingers and turning the palms upward as if his wife had only just then slipped away. His voice a near-whisper, he said, "This time she was careless."

Watching Pierce stare at his hands, Doris thought she knew what was torturing him most. "Oh, Lord, Captain. And you couldn't reach her in time."

He shrugged, a helpless gesture, and looked at her again. "I wasn't even there, Mrs. Tebbe. She'd gotten up in the middle of the night, which was as peculiar to her as carelessness. But, you know, with the attack, with my career uncertain ... anyone would have a sleepless night...and I..."

He stopped to swallow twice, hard. Apparently that didn't help, because he grabbed his drink. Doris felt her own throat tighten for his sake and wondered if she were really doing the right thing for Pierce, making him rehash all this pain.

"I'm just grateful," he finally continued, "that she wasn't conscious for most of the fall. The coroner said she might have died almost immediately after slipping. The blood was..."

This time he couldn't continue. When he stood to walk off his upset, Doris saw the tremor in his hands as he brought his right one to his ear and pressed it there. He stepped a few paces from her before dropping his hand away and returning to his seat. Now, Doris only wanted to spare him from recounting any more. She summed up the conclusion on conjecture.

"The coroner was probably right, Captain. A blow to the head like that. When she slipped and hit against the rocks, surely she--"

"It was her throat, actually," Pierce said suddenly, oddly clinical.

Doris was struck dumb by the change. Finally, she asked, "What?"

He looked at her, the pain glistening in his eyes. Then the pain was in his voice again, too, as if it had been someone else who had commented only seconds ago.

"As far as could be told, Annie must have slipped. Something may have startled her. They found some animal tracks. She fell forward and gashed her throat on something. Unconscious, so near the rim, she just..."

Doris was spellbound, suddenly forgetting to be gentle. "Can they tell such a thing so precisely? I mean, she must have collided with several objects during the fall. How could they tell which strike it was, whether the cause of death was her falling forward on her throat or backward on her head?"

Pierce took off his glasses and rubbed at his ear again, clearly worn from the telling. But Doris was only vaguely aware, her mind whirring with a peculiar unrest.

"The coroner was the forensics expert, Mrs. Tebbe, not me," he replied with irritation. "It's in the report somewhere, I'm sure." He looked at Doris now, his eyes red and tearless, his face looking older. "All I know is I'm without her. No matter how it happened."

Could I be any more of a tactless idiot? "Yes, of course. Captain ... I'm so sorry."

She reached an unsure hand toward Pierce and patted his arm tentatively, hoping it was the right gesture. He smiled, seemed a little embarrassed now that it was all over, and finished off his cocktail.

"Well," he said, putting on his glasses, then standing to pull on his jacket. "Thanks for being my mother confessor. I didn't really mean to bend your ear so long and hard."

Doris stood quickly, happy to take the cue to leave. "It's important to get it out, Captain, I know."

"Well ... thanks, all the same."

They walked silently toward the car. The corporal saw them coming and stepped over to open the back door for Doris But just before they were within earshot of the driver, Pierce paused, his face troubled again.

"What did you do, Mrs. Tebbe, to get through it? That's what I really meant to ask you tonight. How did you manage to stop this...damn pain?"

Doris met his eyes evenly for a moment or two. "I worked, Captain. I just never stopped working long enough to think."

/ / / /

Doris found Arthur in his block's recreation hall, bent over a game of go with a fellow resident of Four's bachelor barracks. She was sure he was ignoring her as she walked the long hall all the way to his table. He was the only one who didn't gawk at her; the resented Center Administrator, shoes knocking the rough wood floor for what may as well have been a full mile.

When her shadow darkened the Japanese checkerboard, Arthur finally looked up, smiling as pleasantly and distantly as when they had first met.

"Good evening, Mrs. Tebbe."

"Mr. Satsugai." She looked to his playing partner, who nodded at her but didn't smile. "Mr. Sugano."

"Something I can do for you?" Arthur asked.

"I'd like a word, if I may."

"Certainly." He turned his attention to the flat little disks that patterned the board. He picked up a white piece from the bowl at his right hand and slid it into place. "We're just about to finish. If you'll give me a minute."

He took ten before escorting Doris outside, where they were alone in the dusty lane. The cast off glow of barracks windows lit their way in the moonless night.

"I'm sorry we don't have much time to talk, Mrs. Tebbe. The curfew, you know..."

"Cut it out, Arthur." She stopped and faced him. "Just get to the point and tell me why you're angry."

The light was dim, but Doris could see the challenge in his gently canted eyes. She was expecting him to say something ridiculous like, "Do I seem angry?" Instead, without warning, he stepped closer, caressed her neck and pressed his lips to hers. Doris was shocked. Her lips parted.

It was Arthur who was the first to pull away, and he said, "That's why I'm angry."

"I...I don't understand..."

"Damn it!"Both his cursing and the sudden heat in his voice startled her."Doris, you do understand. Damn it!"

He turned away and paced a time or two before walking back. "You just won't listen to yourself, will you? It's easier, it's safer to shut it out, shut if off, turn your eyes back to your desk and away from the sunset. How do you live like that!"

From the corner of her eye, Doris could see a silhouette in the nearest window, clearly curious about the commotion.

"I don't have to stand here and listen to this," she said, her voice strong and proud, thank Heaven. A grand lie.

Arthur stared at her as if she were some hopeless cause. "No, you don't," he replied. "You can be anywhere you please."

He closed his eyes a moment, and when he looked at her again there really wasn't a need for him to say what he was about to say. "You just stood there, Doris. You just stood there while he threw me out."

"That shouldn't have happened," she said quickly, and she so desperately wanted to say, I'm sorry! Arthur, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to be ashamed. But she wasn't going to say it. Why couldn't she say it?

She swallowed. "I came to see if you were still going to be at the meeting Tuesday."

He said nothing. She swallowed again. "Are you?"

"Sure. It's my responsibility."

"I'll see you then," Doris replied, but Arthur already had his back turned and was walking down the path.

Chapter 17

David Alma Curar's Shack

Five miles south of Tulenar Internment Camp

Night. First Quarter Moon.

Dream, sweet dream, with his fingers trailing down her coppery arm to drift across her breast. Circling its roundness, coming to center, teasing the nipple. Against his thigh her wetness, the dark, downy nest pressing rhythmically. He covers her mouth with his own and searches for her tongue.

Sweet, sweet dream. He can whisper her name, even with his mouth full of her; lips, then soft jaw line, then neck. He lets his fingers glide up to her arm once again. And he's whispering her name over and over. She sighs, he growls low in reply.

His fingers drift downward again, against the soft flesh of her arm and she moans, he growls and he feels her soft flesh give under his nails. She struggles beneath him, her moans becoming louder until she's shrieking as the long, black claws rake the blood out of her arm and scrape across her breast ...

David Alma Curar no longer jolted out of his nightmares. Rather, he had to pull himself out, heavily, as if his dreams were a collective tar pit. He left his narrow cot and shuffled over to the eastern window of his little cabin. The sash was propped open with a stick wedged against the frame but, still half-drugged from sleep, David couldn't recall opening it. A thin, chill, midnight breeze whispered down the foothills. The half moon gave the conifers just enough light to cast shaggy, weak shadows against the ground.

Now came the horror. Soon to follow would be the depression. David bowed his head in a paradox of dread and welcome. After all this time, he knew the value of allowing them both their say. But he was not so strong that he could deny a longing for the sweetness of his old amnesia, for the peacefulness of the walled away mind.

Standing at the window, he worked his hand between his tee shirt and the band of his boxers. His fingers traced the heavy cord of scar tissue on his abdomen and he thought of Stanislov. Then his gaze wandered to the stack of old Arizona newspapers setting near the cabin door. For a moment, just a very brief moment, he allowed himself to envy Maxwell Pierce his amnesia.

Chapter 18

Tulenar Internment Camp

Morning. Waxing Gibbous Moon.

The blurred activity before Max's sedan was a hodge-podge of press people and militant, misguided citizens, just shy of the government property line that protected Tulenar. Max didn't have to see well to know that. It had been the standard scene since the Tamura crisis. Soldiers stood watch behind sawhorse barricades blocking the road, and a handful of dust-caked Packards and Buicks were parked offsides.

With the Tamura crisis half way into its second week, however, the numbers had dwindled. The press corps had shrunk to a few maintenance reporters, and the citizens' convictions were losing against boredom and desert heat.

But as Max's sedan approached, everyone perked up, sudden alertness in their ranks, even though they must know that this time would be just like the other times. The waiting soldiers parted the sawhorses and Max ordered his driver to pass through. The citizens bobbed their pickets and demanded justice for the "imprisoned," the press shouted questions with no hope of getting answers. Their bulky cameras were poised, small, round-headed cyclopses. All this in the futile hope that Max might roll down his window to comment, letting the cameras waste their one good eye of a flash bulb.

The people and their screeching disappeared behind the sedan's billowing red tail. Not far up the road, two soldiers were escorting a reporter by his shirt collar, the camera firmly held at its neck by one of them. Its belly would already be empty of any film, ripped out, per Max's orders.

He smiled, and then had the sense to be surprised at the contentment he felt in the midst of this whole mess. As his sedan reached the main entrance of Tulenar, he thought this satisfaction was due to the answers he'd found. He had challenged them these many days, testing each against time and evidence -or the lack thereof- and judged them sound. Now he was ready to share them with Mrs. Tebbe.

/ / / /

With a quick wave, Max strode past Harriet Haku. Since the Tamura crisis, Mrs. Tebbe and he had relaxed the protocol of formal announcement and subsequent escort to the C.A.'s office. Max still called ahead, of course, but the routine afterward was reduced to giving Mrs. Tebbe's door a couple of sharp raps before walking straight in.

That's what he did this time, too, and entered just as Mrs. Tebbe was closing a file folder on her desk. Something in her movement seemed furtive, her gesture too quick. This, in spite of the fact she greeted Max casually as she slipped the folder to her right.

"I'm assuming," he began, "that nothing turned up last night."

Mrs. Tebbe nodded, and the look in her eyes told him she knew what he was about to say. One hundred people had been searching for Mrs. Tamura's body twelve hours a day for ten days.

"It's time," he said simply.

The C.A. nodded again, then tilted her face upward and sighed. She looked tired. The soft skin beneath her cool, little eyes was faintly gray. Her hair seemed heavier in the snood's dark net.

Max went on. "I have a theory, Mrs. Tebbe. I've been giving it a lot of thought over the past two weeks. Now I think it's solid."

Mrs. Tebbe looked at him and must have seen the excitement he was trying hard to repress. She offered one of her wry smiles.

"I knew you were up to something this whole time."

"I think we've got a live one right here in Tulenar. Not even a simple fifth columnist. A true, professional operative."

The C.A. looked at Max for several long seconds. Finally she asked evenly, without the least rancor, "Why that angle, Captain?"

"Accessibility, timing, procedure."

"Accessibility. Meaning the nut brigade in Disjunction Lake is too far away."

"That's correct."

"What about setting up camp closer in?"

"And in the past week and a half not a single trace of evidence to that effect."

She fell silent again, and Max knew she would be going over the same questions he had asked himself as the days of the search had drawn on. At last she said, "The attacks were swift. Very precise."

"Professional's the word. Not even a footprint to go by."

"How do you figure that?"

"I'm guessing he -or they- drag the victim right over their own tracks. That's the least of the mysteries, here. People have covered their tracks since Heaven-knows-when."

"So you don't think he's acting alone."

Max tried to gauge the impact of his next statement. "I think he's controlling the Inu Hunters."

Mrs. Tebbe's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"Think about it. What part of the camp population could he hope to manipulate? Young, angry Nisei boys."

"So you're saying these kids are Japanese insurgents..."

"No. I'm saying they're being played for saps."

"But...why, Captain? Why wouldn't this operative just escape instead of...God Almighty, these are his people."

"No. No, they're not. In his opinion, they're part of the United States government. Mr. Ataki was a block manager. Mrs. Tamura was a nurse at the camp hospital. Every one of the Inu Hunters' targets are employed by the WRA or involved in camp politics."

"Captain, I just don't know..."

"How else, Mrs. Tebbe, can you explain the swiftness and precision of the attacks? How did the killer get to and from the camp?"

"The 'why' still bothers me..."

"If he escaped, what would be the point? The whole west coast would be looking for him, U.S. and Canada both. Where could he go and still hope to do as much damage to the Ally war effort as he's doing right here?"

"But, to kill so brutally. You read the coroner's report on Ataki, head trauma, the brain was removed immediately..."

Max was shaking his head before Mrs. Tebbe had even finished. "I'm skeptical of how well a rural county coroner, even though he's doing his best, can gauge something like that. It's not what he's used to seeing, is it? But if the coroner is right, his findings only back up my theory. To kill, then extract the brain ...very ritualistic, isn't it?"

"Very animal."

"Excuse me?"

"It seems more animal-like to me." Mrs. Tebbe's gaze was even, clinical, as if she were scrutinizing him.

He said more testily than he meant to, "You're not imagining that an animal's done all this."

With a shrug, Mrs. Tebbe said, "I'm thinking of what the Tamura twins said. Has anyone noted any large animal tracks in their reports?"

"Why the hell would they? An animal stalking the internees? Come on, Mrs. Tebbe..." Max almost laughed out loud.

Mrs. Tebbe's silence was long and uncomfortable. Of course, he'd just insulted her. Max's stomach felt knotted and that damn buzzing was threatened once again, low and ominous in one ear. He apologized to distract himself from that as much as to placate the C.A.

"Look. I'm sorry. I know we're brain storming here, I didn't mean to brush off your speculating."

Thankfully, she finally smiled, even looked a little sheepish. She shook her head and waved a quick hand at his apology.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. You're right, Captain, I don't know what I was thinking. I was just re-reading the boys' statement and..." She punched the intercom button before finishing. "... I was up most of the night. I'm not staying as clear-headed as I should. Harriet, how about some coffee?"

The tension was gone, Mrs. Tebbe was back to normal and the threat in Max's ear had all but faded.

The C.A. said, "Maybe you're on to something, Captain. It's just...an enemy insurgent in the camp...?"

Max leaned forward. "Mrs. Tebbe, I know it's hard for you to imagine, I know you want to believe the Relocation is tragic and pointless. I don't argue the tragedy, of course, it is. But, fifth column activity, enemy activity, is a real threat. That was always the point of the relocation. And now it's staring us in the face."

Mrs. Tebbe was still frustrated. "We don't have any real proof ..."

"Do you really think that little club of rubes in Disjunction Lake could pull off something like this? And, supposing they did, could they so utterly clean up after themselves? Keep in mind that I personally organized the Tamura search, I designed the sweep patterns myself.

"And could all of them keep their mouths shut? They have families. They have friends. Someone would have heard something by now. I don't know of any hate group that doesn't claim its bragging rights one way or the other, eventually. "

The C.A. pressed her lips together as if she didn't really want to speak but was compelled to do so. "Including the Inu Hunters."

"Yes..."

"But they've only laid claim to Ataki. In fact, we haven't had so much as a Bronx cheer out of them since the Tamura disappearance."

"Is that so surprising?" Max asked. "I doubt their ringleader wanted any boasting going on in the first place. The kids got out of hand. With Ataki confirmed dead and Tamura abducted, I think their performance is going to tighten up."

"Okay...one last time as the devil's advocate. Suppose you're right. The murderer's a professional. You don't think he operates alone--"

"Correct."

"He's brainwashed a bunch of kids and calls them the Inu Hunters--"

"Yes."

"How the hell did he get them whipped into shape for this? Tulenar's less than seven months old."

"This is war, Mrs. Tebbe. This man was undoubtedly planted in California well before Pearl Harbor. I'm not saying he anticipated the relocation but if he's as good as he seems to be, then his mind works fast and creatively. Things don't go perfect for him, I'm sure, but he has had five months to work with these kids. The killings only began a couple of months ago."

"This is assuming he was one of the first internees..."

"He'd have to be."

"Captain, how do you know Mrs. Tamura is dead?"

Once again, Mrs. Tebbe caught Max off guard. "What?"

"You said killings just now. We haven't found Mrs. Tamura dead yet."

"Oh-for-chrissake. Do you think she's still alive?"

It took a moment for Mrs. Tebbe to answer. Finally she admitted, "No. I don't think so."

"What the hell is with you today?"

"And how can you think that kid in jail is capable of what you're saying?"

"He doesn't have to be, Mrs. Tebbe. He's a foot soldier in their little battalion, not a lieutenant. But, by God, he knows who the Commanding Officer is."

/ / / /

There were books in the jail cell now, and a radio, turned low because the jailer -who had stepped out per Max's request- disliked the "jitterbug noise these youngsters think is music." Some fresh clothes were neatly folded on a towel spread in one corner. Andrew Takei was going through the motions of working a jigsaw puzzle lying half-finished on a foldable card table. The feeble attempt at domesticity set a frame around the stress in the boy's face.

Max was sitting in a straight-backed chair just outside the bars. Silently, attentively, he watched the young Nisei's every move. When he thought the time was right, Max said, "Andrew, I know."

The boy had been trying to ignore Max's presence, but now he slid his gaze toward the captain. Clearly he didn't want to bite the bait, but he couldn't resist. "I don't care what you think you know, 'general.'"

"You should. Because his time is up, with you or without you. Has he even been here to see you once in all this time? Some friend. Some leader."

"Shut up..."

"While you've been here wasting away, he's been very, very busy. All too glad to let you take the heat in here, isn't he?" Max changed his tone. "Andrew. How could Mrs. Tamura have deserved this? She was a woman of compassion, she was a nurse. What are those two little boys going to do without their mother?"

Andrew stopped fidgeting with the puzzle, but still wouldn't look at Max. "I don't even have to talk to you."

"So don't. Talk to the court when you're asked how you could stand by and let him rip out an old man's brain, tear out a young mother's beating heart ..."

Andrew looked at Max then, his eyes wide, his face suddenly bloodless. Did it only now occur to the boy what Max was talking about? Only now did he understand why he was being held so long? Had his attorney, had his mother never warned him? Of course not. A legal connection between Andrew Takei and the murders couldn't be dared without something stronger than Max's speculation. The boy's protectors wouldn't alarm him until then.

But Max would.

"We didn't do that," Andrew said, his voice a stricken whisper. "I swear to God we didn't do any of that!"

"I don't believe you, Andrew. You bragged to at least two people about what you did to Ataki."

"No, we didn't! No!" The boy almost choked on his own voice. His eyes moistened. He rushed the cell bars. "That was just jive, you know? We were just slinging words. I swear to God, we didn't know Mr. Ataki was dead! We thought he just scat..."

Pity threatened to well in Max's chest, but he forced it down. He didn't dare let up. "Come on, Andrew! Are you trying to tell me you didn't think he was capable of killing?"

Andrew was clinging to the bars now, tears streaking his smooth, bloodless cheeks. "There's no 'he'! I mean, it's just us and nobody's done anything. Nobody's like that! None of us are, we just want to scare some sense into those stooges...!"

"But it's gotten out of hand, is that it?"

"No! Shit! Please! Listen!" The boy's voice was shaking so badly he could barely get the words out. "I swear to God, I swear to God...!"

"Andrew, you listen. I don't think you killed Mr. Ataki and Mrs. Tamura. But you know he did. And you know he's going to do it again."

A sob welled out of Andrew and he sank to his knees, head bowed. Damn it! Max let his head drop into his hands, knowing he couldn't bear to torture the boy any longer. Why won't the kid say the man's name? Just say the damn name! Max lifted his head and gazed down at the boy. If I just had a little more killer instinct.

He looked at his watch. Max had told the jailer to give him twenty minutes. The man would be back soon. Max reached a hand through the bars and laid it on Andrew's shoulder.

"Get up, son. I want you to think on what we've talked about. This whole camp needs your help. There's a monster on the loose. We've got to stop him."

Chapter 19

Tulenar Internment Camp

Mid-morning. Waxing Gibbous Moon.

As soon as Captain Pierce left the office, Doris crossed her arms over the desk and rested her head. For Heaven's sake, what is wrong with me? Lack of sleep, long hours. Milton Eisenhower. Publicly, he professed the WRA's steadfast belief in Doris. He recited her credentials to the press like a charm against the Evil Eye, but privately he was bearing down on her. Not that she blamed him. If she were the head of the WRA, she'd be doing the same.

Pressure or no pressure, where did she think she was going with these wild, idiotic thoughts? She raised her head, glanced at the folder that held the transcript of the Tamura twins' statement, then tossed it irritably into the file holder. She jabbed at the intercom button.

"Harriet, I'm taking thirty minutes. Anything comes up, I'll be out back."

/ / / /

Doris couldn't hit the mark to save her soul. The only satisfaction she got was when she took the bow and drove three arrows straight into the ground at her feet.

A voice came from behind her. "You missed the target."

Doris looked up Arthur Satsugai as he approached. "Don't push your luck. I was thinking of you when I did this."

Arthur stopped next to her and looked at the cluster of arrows, their shafts buried by a third. "Just like Cupid."

She was tired. She couldn't pull her gaze from him when he lifted his almond eyes, creased so amiably at the corners, toward her. But she could say, "What are you doing here? I thought you were mad at me."

"I am. This isn't a social call."

She stiffened and tugged off her arm brace and half-vest. "Well, then, Mr. Satsugai. Let's go in."

He stood between Doris and her sheltering office. She moved to walk toward it, but Arthur didn't step from her path.

"I don't want to go in," he said. "That place is armor for you. When you're forced away from it you're so much more--"

"I thought you said you were mad at me," Doris snapped.

"Royally," he said into her ear. His fingers came up to touch her arm.

Doris squeezed her eyes shut. "Don't do this."

"Why?"

"You know why." She looked at the building and wondered if anyone could see.

"I want you to tell me."

Doris's throat tightened and her eyes began to burn. No! I'm not so tired I'm going to start crying. Struggling to keep her voice steady, she said, "Jesus, Arthur. The timing's lousy."

When he touched his forehead against her hair and she could almost feel his acquiescing smile. "I know," he said.

He let go of her arm and Doris hurried them both toward the building. When they entered her office, he said, "At least I'm back to Arthur."

Doris tossed a warning glance his way as she settled behind her desk. "So," she said, glad to be Center Administrator again. "What's up?"

"I'm here to protest this morning's interrogation."

"What interrogation?"

"I just left the jail, where I learned that the Assembly Center C.O. did some unauthorized grilling this morning. As Police Liaison, I'm lodging a formal compliant. It's ridiculous, Doris, there was no call for you to allow that. Young Takei was so distraught afterward, his mother couldn't calm him. You'll be hearing from their attorney soon, no doubt."

"Pierce was at the jail earlier?"

"He asked the jailer to leave, which the old fellow took as an order -intimidated as he was by the uniform. The captain had Andrew all to himself for quite some time. Are you saying you didn't sanction this?"

"Sanction? I didn't even know about it."

"Honestly?"

"Arthur, come on!"

"Well...on a personal level, that makes me feel better. But professionally, Madame Administrator, you've really dropped the ball."

"Well, I've got an awful lot of them to juggle, don't I?"

Arthur remained unruffled. "What's the captain up to, do you suppose?"

Doris, of course, knew exactly what Pierce was up to. When she didn't reply, Arthur's eyes lost some of their feisty spark.

"So it's back to business as usual."

"You're here in an official capacity..."

"I don't want to be your adversary, Doris."

"Asking me to reveal classified information out of me, leaves us little choice."

Surprisingly, rather than offer an argument, Authur just sighed. Then he stood suddenly, but without rancor. "I'm going to see Mrs. Haku for the appropriate paper work and file my complaint. And that will end our official business."

/ / / /

How had Arthur talked her into this: sitting on the porch swing of her little house, so far from her duties, eating a light lunch together? She hadn't had the energy to argue. Tulenar was quivering behind veils of heat, given up by the red earth. But the breeze from the foothills was kept the air comfortable. So it was the friction of inner conflict chafing Doris, not the weather. She didn't know how to even begin to reconcile with Arthur Satsugai.

She owed him some sort of explanation for the way she was, some avenue into her mind set. She found herself saying, "I didn't love my husband, so much as respect him."

Arthur was obviously jolted by the sudden confession, but he said nothing. He took a long drink of lemonade and waited.

"He was a good man," she said, "a very good man, and to somebody like me...I was young and ambitious. I was looking for an alliance."

"Were you ever in love?"

"No. As I said, I admired him and respected him..."

"I mean, ever in your life. Have you ever been in love with anyone?"

His question caught her off guard. She had expected to talk about Abel. But now Arthur was asking about Michael. Good Lord. Michael. She hadn't thought of him in years. She was surprised to find that his memory still stung a little.

"I...it's hard to say," Doris replied, trying to trivialize the romance. To, in effect, lie. "Maybe. There was this student from a nearby college. We met when I was a freshman and broke up before I was a junior."

"What happened?"

"Oh...restrictions, one thing. Sarah Lawrence is a women's college. But, really, it was just youth. Somebody'd already hurt him in his senior year of high school. He told me his steady had gotten in 'trouble.' But not with him." She leaned back in the swing. "That had to be a jolt to deal with so young. For both of them. By the time he and I met, he was too skittish, too bitter. A pity, to be that way at that age. It ended badly."

"Was that why you married the senator?"

Doris smiled at his assumption. "No, good Heavens, no. I didn't meet Abel until a year after graduation. By the time I met my husband, the break up with Michael wasn't much more to me than a lesson about avoiding career distractions."

"You think so?"

"What is this, are you Freud now? I didn't fool myself into thinking I was in love with Abel. I knew it and he knew it. It was a good marriage, Arthur. We had our ups and downs, but we did have a love of sorts. Yes, we did."

"So you're certain that, because you didn't fool yourself into thinking you loved your husband, you acted consciously."

"Is it my imagination or, when I say yes to that, you're going to disagree?" Doris crossed her arms, but settled in attentively. She was enjoying this debate much better than dredging up memories, long silted over. "Of course I acted consciously," she replied, trying to goad Arthur with his own word choice. "I knew exactly what I was doing."

"So, it made sense. It was logical."

"I know where you're going with this. Sure, it would have been nice to fall in love with someone and marry him. I know it happens to people, probably quite a bit. I'm not really the Iron Lady of Tulenar everyone's reading about."

"I know you're not. Maybe better than you."

Doris's face flushed. She looked back at the camp and its veil of heat. She looked at the Administration Building and finished her lemonade. "I better get back."

Arthur rose with her. The deep brown of his eyes nearly glowed with warmth, the corner creases deepening, drawing her own eyes toward that warmth.

He said, "The part of you that loved that boy is the part that brought you to Tulenar, Doris. But the part of you sealing off that old pain and failure also seals you off from being who you could really be to the people of this camp. This is our little chunk of the world wide nightmare, Doris, yours and mine. It's up to us to lessen it for others. Let the Takei boy go. You know it's ridiculous to think he had anything to do with Mr. Ataki's murder."

"Damn it, Arthur, I can't. You don't know the whole story and I cannot officially let you in on it, Police Liaison or not."

He stepped closer to her. "Then let me in to you."

How she wanted to, gazing into his oval face. She really did. But, instead, she shook her head, unable to understand how a man so intelligent could blind himself to reality.

"We're in the middle of a snake pit here, Arthur, haven't you noticed? You and I have got to accept the fact that what we...feel...is impossible. I'll say it again. The timing's lousy."

Arthur stiffened. "You're so cock sure you know better than God." He headed toward the steps, but before walking away, he turned back a last time. "Maybe the timing's deliberate, Doris. Maybe it's perfect. It's your perception of it that's lousy."

/ / / /

The day didn't improve much after that. She was on the phone with Milton Eisenhower, again. She officially called off the search for Mrs. Tamura and had to issue a statement to the WRA and the press corps. That, in turn, kept her and poor Harriet busy fending off a barrage of phone calls. And Doris had to clash with Andrew Takei's attorney.

But the clash stopped abruptly when the lawyer said, "Bad enough you people attempt to question young Takei without his mother or me present. But the captain's grisly details of missing brains and a ripped-out heart may cause the boy serious emotional trauma. Serious trauma."

Ripped-out heart. Ripped-out heart. The words wrapped around her brain and squeezed. Pierce must have been bluffing. The captain added that detail, hoping to frighten Andrew into a confession. It had been a bluff on his part, nothing more than a word game. He couldn't know how Mrs. Tamura died. No one knew. Ripped-out heart.

Yet Doris couldn't make herself contact Pierce. She stopped short every time she reached for the telephone. She decided to put it off until the next morning. Yes, wait until then. Wait until she could finally get some sleep, and speak with him rationally.

But, that night, there would be no sleep again. Not after she read the yellowed front pages of four newspapers carefully folded and waiting for her on the floor, just inside her front door.

Chapter 20

Lakeside Assembly Center

Morning. Third Quarter Moon.

