The bad part was that he had then ignored the man who saved him. Slaughter always told himself that he was just too busy to go see the old man, but the motive, he suspected now, was that he didn't want to face the man who knew he was a coward. Oh, he was a coward, all right. Seeing Clifford, walking through that moonlit field, trapping that dead boy, and running from the figures near his house, he'd felt the old fear rising in him. Hell, he'd panicked in the field and at his house. He'd lost complete control. He didn't understand now how he'd come this far. His bluff of manliness to all these friends, his arguments with Parsons. They were overcompensations, last attempts to keep his self-respect, because the one thing that he wanted was to get the hell away from here, to free himself from any need for strength and courage. Five years he had coasted. Parsons had been right. In fact the mayor had done him quite a favor. By imprisoning him, Parsons had relieved him of this burden. Slaughter silently was grateful. He had argued with the guards to let him free, but he had known there wasn't any chance, so arguing was easy. But the dream of old Doc Markle had enlivened ancient guilt, and he was caught between conflicting notions. Stay here. It's the safe place for you. Or find a way to get out. Prove that you're still worth a shit. He told himself he didn't have a choice. Regardless of his shame, he was imprisoned. Sublimate the shame. Get rid of it.

The night was deep upon him. Through the tiny windows high along one wall, he heard the howling and the shouting and the screaming outside. Thank God that you're in here, that you're safe. But he was growing angry at himself, at Parsons, at this trouble. He was just about to argue with the guards again. Although useless, that would help suppress his tension. Then the door swung open at the far end, and he stared as Rettig stepped in.

Both guards stood now, careful.

"Take it easy," Rettig told them. "Watch out for those rifles, or you'll maybe shoot your mouths off."

They looked puzzled, shifting nervously. "You're not supposed to be here," one guard said.

"Oh, really? Well, I'll tell the woman here to take the food back." Rettig turned.

"Wait a minute. What food?"

"For the prisoners. They haven't eaten."

"No one fed us, either."

"Well, I'm sorry I didn't think of that."

"Hey, you just bring the food in."

"I don't like this," the second guard said.

"It's only food, for Christ sake. What the hell, I'm hungry."

"Yeah, but they might pull a trick."

"We've got the rifles. Bring the food in."

"If you're certain." Rettig shrugged.

"Bring it in."

"Okay then." Rettig went toward the door and gestured.

Marge came in. She had two baskets. She looked at the five men in the cells and in particular at Slaughter. Slaughter tried to smile, but she seemed nervous, and the last few days had aged her. She had always borne her weight with pride, but now it sagged around her, and he couldn't stop his sorrow for her.

"Hi, Marge," Slaughter told her.

She just looked at him. "I thought you'd maybe like some food." She sounded weary.

"Something wrong, Marge?"

"It's the woman I hit."

"What about her?"

"She died half an hour ago."

Slaughter pursed his lips, glanced down at the floor, and nodded. Then he peered up at Marge. "I still think you did the right thing."

"Do you? I wish I could be as certain. Nathan, I killed her."

Slaughter didn't know what to say.

"What's in those two baskets?" the first guard asked.

"Sandwiches and coffee," Rettig answered.

"That's just fine. You bring them over to this table."

"Hey, there's plenty to go around. Don't eat it all."

"Who us? Why, we'll be sure to throw them scraps from time to time. Don't worry."

Rettig frowned.

"I told you, don't worry," the guard said. "They'll be fed. I promise."

Rettig debated, then nodded, motioning for Marge to set the basket on the table.

"No, I don't like this. Something's wrong," the second guard said. "They're giving us this food too easily. What is it, drugged?"

"It's only coffee and sandwiches," Rettig said.

"And in a while we'll be sleeping like babies. Hell, no, they eat this first. We're not dummies."

"If you say so." Rettig picked up the two baskets, moving toward the cells as the second guard stopped him.

"No, we check it first."

"You think we've got a hacksaw in the meatloaf?"

"How about a rifle up your nose, friend? First we check the basket."

So they sorted through the sandwiches and looked inside the thermoses and shook them. Everything was fine.

"Okay, you stand back here while I distribute them." The first guard walked past Rettig, left some sandwiches before each cell, set down plastic cups, and then the thermoses. "All of you listen. Just as soon as I step back, you can reach out for them. Since you've only got two thermoses, you'll have to pass them to each other, but the moment you're done pouring, put the thermoses back out in front where I can see them. I don't want somebody throwing them."

Slaughter kept his gaze on Rettig. "What about outside?" "Don't ask. All the animals are going crazy. Everybody's got their doors and windows locked. There's random shooting. Prowlers. Two of our men have been wounded." Slaughter shook his head. "We found two hippies by the stockpens." Slaughter waited. "They'd been clubbed to death."

And Slaughter made a gesture as if he didn't want to hear any more. He glanced at Marge, then at the sandwiches and plastic cups and thermoses. He cleared his throat. "Well, listen, thank you, Marge."

She didn't answer, only started from the room. Slaughter looked at Rettig. "Hey, take care of her." "You know it," Rettig said, and then the two guards scowled at Rettig. "Yeah, okay, don't get excited. I'm already gone." Then Rettig scanned the cells and paused, and he was leaving. "See you, Chief." "Take care now."

The door was closed. The room became silent. The group studied the guards.

"Get started," the first guard told them. "Let me see if the food's been drugged. I'm hungry."

Slowly they crouched. Slaughter was the last to reach out for the food. He chewed, his mouth like dust, the meatloaf sandwich tasteless.

"Here, I'll pour the coffee." Troubled by the shooting outside, he reached through the bars and unscrewed the cap on the thermos. He poured the coffee into several plastic cups and passed the cups along.

But one cup he was careful to keep only for himself.

Because as he had poured, a slender pliant object had dropped with it, splashing almost imperceptibly, so soft and narrow that it hadn't rattled when the guard shook both the thermoses. He didn't dare look around to see if anyone had noticed. He just went on as if everything were normal. Then he stood and leaned back on his bunk and chewed his sandwich, stirring with his finger at the coffee. This he knew. He wasn't going to drink the damned stuff, although he did pretend to, and then his finger touched the object. It was like a worm. He felt it, long and slender, pliant. But what was it? For a moment, he suspected that it was an explosive, but that wouldn't do much good because there wasn't any way to set it off. Besides, the noise would draw attention. Rettig wouldn't give him something that he couldn't use. This wasn't plastique then, so what else could it be? He leaned to one side so that no one saw him as he picked the object from the coffee, glancing at it, dropping it back in the coffee. It was red, just like the worm he had imagined. But he couldn't figure what it was or how to use it.

"Christ, this coffee's awful," Dunlap muttered.

"Just shut up and drink," the first guard told him. "I was right," he told the second. "The food's been drugged. They'll soon be asleep."