Usually, it was Mrs. Tebbe who was ready for a fight. This time it was Max, gripping the telephone receiver like a blunt weapon. As soon as he heard her voice on the other end he snapped, "What the hell do you think you're doing, releasing the Takei boy!"

"Saving the WRA's ass, Captain," Mrs. Tebbe replied. Her voice was brittle. "Don't chew on me, you're the one who put us in the sling. I'm surprised you haven't heard from General DeWitt yet."

"I have, Mrs. Tebbe. Where do you think I got the news? Obviously you weren't going to extend me the courtesy of fair warning."

"The way you courteously informed me that you were going to harass Andrew? I wouldn't have authorized that and you knew it."

"I didn't need your authorization." He let the silence on the phone sizzle a moment. Then he said, "Damn it! A few more days in the stew and he would have given us the man's name. I'm sure of it."

The C.A.'s voice was barely in control now. "We didn't have a few more days. After what you did, Takei's attorney would have had your head and mine served to Roosevelt."

"He would've done no such thing. You honestly think he can take on the United States Government and its Army? Peacetime rules do not apply, Mrs. Tebbe, he knows that. You bought his bluff."

"That's arrogant, Captain. These people still have rights and even if they won't be heard now, they sure as hell will be after the war."

"For chissake. You let the kid go, and he's our only link to the killer."

There was silence over the receiver again, this time, Mrs. Tebbe's doing. "Mrs. Tebbe ... did you hang up on me!"

"I'm here, Captain." Her voice had that brittle edge again.

"I'm coming over."

"I'm busy."

"And, of course, I'm not. I was just sitting on my office floor shooting marbles when I decided to call. I'll be there in twenty."

Goddamn, these civilians!

/ / / /

The drive to Tulenar gave Max time to calm down, though the sight of the press and the pickets, filtered through his fuzzy vision, almost stirred his anger again. But entering Mrs. Tebbe's office, he was jolted out of his dolor and into surprise to see a man sitting in the chair Max himself favored. When Max approached, he could make out Nisei features and a white clerical collar. The minister stood and Max offered his hand, albeit haltingly.

Mrs. Tebbe did the introductions. "Captain Maxwell Pierce, this is the Reverend Mr. Arthur Satsugai."

"How do you do," Satsugai said, his voice mannered and neutral. Yet he added, "So it was you."

Max didn't have to ask what he meant. "Are you involved in this somehow, Reverend?"

"Mister will do. Yes, I'm Police Liaison."

"I see." Max looked to Mrs. Tebbe, who seemed all too content to let things unfold. He returned his attention to Mr. Satsugai. "Sir, I need to speak with the Center Administrator privately."

The minister regarded Max a moment, then deferred to Mrs. Tebbe, the gesture subtle. Max sensed an undercurrent, and he didn't like it.

"If you don't mind, Mr. Satsugai," Mrs. Tebbe said, then looked at Max pointedly, though she was still addressing the minister. "This will only take a minute, I promise. Harriet will get you some tea."

They must associate frequently. There was familiarity in her tone, in spite of her professional bearing. As soon as Satsugai stepped out, Max reclaimed his chair and asked, "Is that the minister you mentioned a while back?"

Mrs. Tebbe ignored the question. "You came here to bitch, Captain. So bitch."

"Where's Andrew Takei now?"

"He's in his mother's custody, of course."

Maxwell shook his head, still filled with frustration. "Damn it, Mrs. Tebbe..."

"Come on, Captain. Where the hell is he going to go?"

"To his shogun, and tell him that we're on to him."

"He could have done that during jail visiting hours. Captain, just take a breath and mull this over. The boy can't go anywhere..."

"The pressure's off now, don't you see that? Where's our leverage, Mrs. Tebbe?" Max couldn't fathom what the woman had been thinking when she agreed to release the Takei boy. He lifted his hands in a gesture of utter bewilderment.

Mrs. Tebbe watched him a moment, her small eyes narrowed in that scrutinizing manner of hers. Once again her tone acquired a brittle edge. For the first time, Max recognized it as a sign of fear. Subtle, but fear nonetheless.

She said, "I've been having some doubts about your theory, Captain."

Max leaned back in his chair but managed to resist crossing his arms. "All right. You've got a more logical scenario?"

Mrs. Tebbe stared at him a moment more before replying, "No. Not really."

"Then why are we having a problem?"

"Because...what you say almost makes sense. Almost. But it's too pat."

Max's stomach knotted, he felt the thin control he had managed all morning threatening to tear. Too pat? As if he were making all this up? As if he were lying?

Maybe Mrs. Tebbe saw this in his eyes. She shifted gears suddenly, asking sympathetically, "Was the general rough on you?"

Max almost snorted with derision, unwilling to accept the gesture. "No, he wasn't, Mrs. Tebbe. Because he trusts me. He was pissed to have heard about it from the outside, damned embarrassed about it in fact, but he sure as hell understands what I'm trying to do here."

The C.A. wasn't exactly contrite, but she did seem to be listening. "Okay, okay. I should have warned you. I knew Eisenhower would call him."

Mrs. Tebbe didn't address the trust issue. Well, then, Max would. "I have been trying since I got here to cooperate with you. And just when I think we've made some headway, you insult my efforts and ignore my judgment. Where does this hostility come from, Mrs. Tebbe? Did a soldier drop you on your head when you were small?"

The set of her mouth and the flush of her cheeks was Max's warning, but before Mrs. Tebbe could explode, the intercom buzzed. The ringside bell, signaling the end of the round.

"Mrs. Tebbe..." Harriet Haku's voice crackled.

"What?"

"Mr. Satsugai asked me to let you know he's leaving..."

"We're almost done in here," the C.A. said hastily. "Ask him to wait."

It was the minister's voice that replied. "It's all right, Mrs. Tebbe. I'll see you at tonight's meeting."

Max saw it. A flash of unabashed disappointment before the C.A. was in control again. And now that her mood was soured even more, Mrs. Tebbe was ready to address Max's remark.

"Eshelmann dropped me on my head on several occasions, Captain. And just when I was beginning to think you might, just might, be different, your fingers get buttery, too. I'm going to have a migraine for weeks, thanks to your little drop. The word around camp must already be spreading that the Army believes the killer is one of them."

"You're the one who's let him go, Mrs. Tebbe."

"Screw you, Pierce!"

"Hey, watch it!"

"I'm not the one who marched in and tormented the boy until his lawyer screamed!"

Max was burning too hot to realize he was out of his chair and leaning across the C.A.'s desk. Not until it was too late. Even his fingertips were fiery. Had Mrs. Tebbe not pulled back, he would have been nose-to-nose with her.

"You don't know," he said, his voice low and deadly, "how important this is."

Max's awareness returned just in time to see the shock on Mrs. Tebbe's face galvanize into a forced, professional calm. Her words were just as forced, spoken slow and clear. Diplomacy laced with threat.

"May I have my desk back. Please."

Max was already pulling back, straightening up. The only thing burning in him now was embarrassment. The only balm for his humiliation was formality.

"Mrs. Tebbe. I apologize. There's nothing I can offer to justify my behavior."

The C.A. rearranged her posture, laying her forearms on the desk and folding her hands. Though she tried to control it, Max saw her fingers tremble as they interlocked.

She cleared her throat and said, "I don't think we should continue today."

"I agree."

He left without another word, glad that the daily bustling within the building had shielded the commotion he had just made. Glad that the C.A.'s secretary had her nose poined toward the typewriter as he passed.

He was not so lucky once he was out of the building. Mr. Satsugai was walking toward Max's car from the opposite way, as if the minister had been walking down the hill, then had changed his mind.

"Captain," he said as they intersected, "I'm glad I caught you."

It was wearing to keep on a mask of civility right now. But somehow, Max managed. His driver opened the back door for him and he slipped through, one foot inside the running board, one foot still in the dust. "Something I can do for you, Mr. Satsugai?"

"Join me for tea."

"Now?"

"If you can. If not, this evening perhaps. I have a committee meeting but it isn't until --"

Max leaned out to grasp the door's inward handle. "Thank you for thinking of me, but my schedule won't allow. Another time, maybe."

He would have pulled the door closed, but the minister firmly curled his fingers around the window frame and came in close. "Captain. What possible harm could it do?"

Max drew his tongue between his upper lip and teeth, considering his reply. "What do you have in mind?"

"Just some conversation. Maybe we'll gain a little insight, if we're lucky."

"Meaning me," Max said.

"Meaning both of us."

Max was equally reluctant and intrigued. He didn't really understand what the minister was up to, because he didn't know just how much this preacher and Mrs. Tebbe shared. He didn't want to think about it either, and something competitive in him made him answer. "All right. Tonight?"

"What time?" the minister asked.

"Make it easy on yourself."

"5:00? I'm in the bachelor quarters of Block Four."

Bachelor quarters, was it.

"See you then."

/ / / /

Max stepped from the car and squinted in a useless attempt to see well. He assumed the man opening the last door on the barracks' north end was Mr. Satsugai. The man had the strong, upright stature of prime age. It was his voice, as Max approached, that confirmed who he was.

"Hello, again. I'm glad you could make it."

Max mounted the steps and accepted the minister's outstretched hand. Mr. Satsugai looked past him a moment and called to Max's driver, "Corporal, may I get you some tea while you wait?"

"No, thanks."

"Some water, perhaps."

"Naw."

Mr. Satsugai returned his attention to Max. "Come in, please."

Just inside, Max was asked to leave his shoes on the nubby little rug.

"It helps control the dust," the minister said.

Satsugai's own black wingtips were there along side a pair of blocky, wooden creations, obviously homemade. The minister himself wore a pair of house slippers.

"Sorry I can't offer you the same," he said. "My only pair."

Maxwell felt uneasy in stocking feet and uniform, but he tried to make light of it by joking, "How about if I wear these?"

He picked up one of the homemade jobs. A sturdy cord was set into a flat, uncomfortable-looking piece of oak bullied into an oval. The cord looped around to fit between the wearer's first and second toes. Max turned it upside down and ran a thumb across two cross pieces at toe and heel, which held the sole about two-inches above the ground.

"Getas," Mr. Satsugai said, naming the odd sandals. He was standing at the table, pulling a tin of Earl Grey from a set of shelves. "They're good for short trips, like to the lavatory. They're indispensable at the showers if you're going to avoid athlete's foot."

Max nodded, his brow raised, admiring the ingenuity. The minister was busy ladling water from a bucket near the stove. While he poured it into a kettle, Max set the geta down and looked around.

A snug place. With the woodburner beginning to stoke, though, Mr. Satsugai asked Max to open the door. Max did, then continued eyeing things up. Most of what he saw seemed standard equipment in the regulation space. A simple, mattressed cot, a home-made closet. A single light fixture over the little table that apparently doubled as the minister's study. A cross was suspended between cot and table.

Besides the cross and the one frame of shelves holding practicalities -the tea, some cocoa, cups, saucers, toiletries- the wall decor was exclusively books. Among them, Satsugai's copy of the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. A Bible, naturally. King James Version. Spengler's The Decline of the West. The Hound of the Baskervilles and, for godsake, The Collected Works of Poe. Mr. Satsugai had a morbid streak.

Max settled into one of the two chairs and watched the minister as he set a few shortbreads on a plate. "You've got your apartment nicely set up, Mr. Satsugai."

Still standing, Satsugai had the advantage. He looked down at Max a moment before sitting as well. "Shortbread, Captain?"

"I'll wait for the tea." The kettle cried out almost before Max had finished.

The minister rose, and Max wished he had never agreed to come. Why had he, anyway? A myriad of reasons had convinced him earlier. Mr. Satsugai was the head of the internee police. It was good politics to make an effort at civility with the camp leadership. Max might gain some insight into the average evacuee mind.

He sincerely wanted to make life as easy as possible for these people. Satsugai's invitation helped him realize that, since the murders, that original objective had faded into the background. He had hoped to recoup some of that core intention.

But now all that seemed superficial, as if he recognized that those reasons were just excuses. Deep down, he was after something else but he couldn't say exactly what. Arthur Satsugai made him feel wary, like that joker Alma Curar had. Come to think of it, the two of them shared the same manner. Kind of smug, as if they held a higher knowledge than other people.

The minister returned with the kettle, set it on a knitted potholder and spooned the tea into the hot water. As he sat down again, Max turned the tea tin to read it.

"Earl Grey," he said. "To be honest, this wasn't what I was expecting."

"Green tea, perhaps, or jasmine?"

"I'm not sure. I suppose."

"Complete with the Ceremony." Mr. Satsugai reached for Max's cup and poured the tea, then turned it methodically in his hands before setting it in front of Max again. "A short and distant variation. Just for you."

Max knew he was being mocked. He didn't touch the cup.

The minister said, "I'm not pretending to be American for you, Captain."

"I don't doubt your citizenship."

"Someone does." Mr. Satsugai glanced at Max's steaming cup. "Don't you like Earl Grey?"

Max reached for it at last. "It's fine," he said before sipping.

"Sugar?"

"No. Thanks."

The minister drank his tea without sugar as well. He picked up a shortbread, but abruptly set it back on the plate. "I'm sorry, Captain," he said. "I'm being a poor host."

"How so?"

"I should be putting you at ease. Instead, I'm posturing. That's not very worthy of my calling, either."

Max appreciated the frankness and repaid it with an attempt at small talk. "Do you have a congregation here in the camp, sir?"

"Yes, I do." Satsugai smiled. "Ito Matsura and I have quite a competition going."

That would be a reference to the Buddhist priest.

"Competition?" Max dared to lighten his voice again. "That doesn't sound very Christian."

Apparently the clergyman accepted the gesture. Still smiling, he nodded. "Christians have been competing since the lion arenas of Rome."

Something about that image made Max uneasy and he changed the subject. "So what's the sermon about this Sunday?"

"I'm still hammering it out. But a conversation I had early last week has inspired me."

"Oh?"

"Living consciously. It seems to me it's more important in these times than ever."

Max was ready to move to another topic now, but before he could swallow his tea, the minister continued.

"What do you think, Captain? Do most of us live consciously?"

Max blotted a moist corner of his mouth with one knuckle. "Well, I'm not sure what you mean."

"Fully aware. Absolutely clear about what motivates us. Or, at least, attempting to be so."

"I'm not sure that's possible."

"Maybe not. But how many of us even try? How many of us think about why we're angry with a loved one or why we concern our prayers with shallow matters."

Mr. Satsugai paused as if to give Max a chance to comment. But Max didn't and was surprised that he hadn't seen what was coming next.

"Or why we react with such fear, collectively, without considering the consequences to our souls."

Now Mr. Satsugai shut up entirely, his face set in conviction, waiting to hear his guest out. Max watched the minister a moment.

"Sir," he began, then paused so he might clearly see just where to place his words. "If you're wondering where my sympathies lie regarding the relocation, they lie with you. They lie with all the good residents of this camp. It chills me, what had to be done. No. It sickens me. Every night, I try to imagine how I would feel if it was me sitting where you are now. Or if I was sitting in a federal prison, knowing my wife and children were here. Wondering when, or even if, I was going to be released to the camp so I could be with them again. It scares the hell out of me to think about what you'll have to go back to when this is all over. And, so, I asked for this duty. I asked for it. It's everything I can do.

"But if you're asking me if I think the relocation must be done, I won't lie to you. I do. We were deceived, Mr. Satsugai, and attacked, even as Japan's own officials were in dialogue with ours. Our Navy is obliterated. Hundreds are dead. With Pearl Harbor gone, the entire west coast of the continent is as bare as a baby's ass and Japan can have us any time she wants. We cannot take chances now. It's galling, but I swear to God, I don't know what else we can do."

The words settled into the air. Mr. Satsugai was looking at him, surprisingly enough, as if he understood.

But he said, "You see, that's my point. ou speak from and about the fear, without questioning it."

"There's a reason to be afraid."

"Yes, there is. And we're all afraid. Our country has been attacked. More than merely attacked, it's just as you said, Captain. We were sucker punched. So, as a nation, we're terrified. But...we've stopped there, haven't we? At the fear. We don't even realize that we're not controlling the terror. The terror is controlling us."

This wasn't going anywhere, Max could see that now. Besides, that goddamned buzzing was threatening like a hornet, creeping behind his right ear. He drained his cup, left his shortbread uneaten.

"Mr. Satsugai, I think you and I are at an impasse. It's just as well that I get back to duty."

The minister sighed, but smiled courteously. "Certainly, Captain. You were game to come. I appreciate that."

They both stood and Satsugai extended his hand. Max clasped it.

"Is that why you invited me here?" Max asked. "To convince me not to be afraid? You've got several million Americans to go."

"Just like I said this morning, to help us both gain a little insight." As the minister eased his grip, he looked curiously at Max's palm. "What's that, Captain, an old tattoo?"

Chapter 21

Tulenar Internment Camp

Sunset. Third Quarter Moon.

Sitting in her living room, gazing at the old newspapers, Doris wondered if she were beginning to slip into an early dementia. No, she comforted herself, it was just the lack of sleep. If she could just get more than a few hours in at night...

Beside the clippings was the telephone, the late day sun spotlighting it through the window. She was going to do it. As if logic and common sense were being beaten into submission by stress and fatigue, she was keenly aware that she was going to do it. Still gazing down at the old front pages, she lifted the receiver and placed the call to Bellingham, Washington.

A gentle, aged woman's voice came on the line. "Good evening, Spinners'."

"Mim?" Doris wondered if her voice sounded strained in its pleasantness. "This is Doris Tebbe..."

"Doris?" The thin voice gained some volume. "Why, good heavens, Doris! How are you, sweetheart?"

"Dazed and confused," Doris replied with a laugh. The old, joking reply brought a relief of nostalgia to her as Mim chortled back.

"It's good to hear your voice, sweetheart. What ever have you been doing with yourself, we thought you'd been swallowed up."

It wasn't like Mim not to read the papers. She let it pass. "I have been swallowed up. I'm working for the War Relocation Authority. I oversee the Tulenar camp."

Mim gave a little gasp, the way she always did just before doling out judgment or approval. "A center administrator?"

"Yep --"

"Doris, how impressive! Oh! I am speechless!" But apparently Doris's dear old friend wasn't, because she gushed on. "Oh! Thank the Lord for my years with the Women's Suffrage, the strides we've made! Oh, you do your gender proud, sweetheart."

"Well. The jury's still out on that, Mim." It was difficult, warm as the conversation was, to go on as if this were simply a social call. But Doris managed to ask casually, "So how are you? And Al?"

"Wrinkled, gray and shrinking. But you know, once you get used to it, it's not so bad, this shrinking away from the world. You're allowed to be eccentric and Al and I abuse the privilege. Even -of course, I could only say this to someone like you, Doris- even this horrible war and its consequences can't seem to pain us like the Great One did. We have the perspective of the ancients, sweetheart. We're on our way out of the cycle. We'll leave this one to the young people."

"I can believe that of you, Mim, but that doesn't sound like Al."

"Oh, you'd be surprised. He's in the greenhouse, contemplating his petunias. Hold on..."

Doris let go of a breath she didn't know she was holding. She didn't even have to ask to speak to Al, Mim was delivering him to her. Dear, dear friend, it wouldn't have surprised Doris at all if Mim were intuiting Doris's need. How old would the Spinners be now? In their early eighties. Unbelievable. In the midst of her angst, Doris realized this may be the last time she would ever speak to them. She and Abel, Albert and Mim. They had exchanged favors, both political and personal, since Doris's wedding.

Al's calm, mannered voice, perhaps a little more hoarse than Doris last recalled, came to her ear. "Madame Administrator, I presume."

Doris actually blushed, like a daughter being teased by her father. "Al, please..."

"No, no, give me my moment. I knew Roosevelt would pull something like this, hiring a woman to handle a man's job. That's why I didn't vote for him."

"Roosevelt didn't appoint me, Milton Eisenhower did."

"Now I'm really worried." She couldn't hear him laugh, but Albert Spinner had never laughed aloud in all the time she had known him. He always kept it snug behind his lips, so that its only release was to bounce his body or, when the humor was too intense, leak from his eyes. "How are you, Doris?"

"Holding on, Al. Yourself?"

"Just the opposite. Letting go. This isn't a social call, is it?"

Bless the old surgeon-turned-congressman, he hadn't changed all that much. "I wish it were, Al, I swear to God I do."

"Don't do that, it's blasphemy." She knew he was half-serious. "You sound good, Doris, but you also sound tired."

Talking with Mim and Al was just like the old days. Her defenses were down, and for once it felt good. "It's tough, running a prison camp and pretending it isn't."

Al was quiet a moment, then said simply, "The Iron Lady of Tulenar."

"So you do still read the papers. Mim was just being polite."

"Californian Japanese murders only rate page four in northern Washington. She made a pact with herself two years ago to trim her habit to the Bellingham paper, front page. I thought she'd just fret if she knew about you in the middle of the mire. Guess I better tell her now. So. What's up?"

"I need a favor."

"I'm falling back into my youth, I must be senile. Or did you actually say that?"

"I did."

"Marvelous. I don't remember the last time somebody asked me for a favor."

"It was probably Abel or me. We asked an awful lot from you."

"No, no. I have the records right here. Abel was up on favors owed to him by three when he passed on. Make it a big one, Doris, you may not get lucky again."

"Come on, Al, you and Mim will live to be a hundred."

"Not if we have anything to do with it. See now, you've got to know I haven't had any clout to speak of for at least ten years, but fire away."

"Okay. I need a coroner's report."

There was a brief, surprised silence. "A coroner's report."

"Yes."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"A Washington state county, I presume."

"Yeah, but I don't know which one. I can give you a town."

She knew he'd already be scribbling on a note pad. "Got a name?"

Doris' mouth went suddenly dry. She had to work it a moment, gather moisture before she could finish. "Pierce. Missus. Anne or Annie."

/ / / /

The shock of seeing the captaine at her door had to show on Doris's face, but he apparently misunderstood it.

"I can tell you're still relishing the witty conversation we had this morning," he said.

He peered through the screen door, which she couldn't bring herself to open right away. The sun had just set, the dusk was glowing behind him. His eyes were obscured by his glasses and the door's metal mesh, so that he looked like some otherworldly creature pretending to be human. She just stood there, the soup ladle still in her hand, carried with her from the kitchen when she had heard the knocking.

"Captain...what can I do for you?"

"Well...I...may I come in, or are you that mad at me?"

"No. Yes, I mean, of course." The yellowed newspaper front pages were still scattered on the coffee table and she scooped them up as he let himself in. "Sorry about the mess." She was quick with the pretense. "A little work before supper."

"I'm sorry. I won't keep you long."

"Don't worry about it," she said, carrying the papers into her little bedroom, ladle still in hand. She was struck with a mild panic as she stuffed them into her top dresser drawer and didn't know how to best seem normal. She raised her voice so he could hear. "Uh ... have you eaten yet, Captain?"

"No." His voice was so close, she turned with a start. He was standing at the bedroom threshold. "Sorry. You're jumpy tonight, aren't you?"

"Yeah...well. Pressure, I guess. I'm having a sandwich and soup. Will that do?"

"Sure, it's just...I really didn't mean to interrupt your meal but, yes, thanks." Pierce followed Doris into the kitchen. "I would have called, but I was already in the camp --"

"In the camp? Doing what?" She couldn't help sounding defensive, but didn't really want to try, anyway.

"I had tea with the Reverend Mr. Arthur Satsugai."

Doris was pulling an extra Campbell's can from the cupboard. She set it definitively on the counter and turned to look at Pierce. "Now, why would you do that?"

"It was his suggestion," the Captain replied irritably, "so stop right there. I have no idea what he wanted. Started talking about something he called 'conscious living'..."

The reference tugged a smile from her lips. Pierce was looking at his right palm, drawing his left thumb across it thoughtfully. He stopped the gesture and, still seeming irritated, looked

at Doris again.

"I think he just wanted to check me out," he said.

"Is that so surprising after what you did?"

Pierce was tempted to snap at her, that much she could tell, but he stopped short. His face relaxed. "Look, I'm going about this all wrong. Mrs. Tebbe, I came to apologize. Really apologize this time, person-to-person, not Army-to-WRA. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am that I lost control this morning. But I can promise I won't let it happen again."

Doris drummed her fingers against the counter briefly as she scrutinized Pierce, then looked at the soup can. "Tomato. Okay?"

"Is that an 'I accept your apology?' I can never tell with you."

Doris pointed the soup ladle at him. "I don't know yet, Captain. But I'm willing to wait and see."

She wasn't going to tell him what she was waiting to see, and glad that he seemed to think she was only speaking about his morning outburst. He smiled and removed his Army jacket, draping it over the nearest kitchen chair, then loosened his tie a bit.

Shedding some of his military skin suited him. It was something she had noticed during the Tamura search. In the house instead of her office, her own jacket off and blouse sleeves rolled, Doris could have felt more amenable herself. If only. But those headlines stood out against her mind as starkly as they had against the yellowed paper:

REMAINS OF THIRD VICTIM FOUND!

NAVAJO POLICE ASK FOR COUNTY SHERIFF'S AID

INDIAN KILLER STILL ON SPREE! AUTHORITIES BAFFLED,

NAVAJOS SEE RED!

Doris poured the tomato soup she'd already prepared into a larger pot and added the extra can's contents to it. Pierce sat in the chair he'd staked out with his jacket, watching her.

She said, "I don't have any beer, but there's some Mogen David in the fridge."

"That's fine," the captain replied and got up. "Where're the glasses?"

Doris nodded to her right. "Second cabinet. None for me, though, I still have a meeting later. I'll take a lemonade..."

"Okay."

"Hand me the Velveeta and ham while you're in there, will you?"

Pierce pulled the wine from the refrigerator, then rummaged around until he found what Doris had asked for. As she was taking bread out of the tin box on the counter, she felt the captain's eyes on her.

"You know," he said, "You look really beat."

"I am really beat." She tapped the ladle against the pot before setting it down, then turned to the sandwich making. "Did you see the plates and bowls next to the glasses?"

"Yeah." Pierce collected two of each, setting the plates next to Doris and putting the bowls on the table.

Damn it all, what could she be thinking? Look at the man, did she really think he could... Doris couldn't even bare to call the word up. She watched him putter around like the kitchen was his own, setting out the mustard and mayonnaise, finding the tin flatware, settling into his chair. She tossed a folded hand towel on the middle of the table, put the soup pot on it, then brought the sandwiches.

"Maybe you should ease up," he said as she sat.

"What?"

"The hours you keep. Maybe you should cut back a little. You're Center Administrator. You control the schedule."

"Think so, do you? The schedule controls me."

Pierce picked up his sandwich. "You're not going to be much good to the schedule if you collapse on the office floor."

"It's not the daily grind, anyway. I'm not getting much sleep, is all."

"Why not?"

Doris stopped the soup spoon midway to her lips. "Why not? Oh, I don't know, Captain, maybe my poor fluttery female heart can't take the Ataki/Tamura strain the way your strong manly heart can."

Pierce's mouth quirked into a smile as he chewed. Swallowing, he said, "If you were any other woman, I'd agree. It's not all on you. In case you didn't notice this morning, the strain's getting to me, too."

"Notice what?" Doris replied.

The captain picked up on her forgiveness. The enlarged image of his eyes crinkled amiably behind his thick lenses, poised over the rim of his drinking glass. But no sooner had Doris made her peace offering when her mood darkened, remembering those headlines. She was obligated to probe. If she didn't, she would be a coward.

"You were holding up pretty well until then," she said, scouting out a segue.

"Same to you. Except for those blue circles under your eyes. I'm serious, Mrs. Tebbe. If you don't take care of yourself, you may lose credibility with the residents."

"So what do you do, to take care of yourself?" Doris looked at her soup bowl as she dipped her spoon, in case her eyes betrayed suspicion. "I'm serious, too, Captain. You seem to be handling this whole thing, by and large, like it doesn't touch you."

It didn't work, keeping her eyes occupied with the meal. Pierce's reply was tinged with resentment.

"Well, it does touch me, Mrs. Tebbe, believe me." Doris looked up to see him jab his own spoon into the soup. "I'm not some sort of monster."

That wasn't resentment, it was pain. She'd hurt his feelings. Guilt pricked at her.

"That's not what I meant, Captain. I'm asking honestly..." and on a certain level, she was... "How do you keep such good mental control? My bailiwick has always been politics. I've never dealt with something like this before." She took a quick bite of sandwich and asked through it, "Have you?"

Pierce looked at her suddenly, as if she were crazy. "When would I have ever run into something like this? Mrs. Tebbe, I've never even seen combat."

Doris wanted to take a deep breath before pushing on, but she didn't dare. "How about Washington state?"

"Huh? I don't follow..."

"That wolf hunt..."

The captain put his attention to his own soup bowl again. "That hardly compares."

"I remember you'd said the wolf made several kills--"

"Mrs. Tebbe, that was an animal. Not a willful, calculating human being." The captain looked up. "Listen, to be honest, that's a time in my life I'm not really keen on talking about."

"Sure, of course. I'm sorry..."

Pierce seemed to want to smile, but he didn't quite make it. He went for his Mogen David. "Don't sweat it, just ... let's try another subject."

Doris's lemonade was nearly gone. She rose with her glass and went to the refrigerator. "What about Arizona?"

"What about it?" There was an affected lightness to the captain's tone.

Her back protecting her, Doris swallowed to loosen her tight throat. She was surprised and pleased with the casualness in her voice. "Any worthy adventures there?"

Quite relaxed, Pierce replied, "Nope."

"Where was your post? I mean, were you in the middle of nowhere or near any towns?"

She came back around to her seat where she could see the captain's face. But there was no betraying hint to read.

"Morriston, you mean. It's just outside the border of Navajo country." He tossed his spoon into the drained soup bowl and pushed away the sandwich plate, empty of all except a few crumbs and a smear of mustard. "But, you know, speaking of adventures, the reservation was in the middle of quite a murder mystery."

The lemonade in Doris's stomach suddenly burned into her. She stopped drinking, couldn't eat, though she knew she should carry on normally.

"Oh?"was all she could pinch from her throat.

Pierce didn't seem to notice. He looked thoughtful. "I wonder what ever happened?"

"They didn't...they didn't find the guy while you were there?"

"No, I don't think so. But I only followed it occasionally through the papers."

"Who'd he kill?" Doris forced herself back to her sandwich.

"Oo, quite a few, actually," he replied, getting up with his own glass now. He filled it only half as much with Mogen David, then sat back down. "Six, I think, was the count when I transferred. In and around a couple of northern 'rez' settlements...Long Walk, Kayenta. The alleged count, I should say. They'd only found four bodies while I stationed. But not before the coyotes got to them."

Doris almost gagged. Sweat popped out in a fine sheen on her forehead and Pierce was suddenly by her side.

"For chissake, Mrs. Tebbe, I'm sorry. Are you all right?"

She couldn't talk to him. She sat there, her fist pressed against her brow. Pierce pushed Doris' food away from her, and pulled his chair next to her.

"I'm an idiot," he said. "Stupid, grizzly story in the middle of dinner. You look awful. Do you need some air?"

All Doris could do was nod. When Pierce pressed his hands to her arms, she spasmed. His grip tightened.

"Easy, now. I'm just going to help you up."

"Oh, God..."

"Do you need to get to the bathroom?"

Doris shook her head.

"Then let's take you outside."

The sky was behind the inky blue veil that prefaced pure nightfall. Only a few stars had punched through. The air was sharp, its tang painful at first, but it had a way of slapping her wits back into order. She leaned against the rail of the porch, wishing desperately Pierce would release her.

"I'm better, Captain," she said, hoping her words would peel away his fingers. "I am. Thank you."

His shedding off was slow. "Geez, I'm sorry," he said again.

Her stare riveted to the dry, rocky ground past the porch. She asked in a tremored voice, "So they never found him?"

It was moment before he replied. "Hell, I don't know, Mrs. Tebbe, I transferred to Lakeside. Aren't you a glutton for punishment. Let's drop the subject before you're the one who drops. Come here, I want you to sit down."

He started to take her arm again, but she managed to shrug him away.

"It's okay, Captain, I can get there." She made it to the porch swing. Pierce sat, too, threateningly close.

"Mrs. Tebbe," he said, "it's ridiculous, what you're doing to yourself. You won't last much longer if you don't ease up."

"You're right, Captain," she said to him, agreeing to anything. She was afraid.

"You should call this meeting off tonight."

"No, I can't." She thought of Arthur. "Look, I'll start tomorrow, but tonight I have to go."

"That's a crock. Mrs. Tebbe, come on. Too many people are depending on you." The captain fell so quiet, Doris was compelled to look at him. He said, awkwardly, "I'm depending on you."

She closed her eyes, swung her face away. "I'll be all right. It's just a little fatigue. Your story...it just reminded me of what's going on here, I guess."

"You're making yourself sick."

Pierce's calm muddled her. Was he so calculating, so cold-blooded a murderer, that he could remain utterly unaffected by her hints and tests? Or was the innocence in his voice exactly that? His innocence. Doris was falling into self-doubt again. She was a bundle of confusion. Yet the nagging wouldn't go away. Through everything, it came stabbing, insisting something was desperately amiss.

"Okay," she said, sensing that to agree with Pierce would get him to leave. "I'll post the word."

"You'll go inside and get some rest. I'll take care of the notice for you on the way out. Come on."

Pierce helped her up and they went back inside. Doris scribbled a hasty note, postponing the meeting to the following evening while the captain got his jacket. She thought of Arthur again, a pang for missing his company, even through all this. Then she thought of him and Pierce sharing tea, and it made her wonder again if she weren't going berserk.

"Captain," she said, handing him the makeshift bulletin. They were walking back onto the porch. "You might find this meeting helpful, yourself. You could get a very good feel about how the internee police conduct their business."

The captain looked suddenly skyward, as if he thought Doris had spoken to him from somewhere up there. But then his attention came back to her, and he took the notice from her hand.

"Tomorrow night won't be good," he said. "Maybe next time."

"Sure."

"You're going straight in to get some sleep, right?"

His concern seemed so true, she had to smile. "Yes, doctor."

She watched Pierce go to the car and nudge the dozing corporal. As they motored off, she looked up into the sky, puzzled at what might have caught his attention. All she saw were the stars glittering and the moon, one night shy of becoming full.

Chapter 22

David Alma Curar's Shack

Five Miles South of Tulenar Internment Camp

Sundown. Full Moon.

David Alma Curar sat on the sagging step of his little shack, watching the tremor in his hands. He felt the evening's cool descend on his back as the sun sank away from the world and wished again, more angrily this time, that this whole damned mess was over. Two dead. He had arrived weeks before the feeding began and still two were dead.

Arrogance had gotten the best of him. David was sure that was what Stanislov would have told him. He had read the signals, studied the clues and he was going to route it off, stop it before the feeding began again. But, at Tulenar, two were dead already. The bodies just kept piling up.

David clasped his hands behind the knot of his bandana and tried to screw up the courage for another First Night. Weary. He was so weary. But there could be no stopping. Not until the beast was gone, not until this lineage was broken.

He wanted to be back home in Tohatchi, back at his silversmithing. He wondered how the business was doing, but he wasn't really worried. The shops had been running themselves for years now.

Most of all he missed the people and the study of the healing arts. And his little farm, the modest plot that gave him so much pleasure. David raised his head and looked at the scraggly landscape around his hide-out, sourly amused that he'd so easily deceived the captain and Mrs. Tebbe with a few truck loads of produce.

The supplier had overcharged David, but the healer hadn't pressed the point. Money wasn't a problem and if the fellow felt smug, all the better. David needed to seem harmless to as many people as possible. He already had his hands full with the one who knew he wasn't.

David was still trembling. But it was time to go or he'd miss his opportunity. He had to make the trip by foot, driving anywhere near the camp was too risky (even the most incompetent M.P. would find him out) and -being a man in his late forties- he wasn't used to long hikes any more. He had to allow plenty of time.

He shrugged on the day pack that held water for the trek and dried sage and animal dung to mask his scent. He had already rubbed the musky concoction on his body before dressing. Like each First Night since he arrived, he would scatter the mix before him as he walked along, and behind him as he returned to the hideout.

He strapped on the gun belt, tying the holster to his thigh just like a desperado of the old west. But, then again, I am a desperado. I'm very desperate. In spite of having done this for months, the gun felt cumbersome against his leg. The weight reminded him that he was far from being a crack shooter. It reminded him of just how close he would have to be when he would at last take aim.

David closed his eyes, praying for the accuracy needed. And praying for the strength to carry through if his accuracy failed. Even if that meant turning the gun on himself. Even, if he must, turn it on Doris Tebbe.

Chapter 23

Tulenar Internment Camp

First Night. Full Moon.

There were many more of the walking ones now, the stalking ones that clutched their long killing tools in hand. They were afraid. Afraid of their own kind, in and outside the tense barbed wire. They seemed unsure of where to look for danger.

This made them tempting to the beast. They would be easy pickings, their fear so fused, their attention so scattered. If the beast took one in the presence of the others, that fear would stoke to a fine, hot terror, spreading like warm blood across the camp. They may even try to use their killing tools against the beast, these foolish ones. A good nest, a fertile nest for the rebirth.

But the beast knew the time wasn't right, and it was nothing if not patient, leaving impulse and haste to its host. But it was also aware of the One Lost, the one who had broken the connection and so was a menace, the only true danger to the beast. Because of the One, timing was more critical. In vain the beast had taken precious hours from each month's season, searching for the One's lair, abandoning its efforts only for the gnawing impulse to feed.

For the time being, however, the beast didn't scent the One Lost, so it knew that the One hadn't yet arrived. The One would most certainly be on the hunt again tonight, but the beast's advantage was that the One wouldn't know exactly where to look. The camp was large and sprawling, the beast's selection abundant, like the pickings in the last killing grounds, in the desert, had been. The One wouldn't know which of the prey had been chosen and, so, in this way, was as blind as those so futilely paced the barbed wire.

The beast rose and left them to it, loping away unnoticed just behind the crests of the smaller hills. It came around the camp proper, intent now on the large building squatting on the hill that overlooked Tulenar. Here the beast could risk drawing near. Security was lax. It settled in the shadows at the dark end of the building and watched the lighted windows of the farthest corner, its ears swiveled toward the drone of human voices inside.

Time passed, the full moon arced. The beast yawned and settled on its side within the building's broad, black shadow, deceptively lazy. Stretching its massive legs outward, it rested the bulk of its head on the dust like some sleepy farm hound. But its ears were ever pricked, its nose pulsing rhythmically, seeking any clues of the One Lost or the first sounds of the prey preparing to leave the building.

There. Now. The beast jerked to attention. The door nearest the lighted corner opened and the warm, salty scent of humanity preceded a cluster of prey. The chosen wasn't among them, but this was expected. The beast calmed its panting, lest a sharp-eared human turn in curiosity. The cluster moved down the path toward camp, tendrils of scent lingering after it, the standard, low-tuned anxiety that had thrummed the camp's atmosphere since the beginning.

The beast settled into waiting again. In time, the lighted windows darkened and the last two emerged, the chosen and the other. The beast dilated its nostrils, pulled their scents from the dry air as the two moved from the building. They walked toward the place where the female sheltered and mounted the steps, to sit on the porch. The beast followed.

These two were significant. More significant than the wise old male with his full, rich brain. More significant than the young mother, her heart still trembling, even after burst through by fang, forced whole into the gullet. Trembling not as much for her own death, as in anguish for loss. Her soul rent from the sick ones. From her mate. From her young.

The beast was mindful to stay in the shadows of the buildings, windows so black in the night the structures could have been gutted. The beast drew its thin, red tongue across its fangs, its belly stirring at the sight of the chosen, so very near. Patient as the beast was, there was the sinking moon to consider. If the prey didn't move in due time, a choice would have to be made.

The beast listened to their low, late night voices, at first staccato and clipped. There was tension between them, but a crackle of excitement, too, like magnet and metal yearning toward one another. So much the better, so much sweeter the kill.

The male moved toward the female. She prevented him at first, but her scent betrayed her next action. Her arms buckled against his chest. There was fatigue in her and anger and anxiety, ah, the sharp tang of anxiety. And desire. The male's dull, human nose wouldn't sense it, but the beast's did.

The male's own anxiety was low but, in time, that would change. High in the male's scent was his yearning for the female. Greater still was a warm, throbbing depth that may have deterred the beast, had this male been encountered elsewhere. But in this place, the male's source, his calm depths, were precisely what was stirring the beast's hunger.

Oh so predictably, the female gained herself and pulled away. The beast knew they wouldn't disappear together into the house. Yearning and tired though she was, the female's anxiety was a constant, tense cord in the air. It had been so since the beast was first drawn to her.

Not much longer now.

A moment more, and the female withdrew into her shelter of wood and tar paper. The male began trudging down the path, the stiff, white collar around his throat gleaming in the moonlight like a beacon for the beast.

Chapter 24

One-quarter Mile East of Tulenar

First Night. Full Moon.

This was Arthur's death staring him in the face. A massive, wolven creature, fur gleaming like brushed silver, dazzling under the full moon. A constant, poised growl rumbled in its chest, its black lips curled back to boast the enormous fangs, still wet with his blood. And those eyes.

"Abba," Arthur breathed, using Jesus' own diminutive for Father. "They could be mine."

By God's grace, Arthur had remained conscious through it all. At least he hoped it was God's grace. He hoped there would be a point to enduring this. First had been the sense of surprise, really, not panic, when he was knocked to the ground. But panic was upon him in an instant as the wet heat closed over his head, when sharp tongs of pain bent his breathing to a minimum.

When the horror came, Arthur's being suddenly and violently split into two entities. He felt more purely the convulsive torment of his body as he was dragged across the ground. Yet he also observed the agony with detachment, as if his mind were intent on recording it all. The soul as scientist observing the experiment of death. This witnessing self both forced him deeper into the ordeal and allowed him to endure it.

Now, on some level, Arthur was mourning his blood as it snaked down his scalp and pulsed from his throat, soaking his white collar to burgundy. As he sat squatting on the ground, facing his death squarely, he felt the cold night air jabbing at his back and buttocks, torn and ragged. He felt scraps of shirt and trousers, wet and warm as bath water, sticking to him. He felt the razor burn of three sharp stones imbedded in the exposed muscles of his upper back.

The cold was in his hands and feet as well. Fatigue was softening the edges of horror. Shock was seeping in. Arthur smiled. This hound of Hell had better act quickly, or he was going to die on his own.

Strange how it stood before him, its gaze so steady Arthur almost expected it to speak. What was it waiting for? Dear Lord, those eyes. They were human. They were human!

"It was you," Arthur said, his voice hardly more than a croak in his burning throat. "You've been doing all this, haven't you?"

The creature lunged, just enough, rupturing Arthur's right ear as he pitched away from the attack. Arthur laughed with irony and realization, his shock making him giddy. All the forces of the United States Government were beating the bushes for one puny human or a cluster of puny humans. What was standing before Arthur, silver fur gleaming, black lips glistening with drool, red-tinged with his blood, was more than them all and born of them all. How he knew this, he couldn't say. But know it, he did.

It is ours, it is our own devise.

Just as Arthur was graced with the understanding, he was graced with another. Too weak to stand, he pulled himself back into a squat and leaned forward unsteadily, accepting the inward shrieking of his splayed back and buttocks as he did.

"You think I'm mourning Doris, don't you?" he said. "But, once I'm dead, I'll be with her more completely than before." He sighed. "I'm dying fast. You better take me now. The only terror you're going to get this time is from the body. "

He was struck hard and quick. Crushed anew against the rocky earth, his skinned muscles poured their overload of pain into arms, chest and legs. His body convulsed as the beast pinned him under one heavy paw that nearly spanned his chest. Interesting, to smell his own blood on the creature's breath as its jaws clamped over his face.

It's the eyes it wants this time, Arthur thought within that peculiar detachment.

And with one final, searing agony, detachment was complete.

Chapter 25

Lakeside Assembly Center

Pre-Dawn. Second Night. Full Moon.

Max woke sobbing and horrified. Horrified of something, but what was it? Not something he'd witnessed, not something he'd seen. Something he'd done.

God, God, what had he done?

Yet when he pushed his glasses over his eyes, he could see that he was safely in bed. Once his eyes adjusted, he could make out the familiar confines in the inky pre-dawn morning between moonset and sunrise.

Okay. Nightmare. He'd had a nightmare, that was all. That had to be it, he'd had a whopper of a nightmare. It was time again for them, anyway. This one was just particularly intense, almost like a memory, almost like the real thing...

The image that burst into his vision made him shriek suddenly, and even his head colliding against the backboard couldn't knock it from him. A faceless lump of flesh, a gaping hole where eyes should be, where nose and mouth should be. The jawbone was still there, sagging without the support of muscle and skin, a useless protuberance against the collapsed gore of brain matter seeping from the cavity.

Max barely made it into the bathroom. He vomited into the toilet bowl, tears seeping through the seams of his eyelids. Emptied of substance and spirit, he sagged against the porcelain for a moment, eyes still closed, until the smell of rusty iron filtered through the tang of bile. He opened his eyes. The toilet was full of blood.

Gagging, his glasses speckled with red, he clambered backward as though the blood was reaching for him. He made it to his feet only after he had tumbled out the bathroom door, and stood there trembling, staring back into the lavatory. He only made it as far as the threshold of his bedroom before he had to brace against the door jam, his forehead pressed into his arm.

Someone knocked on his front door, the noise jolting him so, he stumbled backward.

Damned if he'd answer it! Screw whoever it was! Screw whatever emergency it might be! He needed time to sort this out. Jesus, the blood! Where had it come from?

Again that jagged, gore-filled image and Max pulled away from the door jam as if he could leave the horror there. No. There was no relation between the blood in his belly and the faceless hole in his mind, no! He trod heavily into the kitchen, but the blood and the vision followed him.

The knocking came again. Max stood in the middle of the cabin's kitchen, the cracked linoleum cold against his feet. He felt caged, unable to move forward or backward. The knocking was more insistent. Max was startled by the sound of his own voice, deeper than it should be, threatening as it boomed out, "Get the hell away from here!"

Abruptly, the knocking stopped. Max stood panting in the cold kitchen. Then, suddenly, he was weeping, his head so full of agony and despair he thought it might burst. He knew he had to sit before he crumpled to the linoleum. He let his folded arms cradle his head against the kitchen table as he sank into a chair.

What's happening to me, what's happening?

Doomed. He was overwhelmed with the gut wrenching knowledge that he was doomed. But, why? What had he done? He couldn't think of a soul on earth, in Heaven or in Hell that could answer that question or would give him some glimmer of redemption.

The knocking came again, this time behind Max, at the door that led from the kitchen to the barren area behind the cabin. With it was a muffled voice Max couldn't recognize until the intruder named himself.

"Captain, let me in. I know what you're going through and I can help. Captain, it's David Alma Curar. You must try to trust me."

When Max shouted back, he was ashamed of the sob in his voice, but at least it was his own voice again. "Get the hell away from me!"

"Captain. Please. The memories are getting worse, aren't they? You're seeing the bodies now. Tonight, the seizures will be more violent than ever. Someone should sit with you. Captain..."

"Goddamn it, I don't know what you're talking about! Get out of here!"

"If you don't let me help, there'll be more deaths, there'll be more torture. Have you begun vomiting the blood, yet?"

Max's voice became throaty again. "Get your ass away from my door or I swear to God I'll kill you!"

A swath of terror coursed through him. He'd meant it. If Alma Curar wasn't careful, Max might crash straight through that door and kill him.

God. Oh, dear God in Heaven. Help me!

"Captain! I'm not leaving until I at least see your face!"

Max sprang to his feet, flung the door open. He bore his ashen complexion, the swollen eyes bulbous beneath blood spattered glasses, the stained throat of his tee shirt, to Alma Curar.

"Here's my face," he said, seething. "Here's my face."

The air was gray behind the healer as dawn softened the night. Alma Curar stood in stunned silence looking up at Max in the raised doorway. Finally he said, "Let me come in."

"What for?"

"I can help you stop the pain."

"No one can help me. I'm dying."

"You don't have to, Captain..."

"Take your medicine show someplace else. The best surgeons in three states weren't able to help me."

"You're not sick, Captain, you're entangled."

"Get the hell out of here. I'm warning you."

"If you can't do this for yourself, Captain, do it for the victims."

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about!"

"Last month I would have said you're telling me the truth. Now all you're doing is lying to yourself."

Max stepped back and shoved the door in one, fluid motion, but Alma Curar was stunningly fleet, leaping upward and colliding with the door before it slammed shut.

Max couldn't stop what happened next. Something rose up in him like bile and blood, rose up and clutched Alma Curar's shirtfront. In spite of the threat of silver and turquoise at the healer's throat, Max dragged Alma Curar the rest of the way into the cabin.

Chapter 26

Tulenar Internment Camp

Afternoon. Second Night. Full Moon.

Doris was screaming inside, somewhere deep inside, a place in her that plunged into the core of the earth. She was distantly aware of the commotion all around her, the hysteria that no amount of damage control would cap. Eisenhower was screeching through the telephone wire. The F.B.I. had taken up residence in the M.P.'s compound. Newspaper and radio reporters were bursting through the weaker seams of security. The camp itself was stricken dumb in its terror, like a bleeding animal curled into a far corner, helpless and trapped.

She had nothing to protect her from her grief. No one knew she had loved Arthur Satsugai. No one knew. So the details coming from the F.B.I were brutal and blunt. Found him, dead. Close to the Ataki site, but not buried. Looked like somebody took a posthole digger to his face. Stink, good god, it was amazing how quick a corpse begins to stink.

She knew she didn't seem normal to anyone. Even Harriet approached her cautiously. But the staff's careful words and behavior told her they assumed her vacant gaze and chalky pallor was because of the deepening crisis, to the disintegration of her future.

Arthur. Arthur. No one knew.

This camp was no longer hers. Lip service was given by Eisenhower's representative and the F.B.I.'s special agents, but it was really they who were in control. "Sign this, please," and "what's Madame Administrator's opinion on that?" Any choices they gave her had been telegraphed from Washington D.C.

She didn't care. Her mind was elsewhere, her vision riveted on memory, where she saw over and over again something she would never have believed possible.

There was her little house last night, shot through by moonlight. There she was at the kitchen sink, which she had walked straight toward, not even bothering to turn on a ligh. Bending toward the running water, cupping her hands, intent on splashing away the heat in her face. It was burning from Arthur's lips on her mouth, on her cheeks, on her eyes, on her mouth again.

There was that quick, odd motion disappearing over the small rise behind her house, so quick it was almost gone before she could wipe the water from her eyes. Almost. A quick, wild motion, like legs kicking helplessly upward.

She had been sure she was imagining it, sure her fatigue was teasing her with illusions. The vision of those kicking legs...so fleeting. By the time she had come around the house, by the time she stood atop the little mound, her thoughts were rational again. No one could have dragged a person so quickly and noiselessly out of sight.

By eleven o'clock that night, Arthur was reported missing. By first light, Arthur's death was a reality. When the first call came, Doris rose numbly from the kitchen table and walked to the side of the house. In the morning light, the drag marks in the dust were easy to see. So was the one animal print that Arthur's struggling body had not erased. Large. Immense. Doris could fit both hands into it.

She pointed it out to the M.P.'s. She pointed it out to the special agents. She pointed it out to anyone that could make use of the information. They were all very polite, and they all thought she was absurd. So fatigued and stressed that she was no longer thinking logically.

Yes, of course, Mrs. Tebbe, we see it, yes, it is huge. No, Mrs. Tebbe, we don't think it's canine, it's too big. Probably a cougar, an uncommonly large male. Odd, but not unheard of. An expert opinion, what for? Let's get back to the investigation, shall we?

A monster had swallowed their mother's head and dragged her through the fence.

They saw what appeared to be a wolf, a massive wolf.

The group of old backwoodsmen I wound up hunting with were convinced Alderquest had a werewolf.

Pierce. Where was Pierce today? It only occurred to her to wonder now. Only now was her soul emerging from grief enough to wonder about anything. Where was Pierce?

Harriet brought Doris's mail. She perfunctorily rummaged through it until one large, brown envelope emerged, special delivery, its return address from Bellingham, Washington. Doris stared at it, waiting for Harriet to leave before tearing it open.

Al's tight script was on a slip of paper attached to the coroner's report: "What the hell's going on?" There was even a mimeograph of Captain Maxwell Pierce's statement on the death of his wife, Anne Patricia Wellington Pierce.

The captain's statement and what he had told Doris during their dinner weeks ago were similar. Doris set it aside and scanned the coroner's report, touching on pre-mortem and post-mortem. Most of the trauma was post-mortem. But the important one wasn't. Jesus. Jesus.

Yes, the body was found at the bottom of a snowy ravine. Yes, Annie had died of severe blood loss. But her throat had not been torn open by a jagged rock. An animal had done it. Seemingly canine. Both carotid arteries severed, the larynx gone. Her head was nearly avulsed from her body.

The snow had been too deep to offer clear tracks, but the indications were also strongly canine. Most likely wolf, of an unprecedented size.

The report began to rattle in her hands, and Doris set it down, pressing her fists into her lap to try to stop the trembling. Pierce. She didn't understand exactly how or why, but she knew this was all Pierce's doing. And she knew just as instinctively that there was no one at Tulenar that could or would help her. She was all alone. She wanted to scream.

Outside her door she heard a sound like a telephone receiver being slammed down and Shackley, Eisenhower's man, cursed. He asked the same question she had asked minutes before.

"Where in holy hell is Captain Pierce!"

/ / / /

Was he stalking again tonight, Doris wondered as she lay on her couch, watching the full moon through her window. Would someone actually see him tonight?

Someone would, in spite of all the security, in spite of the sundown curfew, sealing the internees into the barracks. Would it be one of the internee police this time, as he made his rounds perpendicular to the M.P.'s in their Jeep, to the soldiers assigned the dreadful duty of walking the barbed wire? Would that evacuee, in one unguarded second, when his military counterparts were not present, just one fleeting moment...would he turn to look into the eyes of his death?

Who would it be? When would it be?

Stop, she told herself. Think this through. Climb out of the grief, climb out of the fear. To think of Arthur as Arthur now will interfere. He is...he is Victim Three. Victim Three in as many months.

Mrs. Tebbe, was the moon full when Mr. Ataki died?

She couldn't remember.

Isn't it staring us in the face this minute?

When Mrs. Tamura was taken, yes, it was. Yes! And it was full now. It was full last night. Once a month. On the first night of the full moon.

Doris pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, raked her fingers through her dark red hair as it lay loose and scattered across the sofa's arm. Good lord, it can't be, it can't be. Terrifying enough to think of Pierce -of Pierce!- as a homicidal mad man. She'd be insane herself to think there were such things as werewolves...

A revelation pulled her upright. Doris sat staring ahead of her as if she could see the logic shining brilliantly before her eyes. The wolf attack at Alderquest, the murder of his wife. Pierce. Pierce thinks he's a werewolf!

/ / / /

Doris had the coroner's report clutched in her hand. "If you'll just let me finish, Mr. Shackley..."

"Mrs. Tebbe, it's almost midnight. Let's discuss this in the morning."

"Will you please just look at this? I know I'm right! The captain was giving me clues all the time without even being aware that he was. Can you explain his disappearance, otherwise?"

Mr. Shackley, his triangular frame blocking the entrance of his motel room, tugged irritably at the tie of his bathrobe.

"Tomorrow," he insisted, his voice devoid of any pretense.

"Damn it, Shackley, we're talking murder here! The man's a lunatic! A damn sharp one, but a lunatic, just the same. Fake tracks, swift abduction, his military mind, it all makes perfect sense. We can't get around the logic! The only part that I'm not sure about is does he know he's doing it. Good lord, he seems so innocent when I talk to him..."

Shackley reached up with both hands and pressed against his thinning hairline, stretching the skin on his forehead and around his eyes. He was clearly vexed.

"Tomorrow," he repeated with emphasis.

Doris clenched her jaw and held the coroner's report on Annie Pierce stubbornly toward him. Shackley's glower slid from Doris's face to the brown envelope, which he snatched irritably from her fingers. What he said then would have seemed compassionate had his tone not been so heated.

"Mrs. Tebbe, you're under immense pressure. You've done an excellent job up to now, but I think the stress you're experiencing warrants a suspension of duties. We'll talk in the morning, goodnight!"

/ / / /

"Relieved" was the official word for it, and Doris was set aside as easily as Shackley had set aside the coroner's report. When she asked what he had thought, he said that he thought she was much too traumatized by the present crisis. The only thing he saw in the report was a tragic accident, with only a fragment of coincidence anywhere in the findings.

Furthermore, procuring such information was unethical and illegal. She was advised to tread lightly and accept the WRA's decision to relieve her.

The official story? Due to illness, Doris was temporarily alleviated of her position and was expected to return in three weeks. No one was buying it. The staff and the press knew as well as Doris that she would never be returned to duties. But the WRA couldn't allow the appearance of internal disintegration. Shackley would wait for an opportune moment before shipping her off.

Actually, in a literal sense, Doris truly was relieved. Shackley wouldn't have let her work, anyway. Not in any real capacity. She would have sat in her office, a puppet administrator, with only enough paperwork to make her appear in control. There would be nothing to shield her from Arthur's ghost.

But, now she could fill her days. By seven a.m. she'd been bounced. By seven-forty-five a.m. she was at Lakeside Assembly Center pounding furiously at Pierce's front door, but she got no answer. She walked briskly around the cabin, thinking to surprise Pierce at a window if he was hiding inside. But she slowed, the hair at her neck prickling as the back door came into view. It was wide open, flung back against the kitchen wall. The kitchen was in shambles, one chair overturned, another broken, even the table was on its side. A scattered trail of cooking knives led to their wooden holder lying in a corner. And there was blood. Two large smears, one on the tilted table, one on the floor nearby. Hand prints.

Doris was several steps inside when a young, harsh voice came from behind. "Hold right there! This is government prop-- Holy - Mother of --!"

Doris turned to see the astounded expression of a baby-faced M.P. corporal, peering into the kitchen.

"What the hell happened here?" she snapped.

"I don't... don't..."

"Didn't you people come looking for the captain yesterday?"

"Yeah! Yes, they sent me, but I...I was only at the front..."

"What?"

"I just...when there was no answer...I came by a couple three times, but I..."

"You mean no one's seen this until now?"

The youngster struggled to collect himself and asked defensively, "Ma'am, who are you and why are you here?"

"I'm the Center Administrator of Tulenar, kid, that's who the hell I am! Get your sergeant!"

/ / / /

She was back in Shackley's face by nine o'clock, arguing with him from across her desk. Or at least it had been her desk. Now Shackley was sitting behind it and saying to her, "Mrs. Tebbe, regardless of your concerns, the Army and the United States Government are treating the captain's disappearance as a kidnapping. We can only pray he hasn't been murdered."

"Listen to me. He's not the victim, he's the killer. He's the killer! I've told you what he told me, I've told you what Andrew Takei heard him say and I trusted you with the coroner's report. Mr. Shackley, how could Pierce know Mrs. Tamura's heart was taken? We've never found her body. Only the killer would know that."

Shackley held up his hand in a one moment, please gesture. "Precisely as you say. We have never found the body. We cannot ascertain the killer did such a thing because we have no physical evidence that it happened. What we do have is the Takei boy claiming Captain Pierce made the statement. A boy who, no doubt, would say anything if he thought it would get him out of jail. Do you expect us to discount Captain Pierce's reputation on the word of a delinquent and your imagination?"

"This isn't my imagination! At least you could question Pierce."

Shackley looked weary. "Yes we could, Mrs. Tebbe, if we could find him. But he's gone, and all the evidence suggests foul play."

"I tell you that blood is not his, it's another victim's."

"And what victim would that be, Mrs. Tebbe? Who else is missing?"

"It... it could be Arthur's...the Reverend Arthur Satsugai. He could have been murdered there."

"Mrs. Tebbe. Listen to yourself."

Doris realized she was trembling. Taking advantage of her hesitation, Shackley rested his elbows on the desk and tented his hands in front of his chin. "There's an equation of logic I think you will find useful in this case, Mrs. Tebbe. It is loosely referred to as Occam's Razor and, simply put, it states--"

"Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate."

Shackley dropped his hands, looking chagrined and little confused.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Doris said, "don't you know the Razor in Latin? It 'loosely' translates to 'of competing explanations, the simplest should be preferred, provided it takes into account all evidence.'"

Shackley recovered quickly. "You will have to pardon me if I seemed condescending just now. However, you have just proven my point. Of the two prevailing theories regarding these tragedies, which seems the simplest to you? We have a subversive Enemy National committing unspeakable acts in order to create wide spread panic across our nation's exposed western flank during a time of war. Or the mastermind of the murders is a U.S. Army captain with a sterling record who arbitrarily goes beserk, believing himself to be a werewolf."

She realized for the first time how absurd she, indeed, sounded to Shackley. She looked at him and managed to see not a stubborn, stuffy bureaucrat, but a man who had not experienced what she had experienced. Who would have no reason to connect the dots of Pierce's past, and the strange murders in the remote deserts of an Indian reservation, to the atrocities at Tulenar. He had not heard some strange Navajo medicine man, long gone now, making uncannily accurate predictions of carnage. He had not lost Arthur so violently.

He could not possibly believe her. He had no reason to do so.

Chapter 27

Disjunction Lake

Afternoon. Third Night of the Full Moon.

Disjunction Lake's library was small and solid, a tomb of minimal knowledge squatting in the town square. Its card catalog was sketchy at best, but Doris managed to find two old books on European lore, the largest only three hundred pages, and a tattered copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula.

It became clear early on that Dracula was the wrong direction. Of the books on European lore, the smaller one centered entirely on Celtic and Irish fairy tales. It didn't occur to her until she pulled the third book across the table toward her to peruse the index. "W". Werewolf.

There it was, page 137. Doris was keenly aware of the knot in her throat as she turned the leaves, then swallowed bitterly when the section entitled Shape Shifting Myths revealed only a single page on the subject, subtitled Lycanthropy. Still, it offered her something:

"Lycanthropy (or werewolfism). Myths of lycanthropy have been recorded in Europe, Scandinavia and the North American continent. These tales persist today. Subtleties vary, but the theme remains amazingly common where ever found.

"The victim becomes a lycanthrope, or werewolf, by surviving the bite of one such creature. Henceforth under each full moon, the victim mutates into a large wolf-like being, fated to slaughter and feed on other humans. Upon the fading of the full moon, the werewolf returns to human form with no knowledge of the carnage he has created.

"According to some traditions, the werewolf is selective in its choice of victims. In these cases, one or both of the victim's palms (depending on the tradition) is said to be marked with a pentagram, which is a star enclosed within a circle (often associated with the Black Arts). The lycanthrope, in human form, is likewise marked.

"A savvy victim would be wise to compare his palm to that of a suspected lycanthrope, as only the werewolf and his victim can discern the mark. In some traditions, those gifted with second sight can also see the pentagram. This same savvy victim would then be wise to have handy a weapon crafted of silver, for only a fatal blow with such a weapon can kill the werewolf.

"Other details and variations on this theme abound. However, these vitals should provide the reader with ample knowledge for his next werewolf hunt."

Doris clapped the book shut, frustrated with the author's glib manner. The thud echoed up to Mrs. Baker, the librarian, who raised her head in annoyance even though she and Doris were the only people there. Doris closed her strained eyes a moment, and it was then she felt the presence behind her. She shifted in her chair a split second before telling herself not to be ridiculous. But Doris was certain she saw something. A shadow against a wall, cast by a soft globe light, a silhouette with the outline much like a braid or a ponytail, doubled upon itself and bound.

The shadow was already vanishing behind the far bookshelves by the time Doris stood and moved toward it. Behind the last shelf was a doorway. It was dark beyond. The small sign above it read STACKS. She approached slowly, and realized she was afraid.

The pale lighting of the main room let Doris glimpse five or six steps leading down into the stacks. She hesitated a moment, then plunged her hand into the dark, hastily tracing her fingers along either wall of the threshold, looking for a light switch. There was none. She was quick to pull her hand back.

Doris thought of going to Mrs. Baker, to ask her to light the room, but when she walked around so she could see the main desk, the woman wasn't there. Doris turned back to the black doorway, bucked up her nerve and entered.

Once she stepped out of the feeble, second hand light, Doris was in virtual night. Even after her eyes adjusted, the best she could make out was the monolithic aisles of books, their musty aroma close against her face. Two steps forward and something spidery wisped across her forehead. Doris gasped, but stifled a cry when she realized she must have walked into the light string. Groping outward, she caught it and tugged.

A gloomy little bulb pushed its glow against the dark, barely aided by the reflective metal cap above it. The aisles were aligned before her and Doris ventured to her right, peering between each until she heard tiny scuttles, sounds like nervous whispering. She snapped to ... but it was just a mouse, its needley claws scratching against abandoned papers on a low, dusty table pushed against a wall.

The overhanging light she had switched on suddenly wavered and Doris's eyes darted back to it. There! One aisle past the lamp. A shape between the bookshelves. She fixed on it, her heart pounding as she began slowly toward it until she realized her fear could foil success. So she forced herself to stride firmly and quickly and turned into the aisle...

It was the librarian. Her gray, stubby pigtail swiveled like a counterweight when she turned toward Doris with a start. "Aa! Heavens to Betsy!"

Doris felt like an idiot. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"Gracious, you practically jumped at me around the shelves!"

"Yes, I'm sorry. I was...I was reading up on various lore and I...I thought I might find more in the stacks. Is there? More here?"

Mrs. Baker smiled then, willing to forgive the scare, it seemed, since she was needed. "So you turned the light on. I thought I'd forgotten it this morning."

"No, that was me."

"Mm. Well..." Mrs. Baker stepped along in her soft-soled shoes to an aisle near the dusty table. The stacks of this small town library were clearly her territory, rarely visited by the locals, let alone anyone else. She reached up to a second hanging bulb and tugged its string, casting more inadequate light onto the shelves.

She selected two books and looked at Doris. "North American Indian Legends and Folk Tales of Uncle Remus?"

"Fine. Thank you," Doris lied, still feeling like a fool. She took the two books and headed for the doorway, but had a sudden inspiration. "This may sound like a strange change of topic, but do you have anything on psychoses?"

Mrs. Baker didn't so much as blink, producing two thick books from yet another aisle, one written by Freud himself.

Once inside the main room, Doris abandoned the Uncle Remus tales to peruse the others' indexes, turning to anything that even remotely related to murderers who thought they were werewolves. What she found was precisely that; remotely related.A few pages on the delusions of becoming a wolf, a cat, a hawk. The Indian legends were hardly more than synopses on selected tribes and their lore; far less illuminating than the book with the shape-shifting chapter. She tossed the volumes next to her previous pile and walked out, discouraged.

/ / / /

The test results from Pierce's residence had arrived at Tulenar while Doris was at the library. There had been three fingerprints clear enough to verify that the bloody smears had not been made by Captain Pierce or Arthur Satsugai. The blood type matched neither of them. The speculation was that Pierce had struggled with and managed to wound his assailant, but apparently not seriously enough to thwart the attacker.

The press, of course, pounced on this latest catastrophe, but never once hinted at the Japanese insurgent theory, though they were well aware of it by now. The unsubstantiated rumor of an enemy agent murdering not only internees, but also military officers would guarantee a public panic. In such tenuous times, no one in the media was willing to be responsible for that.

Even so, the headlines were still sensational:

THIRD TULENAR JAP MURDERED

LAKESIDE ASSEMBLY C.O. DISAPPEARS! ARMY FEARS FOUL PLAY

WAS ARMY CAPTAIN ON VERGE OF DISCOVERING TULENAR KILLER

STRAIN CRACKS THE IRON LADY OF TULENAR

That one was Doris's personal favorite.

/ / / /

Arthur Satsugai's body had already been autopsied. Now he was buried quickly. Having made no arrangements in life, he was laid to rest in the camp cemetery, with minimal ceremony. Shackley feared a funeral would be used as an excuse to riot, so he forbade attendance by anyone other than immediate family. That meant, of course, that no one attended, other than the presiding minister, the gravediggers and an authorized witness. Arthur's son and former wife, far away on the east coast, couldn't make it in time. And his brother was cut off, living with the enemy.

Doris came at night, because what would it have looked like for the Center Administrator to be Arthur's sole visitor, the sole violator of Shackley's edict? She stood before the grave, its freshly turned soil dark in the dusty cemetery. The moon's fullness was waning, but its glow was still brilliant and she felt raw and exposed beneath it. The headstone was the only one in the picket-fenced area set aside for any future dead, the WRA thinking of every contingency during the relocation. Lots of elderly Nationals behind the barbed wire, after all.

It was a simple stone, clean and neat. And Arthur's. Arthur! Doris fought against the tears. She refused to sink to her knees. She shut her eyes tightly, but this made her woozy, so she opened them and lost against the warm, salty spill. She blinked rapidly, desperate to regain control, but the tears came, blurring the figure that was approaching her from the other side of the headstone.

"I'm sure he died well, Mrs. Tebbe, if he was as strong in spirit as I've heard."

She would have swiped at the teltale tracks had the sight of David Alma Curar not shocked her so. She was speechless only a moment. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"I told you not to set foot in this camp again."

He stared into the lopsided face of the moon. "I've been here every First Night of every month. Just ... never at the right place. This is a big camp. With so much fear, there are too many options."

"Options..."

"For the beast, Mrs. Tebbe."

"Don't you start with that again..."

"You say that as if you still don't believe. But I saw you at the library."

Like a child caught lying, Doris began to stammer, but Alma Curar interrupted with, "I know where he is."

"Who?"

"Maxwell Pierce."

Doris fell silent.

"Don't you want to find him? Everyone else does. But only you have been putting together the right clues."

Her first thought was that they were in on this together, that somehow, he and Pierce were allies. But, no. Why would Alma Curar be tempting her with the captain's whereabouts? Dear God...was she the next victim? Had she been right after all, that night Alma Curar had confronted her at her porch steps? Was he trying to lure her from the camp now? No. This wasn't fitting the pattern.

"I'm asking you to come with me," the healer said. "It doesn't matter if you believe what's inside him or not. I know of only two people that might put a stop to all this. You're one of them. Please. Come."

"How can I be sure...?" Doris didn't know how to finish the sentence.

"If I could give you assurances, I would, Mrs. Tebbe. But you don't know me well enough to accept them. What I can tell you is that this is not a killing night. For now, the danger has lessened."

Doris shook her head, took one step backward. "This is some sort of wild goose chase."

Alma Curar lost his calm. "If you would've been paying attention, you'd have realized I've been begging you to come for weeks. Who do you think left those newspapers at your door?"

"So that was you..."

"Who did you think? Captain Pierce? He's a strong man, but if he's so strong he could deliberately give you those, he wouldn't need our help. But he does."

Help? Doris didn't want to help Pierce. She wanted to kill him. She shouldn't tell Alma Curar that, though. He seemed to be some sort of protector for Pierce, only God knew why. Maybe he was the sort who felt sorry for lunatics, no matter how bloodthirsty. A self-appointed advocate.

But she wanted Maxwell Pierce dead. To kill, she'd have to find him.

"All right. I'll come."

/ / / /

Under the moon, Alma Curar's shack was a square, gray wooden skull. In the foothills, where mostly pines grew, this property was obviously no farm and never had been. Doris's breath plumed before her as she stepped from her sedan. The healer had already gotten out of his battered green truck and was walking toward her, the finely crafted silver glinting at his wrists and throat. He spoke as if Doris's thoughts were clearly on her face.

"I do farm, Mrs. Tebbe, back home. Just not here. I made arrangements with one of the people who supply Mr. Aholt's grocery."

Doris looked at Alma Curar's dented, rusty truck, took in once again the seedy little clapboard shack. "I guess your low overhead makes that a feasible arrangement."

It had been a sham. As Doris stood in the midst of this place, she understood that Alma Curar had never come to sell produce to the internees. She said suddenly, bluntly, "What the hell have you been up to?"

"I've been hunting, Mrs. Tebbe. But I'm not much of a hunter. I was foolish enough to think I could do this alone. My foolishness has caused too much suffering."

"So where's Pierce?"

"Are you prepared?"

Doris watched him a moment. "Just bring him."

"No, you'll have to come inside."

"Oh no. Uh-uh."

Alma Curar simply turned from Doris, saying as he walked away, "If I were going to kill you, Mrs. Tebbe, we're already remote enough for me to do it right here. It'd be less messy outside, anyway."

He mounted the single step of the shack, the door creaking as he opened it and he peered in as if to assure a safe entrance. Then he hurried in, leaving the door open. It was up to Doris to follow.

She heard a groan, some thumps, a sort of thrashing. Low murmurs of assurances. Doris approached and looked through the door. There was no light in the shack except what the moon offered, but Doris could see the two men in the far corner; one curled on the floor, the other squatting nearby. The latter was Alma Curar, who said over his shoulder, "Mrs. Tebbe, there's a lantern hanging to the right of the door. Light it, please."

Doris found the lantern on a crude wall peg and a box of matches on a stool beneath it. She struck a match, held it to the lantern and the flame slowly bloomed, its dim glow at last reaching Alma Curar and Pierce. The captain was stripped to his shorts, contorted, rigid, balled against the warped floorboards.

"Oh my God."

"Would you bring the lamp here, please."

Doris moved cautiously, more from shock than fear, but found the wooden crate serving as a bedside table and set the lantern down.

"No, on the wall peg there. He may knock it off the crate."

Doris allowed herself to leave the sight of Pierce's contortions only long enough to locate the nearby peg and hang the lantern. His eyes swiveled to look at her, but she couldn't tell if he really saw her. Something was wrong with his mouth; it was swollen or possibly stuffed with something.

Then a great, wrenching sound came from him, awful, liquid, as if his soul were rupturing. His limbs flung out, his left hand catching Alma Curar across an ear, his right shoulder hitting the little cot's metal leg hard, collapsing it on its hinge. Alma Curar was knocked onto his haunches. Doris fell onto Pierce, trying to restrain him, but the healer said quickly, "No, don't hold him, just move the cot, move the cot."

Alma Curar struggled back up to kneel beside Pierce's head. He pulled the pillow off the cot as Doris dragged the little bed away, scarring the floorboards, but clearing Pierce as his back arced and his legs kicked once, wildly. He became rigid again.

By the time Doris was at Alma Curar's side, he had the pillow was positioned beneath Pierce's head. The only movement now was the captain's eyes, rolling side to side frantically, as if his spirit were searching for escape from the body.

It seemed to find an avenue. Pierce went limp, his eyes rolled upward, the eyelids fluttered closed. The boxer shorts became wet and transparent at his groin, and the acrid smell of urine filled Doris's nose. She turned away.

"Mrs. Tebbe..."

Reluctantly, Doris faced Alma Curar, still kneeling beside the captain.

"I could use your help getting him into a dry change."

Pierce's body was as loose as a corpse, but together, Doris and the healer managed to get the fouled shorts off and fresh ones on. Panting a little from the effort, Doris looked down at the unconscious captain as Alma Curar examined him any serious injury. Satisfied there was none, he stood.

"I'd hoped to get back before the seizures began again," he said.

"Should we... get him on the cot, or something?"

Alma Curar shook his head. "No. This will go on the rest of the night. I wish I could have risked leaving him last night and come to you. But the seizures are much worse on Second Night than Third. The periods of rest only last a few minutes." The healer fell silent a moment, both he and Doris gazing down at Pierce's deep, even breaths. "He should be all right for now."

Alma Curar took the lantern from the wall peg and Doris followed him to the part of the shack that served as dining room and kitchen. She could see the embers glowing in the potbellied stove. A cast iron crock sat beside it with some stew congealing inside. A plank table with four stools stood in the middle of the rough, wooden floor.

Alma Curar went to the corner that held a small icebox and a homemade storage chest, lifting an old percolator and a tin of coffee out of the chest. He stoked the stove with a fresh supply of wood then went outside a moment. Doris heard the churn of a water pump.

Alma Curar had coffee heating minutes later. He set the lantern between them on the table, its yellow glow barely reaching to where Pierce still lay unconscious. Doris blinked, coming out of the sense of stun that had descended on her, and watched Alma Curar rub his sore ear.

"So he is the one," she said at last. "He is the killer."

Alma Curar stopped rubbing his ear and reached back, untying his bandana headband. "In a manner of speaking."

"Why are you doing this?" She couldn't keep the pain and bitterness out of her voice. "Why are you helping him?"

"To stop the slaughter, Mrs. Tebbe," Alma Curar tossed the headband onto the table, and looked at Doris. "And to help him, too. If I can."

With the bandana off, Doris could see the gauze bandage, slightly soiled, at Alma Curar's hairline and a broad, silvery stripe, bolder, brighter than the rest of the steel gray hair that must have been a sleek black at one time. Something was speaking to her deep inside, something was trying to put puzzle pieces together that didn't seem to fit.

"He needs a court of law," she replied finally, and added with venom, "He needs to die, goddamn it."

Alma Curar shook his head. "He doesn't need to. But he will all the same, unless you and I can save him."

Doris turned her head and raised a hand as if she'd just seen something revolting. "I'm not going to save him. I'm going to see him dead."

"Then you'll be killing an innocent man."

"You just said --"

"No, you just said. Mrs. Tebbe, the Maxwell Pierce you know is not the one feeding. It's what he holds inside. The beast, Mrs. Tebbe. The beast is in control."

Doris's good sense was gone. Too weary, too much in pain, whatever caution may have stopped her had evaporated hours ago and she hissed into the healer's face, "You're as psychotic as he is!"

Alma Curar's expression screwed into anger and he rose so quickly, Doris thought he was lunging at her. She fell backward over the stool, but scrambled to her feet in time to realize Alma Curar wasn't coming for her. He was carrying the lantern over to Pierce.

Glaring at her as he walked toward Pierce, Alma Curar commanded, "Come over here."

She hesitated, wondering if she could make it to the shack's only door in time, but Alma Curar was now kneeling beside Pierce and snapped at her again, "Come over here!"

Why was she doing it, why was she walking toward these two insane men? She asked herself this over and over, but lost that thought, lost the question as she peered down to see Alma Curar's fingers pull Pierce's lips away from the fangs.

The gums were twice as red, the fangs twice as large as human teeth, both uppers and lowers, and dark yellow. The smaller teeth between each set were as narrow and pointed as any dog's. Or any wolf's.

Doris tried to turn away, but Alma Curar clutched her with his free hand. "Look again. Look long, Mrs. Tebbe. See them. Make certain for yourself. Then tell me I'm a mad man. Look!"

She jerked free of his grip, but looked again, forcing herself to see those fangs. Tears spilled from her eyes, the bile threatening to surge into her throat. But she looked. She reached out and touched them.

She pulled her fingers away suddenly, one sparkling sob welling inside her, and she clutched her forehead as she stumbled toward the door.

"Mrs. Tebbe!"

She had one foot on the creaking little step outside the door before Alma Curar caught her. She pulled free and ran the rest of the way out, but the healer's words stopped her.

"Don't go!"

She made it to the sedan, leaning against it a moment for support. Alma Curar's voice was directly over her shoulder.

"Please. I'm begging you. Don't go."

Chapter 28

David Alma Curar's

Five Miles South of Tulenar Internment Camp

Midnight. Third Night of the Full Moon.

She was calmer now, sitting at David Alma Curar's table, a tin cup of steaming coffee in her hands. But she couldn't look at Pierce, still stretched like the dead upon the floor. He had lain so now for over thirty minutes. Alma Curar was bathing Pierce with cool water because the captain had begun to sweat profusely.

Staring ahead at the potbellied stove, Doris finally said (though she couldn't imagine why she'd care), "Shouldn't you take him to the hospital? To a doctor, at least?"

"I didn't know modern science had a cure for lycanthropy now," the healer replied.

"Maybe he has some disease, Mr. Alma Curar. A rare form of something that a doctor would know how to treat."

She glanced over her shoulder briefly, in time to see Alma Curar wring out the cloth and drape it over the water bucket. She turned away quickly as he walked toward her. Alma Curar poured another cup of coffee and said, almost smiling, "So the captain has a disease that makes him grow fangs and compels him to eat people."

"You think this is funny?"

"No, Mrs. Tebbe, I don't. But your steadfast refusal amuses me a little."

"Go to hell."

Alma Curar looked at her a moment, then replied, "I've already been, thanks."

Doris sighed and sank toward her cup of coffee. When she lifted her eyes again, Alma Curar was sitting across the table. She said, "Look. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. It's natural for you to hate him. I know you care about the people of Tulenar. The last one...the minister. He was someone special, though, wasn't he?"

Here was her opportunity to say it. She looked into the healer's eyes and swallowed. "I knew him better than Mr. Ataki or Mrs. Tamura. He was Police Liaison, so we worked closely. Almost daily."

Alma Curar was quiet, as if waiting for her to continue. But Doris didn't continue. Embarrassed by her failure, she looked again into the black, smoky coffee.

"You never told me why you're doing this," she said.

"Yes, I did."

"No, you didn't. You're from that reservation town, aren't you? Long Walk or something, right? You followed him here."

Alma Curar shook his head. "I'm from Tohatchi, New Mexico. By the time of the third feeding at the rez, an old healer there understood what was happening and asked me to come. The beast took a fifth before I suspected the host was from Fort Morriston, the Army station a few miles from there. I failed to find it by the sixth victim. But I knew it would be on the move soon and followed the clues here."

"So you really hadn't been in California for three months before the murders."

"Closer to three weeks."

"Why the ruse?"

Alma Curar almost smiled again. "I can't believe you'd ask after all this."

"Yeah. Well. How'd you know it was Pierce?"

"I didn't, not for certain. Not until I met him."

"What clues, then? You said you followed the clues."

"There are certain actions, habits that are obvious if you're intimate with them. And dreams. It never quite leaves you. The connection remains, and if you're sensitive to your dreams, it's very helpful."

"Intimate." Doris raised her cup and just before drinking, commented sarcastically, "I suppose some of your best buddies are werewolves."

"Besides the captain, I'm the only one I know."

Doris froze. The healer stood. Her eyes never left his as he tugged his shirtwaist out of his beltline, undid the top button of his trousers. Only then did her gaze drop to the long, ropy scar that angled across his exposed abdomen.

She swallowed, unsure of the right move as Alma Curar calmly replaced his clothing. Vying for time, hoping to keep him talking, she asked in an unsteady voice. "Did ... did a werewolf do that to you?"

"No. The man who saved me did. He sliced into the beast with a silver dagger. Relax, Mrs. Tebbe. You won't be dying tonight. If you and I do this right, you won't be dying at all."

Doris was far from relaxed. But she was thankful for the moment of quiet while the healer left the table to bathe Pierce once again. When he returned, Doris didn't have to ask him to explain.

"The man's name was Stanislov. He was already very old, by the time I met him. He had traced the lineage that possessed me all the way to Mexico, which was where I lived as a young man, silversmithing. Like you...just like the captain...I didn't believe in monsters. I refused to believe in the one inside me. At that time in my life, I took great pride in being a modern and militant Navajo."

"How? How did it happen?"

"I was bitten," he replied simply.

"How did you escape?"

"The beast didn't want to kill me, Mrs. Tebbe. Like the captain, I was chosen. It has only so much time to feed through each host. I remember very clearly the woman who was host before me. She had stopped at my booth in the market and just stared. Stared at the silver. Stared at me." Something of a sour laugh escaped Alma Curar. "I was a young man. I thought she was a wealthy Spanish wife looking for a little...adventure. You understand? I was disgusted by her look of longing. I had no idea what was really looking at me through her eyes. It was later that night, walking home...that was when I was attacked."

Alma Curar rolled up his right sleeve and rested his forearm on the table. In the dim lantern light Doris could see the multiple puncture wounds, old and faded, though the depressions where the flesh had not entirely grown back were still evident.

"The local doctor thought it was a coyote, wounded probably, rabid maybe," Alma Curar continued. "He could tell from the bite that it was large, but said it was only my fear that made the animal grow even larger in my mind. It wasn't until much later that the not-so-modern people began to understand.

"In our tradition, Mrs. Tebbe, there are witches...they're often called 'wolves.' Shape shifters. It's difficult to explain to whites. The whole obsession of a Navajo Wolf is to disrupt, hopefully destroy, the balance of the world. The Way, the Beauty. That's what I became to my family and my neighbors. That's why I won't shame the memory of my parents -or that of my wife's- by keeping my family name. That's why, after Stanislov, I left Mexico and became a healer."

"And the woman? Did she go on killing?"

"She hanged herself in a Mexican jail. She was being held, waiting for trial, after confessing to three notoriously grisly murders in northern Mexico. She thought she was mad."

"Then you...then how come you're not...?"

"How come I'm not seizing? Why no fangs? Stanislov is why. He plunged his dagger here..." He placed his hand on his abdomen. "...slaying the beast. Saving the man."

Alma Curar leaned in closer. "It's not my story that's important, Mrs. Tebbe. What's important is that we must do what Stanislov did, if we can. If we thrust the silver below the belly ...anywhere vital within the pelvic basin, the beast dies. The man lives."

She was dizzy, her hands and feet numb with the realization of what Alma Curar was telling her he wanted. Suddenly the idea of killing Pierce herself, the fantasy that brought her such bitter pleasure, instead brought bile to her throat.

"You mean here? Now?"

"No, no! It could be done, but at the expense of the host, of Captain Pierce. He would die with the beast. I don't want to do that...unless I have to."

Alma Curar looked past Doris a moment, gazing at Pierce, whose toes and fingers were twitching as if in dream. The healer smiled.

"I would dread doing that." He looked at Doris again. "He believes now. He knows. Do you have any idea how much strength that takes, how much strength of spirit? This man is fighting."

But as quickly as his expression had softened for Pierce's sake, Alma Curar's face went stony again. "Understand, though. If I miss my chance and the only way left is to take Maxwell along with the beast... make no mistake, Mrs. Tebbe. I'll do it. And so must you."

"I can't believe what you're asking me."

"I thought you wanted him dead."

"I...do...I mean, I want to see justice..."

"You want the courts to take care of the messy business of revenge for you. I'm offering him justice. More than you would, more than the courts. The law has no way of giving him that." Alma Curar took a drink of his own coffee. "You still don't believe?"

"I don't know what I believe..."

"Are you going to go back? Are you going to give us away?"

Doris, resting her elbows on the table, sagged her weight onto them. "Would you be here when we got back?"

"Yes."

"Sure, you would."

"Yes, Mrs. Tebbe. We would. There will be no more feeding. One way or the other. Are you going to go back?"

Doris watched Alma Curar carefully, looking for any signs of deception, a flicker, a flaw.

"I want this chance for the captain," he said. "More so than he does. But if you go..."

"Stop it. I'm not going anywhere."

Now it was Alma Curar's turn to do the watching, as if looking for the deception in her. At last he said, "Thank you."

Doris squeezed her eyes shut, bowed her head. "I must be going nuts."

"I'm sorry, no. This is all too real."

She arched her head back the other way, opening her eyes to stare at the shack's clapboard ceiling. " Now what?"

"One of us must be with him at all times. He's vulnerable right now. He wants to die. I'm afraid he may take his own life if he's left alone."

"Now wouldn't that be a pity."

Alma Curar ignored her sarcasm. "You'll need to leave by dawn, though, and make an appearance. Otherwise, the authorities may mistake you for another casualty. I need you here when I have to leave for food, equipment. And to share the watch at night."

"How long will this have to go on?"

"Until the next full moon."

"That's practically a month!"

"We have to wait for the beast to emerge, Mrs. Tebbe. Otherwise, we may as well kill the captain here and now."

"Wait. Wait. You're saying we can't do anything until this... thing...takes him over again?"

Alma Curar nodded, and a flicker of revulsion tensed his face.

"Oh, God. Oh, Jesus."

Alma Curar nodded again. "Prayer's good right now. When we come face to face with the beast, it's going to be a terrible moment."

Chapter 29

David Alma Curar's Shack

Morning. Waning Gibbous Moon.

The world around Max flickered like an old silent movie, and it took a moment for him to realize this was the effect of his eyes fluttering open after deep sleep. Seizures. That's right, it was the time of his seizures. His eyes fell leadenly shut again, but he managed to force them back open as he groped to his right, where he always kept the water and wash cloth handy during these times.

But the familiar was missing, or at least out of place, and it was this little shock that opened his mind to the memory, to the horror. To what he had done. He groaned, sick to realize he was alive, that David Alma Curar had kept him safe.

He sat upright on the cot, the blanket slipping from him as he did, and recognized the metal frame's creak under his weight. He recognized, too, the gray, weathered shack as it came into fuzzy view, his feet feeling tender against the plank floor. Birds trilled morning song. Max shivered and pulled the blanket around his shoulders before groping about for his glasses.

"Here."

The voice wasn't David's. Max jerked his head incredulously toward the shape holding his glasses out to him. Like a beggar, miserable and humiliated, he took them from Mrs. Tebbe's hand and put them on, then pulled the corner of the blanket inadequately over his shorts.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, gazing at his knees, his voice thick.

"I was invited."

He still couldn't look at her. He listened as she walked away to the table and sat. Gazing downward, Max saw the bucket and scooted to the end of the cot. He bent down to swirl the washcloth in the water, then squeezed it against the back of his neck. The cold was a shock, uncomfortable, but it cleared his head.

With the rag still pressed against his neck, he said, "I guess this means you know."

"I guess so." Her voice was as cold as the water, without a trace of pity or compassion. That was fine with Max. He wanted no understanding. He wanted death.

"You're awfully damn calm," he said.

"I wasn't last night."

"Jesus." Finally he lifted his gaze to her. "Why the hell are you here?"

"You asked me that already."

"David invited you."

"Mm-hmm."

"Why'd you come?"

"Because I already knew you're the one who slaughtered them all."

And, just like that, they were back in his head, as if her words were an incantation forcing them into view. All of them. Not just Ataki and Tamura. Not just Satsugai. All of them. Those from Long Walk and Kayenta.

And Annie. God, Annie! Just as he had really, truly last seen her.

His dug his nails into his scalp, grazing the scar there. He curled as if his gut were cramping and somehow managed to say, "Are the authorities coming for me?"

A dread, bizarre hope filled him as he asked, but Mrs. Tebbe's cool reply knocked it out of him. "Not on your life."

"Why? Why not? Don't you want me dead?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do."

Max lifted his head to stare at Mrs. Tebbe, wanting to will her with his glare alone. "Then take me to them. You got your car? Take me to them, I'll confess it all."

Mrs. Tebbe was silent a moment, thinking. She uncrossed her legs, then re-crossed them. "Well, that's tempting, Captain. But Mr. Alma Curar has persuaded me to wait."

"Is he here?"

"He's in town."

"There's no one to stop us then."

"He couldn't stop us if he were here, two against one." Her voice, so cold, her posture, so rigid.

"I know what he wants to do," Max said. "It's ludicrous. It's dangerous. Just take me in..."

She came at him so quickly Max barely had time to fall back. She bent over him, hatred giving her eyes a wild gleam.

"You hurting, you son-of-a-bitch? You agonizing over your handiwork? Good! Good! You suffer in that blood for a while. What I saw last night was just bizarre enough to convince me to give Alma Curar his way. But if his little plan screws up, I'll be more than glad to take you in. I'll do better than that, I'll give you a gun, I'll help you hold it in your mouth! But until then, you just live with it. Live with it! Like I'll have to, even after the satisfaction of seeing you dead."

/ / / /

This time, there was no euphoria after the nights of seizure. It was as if this thing inside Max, this thing David called the beast, was suddenly stingy with its macabre vitality, now that it was preparing to leave. All Max could think of was his own death and how he was being robbed of it.

To sleep would be the next best thing. To sleep hour after hour, wake only when the ache of hunger refused to leave him alone, wake only when the functions of the body insisted on a dim-witted shuffle to the outhouse. That would do until death had its opportunity.

Except sleep was not sleep. Sleep was a vivid landscape, a brilliant moon-blanched night in the Arizona desert. It was feeling himself tangled in taut muscles so powerful they could keep him crushed within and still run so effortlessly it was almost laughable that the old Navajo woman thought she could make it to her trailer. He could taste her blood, he could feel the splinters of bone pierce his mouth.

Sleep was the chill of snow melting against his silver fur. It was his body moving through the thick, white drifts with no more struggle than it took to stroll through fog. So cleanly, so smoothly, even though the drifts came up to his elbows, or what would be his elbows if these powerful forelegs were still his arms. But no, they were forelegs pulling him toward Annie, as she trudged through the shin-deep snow calling out "Max!! Where are you!" Her voice was so filled with anxiety for his sake after finding herself alone in their cabin's bed.

Annie. So frantic, so intent in her search, the beast had to draw her attention, had to make her notice, make her call up some scrap of fear for her own sake. And even after she had laid eyes on him -not seeing her husband inside the beast- even then, her first wave of terror was for Max, afraid he had been hurt by the monster that was facing her. Not until she was backed toward the cliff did the terror of her own death course through her pulse, filling Max's mouth as they tumbled together over the edge...

So. Max didn't dare sleep. The sharp-edged memories of his waking hours, at least were only memories, horrible though they were. But when he slept...

Dressed now in rumpled trousers and a shirt, he was staring out the shack's back window when he heard David's old pick-up shudder to a stop. He didn't bother to turn around as the room's floorboards thumped under the healer's boots.

Over the rattle of grocery sacks, David said, "It's good to see you up and about."

Max didn't reply. His goal was to fix his stare to the warped creases of the window's sash, the scaly bark of the cedars. Perhaps if he focused hard enough, there would be no room in his head for the memories.

The chill was still in Mrs. Tebbe's voice when he heard her say to David, "He's been staring like that for an hour."

"Did he speak with you at all?"

"He asked me to drive him back to Lakeside. I volunteered to help him kill himself in a few weeks."

David's voice came wearily above the thud of grocery sacks being set on the plank table. "That was charitable of you."

Max closed his eyes. "She shouldn't be here at all."

This must have startled the others, because there was a hushed moment before David replied, "We can use all the help we can get, Max."

Max drew a long breath, giving up his vigil. He turned toward the others. "It's dangerous for her to be here."

"It's dangerous for her to be anywhere right now, you know that."

Mrs. Tebbe warned, "Don't talk through me, gentlemen."

She and David were standing at opposite ends of the table. The healer looked over at her and said, "I'm sorry. You already know you can leave any time."

The C.A. simply reached over and jerked one of the sacks toward her. She began unloading it. "Speaking of which, I should leave for a while anyway. Who knows what Shackley's been up to this morning."

"Who's Shackley?" Max asked.

Mrs. Tebbe didn't bother to look up at him or stop unloading the sack. "Shackley's the man running the camp right now. Being the incompetent that I am, I've been relieved."

Max walked toward her. "Oh... Mrs. Tebbe... I'm sorry--"

"Don't." The venom in her voice stopped him in his tracks. "Just don't."

Max felt as if his soul was sinking through the shack's floorboards. Mrs. Tebbe's lips worked as if she might sob. She snatched up her purse and said in an unsteady voice, "I better get going," and stalked toward the door.

David called quickly, "Mrs. Tebbe. When you come back, remember the archery equipment."

Mrs. Tebbe turned to look at Max a moment, then nodded curtly at David before leaving.

Max moved to the table and sat down. After a moment, he drummed up the courage to ask, "Archery equipment?"

"Something we discussed last night. Do you really want the details?"

Max shook his head. "How she hates me."

David began unpacking the groceries, again. "She's strong enough to overcome it. Right now, her hatred can do us a service. It'll steady her aim when the time comes."

"My aim would be just fine if you'd give me your gun."

"We're not going to do it that way, Max. Not unless we have to."

"By then, you both might be dead."

"Both of us? I doubt it. Don't just sit there. This stuff needs to be put away..."

Max reached out and flung the nearest sack across the room, jars, cans and eggs slinging outward like the tail of a comet.

"They're away! What the hell's your point, trading your life for mine! And where do you get off, goddamnit, deciding if Doris Tebbe lives or dies!"

"I'm not making that decision, Max, she is!"

"She wouldn't have made it if you hadn't lured her here..."

The healer struggled to keep his own anger under control. "We need her. The deed's done. She's here. She wants to stay."

Max sagged against the table, anger draining into despair. "The deed's not done. It's not." He moved around to David, drawing near, his whole being a supplication. "Let me do it, David. Just let me."

"No."

Max went stony inside. "You can't really stop me."

"I can do whatever is--"

The blow hit David's jaw square and true, and Max was running out of the shack even as the healer fell to the floor. Max ignored the searing ache radiating from knuckles to wrist, the blood pearling in the tiny ruptures of the skin. What was pain to him? Soon he'd find a place to die. He sprinted over the rocky ground and headed into the trees.

He fled upward, scrambling like the hunted, aware of bramble and branch only when they slowed his progress. An exhilaration came over him, a sense of freedom, of flying. Yes, soon he would fly, rend his death-stained soul from the world. He could almost hear the earth's deep sigh of relief. He was taking the beast with him.

How far he had climbed before coming upon the burned out clearing Max couldn't say. But quite suddenly it was before him, a place where fire once scorched the earth, mottled brown and black. Corpses of trees, charred and jagged, jutted out of the earth like fractured ribs. At the boundary of green forest and wasteland Max stood panting, sucking in the cold air until his lungs ached for warmth.

The sterile, black clearing opened onto a steep, free fall to a ravine. He crossed the clearing, wiped the droplets of sweat from his glasses and peered downward. The rubble far below, the thin green ribbon of the ravine's creek was surprisingly clear to him.

Leap off, just leap off. Let gravity do the rest. He could imagine himself bouncing against the great hill's body, snapping his neck. Perhaps his spine, his legs. Would he still be alive, broken, in pieces at the bottom?

He turned to look at the fire-ravaged copse. Among the taller, scorched timbers, jagged shards of conifer trunks stabbed upward from the ground like spears and broadswords. Did he have the nerve to fall on them? Did he have the sheer, physical strength needed to impale himself, make sure the wood pierced him from belly to back?

He wandered around the clearing, confused by his choices, beginning to tremble, until at last he sank against a charcoaled stump and wept. The sound of footsteps coming to him from the forest was no surprise. Without shame, he turned his grimy, tear-streaked face to David.

"I've lost my nerve," he said.

David sat next to him, panting from the uphill climb. When he caught his breath he asked, "How were you going to do it?"

"I...I dunno. The cliff's edge..."

David glanced that way, then bobbed his head as if to say maybe. "Might've worked. But no control. Until the beast finds another host to replace you, you'll be difficult to kill. About the only way to manage it without silver is to do enough damage to the brain. If you'd thrown yourself over the cliff, there's a good chance all you'd have done was put yourself in a body cast until First Night."

Max leaned his forehead into his hand. "Doesn't matter," he said, repeating, "I've lost my nerve."

"No, you haven't. It wasn't your strength urging you to die, Max, it was the beast. When it's done with you, it has a vested interest in seeing you dead. Otherwise..." He leaned his head against the stump. "You become like me."

"But it isn't done with me. It still has to find another host."

David chuckled as if he found that funny. "You think it doesn't know what's going on with us? You're not much more than a damaged foot it needs to gnaw off. The beast thrives in many places at once, Max. You aren't its only host."

"Then what's the point, David? What's the point of you bothering with me?"

"The point? You are the point. If you survive this you'll have taken the beast back into yourself. You know the beast, Max. You recognize its nature, and when this is over you'll know how to bind it, leash it back in. That is the point, that is the right action, not self-annihilation. Most people don't even let themselves believe the beast exists, much less recognize it. But you and I can. We've seen it in ourselves."

Max closed his eyes. "It's too painful."

David's voice came to him gently. "You'll learn how to live with the pain. You'll learn to bend it into beauty. It's not the pain that's so terrible to live with. It's the loneliness. There's so few, so few that have learned. I'm lonely, Max. I want you alive for my sake as much as your own."

They both feel silent. The wind wound its way through the conifers, swept into the charred barrenness, then fell whistling into the ravine. Max opened his eyes.

"Are you ready?" David asked him.

"Yeah. I am."

Chapter 30

Tulenar Internment Camp

Morning. Waning Gibbous Moon.

The glossy black paint gave Shackley away to her. Doris closed the trunk lid over her archery equipment and turned to face him.

"Good morning, Mr. Shackley."

"Good morning, Mrs. Tebbe. I'm glad to see you. We were beginning to worry."

"We were?"

"The guards logged your departure last night, then notified us when you arrived this morning. I wish you would have left word that you had overnight plans."

Doris smiled as pleasantly as possible. "I'm sorry I caused concern. I plan on being away for most of the day. I'll stop by Harriet's desk and leave a note."

"Do you really think that's wise, Mrs. Tebbe?"

"Oh, Harriet won't tell anyone..."

Shackley's cordial manner stiffened. "Coyness doesn't come naturally to you, Mrs. Tebbe. You're too tough to pull it off."

"Then what are you worried about, Mr. Shackley?"

"Your welfare. Truly. I am worried about you. But I'm also worried about what type of image you're presenting. You're still the Center Administrator."

His frankness brought Shackley up a notch in Doris's perception of him, so she responded to him as an equal. "If I decided to dance at the graveyard in my slip, your P.R. boys could figure a way to smooth over my image. So don't tell me they can't neatly explain my simple comings and goings."

"Are they so simple?"

"Mr. Shackley, the WRA's given me the boot. You know that, I know that. Everybody who counts knows that. What would you like me to do, sit in my house all day like a cloistered nun?"

"Yes, if it keeps you from playing amateur sleuth. Perhaps you won't believe me, but I do admire you. Your file, prior to this crisis, is exemplary. But clearly, you aren't yourself right now. The men working on this are professionals and deserve every tax dollar they earn bringing killers to justice, Mrs. Tebbe. If you're using your idle hours poking around, trying to prove the abducted captain is the killer, you might get yourself hurt, or worse, murdered. Or worse. You could put more people in jeopardy and risk more killing while you threaten the real operation."

"So you know what's real, Mr. Shackley. I envy you. I'll stop by Harriet's desk on my way out."

"I can't warn you strongly enough, Mrs. Tebbe..."

Doris was already walking toward the administration building. "Sure you can. You already have."

"If you foul anything up," he called after her, "I will have you confined to quarters, I promise."

"I won't. I promise." At least, I pray to God I won't.

Doris walked through the building, feeling eyes lift to her in spite of the usual, noisy bustle. But she kept walking, not greeting anyone until she stood in front of Harriet Haku. Dear Harriet. Only now did Doris really appreciate what a genuine ally the woman had been to her, how expertly the secretary moved through the turmoil

"Hi, Harriet. How's everything been?"

"Going smoothly enough," Harriet replied, barely looking up from her typing. "It went more smoothly when you were active, but in general the work's getting done."

"I meant you, Harriet. How are things with you? With your family?"

Harriet stopped typing as if Doris had startled her, seemed at a loss at first. It took only a moment for her to regain her composure.

"We're getting by, managing through the days. Thank you for asking. And you?"

And me? I'm trying to ignore the ache that throbs from my chest to my belly. I'm trying to understand why I failed Arthur. I'm trying to understand what I saw last night, what it is that I'm supposed to do.

"Shackley asked me to leave you a loose idea as to my whereabouts, since I'm going to be in and out quite a bit. I thought I might take a little tour due north. I may stay in Shelton overnight. I may not."

Harriet was writing down the lie. Then she did something odd. She made polite conversation, all the more peculiar -at least for Harriet- as her voice took on a light and airy tone. "Do you miss the hustle and bustle, Mrs. Tebbe?"

It was hard to keep the irony out of her voice, but Doris replied, "Oh, not really. I've managed to keep myself busy the last couple of days."

"There was a lot of activity going on yesterday. Two meetings I barely had time to prepare for."

Doris tried to tune in on what Harriet seemed to be saying. "Oh?"

"Yes. Well, I'll keep this information handy, thank you for dropping by with it. The gentlemen of the police department miss you already, Mrs. Tebbe. They had some questions no one else could answer for them. Would you have time to drop by the jail before going on your drive?"

/ / / /

Doris hadn't seen Harriet's husband, Jesse, since Harriet's encounter with the Inu Hunters. But he greeted Doris at the jailhouse as if she had come to see him personally. He wore the armband of a internee policeman.

"Hello, Mrs. Tebbe. My wife telephoned here to say you were on your way."

"Mr. Haku. I didn't realize you were serving."

"Only just came on board."

There was one other policeman reared back with his feet propped on the desk. Behind the bars were two snoring men, one with a black eye. They both had torn and dirty shirts.

Mr. Haku walked over to Doris and took her arm as if to escort her out of the jail. "My shift happens to be up. We've been meaning to bring something to your attention and I'll be glad to show it to you on the way to my quarters. Mr. Tsuji, see you tomorrow."

"Yes, okay," Mr. Tsuji replied. "Good day, Mrs. Tebbe."

There was a feeling of conspiracy between the two men so subtle, Doris wondered if she were just becoming paranoid from all the stress. But as Mr. Haku lead her through the door, he lost the affected congeniality and became the man Doris remembered. Calm, refined, looking older than his years.

He got right to the point as soon as they were out of earshot from any bystanders. "Are you aware of what the new administration is planning?"

"You mean Leonard Shackley and his staff?"

"They're going to round up all the youths that are even remotely rumored to be connected to the Inu Hunters and take them to federal prison."

"Mr. Haku, where did you hear that?"

"Not from the hakujin," he replied.

Hakujin. It simply meant Caucasian in Japanese, but these days it was -more or less- a derogatory term. Like gringo, or darkie. Or Jap.

"This isn't a rumor, Mrs. Tebbe. It comes from a very reliable source."

He didn't have to tell Doris who the source was. Besides Mr. Haku, no one knew better than Doris just how reliable Harriet was, indeed.

"They have some sort of theory that sets these boys up as enemy insurgents," he said, "as the murderers of those poor people..."

Mr. Haku stopped talking a moment to allow a trio of Nisei men to pass by. Then he continued, "If that happens, we're afraid things will get bad. Very bad. There's sure to be riots. Mrs. Tebbe, there can't possibly be any connection between those boys and these horrific murders."

"You weren't so sure of that a couple of months ago, Mr. Haku."

"That was before Mr. Ataki's body was found. Now I am. What happened to him, to Mrs. Tamura and that poor minister...that's not the handiwork of a few petty delinquents, Mrs. Tebbe, and you know it."

"They may be safer in a federal prison."

Not until Mr. Haku had stopped in his tracks, staring at her incredulously from deep-set eyes, did Doris think how that must sound to him, not knowing what she knew.

"They will die in that prison you think is so safe. One way or another. They're Americans, Mrs. Tebbe. Just like me. Just like you. But they look like their Japanese ancestors. How long do you think they'll last in prison?"

"They didn't commit the murders, Mr. Haku. For all Shackley's suspicions, there is no evidence that can link them to the murders. It's impossible to try them, much less convict them."

Mr. Haku stepped back, as if he could barely believe his ears. "Talk to me, Mrs. Tebbe, about evidence and conviction."

He was right. The very least that would come of this was a rebellion. Violence. Possibly even more deaths. A group of angry boys that, once they were carted off, would likely never be released. At least not until the fevers and the fears of wartime subsided, and God only knew when that might be. But what could Doris do?

She knew what she could do.

Mr. Haku was saying, "We had hoped you might still be able to use what clout you have to dissuade your colleagues. You're the closest thing to a friend the people in this camp have."

God in heaven. She knew what she could do. But she needed time to think, had to think this through. Mr. Haku was watching her closely.

"We should keep walking," he said, and Doris obeyed, but her mind was whirring and Mr. Haku seemed to take her preoccupation as a sign that he had made an impression. "We should finish this up by making it look official. Our block manager's rock garden was vandalized last night after curfew. I thought we might inspect the damage. If you don't mind, I'd like to stop by Mrs. Murato's unit and pick up my dauhter on the way."

"Demonstrations," Doris said.

"What?"

Doris stopped walking again. "Legal, peaceable dissent. Shackley wouldn't dare quash a demonstration, not right now. Especially since a precedent has already been set, after the Tamura abduction. I don't know how much I can get done, Mr. Haku, but if you could see to it that a series of calm, controlled demonstrations are organized, or rallies of some sort, that may help stall things. He'd be a fool to issue a mass arrest any time after a formal request for protest crosses his desk. Especially if I can dredge up any sympathetic press...on the sly, of course, gotta be careful there... Anyway, between us, we might be able to milk some time before Shackley catches on."

Mr. Haku nodded thoughtfully, said something in the affirmative, but Doris's mind was already whirring again, trying to figure out how to stall. But ultimately, Doris knew the only certainty that would stop Shackley from issuing the arrests. Produce the real killer. She began to feel sick to her stomach.

They stopped off at the portly Issei matron's quarters to collect little Joy, who promptly moved between her father and Doris to grasp their hands, much as Doris had seen her do when the girl and Mr. Haku escorted Harriet back to their block. Joy lifted her small, round face to Doris and smiled, as innocent in the confines of the camp as any five-year-old strolling in a small town neighborhood.

/ / / /

Mr. Alma Curar met Doris as she stopped the car in front of the shack. He was alone. The left side of his jaw was bruised and puffy.

"Are you all right? What happened?"

"I'm fine," is all he replied, then said, "you look a little strained, though."

He held the car door open for her as she stepped out. "Is that so surprising?"

"Did you bring your archery equipment?"

"Yes, it's back here."

She led him to the trunk and unlocked it before looking around for the captain. "Where's Pierce?"

"Inside." Mr. Alma Curar was reaching for her bow but Doris went for it first.

"Here, I'll get it. Sorry, I just have this thing about anybody handling it."

"It's a beautiful instrument, I don't blame you. I didn't expect it to be so large."

Doris smiled with amusement and surprise. "It's not very large for someone my size. I'm not an overly strong woman. Don't you...I mean...I'd have thought you'd know something about archery."

Mr. Alma Curar looked a little piqued, as if he'd confronted comments like Doris's often. "Nobody in my family has shot an arrow since my great-grandfather. The closest I've come to a bow is seeing an old tintype of Great-Grand Dad holding one across his lap. May I see one of your arrows?"

Chastened, Doris reached into the trunk, took one from the leather quiver and handed it to him. She looked past him, wondering if Pierce were watching. Alma Curar examined the arrowhead.

"Steel?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I'll need to replace these with silver."

"Can you do that? Here, I mean?"

"Sure."

Good. That would take time. Time she needed to decide. Doris looked toward the shack again.

"Mrs. Tebbe."

Doris returned her attention to Mr. Alma Curar. He was watching her cautiously.

"Is there anything wrong?" he asked.

"No, of course not."

He watched her a moment more before asking, "You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

Her stomach knotted. "I came back, didn't I? Alone."

"Nothing's happened to make you rethink ..."

"No," she lied. "Nothing."

She looked toward the shack again, and this time saw Pierce standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. He didn't look the way he had that morning, when he was pale with anguish. There was steeliness to his eyes, magnified by the spectacles. Doris hated him even more.

Chapter 31

David Alma Curar's Shack

Dusk. New Moon.

Max could hear David shooting in the distance. He sat on the shack's warped little step, thinking about another cup of coffee, but that would only make him more restless. He wasn't used to isolation and the sedentary; and he felt as though he was losing his identity. Not daring to return to his cabin at the detention center, he was forced to wear the civilian clothes David brought him. Heavy denims, flannel work shirts.

Reading the newspapers that came with the clothes didn't help things. Max's disappearance was still worthy of the front page. The rhetoric from the Army spoke of hope, but it was easy enough to read between the lines. Everyone thought he was dead. He wrestled with the paradox of being both disturbed and comforted by this.

Maybe another walk. Another long hike might help settle him. But then he wouldn't be here when David and Mrs. Tebbe returned from their respective target practices, he with the revolver, she with the bow. Max didn't want to worry them.

At least, David would be worried. Max didn't think the healer quite believed he was past the crisis point, past the place where he could have taken his own life. As for Mrs. Tebbe...Max still didn't understand why she was there at all.

It had been almost two weeks, now. since her carefully orchestrated visits had begun. Mrs. Tebbe had plotted them like war maneuvers. Days and nights patterned to appear like arbitrary jaunts away from Tulenar. A full day at the shack. A two day absence that Max assumed she spent at Tulenar. A few half days, some mornings, some afternoons, a full overnight stint. All designed to keep that Shackley's suspicions to a minimum. Once Mrs. Tebbe even arrived in a different car, one she said she had rented from someone in Shelton. Shackley had had a man following her.

Max had learned all this mostly as a third party listener to Mrs. Tebbe's and David's conversations. She spoke to Max only when she couldn't avoid it. And it was agonizingly clear that she wished he were in prison, waiting for execution.

So why wasn't she acting on that wish when she could so easily make it come true? Neither Max nor David could or would stop her. Every time she drove away, she had it within her power to come back with a battalion of F.B.I. Once or twice, after she had been away for a couple of days, Max hsd thought she was on the verge of doing just that. God, what was she waiting for!

He heard their voices before he saw them, emerging from the conifers just east of the shack. They were talking earnestly, David still looking uncomfortable with the holstered gun strapped to his thigh, Mrs. Tebbe seeming quite at ease in her archery garb, bow in hand.

Max was finally getting used to seeing her in women's trousers and flannel shirt, apparently bought at Disjunction Lake's camping store. He caught the new, store smell even from here. Her hair, though, was still bound in a snood, since she always drove up in her standard skirt and jacket, changing into her woodland togs in the shack. At this distance, Max couldn't see her face clearly, but the way she stiffened when she lifted her head told him that she saw him. He stood up and stepped down to let them into the cabin.

It had been getting cool for the last hour, so Max already had the stove going and the coffee was ready. He made them a supper of macaroni and cheese with canned vegetable soup. Afterward, coffee steaming before them, David fetched the first aid kit, then untied his bandanna to change the bandage at his hairline.

Mrs. Tebbe looked at the uneven stitches, four in all, without wincing. "It's looking good. Not a bit of infection."

David shrugged. "I'd be a poor healer if I couldn't take care of a simple cut."

"That happened at the captain's cabin, didn't it? That was your blood I saw."

Max cringed a little, where he sat beside David. "You were there?"

Mrs. Tebbe gave him a quick glance and nod, addressing David again, who was taping the fresh bandage in place. "What happened?"

Irritated, it was Max who replied. "Are you asking if I bit him?"

"Max was a little reluctant to listen at first," David said, and looked at Max with wry amusement. "It was touch and go for a while, but he came around. He didn't mean to throw me so hard, I think."

"Oh yes, I did."

"It must have been tough, stitching yourself up," Mrs. Tebbe said, still ignoring Max.

"That's my handiwork," Max replied, still determined to be counted.

Mrs. Tebbe barely looked his way. David went to the cedar chest near the door, replaced the first aid kit, and pulled out the cigar box filled with silver arrowheads. Max's throat pinched. When David brought the box over to the table, Max took his stool and moved to sit next to the door.

Perhaps Mrs. Tebbe was equally uncomfortable watching David work the silver with pointed little instruments, the tiny hammer tapping the precious metal into deadly shape. She stood abruptly.

"Look, I better go. It's getting tougher to convince Shackley I'm not up to something. I'd better stay at Tulenar for a few days. It wouldn't surprise me... it wouldn't surprise me if he had me tailed again."

Lie. It was in her voice. That wasn't really what she meant. Did David feel it, too? He was looking up at Mrs. Tebbe, but Max couldn't read his face. After a moment, the healer bent over the arrowheads again.

"When will it be?" David asked. "Saturday, then?"

"Same time," Mrs. Tebbe replied.

David nodded, still at his work. "I'll have some new targets mounted by the time you get here."

She said pointedly to David, not to Max, "Good night."

But Max followed her out the door.

"Why don't you just do it?" he said.

Mrs. Tebbe kept walking. "Do what?"

"You know what. ou believe less in David day by day. Something's changing your mind."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I can hear it in your voice. Damn it. I can smell it in you."

Mrs. Tebbe turned and slapped him.

"I mean it," Max persisted, ignoring the sting, the pain-provoked tears. "I can sense these things. You're scared."

"The hell I am. I'm looking forward to this."

"You don't act like it."

"How should I be acting, Captain? Do I lack the right etiquette for the situation?" She looked disgusted as she turned toward the car. "You're imagining things."

"Mrs. Tebbe. Don't let David down. I swear to God, I'm not asking this for myself. I'm asking for him. Jesus, if I could change what happened. If I could give you Arthur Satsugai back...

This time, as she whirled toward Max, she slapped him hard enough to leave his glasses dangling from one ear. She slapped him again before he could recover, but he blocked the next blow and told himself he was yanking her close to avoid another.

But if that were so, why was he sobbing into her shoulder, why was he sinking to his knees, his glasses still dangling? His voice was coming from somewhere else, it seemed, begging her for forgiveness, clutching at her legs like a bereaved child.

He heard Mrs. Tebbe whispering through all his pleading as she made a half-hearted effort to pull away. "Stop it. Stop it, Max. Please."

He let his arms fall away and listened to her all but run to her car.

Chapter 32

Alma Curar's Shack

Early morning. New Moon.

Doris stopped to change into her trousers and shirt just after pulling onto the path that lead to Alma Curar's little hideout, then drove up to park in her regular place. She left the car as quietly as possible. After the way they had parted two nights ago, she wanted to avoid seeing Pierce. She was much earlier than usual and hoped, at this hour, that he wouldn't be awake.

That, and she thought it prudent to leave Tulenar just before dawn, before Shackley might think to have her followed. Fortunately, the rapid succession of demonstrations and rallies Jesse Haku was organizing kept Shackley's attention diverted. But Doris saw no reason to take chances.

She began walking toward the practice area, the blanket of pine needles whispering against her mannish, flat-soled shoes. But thoughts of Tulenar slowed her pace. Time. In spite of Mr. Haku's efforts, Doris knew Shackley was beginning to understand what was happening. And Doris was running out of tricks. Soon, she would run out of time. She would have to decide.

The trek to the target was long and, after a while, she found it soothing, striding the hill. The birds were awake, sweet in song. Doris's breath plumed faintly before her. She heard tentative scuffling here and there, glimpsed a chipmunk scampering away from the edge of sight. It was target practice she was headed to, after all, regardless of its ultimate goal. The feel of the bow, the arrow nocked, poised between tension and release. At her command.

But when she broke into the clearing Mr. Alma Curar had made for them, she stopped cold. Leaning against the simple hay bale targets, waiting to be mounted, were two big wooden boards, about six high by ten long. One was painted with a large wolfish shape on all fours, in profile. The other was wolf-like, too, large, too, as if on hind legs, forelegs reared. Leaping at her. Each had a red line painted where the end of the rib cage might be.

Beastly shapes to help Doris understand what she would be aiming at with her silver arrows. She had an instant recall of the healer pulling Pierce's lips away from those fangs. The forest didn't seem soothing and peaceful now.

In a sudden flurry she nocked an arrow, drew her bow and let it fly, knowing her target was below the red line, any lethal hit into the pelvic basin. The arrow missed horribly, striking the hind foot of the leaping beast. Okay. Okay. She did that frantically, from a burst of emotion.

Doris was breathing too fast. She deliberately controlled her breath, carefully prepared her bow, loaded the arrow. She drew it up, closed her eyes and managed to calm herself. Then, eyes open, she released. The arrow struck the board between the hind legs.

"Damnit, godamnit!" Doris gripped the bow so tightly her knuckles whitened and she paced the clearing, restless as a thing caged. "I can't do this. I can't do this."

Around and around she went, then stopped, tilted her head and shouted to the pines, "I can't let those boys go to prison!"

She whirled to face the targets, and in several motions so fluid they felt as one, she sent an arrow flying into the chest of the leaping beast.

/ / / /

"We've lost her."

From his bedroll, Max watched David walk away from the door's threshold, still in his undershirt and shorts. The healer had leapt up before Max could, and had run to the door at the sound of tires spinning frantically away from the shack. For the first time since Max had known the man, David's expression was haggard as he came back to his cot, sinking onto it heavily.

Max put on his glasses, climbed out of his bedroll and stepped to the door, careful to peer around the jamb as he watched the dust settle back to the ground. "Did you see any others?"

"I didn't even see Mrs. Tebbe. Just the back of her car."

"What was she doing here so early? Why didn't she come in?"

"Who knows? We may never."

"She seems to have been the only one."

Max looked back at David, the healer's head sagging, tendrils of loose, gray hair veiling the sides of his face, the white streak brilliant in the dimness of the shack.

"It always was a long shot, David. But it was worth a try."

David looked up, the pain of failure still in his face, but he said, "What do you want to do now, Max? It's up to you."

Max moved to the stove and began stoking it with fresh wood from the small, indoor pile. "Give me some options."

David was quiet a moment. He reached to the well-worn Farmer's Almanac sitting on the cot's wooden crate and thumbed it idly. "We could leave here. The full moon's barely two weeks away. Establish a temporary camp somewhere, carry on as best we can, try to take this to its end before getting caught."

"Okay, what else?"

"I could try to contact Mrs. Tebbe, talk her into coming back."

Max shook his head. "No. No. If she's headed back to camp, we couldn't catch her before she's gotten her troops together. Too risky."

"Everything we've done or plan to do is too risky."

"I know. Let her be. What else?"

David stood, tossed the Almanac on the plank table as he walked to the supply chest and pulled out the coffee. He took the empty pot from its place on the stove and began ladling water into it. "We could stay."

"Wait for the authorities and surrender," Max clarified.

"Yes. You could hope for execution, but there's no way that will happen before the next moon. We could put up a fight and force them to shoot."

"We?"

David looked up from his task, set the prepared pot onto the heating stove. "Did you think I'd sneak out the back door?"

Max was surprised to feel himself smile. "There is no back door."

David wasn't ready to be amused. "What do you want to do?"

Max looked away, walked toward the door, still flung open, and gazed out, collecting his thoughts. Finally he said, "I don't want to run away. I don't want you to die with me. There's no particular reason to think Mrs. Tebbe's gone to get the cavalry. She may have just decided she couldn't do this anymore."

He saw himself as he was two evenings ago, in the failing light, crumpled at her feet. Max. She'd called him Max. "I want to stay. If she changes her mind, she can find us here. If she doesn't, if she's gone to get the authorities, we'll know soon enough." He turned back to face David. "I'd like you prepared to run, just in case. If I'm more valuable alive than dead, David, then so are you. Stay alive. Just leave me the gun."

David was sitting on one of the table's stools, hands on knees, his gray hair with its brilliant silver stripe still loose around his shoulders. He lips were pressed tight as he considered what Max said.

"All right," he replied. "Agreed. I think we should set up camp a mile or so from here. We can keep an eye on things through the binoculars. If the law comes, I'll hike across the foot hills to Disjunction Lake and catch the first train home."

"And you'll leave me the gun."

"I'll leave you the gun."

Chapter 33

Tulenar Internment Camp

Mid-afternoon. Waxing Crescent Moon.

Days were barely better than nights. The activities, chores and recreation of Tulenar were mechanical things. A farce, a false hope to keep anxiety and anger at bay for evacuee and WRA official alike. But at least Tulenar had these things, these actions to play out in the daylight. Without them, the nights might smother them all.

At the Shibai theatre, Doris watched Jesse Haku squat beside a bucket of turpentine, rubbing his paint-splattered hands with a soaked cloth. Above him, on stage, several other evacuees were still working on a canvas backdrop for an upcoming performance. Doris sat on a front row bench, near enough to talk without having to raise her voice.

"So the latest petition, Mr. Haku...?"

"It was delivered this morning, for a rally. It's a Block Two request this time. Betty Masuda is leading."

"Good, very good," Doris replied. But when Mr. Haku looked up at her, she knew she wasn't masking her doubts well.

"It seems you don't really think it is so good," he said. "Is there something I should know?"

Doris gazed at him a moment before shaking her head. "I just think we're at the end of our rope. If I know the likes of Shackley, he'll be putting a stop to this soon. I would, if I were him."

Mr. Haku dropped the oily rag into the turpentine and moved to the water pail set nearby. He dipped his hands into the cloudy water to pull out a bar of soap.

"Perhaps he's not as keen as you," he said.

As Mr. Haku scrubbed his nails, Doris watched the others stretch the painted canvas on the stage floor to dry. Their movements were sober. They worked in near silence, as if they were preparing for another funeral instead of an afternoon of performance art. The tang of turpentine and paint found their way into her mouth.

"It was too much to hope for," she said absently. "We aren't going to make it."

"They didn't work?"

"I'm sorry...?" She looked at Mr. Haku, standing now and drying his hands on his shirttail.

"Those strings you were going to pull. The calls to Eisenhower and your senator friends. Leaking things to the press corps. None of that worked?"

That wasn't what she had been thinking about. But Mr. Haku's question pricked a nerve.

"Yes, well...I found out how much clout a senator's widow really has."

Not everybody's memory was as long as Al or Mim Spinner's when it came to favors owed. The strings to which Mr. Haku referred led to a federal judge and Abel's senatorial heir. Neither man could have voiced more sympathy for the Inu Hunters' plight. Nor could they have been been less helpful. Owed gratitude could not withstand the fear of political oblivion. As for the press corps, the only attention her leaks attracted was far outside the mainstream press.

As for the calls to Milton Eisenhower, well...Doris conceded that her attempts to take this all the way to the President was a long shot, anyway. Eisenhower was, conveniently enough, never in when Doris telephoned.

"But I thought," she said aloud now, gazing at the stage work again, "I thought I could buy enough time."

"Enough time for what, Mrs. Tebbe?"

Mr. Haku's brusqueness snapped her attention back to him.

"These past weeks," he said, obviously annoyed, "everything we could think of protesting was protested, from low wages to curfew. We're the ones who have been buying you time. You were supposed to be finding a way to stop the arrests. Are you saying that all you've been doing is trying to stall them?"

On the defensive, Doris squared herself for a retort. But what could she say? I've been struggling to choose between something I understand and something I may never comprehend?

"I'll see what else I can do," she finally said, and walked away.

/ / / /

Leonard Shackley must have been waiting for her. He was striding from Administration at a brisk clip. Trailing behind him was one of his seconds.

As they intersected on Doris's way from the camp proper to her little house, he called, "Mrs. Tebbe. I need to talk to you."

Doris stopped. "Talk away."

"One moment for Mr. Phillips."

Shackley needs a witness. Christ, here it comes.

As Mr. Phillips drew up to Shackley's side, the latter fished a folded piece of WRA stationary out of his inside coat pocket. He handed it to Doris and said as she unfolded it, "That is your copy of the official notice, Mrs. Tebbe. I am hereby banning you from the camp proper. The perimeters off limits to you are clearly defined in the notice. You're restricted to the area designated Administration and the M.P. headquarters. You may not enter camp proper for any reason, without express authority from me. If you violate this order, you'll be confined to your quarters for the duration of this investigation."

Doris glared at Shackley as she crumpled the notice in her fist. Shackley seemed unimpressed.

"I hope that's not a threat to ignore me," he said, pointing to her balled hand. "If you persist in this behavior --"

"What behavior, for the love of Heaven?"

"Mrs. Tebbe, do you think I'm a fool?"

"No, Mr. Shackley, I certainly do not."

"But, surely, you do, since you thought I wouldn't catch on."

Doris knew he had her. But to let him call her bluff would not only betray Jesse Haku and his network of evacuees, it would be contrary to her nature.

"I can't imagine what you're talking about," she said.

"Don't think I can't see your hand in this. There will be no more committee meetings, no more civil rights debates. No more permits to rally. While you persist in the delusion that Captain Pierce -in all probability the late Captain Pierce- is gleefully slaughtering Tulenar residents --"

"I never said he was gleeful about it..."

"You are provoking the real suspects to kill again! I don't understand you. Are you blind?"

Doris stared at Shackley a moment before saying, "I wish I were."

Shackley closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, he looked to Mr. Phillips as if to say, I don't know what else to do with this woman.

"Mrs. Tebbe. I have offered you every opportunity to give me a reason, a good reason, one good reason, not to round up those boys."

"And I gave it to you."

"Bullshit!" Shackley blurted, then heaved a sigh as if to regain his temper. "I apologize." He stared long at Doris, and seemed a little beaten. "I don't want to arrest those boys."

"And you don't have to, Mr. Shackley. I just need some time, just a little more time, and the proof--"

"No. Oh no. You've wasted ample time. You've fueled a cruel, empty hope among the residents. The latest request, from Block Two I believe, has been denied."

The fire of Doris's resistance sputtered against a dampening dread. She held up both hands imploringly, dropping the crumpled notice.

"Mr. Shackley. Please..."

Shackley placed each word deliberately. "No more, Mrs. Tebbe. Unless you have something very, very solid to change my mind. Now. Do you or don't you?"

/ / / /

Conscious living. What is he saying about conscious living? He speaks to her, but Doris can't see him and she realizes it's because she refuses to look at him. But only because she's so frantic. She has to keep the two ropes in her hands, clutched tight in her hands. She wants to look at him, but if she does, she'll lose one of the ropes, tugging and straining in opposite directions. Maybe lose both. She, the only thing stopping them from whiping off into disaster unless she can keep clutching them no matter how her hands burn. She is their middle. It is her responsibility.

"How much more conscious can I be?" she demands of him, still refusing to look. "I'm doing everything I can!"

The ropes jerk and strain Doris's arms. Panic roils through her chest and she struggles to hold more tightly. She can't let go, she mustn't let go, even if the ropes tear her in two!

Conscious. Are you choosing to hold the ropes?

"Yes! Yes, I am!"

Are you really?

The ropes stretch farther and Doris's reaction is immediate, automatic. Clutch! Tighter! She feels the tear at each shoulder, she feels the flesh surrender to pain. But it is her helplessness, her inability to control anything at all that causes her to scream in agony --

Her scream pulled Doris out of her nightmare. She was certain she had cried aloud and looked around in the dark as if expecting someone to burst in. But no. She was alone. She left her bed, not bothering to turn on the nightstand's lamp. She preferred stumbling around in the night, guided only by the thinnest of moonlight.

Moonlight. Coming out of dream, it was as if she only now realized the first quarter was upon her. Upon them all. Doris struggled through the house's gloom until she was free upon the porch, where she stared into the sky, alive with so many stars it seemed dusty. Arcing above the camp, the slender, silver warning that was the quarter moon.

Seven days left. No. Seven nights, as of tonight. She could see the silhouette of the M.P. compound near Tulenar's main gate. Before long, one particular military truck would be poised there, waiting for the right moment. Seven nights left.

Doris shivered in her flannel gown, her dark, red hair spread across her shoulders. She pulled her arms around her for warmth and tentatively touched her shoulders, wondering if maybe she would find the flesh torn there. Foolish, but somehow she thought she would.

A cold was growing in her stomach that had nothing to do with the chill of the night. It was all for naught. All her fighting these past weeks, every trick left to her that she had turned. All she had done was waste what little time she had. The cold spread through her until she had to sit or collapse. She made it to the porch swing.

My God. What have I done?

Chapter 34

David Alma Curar's Shack

Pre Dawn. Waning Gibbous Moon.

"How are you doing?"

Max startled. He hadn't heard David come up from behind. He shifted, to make room for the healer on the worn, wooden step and lifted his eyes to the moon again, growing fatter and deadlier night by night.

"Max...?"

"The dreams are back. The memories, I mean. It's hard to deal with."

David's tone was kind, but frank when he replied, "Did you think they would end because you've accepted things?"

"... I dunno..."

"Come inside. You're letting the cold in."

May as well. He couldn't stop what was coming, couldn't slow the moon's relentless yearning to be fully born. He heard David stirring the stove's embers and went inside, closing the door.

The little one-room shack was littered with the camping equipment they had returned with a few days ago and had not bothered to stow. Trying to prepare for First Night had been too difficult at the camp. They decided to take their chances and return to the shack. They had rigged a couple of crude noisemakers -fashioned of bailing twine, triggering poles and tin cans- across the rutted, overgrown path, hoping to give David a head start should the law come. The healer's backpack lay near the door, ready for grabbing up.

Other things cluttered the shack. Even in the pre-dawn gloom, with only the glow of the stove's embers, Max could see them. Several two-pound sacks of silver plating were piled near David's cot, a bullet mold leaned against the wall closest to the stove. Two sacks sat next to it: one with surplus silver, one quarter-filled with completed bullets.

Max hated silver. Hated it. Now, at least, he knew why.

David saw him staring at the bags and said, "Having it so close doesn't help things, I know. It stirs the beast, makes it restless."

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"Don't worry about it. I'm restless myself."

Max pulled his gaze away from the little sacks of burlap and lit the lantern sitting on the table. "How do you bear it, David?"

"You're still very raw, Max. Even if all goes well, you will be for some time."

"But it gets better?"

"Better?" David pulled away from the stove and closed the grate. He came to the table and sat, his brow furrowed as if he hadn't considered the question before. "It deepens your soul, if you accept it. Drives you mad, if you don't. It's difficult to call it better or not better. Holier, perhaps."

Max could almost taste his own disgust. "Holier. How can you think of what I've done -of what you must have done, too, when you were like me- as holy!"

"I don't, Max, you asked me if it gets better. I don't know if you can understand what I'm saying. It's a matter of balance, of tension. The beast is horrific and more. But, yes, you can bend the dregs it leaves behind in you to something holy."

Maxwell paced away. "I can't accept that."

David shrugged. "You're the one who asked."

Max was ready to say he would never understand, never. By God, he'd refuse. But in the quiet of pre-dawn, he heard the distant din of cans snag and scatter. He dropped to his knees as if bullets had pierced the shack's warped, gray walls.

David dropped, too. "What is it?"

"Someone's coming. David, get out of here."

"Not yet--"

"David, get the hell out of here!"

"There's still time, that had to be the first line you heard."

"Where's the gun?"

"My cot. Between the frame and the mattress."

Max looked at David. "Did you think I was going to sneak up on you in your sleep?"

"The world's full of possibilities."

Another flurry of metallic alarm, much closer this time. It clattered up the path toward them. Max looked at David angrily. "Now!"

Still David hesitated, his eyes never leaving Max's. Then, he tore himself from the floor, snatched up his backpack and fled out the door. Max rushed up to close it again.

He noticed at last that he was trembling, and leaned against the door until he could collect himself. He thought wildly, Damnit, I'm not going to die in my skivvies, and made it to the duffel bag that held his meager belongings. He had a couple of minutes, maybe three, before they would be at the door. He wrestled on a pair of blue jeans before groping under David's mattress.

There it was, cool and darkly shining in his right hand. Was it loaded with silver or were the bullets a coarser metal? It wouldn't matter if he aimed right, made sure the bullet pulverized the brain. Max sat on David's cot, leaning his back against the wall.

He heard a motor now and what must have been a few of the cans still caught on a fender. Glasses on or glasses off? Leave them on, he decided, and had to pull the gun toward his mouth with both hands.

But the sound of a single car door slamming made him hesitate. One car. One door. He lowered the gun to listen to the sound of a single pair of footsteps, brisk but not running, coming toward shack. The door opened hesitantly. Mrs. Tebbe's eyes flew wide when she fixed on Max, sitting cross-legged on the cot, gun in hand.

"Don't do it!" she cried. "Not yet."

/ / / /

"I couldn't do it, Captain. I don't know why. By the time I had gotten back to Tulenar, I had myself convinced I should wait for the proper time to turn you in. That somehow, I could figure out a way to save those boys and still give you and Mr. Alma Curar a chance to see this through."

Mrs. Tebbe paused and sipped from her cup. It was the three of them, once again, sitting around the shack's table. The sun hadn't even crested the cedars yet, but it wasn't coffee in the old tin mugs set before Mrs. Tebbe and Max. David had emerged from the forest line seconds after the C.A.'s entrance, having waited to see exactly what was behind him before moving on. He looked like he could use a bourbon shot, too, but the healer had declined.

"When is this supposed to take place?" David asked her.

"This weekend. There's a school dance planned and afterward, there's bound to be an increase in mischief. It happens after every social function. The next morning, Shackley's going to use that excuse to arrest any Nisei boy suspected of belonging to the Inu Hunters. Once they're in custody, he plans to announce a connection between the boys and the murders and have them shipped off to federal prison."

Max's stomach lurched. He could almost see his report in the man's hand, that damnable report he had so meticulously plotted, the conclusion he had so eloquently talked himself into actually believing. It was all there. Simple, logical, clean. So much more believable than what Max himself had refused to accept, let alone someone like Shackley; under the gun, pressed to mop up the messy trail of the killings.

His report was pure conjection. There wasn't a lick of physical evidence to back it up. But, as much as he wanted to believe Shackley couldn't arrest the boys on conjecture alone, he knew better. This was going to happen. He looked across the table at David, and knew the healer understood that, too. The expression on David's face also told Max that he knew what Max was thinking.

"It'd be foolish to do it," David said.

"Not foolish."

"What are you talking about?" Mrs. Tebbe asked.

David reached over and took a swig out of Max's cup. "He's thinking of turning himself in."

"It'll save those boys," Max said.

David looked at him a moment, then nodded. "Very likely."

"Then how would it be foolish?"

"The very thing that makes you want to sacrifice yourself for those boys is the thing we have to preserve."

"At their expense? The price is too high for my one, lousy life."

"If all we've been struggling for was your one life, I'd agree. That's one of the easy choices, Max. But if you live, you aren't just saving yourself."

"Ah, come on, David, that doesn't make any sense."

"If you see this through, it will." David looked at Mrs. Tebbe, then back to Max. "What's happening to those boys is within her circle. You have to give them into her care. And you, Mrs. Tebbe. You have to trust yourself."

Max rose from the bench. "It doesn't feel right, letting those boys suffer..."

"You can't possibly know if what you're feeling is right. You're too entangled with --"

"Don't play word games with me, David! It's wrong and you know it."

"I know no such thing."

"The hell you don't!" He all but barked the words, and there was a curious relief in feeling he didn't have control over his own voice.

David's expression screwed up with frustration. "Speak up, Max, you're not shouting loud enough."

"Goddamn you, I'm scared, can't you see that! I'm scared! I'm scared!"

Max drew in a breath, ready to shout it again, but the realization of what he was saying suddenly thundered into his head.

The silence dragged on until David said, "How clever. It's very clever. Who do you suppose is more afraid now, Max? You or the beast?"

Max sat down again, looking at Mrs. Tebbe before shaking his head. He glanced away and said into his cup, as if asking the bourbon instead of her, "What do you think? What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know," she replied, her voice strained.

"Why'd you come back?"

"I don't know that either. But I'll see this through until I do."

Everyone ran out of words again. Finally David took a deep breath of his own and rubbed his face before saying, "Then it's time for you to see this. You better understand who you are to the beast."

He took Max by the forearm, urging him to lay his hand on the table, palm up. Max looked into his hand as Mrs. Tebbe did, knowing what was there, recalling how he had always explained it to himself as an illusion, a trick of his wounded vision. Until Mr. Satsugai had noticed it.

It wasn't visible immediately. One had to gaze at the creases a moment before recognizing what was being seen. A circle, irregularly formed within the palm's natural folds and creases. It could be mistaken as a stain this morning, but would grow darker as the moon grew fuller. A ragged five-pointed star lay within it. A pentagram. He looked at Mrs. Tebbe, saw the shock in her eyes.

But when he looked at his palm again he saw the pentagram take on a trait he'd never noticed before. There was a sheen to it. A silver sheen. And though Max had never seen the mark take on such a glow before, didn't think he understood it, he reached to the hand Mrs. Tebbe was resting on the table and gently turned it upward.

The pentagram's mate was silvery in her palm.

Mrs. Tebbe wrenched her hand away, holding it against her heart as if Max had tried to steal something from it. But after a moment, she lowered her hand again, palm up, to the table.

She closed her eyes and asked in a voice filled with dread, "What does it mean?"

"If this were the prey's mark," David replied, "it would simply mean you're the next feeding. But the prey's mark doesn't take on a sheen as the moon increases. That only happens to those chosen. Like me. Like Max."

Mrs. Tebbe's eyes were still closed and she shook her head, saying, "I can't believe that. It wasn't there before." But it was clear that she knew her denial was pointless.

"How could you have known to look for it before now?" the healer asked. "I only saw it after you started coming here. By the full moon, though, it'll be difficult to miss."

David exposed his own palm then. The pentagram formed there slowly, but never as darkly as Max's or Doris's, never with the silver sheen.

"It's always with you, once bitten. "

"I don't want to hear anymore," Mrs. Tebbe said.

But David continued. "You're the Chosen. If it can, the beast will wound you and take you as its host."

Mrs. Tebbe clutched her marked hand in the other and turned away from Max. "No, you're wrong about this. God in Heaven, I could never do what he's done, never! What could he want with me..."

"You're perfect for the beast, Mrs. Tebbe. You're filled with denial."

Now she stood, facing Max and David. "I can't do this. I'm sorry, I thought...but I can't. If what you say is true...then the best thing for me to do is go."

Max felt his stomach knot. "Go where?"

"Away. Just go away. I'm not needed at Tulenar. For the love of God, I might even do those people harm, if what he's said is true. The most help I can be is gone."

"Mrs. Tebbe," David said, "the Chosen isn't the beast's only pick, just its best. You're also our best choice, our best ally --"

Max laid his hand on David's arm, stopping his plea. He tried to speak himself, but the knot in his stomach gave him such a cramp of pain, Max had to swallow hard before finding his voice.

"We won't make you stay," he said at last. He could feel the thing inside struggle against his words even as he spoke. "But just think about why you won't stay, what...what's making you leave before you do. It's hard to be afraid. It's hard to see it, I know. But maybe if you can get past it... Ah, hell. Never mind. I just want you to understand we won't blame you if you go. We know it's hard. But, we also know..." Max's throat thickened and he couldn't go on. Then he shook his head and chuckled with sour humor. "I don't even know what the hell I was going to offer you. Peace of mind? Salvation? There's none of that left for any of us now."

"But, there is," David replied. "It's just not easily won. Mrs. Tebbe, this may be the only place you'll gain it. We need you. We want you to stay."

Max looked at Mrs. Tebbe just as her face tilted upward and her knees buckled. Max moved a fraction of a second faster than David to go to her aid, but Mrs. Tebbe stumbled back and thrust both hands toward them as if warding off an onslaught.

"Stay away," she demanded in a voice surprisingly strong. Somehow, she had staid on her feet. "I'm not going anywhere. Just don't either of you touch me."

Chapter 35

David Alma Curar's Shack

Morning. Waxing Gibbous, Nearing Full Moon.

Doris wasn't sure what had awakened her first: the smell of coffee, the pounding of something being nailed or the gentle nudging at her shoulder. They all seemed to come at once. She propped up on one elbow and looked into Pierce's bespectacled eyes.

"David asked me to wake you before the hammering did," he said.

From her place on the floor, the shack gained a little height. The men had insisted she have the mattress from one of the cots; thin, but better sleeping than the captain's bedroll or the metal webwork of the narrow bed, padded with blankets.

Doris sat up, clad only in blouse and slip, but modesty in such close quarters was inconvenient. There was privacy enough in turning her back to the men as she pulled on her skirt, leaving the girdle and those oh-so-rare stockings where they lay rolled in a corner. She would be changing clothes soon, anyway, would be back in flannel and dungarees. Likewise, she didn't bother to fix her hair into the snood, balled and bunched against her discarded lingerie. She finger-combed her hair as best she could, tying it into a ponytail with some twine.

Tucking her blouse into the skirt's waistband, she turned to see what Mr. Alma Curar was hammering. Upon the weathered wallboard to the right of the doorjamb, he was nailing thin silver plating, each sheet about two inches wide and twelve inches long. She helped herself to the coffee and watched in silence as he finished up that board, then began lining another, leaving one board bare between.

She looked over at Pierce, in jeans, his plaid shirt unbuttoned, exposing his undershirt. He sat on his skeletal cot. He was edgy, though obviously trying to remain calm. His forehead had a fine sheen of perspiration. The place where he sat was the farthest point from the silver- lined wallboard.

Alma Curar stopped hammering a moment to face Doris. "If you don't mind," he said, "there's a small mallet in the chest. We need to line the interior with silver. Every other board should do."

Doris set her cup down. She looked at Pierce again, and thought about asking if he were all right. The best she could manage was, "You look like you need some air."

He shook his head and raked his fingers over the bright silver fluffs at his temples.

Alma Curar said to him, "Why don't you take charge of breakfast then, Max. You'll feel better doing something."

The captain looked down at his hands and rubbed his left thumb across his right palm. "Sure," he finally said, and stood.

/ / / /

The day was well into the afternoon before Doris and Alma Curar were finished silvering the shack. The interior walls were columned in the pale metal, every other board, and the two windows were blocked by wooden X's, likewise silvered. The plating wasn't polished to mirror perfection like the jewelry that constantly graced Alma Curar's wrists and throat. The wall's silver was in basic, tooling form so its luster was hazy, reflecting a muted glow on everything.

Perhaps it was this haze that made Pierce seem so pale. Clad now in her camping garb, Doris nailed the last plating against the door and turned to see his moist, pasty face, a hint of blue beneath his magnified eyes.

"You really do need to get some air now," she said.

"I can handle it," he replied.

Mr. Alma Curar straightened from stuffing his hammer and leftover nails into a burlap sack. "She's right, Max. There's no need for you to suffer like this right now. Why don't you go for a walk."

The captain looked at them both as though he thought they might be trying to trick him. But finally he said, "All right," and left the shack without so much as buttoning his shirt.

Doris took the mallet over to the healer and handed it to him. "Now what?"

"Now I suggest target practice. I don't want to silver the floor and table until tomorrow."

"Good Lord, even the table? What for?"

"We'll use it to shield ourselves and block the door."

Doris didn't ask for more details, something Alma Curar obviously noticed. He said, "You don't seem very curious about why we're doing all this."

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"Well ... you'll need to know. But it can wait until tonight."

/ / / /

They ate supper outside around a fire, to give the captain as much time as possible away from the silvered interior of the shack. The sun had set an hour ago, leaving behind a remnant of orange to struggle against the press of night. There was no sign, yet, of the moon.

Their meal was eaten in silence. They all knew what had to be discussed and it seemed the men were as reluctant to begin as Doris. Most of her after-dinner coffee was drunk before the first words were spoken. They came from Pierce.

"I have to stay in there tonight, don't I?" he said, addressing Alma Curar.

The healer nodded, the gesture shifting the effects of the fire light against his face. "If you want to call it sleep. I doubt any of us will be getting much. Tomorrow we'll complete the work early, try to rest as much as possible in the afternoon. Then tomorrow at sunset...I'm going to chain you, Max, to your cot."

Doris's eyes darted between the men. She expected Pierce to look stricken, but the mix of resolve and resignation in his face told her this was something already discussed between he and Alma Curar.

She cleared her throat and asked, "You made silver-plated chains to hold him?"

Alma Curar almost smiled. "Silver or otherwise, the chains won't hold him long. The silver hurts, Mrs. Tebbe, but it's not deadly unless it finds a vital organ. The chains are to keep him from changing his mind. Once the sun sets on First Night, anything can happen. Mrs. Tebbe, I have something for you."

Alma Curar left the circle to go into the shack. When he returned, he was cupping something in his hands. He sat down again and gave her his small cargo: a silver choker and two polished silver wristbands, beautifully tooled, seeded with turquoise. The choker was plainer but still polished and curiously graceful, rather like an elaborate dog collar. All the jewelry was over two inches wide.

"You need to start wearing them now. Don't take them off until this is all over."

"They're lovely," Doris replied awkwardly, even though she knew they were given as armor rather than gifts. She examined them more closely in the firelight.

Alma Curar looked amused. Captain Pierce looked away.

"Thank you," the healer said. "I didn't have much time to tool the choker, but then its function is to be protective, not decorative."

Doris slipped on the wristbands. "Did you make these, too?"

Alma Curar sobered. "Yes, quite a few years ago." He turned his gaze to the fire. "They were my wife's."

A pall fell over the threesome. Pierce was watching Alma Curar frankly, but Doris couldn't fix her eyes on either man for long. The healer cleared his throat and took the choker from Doris's hands. He opened the choker against its little hinge and was about to bring it to Doris's neck when Pierce said, "Let me."

Doris pulled away in surprise. The healer cocked his head as if unsure he heard the captain correctly.

"Let me do it," Pierce repeated. "If I may...Mrs. Tebbe."

"But ...Captain..."

Pierce was already moving closer, and he held out his hand tentatively, as if daring to touch his fingers to flame. Gently Alma Curar lay the choker in the captain's outstretched palm, where even in the dimness of fire glow against night, the pentagram could be seen. As soon as the silver touched his skin, Pierce began to tremble.

Still he held his own, gritting his teeth as he clutched the choker in both hands, managing in spite of the tremors to set it against Doris's throat, where he fastened it. By the time he was finished, sweat was trickling from his scarred hairline. For a lingering moment, he rested his damp fingers against her breastbone, just below the silver, then left the circle abruptly.

"Captain...!"

Alma Curar touched Doris's arm, reassuring. "I think he'll be all right. Let's give him his moment. It will be the last time we can let him out of our sight."

Doris strained to see the captain through the night's veil. "But he might do something stupid..."

"I don't think so. He's come too far. We'll give him five minutes."

Tense, her wrists straining against the silver bands, Doris set her elbows against her knees and stared into the fire a moment, then squeezed her eyes shut to wish, wish, wish that when she opened them, she would be at Tulenar. In her bed in the morning, startled awake from this nightmare.

She could get up, go to the administration building, chance upon Mr. Ataki as he headed to a block manager's meeting. Mrs. Tamura, still clad in crisp nurse's white, could just be leaving the Social Services Division after submitting a stack of routine medical reports.

And when Doris walked into her office, Arthur could already be seated, waiting for her. Smiling for her.

"Full Wolf Moon."

Doris's eyes snapped open at the sound of Alma Curar's voice. The fire's smoke wafted across her face to sting them. She pulled back and wiped her hand across her eyes, then hesitated when she saw the dull sheen of the pentagram in her palm. She clinched her fist and pressed it against her leg.

"What was that you said?" she asked.

Alma Curar stared at the fire, took the thick stick they had been using as a poker and pushed one of the logs deeper into the flames.

"Full Wolf Moon," he repeated. "It just came to mind. Something I was once told by a friend. Nez Perce Nation. She'd said that was the name of the moon in deep winter, at its coldest and cruelest. When the wolves would leave the forests and press the camps of the people."

It was everything Doris could do not to groan. She picked up her coffee cup and drank, even though it was cold. "It's no good trying to cheer me up, Mr. Alma Curar."

The healer actually chuckled, but the humor was short lived. The night weighed too heavily on them.

"What's going to happen tomorrow?" Doris asked at last.

"We'll finish silvering the shack," Alma Curar replied. "The idea is to trap the beast inside, at the first moment of emergence. You and I will be blocking the door, with the table shielding us. It's my hope that all this silver will confound the beast, addle it, give us the advantage in striking. If all goes well, the actual killing may only be a matter of minutes."

"If we do it right, what happens then?"

"At the appropriate time, the beast should disintegrate and Max should return. But the timing will be delicate."

"What if we do it wrong?"

"We'd better not."

"What about... I mean, you've not once mentioned the wound, Mr. Alma Curar. If we strike true, how will we care for it? Shouldn't we have a medical kit, at least?"

Once again, her questions seemed to amuse the healer. "One way or the other, we won't be needing a medical kit. This won't be pretty and this won't be easy, under any circumstance. You understand that."

"You haven't taken me for a fool so far, Mr. Alma Curar. Don't start now."

A crackle off to the right jerked their attention away. The captain emerged from the cool, inky gloom of night. Doris actually wanted to say, "Welcome back," and would have. But she spied the brilliant, round globe almost clear of the tree line, directly above Pierce's head. One sliver more, and the moon would be full.

Chapter 36

Alma Curar's Shack

Twilight. Full Moon.

Doris is clutching the ropes again, struggling against their pull, the sockets in her shoulder burning, screaming, threatening. Hold on! Hold on!

He whispers to her from behind, What are you trying to do, Doris?

"The right thing! I'm just trying to do the right thing!"

Do you even know what that means?

And it occurs to her that she doesn't. She doesn't know what she means. She doesn't know anything.

"I just have to hold them, I have no choice, I've got to hang on!"

Hang on to what, Doris? Hang on and why?

She can't answer. The ropes jerk her attention to them and she doesn't dare think of anything except to hold them, even as she feels her left shoulder pop and begin pulling from her. She cries out, feels sweat and blood trickle down her ribs and then shrieks -shrieks! -to feel an iron arm wrap her waist, another bind her between her breasts, trying to wrest her from the ropes and she clutches them more furiously than before...

The dream lurched Doris forward and she jolted awake in a panic. David Alma Curar had his hand on her shoulder.

"It's all right, Mrs. Tebbe, you just dozed off."

She was still disoriented, her senses tilted off center by a tense, virtually sleepless night. So it took a moment to remember where she was, to recall that she was sitting cross-legged behind the protection of the silver plated table, turned on its side, pinning her and Alma Curar between its bulk and the door.

She looked around and the realization of where she was and what was about to happen filled her stomach with nausea. "Oh God..."

All around her was the silver's hazy glow. On the walls, in the windows, on the floor, on her body. In addition to the wristbands and collar, silver plating criss-crossed her, lying against her half-vest like ammunition belts. Alma Curar's chest was done likewise.

And beyond them, in the corner farthest from the door lay Captain Pierce, stretched spread eagle upon a cot, his wrists and ankles chained, a sheet draping his groin. Glasses off, he was staring directly at the ceiling, the only space blessedly left unsilvered.

She tore her eyes from the sight and swivelled to look at the window near the door. The glass behind the cross of silver was deepening into indigo.

"Oh God," she said again and leaned her forehead against the shielding table.

"Come here," she heard Alma Curar say brusquely, but she couldn't respond. "Come here," he said again, and this time pulled her away from the table and held her tight against him. She held tight, too, clutching great bunches of his bright red shirt in her fists, burying her face in his shoulder, feeling him do the same, mystified by the emotion suddenly surging through her. A strength fused into being by their mutual fear, the singular grace of human need blazing as they so tightly clung, one to the other.

She heard a sob and knew the captain was watching, despairing that he was alone, chained in his corner, devoid of such precious contact. God, that she could go to him, she and Alma Curar.

The healer pulled away just enough so that she could see his face again. "Listen to me," he was saying, "listen to me. We should have moon rise in about half an hour. Are you all right?"

Doris almost laughed. "All right? Of course not! But I'm ready. I'm ready, David."

He cupped her neck and smiled before sobering once again. "Take up your bow now. I'm going over to see about Max."

As David stepped over the table, Doris picked up her bow from where it had lain beside her, took three deep breaths to calm her tremors and readied an arrow. She saw David reach down to the holstered gun at his thigh and undo the leather strap securing it in place as he tapped across the floor's silver plating. His heels left a trail of dents and scars. He knelt beside Max, who looked over at him. David lifted his sleeve and blotted Max's sweat for him, careful not to touch the wristbands to Max's skin.

"I'm scared, David," Max said, but Doris could hear strength in his voice. "I'm scared to live. I'm scared to die. I'm scared of killing you both."

"If it comes to that," David replied, "do what you can to bend the beast toward me. As you lose consciousness, concentrate on that."

Doris saw Max's throat work as if he were struggling to moisten his mouth enough to talk. His voice sounded pinched when he replied, "All right."

Doris saw David's need to hold Max as he had just held her. But he was swathed in silver. In the end he leaned his bound forehead against Max's shoulder, as if he were so weary he could barely move. After a moment David rose, fetched a cup of water for them all to drink from, ending back at Max's side, and held the cup to the bound man's lips. Max drank greedily, complaining of thirst, before his head fell heavily back onto his pillow. When he closed his eyes, it seemed to Doris that he was only resting, or praying perhaps. After gazing at him a moment, David touched his forehead to Max's shoulder once again.

That was when Max vomited the water. Doris screamed. David clambered backward, somehow dodging the spray altogether, and leapt behind the protection of the overturned table. Max's eyes opened and rolled into his skull. His back arched and a wail, half-human, half-animal, poured from him as forcefully as the vomited water. The metal cot rattled, scraped and screeched.

"It's early!" David shouted above the din, and was looking toward the nearest window as if it had betrayed him.

"Are you sure, are you sure?" Doris was close to hyperventilation. She looked up at the same window and in her panic said ridiculously, "I don't see the moon!"

David didn't reply. He was fumbling with the holster, pulling out the gun and using the table's edge to steady his hands. The muzzle was pointed at Max, who was writhing as if he would snap his spine. Doris screamed again, using her voice's strength to pull herself together, kneeling like a warrior archer, her bow drawn.

The thing Max was becoming keened back to Doris, then bellowed. Not a trace of human timbre was in the roar. Max's face snapped toward her, his mouth open, the fangs fully formed, too big for the mouth and tearing the lips as they gnashed down. David cried out, and Doris heard the wolven in his own voice as he braced himself wide on his knees and stiffened his arms.

Then the beast burst through.

It erupted like great shards of stone through quaking earth, yet it wasn't breaking through Max's flesh, it was Max's flesh. The snout bulged outward, suddenly matching the fangs, size for size, hair bristling across his body like gooseflesh. His legs wrenched upward. The chains at his ankles snapped as if they had no more substance than table crackers.

His legs reared so, Doris could see the bushy tail, fully formed already, curled against his groin. With a grating screech, the chains binding his wrists disintegrated as his arms seized to his side, the flesh between his fingers fusing, the nails thickening and blackening as they grew.

Max's skull, Max's spine, Max's muscles bulged, swelled, rippled beneath the thick silver fur, until the creature was so immense it was clear no single human could stand against it, didn't have a chance. There was not a trace of Max left, not a single trace. Except the eyes.

The cot collapsed beneath the weight. For a bizarre, timeless second, the beast seemed stunned. Doris was. She felt David nearby, motionless, too, as they were paralyzed in awe, gazing at the awful, terrifying beauty before them. It was the beast who recovered a split second before them.

She heard David gasp out, "Shoot!" as the creature lunged and he fired. The beast collided with the table. Doris was thrown behind the silver barricade before she could release her arrow. She heard the beast's throaty howl, sensed the pain in it, and peered between the table's planks to see the beast leap back onto the narrow protection of the broken cot.

"Did you hit it?" she shouted, as if David were miles away.

"No. I don't think so," he replied. "It's the silver."

Doris looked over to see David peering through the same slit in the table. The beast let out a howl so loud, so full of fury it stung her ears. She pressed her palms against them, but David gave her a rough shake that brought her back to her senses.

"Ready your bow again! Just like we practiced! On the count of three!"

Doris was trembling badly, but she knew what she had to do and clung to that plan as if it were a lifeline cast to her from a high cliff. She gripped her bow, nocked the arrow as best she could, crouched as she was behind the table, almost shoulder to shoulder with David. She heard the beast tearing at the cot's mattress in frustration.

"Now!" David cried, forgetting about the count, but Doris rose with him as one, anyway, the beast flinging itself toward them as if it knew when they would risk emerging.

She loosed the arrow as David's gunfire rang out, but again they were forced behind the table so quickly, their aim was futile. When the beast collided this time, the table legs pushed through the shack's walls, shrinking the space between by six inches. David hit the bottom of the door, it broke free of its rusted hinges and fell atop them.

Wild-eyed, Doris looked up into the face of the beast. The guttural moan told her it was pained by the silver's touch, but the hatred in its eyes -its eyes so human- gave it strength. Black lips curled away from fangs. It gnashed down toward her. She shrieked and shrank under the decrepit protection of the fallen door.

She felt David struggling next to her, screamed again, when the fangs snapped downward twice, thrice, almost clipping her. Then her ears rang with the close report of the gun firing right through the table.

The cry was almost human. Almost. A crushing weight pressed them both flat beneath the door. There was a chilling moment of silence. Doris didn't dare move, her arms close against her ribs, her face mashed cruelly against the floor. Yet worse still were the first seconds after a sudden release of that weight. She was sure the beast had flipped the door away.

But it was the healer tugging her upward, asking frantically, "Are you all right? Doris...!"

She looked around her as if pulled out of a coma. "Where is it? Where is it?"

David had pushed the door through the threshold. The only sign of the beast was a thick splash of blood on the other side of the table. When Doris looked outside the shack, she saw a trail of red patterned over the broken door.

"Like a bridge, like a goddamned bridge," David was saying, his voice a little wild. "It ran right across the unsilvered side of the door when it collapsed on us."

Doris felt clarity approaching once more. "But you hit it! Look at the blood."

David had his gun at the ready, but he leaned against the doorjamb, succumbing to the luxury of closing his eyes a brief moment. "It's not dead."

He didn't have to say more. Doris sank down onto the edge of the table to reach her bow and quiver of arrows. But she stood quickly, afraid that if she rested at all, she might collapse.

"What do we now?" she asked.

"We hunt."

Doris struggled against that for only a moment. Then she shrugged on her leather quiver, tightened the arm brace. She said wearily, because she could barely say it with hope, "Do you think it's dying some place now?"

David stepped down and around the discarded door. "No."

"Can you track it?"

"Not easily. But we have an advantage this time. Come look at this."

Doris came out of the torn doorway and followed David as he moved beyond the cast off light seeping from the shack's threshold. Once they were completely surrounded by night, David motioned for her to stop and pointed skyward at the tree line, where the chalky disk of the moon hovered just above the cedars.

"Now look down," he said, and Doris saw it, scattered across the earth, spattering stones and scraggly plants. The beast's blood glowed under the moon's touch.

The blood trail disappeared into the forest, heading north, toward Tulenar.

Chapter 37

Two Miles South of Tulenar Internment Camp

Night. Full Moon.

Tonight, rage drove the beast as well as hunger, as well as its need to increase. Rage toward the One Lost, rage that it was forced to abandon him and the Chosen, both so close to fang and death. When it fed tonight, it would feed entirely, obliterate the prey, scatter blood and flesh like rubble against heat-baked earth. What it could not do to the One Lost, it would do to its victim. Then later, if it could, if the chance were there to take -after the rich and violent feeding, after the Chosen was marked-it would do the same to the One Lost.

The burning in the beast's left leg was almost to the point of numbness. It would have liked to moan, to whimper in its pain, but to do so might bring calamity. Instead the beast paused to work its muzzle gingerly into the crease, where leg and groin met, and licked its wound.

This was the third time the beast had stopped, managing to staunch the flow of blood a mile or so before. After tending to the place where the silver had entered, it reached its long, red tongue to its upper left haunch, where the silver had exited. Painful. Immensely painful, but the silver had not lodged, passing completely through. By moon set, the wound would be closed, not healed but well on its way.

It spared only a minute to attend its leg, then limped onward. Much still had to be done and now it all had to happen during this moon. No more time. If the beast was to increase, its time with this host must come to fruition tonight. One last feeding must be had, the chosen host must be bitten and receive.

Even wounded, the beast managed to cover ground swiftly and soon it was at its favorite perch, overlooking the darkened dormitories of Tulenar. The only lights burning were those at the perimeter, illuminating the Army guards, small as beetles from where the beast sat, their fear pungent even at this distance. In spite of its pain, the beast's belly began to tighten with hunger.

It moved with special caution tonight. Only after the Bite could the beast safely pass from the spent host, reborn in new blood, increased in new fear. Wounded so by silver, all its wiles must come into play. The beast forced itself to stand and descended to Tulenar.

All of humanity's cunning couldn't stop the beast from slipping into camp. These foolish ones, their attention fixed upon the wrong fear, could not possibly see the beast, wounded though it was, much less stop it. It knew how to slip into shadow, avoid moonglow and floodlight, its goal all the more easy to achieve since curfew had cloistered the internees within the long, black shelters. Its belly was stabbed by another pang of hunger.

What the beast needed first would be among the handful of young ones that stay within the shadows themselves. Intent on creating their own fear, they, too, avoided the probing eyes of the guards. Their smells led the beast to them as surely as a hound followed the voice of its master. Their anxiety was as rich in the air as was the tang of their false bravado. Their scents culminated behind the Shibai theatre.

The beast came upon them squatting in a circle, whispering harshly, laughing low and anxious as the one the beast sought stirred a stick inside a bucket. The beast ignored the strong, artificial odor of paint and focused on the young one busy at his task.His fear was the strongest, his determination to deny it exquisite in the beast's nostrils. The nights this young male had been forced to endure jail gave the boy's anxiety an edge over all others. All the beast had to do now was wait. Wait for the right moment, for the perfect pitch of fear before striking.

It remained hidden, trying not to fidget with the pain, as the youths rose from their task. They were trying to be stealthy, but to the beast, they were clumsy pups, so intent on their mischief not one of them was aware of the beast edging closer. The young mark lagged a few steps behind the others, struggling against the weight of the paint bucket.

He waddled up to the edge of the stage and wrestled the bucket onto the front left corner. The others clambered up to dip cups into the paint. As each one did, they slung high arcs of white across the stage floor, over the wallboard, out across the audience benches. Unable to contain themselves any longer, a few of the boys whooped toward the sky.

The one so desired by the beast began to laugh to mask his tension, clapping his hands. When one of his companions slipped on a swath of paint and fell heavily, the boy screeched his delight and whirled on one foot.

He froze, face to face with the beast.

Chapter 38

One Mile South of Tulenar Internment Camp

Night. Full Moon.

At first, the rank smell of sage and animal dung on her skin and clothes yanked at Doris's attention. But as she followed David into the depths of the conifer forest, it was the woodland that overwhelmed her. In the glow of moonlight filtered through the shag of cedar and pine, it took nerve Doris hadn't realized she possessed to not stop and stare behind her or to her left or just there, just behind that tree...

She checked her palm like a compass, convinced each time that she would see the silvery pentagram form, warning her too late that the beast was near. Twice her nerve failed her, and she stood frozen in terror, her bow drawn as she stared down a shadow she had been certain, certain was the beast.

A couple of miles back the blood trail, glowing wherever moonbeams converged with it, had given out. David had said that they would be walking blind from then on and to be alert as they approached their goal. Not Tulenar, but the territory in which the beast taunted, then slaughtered its kill.

To try following the beast to camp would have been futile. It chilled Doris's heart when she contemplated the creature's capacity for speed, even when wounded. Tiptoeing along, following the blood trail, she and David couldn't hope to catch up with it before it had struck again. So David had said, before they had even set off from the shack, that they should go instead to the feeding grounds.

What he proposed made Doris ache. He was saying that it was too late to save the next victim. Their failure at the shack had doomed whoever held the dark pentagram of the prey in his palm. Their only recourse now was to try to find the beast in the smaller realm of its feeding ground. If they could save the victim they would, but only after the beast was slain.

So now they approached the boundaries of the feeding grounds. Doris felt naked without a barricade of silver around her. She and David didn't even have the drapes of silver plating shielding their hearts, not daring the risk of moon beams striking it, flashing out their whereabouts to the beast. All they had were the wristbands, the choker, the pin at the throat. Silver arrowhead, silver bullet.

David stopped. He stood, quiet. Finally, in a low voice, he said, "We're here. I don't think the beast has come yet."

Doris struggled to moisten her mouth enough to whisper, "How can you tell?"

"An educated guess. If the beast were still dominant in me, I don't think I'd have made it back yet. Especially wounded."

He fell quiet once more and it was several moments before Doris dared whisper again. "What now?"

"We try another guess. What particular place will the beast favor for this kill?"

Doris didn't answer. She knew David was thinking out loud more than talking with her. She fidgeted, as afraid now of standing still as she was of walking, and tried not to jerk her head toward every pop or crackle coming from the woods.

"In a clearer area," David said suddenly, making Doris startle even though his voice was still low. "It will want the remains discovered in a short amount of time. Like it did with the minister. His body was found quickly, exposed, not far from the first kill's shallow grave. You see how it plots?"

The thought of going near that place, of touching the earth that received Arthur's torment filled Doris with a nauseating dread.

"Do we have to?" she asked, her voice cracking. "God, do we have to go there?"

David remained still, as if listening to the forest instead of her. But he said at last, "Yes, I think so. We should at least have a look."

"David..."

The healer turned to Doris now, apparently alerted by the ache in her voice. "What's wrong?"

She was being foolish. She was being selfish. Perhaps their last chance to kill the goddamned thing was in that clearing and she was as good as begging David not to take her there. She steadied herself, hid behind her old friend, gruffness.

"Nothing. Let's go."

/ / / /

Doris heard herself whimper rather than felt it as she breached the ridiculous ropes and warning signs posted by the F.B.I. She was only vaguely aware of David harshly whispering for caution, felt him tugging at her sleeve like a memory, years and years old. Ten minutes ago she had practically pleaded with David not to take her there. Now she couldn't be kept away.

The place where the police had exhumed Tsuko Ataki's remains lay almost dead center, a depression in the ground. The elements were already blunting off the small, clotted mounds that encircled the grave. By the next moon, it would be hard to believe the dead had ever been there.

It was not so easy to tell where Arthur had lain. The beast hadn't bothered to hide its brutality to him, leaving Arthur exposed, broken and spent. Doris's eyes strained in the warped colors of night for some sign, any sign of Arthur's touch.

But it was all this little patch of earth could do to offer up a tuft of scraggly grass here and there. Its brownish cast was gray under the moon. In the span of one month, not a single handprint was left. Not even a precious stain of blood.

The realization that she had hoped all along to find the place, to touch the place Arthur drew his last breath weakened her, buckled her, pressed her down onto the earth. She curled her forehead against her knees, squeezed her fists against her neck and let the sobs shake her until she fell over like a ripened pod.

David came to gently pull her upright. She unwound and let him cradle her in his arms.

"I loved Arthur Satsugai," she said into David's shirtfront. "I loved him. But I was afraid. There were so many reasons we would fail ... I had to guarantee we would. He died without ever knowing. I never told him. He loved me and I was afraid and I never told him I loved him, too. I turned him into an adversary."

"You can tell him that," David whispered. "You can tell him at night, in your prayers. You can tell him when the time comes to cross over and meet him."

"Oh God. Oh God. You really believe that?" Doris asked, overwhelmed with a strange, blissful hope at hearing his words; a sensation so alien to her that her first thought was to defend against it. But this time she would choose to feel, choose to trust.

"I come from a different tradition," David replied. "The Navajo view isn't quite so... so ethereal as yours, when it comes to an afterlife. But, I believe in it a lot more than I used to."

Emptied so, Doris would have liked nothing more than to let David keep holding her, keep teaching her how to grieve. But this emptying out let her remember, too, where they were. She started to struggle upward, but David said, "Ssh. While you're in this state, tell me if you feel we're in the right place."

Doris lay quietly a few seconds more, then pulled herself into a sitting position to blot dry her face with her hands. "No," she said, and was certain for the first time in her life of her gut instinct.

"I missed. I missed!" David said, for the first time in an hour raising his voice. He managed to calm himself a little as he stood up, then helped Doris do the same.

"This will be the first place the search parties come," he continued, "yielding two of the three kills as it has. The beast knows. It wants the Army -it probably wanted us- to come here immediately. There'll be another place."

Doris sickened. "God, how can we possibly find it..."

"I've been through this whole area, that's not the problem. The problem is guessing right on two or three possibilities. We're running out of time...but so is the beast."

David walked away, thinking out loud again. "Nearby, but not so near these other kills that the fresh one will be found prematurely. It needs time enough to slaughter and a guarantee that the remains will fuel more terror." He stopped his pacing and looked at Doris. "And it wants you. Its Chosen."

A split second before he continued, Doris realized his point. "If it sees you," he said, "it'll take the opportunity to attack."

"You want me to be a decoy."

"Remember it doesn't want to kill you, it wants you to receive. You won't likely die."

"But I'll be bitten."

"We'll try to stop that, too. I won't be farther away than is absolutely necessary."

"And if I am bitten, David. Then what?"

David was quiet a moment. "Then you have the same options as Max."

"I can tell you what my option will be. I won't go through what I've seen Max go through. I won't do what he's done. If I'm bitten...you understand... if I'm bitten..."

"I understand."

"Then I'll do it."

David cupped Doris's hands in his and squeezed a moment before standing a part, quieting himself. In the pale, tree-filtered moonlight, she heard him whisper, "Where will you go, brother? Where will you feed tonight?"

His eyes lit suddenly. "I think I know."

/ / / /

They trudged from that hill to the next, a tall, worn mound chewed cruelly on its windward face by the elements. There the trek ended at a rocky overhang. It jutted above a scrub-filled area of blunter slope, one hundred feet below it.

"I brought us too high," David said, his voice low and cautious again. He seemed more tense now. "We'll have to climb down. Over there...we'll still be more or less hidden as we descend."

They had to work around the overhang. As Doris struggled along behind David, she looked up briefly to see the panorama of the small valley. What she saw was Tulenar in chaos. It was ablaze in light and she could see the disembodied beams of electric hand torches and Army Jeeps. Telltales of people swarming the perimeter. The beast had struck.

David had already braced where the sloped clearing met the hill, and it was a moment before Doris realized he was demanding her attention by tossing pebbles at her. He waved her down, split between watching her descend and keeping a lookout for the beast. Once down, David whispered, "You've seen what's happening in Tulenar. We're out of time now. I just pray we're in the right place."

Doris wiped her hands against her dungarees and followed David, bent low to prevent too much profile against the brilliantly lit night. They were headed downward, a definite disadvantage, but the only cover to be found was at the lower border of the scrubby patch, where a few large bushes clung against the hillside. Panting, they huddled together behind one fat bush, gnarled and thorny, and Doris immediately began readying her bow.

She whispered, "What makes you think it'll come here?"

"It's the only place so exposed to Tulenar, yet not too far from the other site. By morning, a body lying against this slope can be seen through binoculars anywhere in the camp."

He looked at her. "We need to make sure the beast sees you as soon as it comes into view. It may abandon whoever it's taken to attack you instead. It knows this is its last moon with Max. Its priority will be to prepare you for receiving. The last feed is expendable, if it must choose. And we'll make it choose."

"What about the victim? Even if we can save --"

"I know. We can't think of that now. Let's get past the beast first. How are you doing?"

Doris swallowed and took a deep breath to control her panting. She nodded. "I'm all right. You?"

David smiled. "Terrified."

Doris was surprised that she could smile back. "How are we going to do this?"

"We can't just stick you out in the middle like a sacrificial goat. The beast is a thinking being, it's not stupid. We have to let it believe it's surprised you while stalking it." David swiped at his brow. "We're sweating badly. That's not good."

He tugged open the large leather pouch bound against his belt, the one with the powdery mix of dung and sage. He opened his shirt, dipped his hand in the pouch and began dusting his face and chest, letting the dregs scatter over his clothing as well.

"You, too," he said. "We don't want the beast to discover you before we're ready."

The pouch was on her side, so Doris helped herself, rubbing the pungent mix onto her face like grainy powder, sprinkling it down the back of her neck and between her shirt and chest while David whispered the plan. He nodded toward his right.

"Behind that bush, where the wind's built up a nice blind of debris. We'll put you there. The beast will drop its prey and step back. It wants to give its victim a chance to recover from the drag before it begins the torment. Take aim then. If it's close enough, go ahead and try for the kill. If it's not, shoot anyway. That will make it come for you."

"It's bound to know I'm not alone, David." Doris wiped her dirty palms against her thighs.

"You're right. But remember that it's feeling the press of time, just like we are. Greed and need. We have its base desires on our side."

Doris nodded and looked at her palms, a reflexive check to ensure they were clean. She did a double take. She stared carefully at her right palm. The pentagram was there. But before she could say anything, before she could ask David to look as well -because there was something different there, something changed- a howl, clear and loud and long, stabbed her ears.

David gave her a push and she was running to the selected blind, her heart rolling like a boulder inside her chest. At first, the infusion of adrenaline was dizzying, but in an instant it became such a bonding force in her blood that her senses crystallized, becoming acute to the point of pain. She did not want to be so conscious, so aware of even the feel of the hair on her scalp, of even the smell of the beast as it crested the sloping scrub field, just below the overhang.

It was favoring its left leg. That must have been where David's bullet struck. And it had a curious, white clad bundle clamped in its jaws that confounded Doris at first. A moment passed while she knelt, tense and ready, before she made out the hands and feet of a child dangling, limp as a broken toy.

The white sleeves of the child's nightie almost hurt Doris's eyes, and it was obvious that the rest of the little gown had been white, too, not so very long ago, instead of black with blood in the moonlight. The blood was so fresh, it pasted cloth to flesh.

The beast, its fur shimmering under the moon, limped into the clearing. It sat, panting around the bundle in its jaws, which stirred a little, offered a thin mewling. The beast swiveled its head, giving Doris full view, and she had to mash her hand against her lips to keep from moaning.

God, dear God! It was Joy! It was Harriet and Jesse's daughter.

Doris tasted the blood of her bruised lips. The muscles of her arms galvanized and she was on her feet, letting loose the arrow before she could think. It struck true, burying into the beast's left haunch.

The beast howled like the damned, dropping little Joy with a thud, thrashing in its agony, struggling to grasp the arrow's hilt between its jaws. David was suddenly in view and the report of his gun rang off Doris's shoulder. But the bullets struck just below the writhing beast and just beyond, telltale puffs of dust and debris marking each miss. The beast looked up wildly, gnashing, its bellows wet with froth. But it managed to its feet with stunning speed, regardless of its anguish, its left hind leg dangling as it made for David.

Doris already had her bow readied and she screamed as she loosed the next arrow. It soared over the beast's head. The beast stopped abruptly and turned its brilliant, human eyes on her. David was moving away from his hiding place, angling the beast into a cross fire between him and Doris. The beast looked David's way only a moment before it curled its black lips away from the fangs and took two threatening steps toward Doris.

"No, over here!" David shouted and fired the gun, but he missed horribly. "Maxwell! Maxwell! Over here!"

/ / / /

His name was being called. Was he dreaming? Was it David? Max's vision was watery and tunneled as images faded into view, wavering as though he saw them through a thick liquid. He felt himself pushing through a denseness, a deep grave, but the pain in his leg, God it was endless. It was keeping him down. Wasn't it? Wasn't that his pain?

He kept pushing. No, not his pain. Something else. The pain wasn't his. Something else was trying to bind him, clinch him back into nothingness. And then suddenly, it all felt familiar.

No! he wanted to scream out, but his voice came to his ears like a blood-curdling howl. No! he cried again, but his voice was still lost in the howl of the beast.

Now he began willing with all his might, recognizing the searing agony in his leg as his ally, not his enemy. And he somehow managed to think, Roll over! Roll over! Expose the belly!

He willed a sense of pressing backward, felt the denseness pressing back, trying to suffocate him, bind him into motionless and sweet oblivion. Again! Push! A leaden thump vibrated through him, he sensed himself listing as though he had fallen on his side, felt hot, molten agony spread through his leg and knew he had fallen against the wound. He blinked, tried to peer through his thick liquid vision and thought he glimpsed Doris Tebbe staring at him, terrified and unsure, her bow drawn hesitantly.

Then she dropped it altogether, reached behind her, and came back with a fist full of arrows, her eyes afire.

Yes, he thought, yes! But he lost the reason for him thinking that way, what had he intended to do? His vision darkened, he felt the pressure close against him, squeezing out breath, squeezing out thought and memory. He pushed again and remembered. The belly. The belly!

He could see stars now wavering in his vision, he could see the tops of trees. He must have rolled, he must have made it onto his back, and he saw Doris hovering above him -God! How her eyes burned!- her arms raised, her fingers clutching all those arrows. But he had to remember one more thing, something very important before he was gone, if he didn't remember now, he may not ever...

The Chosen One. The Chosen...

/ / / /

Doris struck. She plunged the arrows deep into the beast's soft, exposed belly and blood erupted like lava, surging hot over her hands, pelting her face. Her scream was lost in the screams of the dying beast. But they were human. They sounded like her own.

The beast gnashed toward her, just missing her fingers as she tumbled backward. Then came a shudder. One lone, quaking shudder. The beast lay back, amazingly gently, its hind legs sagging, one foreleg curling across its chest. The ribs heaved, froth and a noisy gurgle bubbled out of its gaping mouth. A final shudder evaporated into the cool night. All movement ceased.

Doris sat where she had fallen, her breath shallow and quick as she stared at the blood- soaked thing, the beast's essence glowing under the moon. David was suddenly at her side.

"That was a stupid thing to do, stupid!" he scolded in a shaky voice.

Still dazed, Doris turned her face to David, who added quickly, "Don't move, don't talk. You've got blood all over your face."

"Will it hurt me?"

"I don't know. Just don't taste it." David whipped off his headband, unknotted it and mopped at Doris's face and hands. "Stupid thing to do," he repeated. "You should have let me shoot. You put yourself right in my line. You could have been bitten."

"You weren't hitting anything. You can't hit the broad side of a barn," she said, the stun still in her voice. Then, "Oh, God...Joy."

"What?"

"The girl. See about the girl."

"Aw, the child," David said as though struck suddenly ill, and abandoned Doris to bend over Joy's limp form. He held the little hands in his own and shook his head. "She's dead."

Doris moaned and almost rested her arms on her knees, wanting to cradle her head there. But she smelled the blood on her sleeves and leather arm brace and had to settle for pressing her forehead into her palms. But looking into them reminded her with a jolt.

"David!"

David looked up from his task. He had pulled the dead girl from her contorted position and was laying her gently on her back, chanting something low.

"My pentagram, David. It's dark."

David left the child's body to look. Then he plucked at Doris's bloody sleeve. "The blood's losing its luster, too. Perhaps it's the fading of the beast."

"Perhaps? Don't you know?"

He looked up at her through his eyebrows. "It's not like I do this for a living."

"David, the pentagram was dark before we killed the son-of-a-bitch."

"Are you sure?"

"Well...my palms were dusty. I'd just used the dung and sage. I...I just don't know."

David leaned back on his heels, looking unsure and Doris again glimpsed the small, blood-soaked body of the child.

"Oh God. Joy. How could it go for a child, David, a little child?"

David swallowed. "The pattern fits. Youth is a very rich feed for the beast."

"We can't just leave her like that," she said.

"We have to leave her like that," David replied. "We can't take her with us, Doris. And even if we had the tools and time to bury her, it wouldn't be the best thing for her. Or her parents. She wouldn't be found so quickly. Besides, we're going to have our hands full, carrying the beast."

Doris stared at the healer in disbelief.

He said, "It's not over yet. The beast is dead, but Max is still in danger. Come here."

David led her past both the beast and Joy's body to gaze toward Tulenar. Streams of light betrayed the paths of search parties and motor vehicles fanning the area.

"I don't think we can get back to the shack in time to do this," David said. "But we may be able to wait out the moon's setting if we can find seclusion before the searchers make it through here."

"Do what, damn it, do what?"

"Bring Max back! If we miss the timing, he dies as surely as the beast."

Chapter 39

One and One Half Miles South of Tulenar Internment Camp

Pre Dawn. Full Moon.

They couldn't risk leaving an obvious trail by dragging the beast, tearing a gash through the dry needle carpet of the forest, smearing blood on the earth as they trudged along. Clumsy and repulsive as it was, there was no choice but to hoist the carcass onto their shoulders.

David bore the haunches and supported the imbedded arrows. Doris didn't envy him that post, or the crucial responsibility of keeping the silver in place. Even as the beast had lain dead in the scrub field, the blood had stopped flowing, lost its luster. But the wound still oozed around the bundle of arrows. The soft flannel of David's shirt was black with gore.

Doris took up the head. Her shoulder braced the beast's own, one foreleg sagging across her chest, the other thumping her upper back. The eyes, milky with death, stared toward her own. The tongue lolled under her chin, the fangs exposed, threatening to graze her jaw every time she stumbled.

Several times, the weight of the beast brought one or the other of them to their knees, leaving them sucking desperately at the cold, night air. Upon the final collapse, Doris rasped out, "We can't go much farther, David. Our lungs will burst. Or our hearts. Either one."

But before the healer could reply, a sound stifled them both: Distant, floating toward them on the breeze, an eerie, mournful baying. Bloodhounds. Doris was the first to struggle upward, but David followed quickly.

"They're still far away," David said. "We can make it. We have to make it. Look up."

Doris did. The moon was below the treetops now, well on its way to setting.

"Just a little further," David urged, "and you'll turn right."

They shuffled onward for an impossibly long time, surely longer than Doris thought she could bear, until at last David panted out, "Off to the right ... here..."

Doris heaved in that direction, pleading like a child, "How much farther?"

"Just go. Just keep going..." But it was David who collapsed. The sudden loss of support dragged Doris with him beneath the beast.

She wriggled free, gaging on revulsion, then moved back to help David pull away. They both sat panting until the deep, throaty baying of the hounds jolted them again. Were they closer? Or was it Doris's exhaustion that made them seem so?

"This will have to do," David said, mopping his brow on the only clean patch of sleeve he had left. "We've done all we can."

He looked up at the moon, then at the dead beast. "Help me shove the wound into that patch of light."

The light David spoke of lay against the beast's barrel chest. Together, they pushed and hauled until the beast's belly and groin were exposed to the pale glow.

"All right," the healer said. "Listen carefully. The silver must be pulled out just before the moon sinks below the horizon. Just then. Too early, too late, and we've come this far for nothing. When the searchers happen upon this place, they'll find the remains of an enormous animal they'll probably identify as wolf."

He stopped talking and gazed at Doris wearily. "If they do, that would probably save those boys, you know. It will back up what the Tamura twins said. They'll easily match the beast to the dead child's wounds. The rest won't be hard to piece together."

Doris shook her head. "I know what you're saying. Not on your life, not now." Her palms were sweating and she rubbed them together before looking at her pentagram again, still dark as a bloodstain. "I want the honors. I want to pull out the silver."

David didn't answer right away.

"Please."

"Are you certain?" he asked her.

Doris nodded.

The baying seeped through the conifers again. Definitely louder. And now Doris could hear the reedy echo of human voices behind the hounds.

David looked up at the moon. "Damnit all," he said, "the moon's still too high."

Even so, the healer moved toward the beast's head and wrestled its bulk into his lap. He nodded toward the arrows.

"When I give the word, one, smooth motion," he said. "Every piece at once. But, for now, wait. All we can do is wait."

Wait. An eternity. The moon seemed to deliberately hover over the hill tops, cruel in its reluctance to sink. Doris moved toward the belly, but realized that she was blocking the light from the wound when she did. She would have to position behind the beast's back and reach over to grasp the arrows. She knelt in place, arching over the beast, so tense she could barely breathe. She steeled herself, nodding to David's instruction, listening intently for the hounds.

She wasn't prepared for the human voices, so close it was if they s were speaking over her shoulder.

David's own voice came as a hiss. "Down!"

Doris collapsed on her side, the beast's spine pressed against her belly. David was flat on his back, having sprawled with the cumbersome head still in his lap. God, the voices! They sounded like they were everywhere!

Doris's chest ached with the wild thrashing of her heartbeat. She could hear a soft, shuffling noise, like multiple boots scuffing through the pine needle carpet. And, always, the voices. She rolled her eyes toward her forehead, in the direction of it all, but the search was taking place just beyond her range of vision. Then a torch beam swept above her, off to her left, grazing trees midway up the trunks.

Doris stiffened, her mind stiffened, as the watch went on insufferably. When David at last tapped at her hand, it was all she could do not to cry out. But she realized who it was and turned to see him motioning skyward, moving only his wrist and index finger. The moon was at the horizon.

Doris heard voices past her head. She saw dark shadows against the misty gray background of forest in the moonlight, moving slowly beyond the bulk of the beast, perhaps thirty feet away. People were everywhere. Their search beams blazed out ahead of them in harsh, yellow shafts, stabbing into the night, striking against the trees, skittering across the ground.

The moon, now, seemed all in a hurry to set.

Two beams, from opposite directions, flashed directly over Doris, almost catching the beast's silvery fur. She looked down toward the wound, and could tell that the moonbeams had mercifully shrunk so that the fur's shimmer was reduced to a dull gray.

She looked to the moon once more. It was halfway past the horizon. David tapped her hand again, mouthed out carefully, "On ... my ... word."

She understood, scooted carefully lower, toward the arrows. She could see some of their shafts where the belly was lax and sunken, but couldn't tell if the moonlight still touched them. The voices ebbed and flowed around her, surged so close at one point she could not suppress a whimper. She squeezed her eyes shut her as though she expected to be struck. David tapped at her head. When she looked up at him, he motioned toward his eyes as if to say, watch me.

She nodded, glanced once more at the moon. Three quarters set. Her eyes flew wide toward David who was looking skyward, his fingers touching Doris's hairline...

Someone shouted.

David jerked his face toward Doris and as he stabbed his fingers against her head as he hissed out, "Now!"

Doris rose over the beast. Through the thunder of her heart, throbbing even in her eyes, she saw the last of the moonlight fading off the wound. She clasped her hands, vice-like, around the arrows and pulled.

She fell backward with her own momentum, but she knew she had them all, she knew it! The bloody arrows scattered around her like tinder sticks. She heard a great, wet sucking, like someone long buried and struggling upward for air.

She heard the shouting again and picked up some of the words ... "This way ... girl ... hurry!" There was a great scuffling all around, but it was clearly moving away from them, the attention of the searchers being drawn toward the other side of the hill, toward Joy and the scrub field.

The beast's carcass was quaking, the wound throwing flecks of thickened blood everywhere. His expression awestruck, David sat upright again with the beast's head still in his lap. The creature's jaws opened wide for another long, moist gasp of air.

The spine hunched upward, the great tail whipped between the beast's haunches and the forelegs contorted inward. The carcass shivered and jerked as though it was freezing as its fur began to cluster. It was sweating below the pelt. The silver hair began dripping off in large, wet clumps.

Bones popped, Doris saw the head round off, almost shrink away from the fur. The ears curled inward and the muzzle shrank, its tough, black skin peeling away. She looked at David, his teeth clenched as he wiped at the disintegrating fur, pulling it away from the emerging face.

As the fur dropped off, Doris saw fresh, pink skin, the flex of human shoulders. Forelegs were now arms. Black-clawed toes now fingers with tender, new quick. The hindquarters stretched out into human legs and buttocks.

All in a matter of minutes. A matter of minutes! Just like at moon rise, when Max had contorted into the beast, he was transforming so quickly Doris could hardly tell where the metamorphosis began or ended. In the blink of an eye, the human can become monster. Or find his way back.

It was Maxwell Pierce who lay before her now. Sluggish, naked. Completely bald, completely hairless. His abdomen still bore the wound, a raw, reddened saucer where Doris had pulled the arrows free. Watery blood seeped from it, but it was already virtually closed, quivering against the cold air.

After a moment, his eyes fluttered open. David rested his hand against Max's fresh, pink scalp, near the old scar.

"Over?"Max rasped.

Doris knelt beside him and picked up his hand. "Over," she said.

Chapter 40

David Alma Curar's Shack

Dawn. Second Night of the Full Moon.

The ropes again. His arms, that seemed so angry and wrenching before, now wrap her from behind in embrace. Doris sighs and leans into his strength. She leans her head back and does not even look at the straining ropes as she opens her hands to let them whip off into the darkness. Arthur's lips are against her ear, and she lets him pull her upward toward the light.

Doris blinked awake, amazed that she had fallen so heavily asleep in the bath water, head bent, arms curled around her knees. Bath water, hot and steamy. All the blood gone.

Max was so deeply asleep on the cot, Doris bathed without concern in the oblong washtub. Outside, she could hear David puttering around, keeping himself busy until she was done and they could change places.

She wanted to linger. She could sit in that tub for hours, as long as the hot water kept coming. But she knew David would be eager to bathe, too. Like Doris, he'd want to wash the blood away like afterbirth. She rose, shivering in the contrasting cold, toweled off and dressed in her familiar skirt and jacket, tucking her hair into the snood. Somehow they all felt new.

Doris checked once more on Max before leaving the shack. He had been so weak that she and David had to bathe him like doting parents. But the weakness was only exhaustion, his eyes clear, the awe of being alive burning beneath heavy lids. Now she looked at her palm -fresh, clean, without a trace of the pentagram- and gave Max's bare head a little pat before walking out the open doorway.

She followed the scent of smoke around the north corner of the shack and found David. In fresh clothing even before bathing, he was burning their blood soaked garb, including her half-vest and arm brace.

"I'll help you change the water before I go," she said.

He turned to her. "Thanks. It'll feel good. Are you sure you don't want to rest, just an hour, before going back?"

"I can't."

"Are you sure there's something to go back to?"

"Yes. Not like before. But, yes, there's something to go back to. I've got to find a way to help those boys."

David smiled. "I think you're making a wise choice. But if something happens to change your mind, you can always come with us."

"When will you be leaving?"

"Max needs to rest until the moon passes, and I think we'll be safe until then. So you have a couple of nights' grace."

Doris smiled. "Old Baldy. Will his hair grow back?"

David shrugged. "Mine did."

"Do you think he's serious? Does he really wants to remain as presumed dead?"

"Yes, he's serious. But I'm glad he has a little time to think it through." David lost his smile, but the affection in his eyes never wavered. "Go on, I can get my own bath water. Those boys need you."

Epilogue

Tulenar Internment Camp

Dawn. Second Night of the Full Moon.

The Report: At approximately 0100 hours, 23 November 1942, internee Joy M. Haku, daughter of Jesse L. and Harriet K. Haku (Family Number 5727), was abducted from Dormitory Two, Block Eight. The assailant broke through the Haku unit window and kidnapped Miss Haku while Mrs. Haku -contrary to curfew regulation- stood outside the dormitory.

Mrs. Haku states she was awakened by the sound of scratching at the door and, armed with an ax handle (since confiscated), left the quarters to investigate. Alerted by the sound of breaking glass, Mrs. Haku re-entered the unit to find the window damaged and her daughter missing.

Mr. Haku was serving his shift with the internee police during this time, and was therefore exempt from the curfew regulation.

At approximately 0500 hours, 23 November 1942, Joy Haku's remains were located one-quarter mile south of the camp on the east face of the hill locally known as Junction's Peak. Cause of death: Massive internal bleeding produced by severe trauma to heart, lungs and liver.

/ / / /

The pounding on the Takeis' dormitory door began barely an hour after Andrew and his mother had finally fallen asleep. Opening his eyes Andrew's only movement while his mother threw on a robe. She wasn't a very big woman and he could easily see around her, see the M.P.'s hands gripping their rifles as though they thought his mother might leap at them. Behind them, a Jeep trundled by. A disheveled, frightened teenager -Andrew knew him! He was Endo!- was stuffed in the back seat between another pair of soldiers.

His mother understood what was happening before Andrew. He could hear it in her voice, iced over with dread. "No. You can't have him. You can't have him!"

The soldiers shoved upward, shoved past her, and were heading toward Andrew even as he rushed to sit up. Startled, he forgot about his bandaged arm and set his weight against the stitches before yelping with pain. The soldiers stiffened as though he had threatened them, and pointed their guns at his chest.

"What are you doing, are you crazy!" Mrs. Takei screamed.

With one soldier keeping aim, the other jerked Andrew to his feet and ordered, "Hands up."

Dazed, Andrew obeyed as the soldier patted down his sides and inner thighs.

"Stop it, you'll hurt him, can't you see he's injured! Stop it!"

The soldier who had searched Andrew clasped him by his pajama collar and glared at Mrs. Takei. "Injured as he slaughtered a five-year-old girl." He brought his face near the boy's. "Come on, asshole. Your ride leaves in fifteen minutes."

Terrified, Andrew could barely think. "Ma!"

Mrs. Takei leapt, but the M.P.'s partner pulled her back. The soldier began wrestling Andrew toward the door.

"Ma!"

"That's crazy!" she kept screaming. "That's insane! He was at the hospital when it happened! Something attacked him last night, he wasn't anywhere near the Haku's block! Please!! I was with him myself! Listen to me! Listen to reason!"

But the soldiers made it clear they were listening only to orders. They wrestled Andrew into the waiting Jeep and carted him off to the cargo truck where most of the other Inu Hunters were already handcuffed inside.

An F.B.I. official with a clipboard checked off Andrew's name, then pinned a stiff paper tag, stamped with his family number, on his pajama shirt. The soldiers pushed him over the tailgate and forced him onto the bench. His arm was too swollen and bandaged to handcuff, so they secured his good wrist to the bench instead.

Dazed, he looked at his friends, already lining the two benches. Only last night, every one of them had been proud and arrogant. Even now, two of the boy spat epitaphs at the milling officials outside the truck, but the other five were as pale and stunned as Andrew. Endo was shivering, his face bent low, but Andrew could still see tears. He caught the smell of turpentine and wondered in the disjointed way of trauma when his friends had the time to scrub last night's paint from their hands.

He couldn't remember that much from last night. Mostly, only the eyes of ...that...thing ... and his pals' whoops of victory clipped short by mute terror. Andrew couldn't even remember how he had gotten away. One more handcuffed boy was hoisted over the tailgate.

Through his daze and the growing clamor of parents only now catching up on foot, Andrew made out a voice he recognized, growing nearer, on the other side of the truck's heavy green canvas cover. A woman's voice:

"Mrs. Murato, try to stay calm. You have allies, and I'm one of them. Mr. Sata? Mr. Sata, you're an attorney, aren't you? You can be a big help to your son, to all the boys... Hey, someone watch that man over there, he's about to faint..."

The woman came around to the tailgate and Andrew turned his unfocused gaze toward her. It was Mrs. Tebbe.

"Listen, boys," she was saying, "has anyone let you know what's happening?"

Even Andrew's angry pals quieted. Something in her voice was comforting. Endo managed hoarsely, "We didn't kill anybody."

"I know you didn't."

The conviction in her voice seemed to lift Andrew's heavy veil of shock, if only a little.

"We're going to prison," Endo said, panic lacing his words.

"I know I can't tell you not to worry, boys, but I'm asking you to stay calm. People are already working to turn this truck right back around as soon as it makes the prison gates..."

As her eyes finally moved toward Andrew, Mrs. Tebbe stopped talking ."Andrew...?"

"Mrs. Tebbe. My ma..."

But she didn't seem to be listening. She was looking at his bandages. "Andrew, what happened to your arm? Did the soldiers do that?"

Andrew looked down at the thick, white gauze. He would have answered her, but the sudden rumble of the truck's engine, the vibration rattling the bench, struck him dumb. Prison. He was going to prison!

He was too overwhelmed with terror to notice his heightened senses, to question how he could catch the subtle scent of blue violets through the stench of turpentine and truck diesel. Ma. He looked up, certain he would glimpse her right there, just behind Mrs. Tebbe. But his mother was only now catching up with the crowd, still in her night gown, running with all her might, her robe flapping behind her. Fear and rage so knotted Andrew's stomach that bile rose to his throat, burning away the scent of violets.

As the truck pulled away, his bitten arm began to bleed.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

K.L. Nappier is an award winning author who writes in multiple genres. Regardless of how light or dark her plots may be (though she confesses they're usually dark), she's exploring how the human experience can lift us up, give us hope, teach us how.

Kathy's supernatural thriller Full Wolf Moon placed in the Draco Awards' Final Three in the Horror Division, placed in the Kay Snow Awards and was a finalist in the New Century Awards.

Bitten, is also an award winner, placing first in the 2007 Dream Realm Awards' Horror Division.

Her work has been reviewed by the Gothic Journal as "stunning" and "fresh" with suspense that "is razor sharp." Lisa Rau of CBS Network Affiliate WTSP hails Full Wolf Moon as "an intelligent read." The Eternal Night Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror Website calls Kathy's work "totally addictive." Tampa Book Buzz says she "pulls you in from the first sentence" and DredTales.com calls her a "stand out in the world of independent fiction."

For more information about K.L. Nappier, her novels and books, visit Kathy's website at www.klnappier.com

Novels by K.L. Nappier

Shadows in the Mist (Out of Print)

Full Wolf Moon Supernatural Thriller

Bitten Supernatural Thriller

Voyagers Paranormal Mystery

Short Story Anthologies (as Contributing Author)

Twisted Tails: An Anthology to Surprise and Delight

Twisted Tails II, Volume 2: Out of Time

Twisted Tails III: Pure Fear

Twisted Tails IV: Fantastic Flights of Fantasy

www.KLNappier.com

A free ebook from http://manybooks.net/