was also leaning forward with interest, eyeing the man who, he had suddenly learned, knew all his secrets under fire and fear.
But all Cat said was "Oh," and leaned back.
"Okay," said Jack, yanking the door open. "Okay," he said again, more quietly, to Annabelle.
And then they were all clambering out and reaching for bags and starting up the walkway to the front door.
"Six hours, huh?" Jack asked no one in particular. "You've moved everything already?"
Annabelle was cheery. "You actually could have flown straight to Dallas, if we could have gotten hold of you to tell you. Carl just has the one load left."
"Weapons," Carl offered, walking along beside him. "Crossbows and the like. Gonna have to truck 'em to Dallas tomorrow. Stupid F.A.A. feds! Scared to death a closed crate of medieval weapons is gonna take Pan Am to Cuba." He laughed. They both paused on the front step. Jack thought he could already hear it ringing. He tried smiling along with Carl as the others gathered in a bottleneck before the door. Somebody was jingling keys.
"Funny thing," Carl was saying. "If it was guns, something they're already scared enough to know something about, they wouldn't mind so much." He paused, laughed again. "We oughta be using guns."
Jack Crow, stepping numbly along with the others into the empty grand foyer, thought: Guns.
And then he thought: guns? Guns! Guns!
"Guns?" he all but shouted.
All turned toward him, surprised, alarmed, worried.
"What?" Carl asked him.
"Guns!"
"Guns?"
Jack hugged him and yelled: "Yes, goddammit! Guns! Hot Damn! Guns! Don't you see?"
"Guns?"
"Rock and roll!"
Part One Chapter 5
Surrounding the bar, surrounding the last of the booze, surrounded by Jack Crow's obvious glee, they played his little guessing game.
Carl evinced irritation. Annabelle tried to look bored. Cat was amused. Adam was just as bewildered as he had been since Rome. But Jack -
Jack was having so goddamn much fun that nobody really cared.
He's back, thought Cat to himself.
And when he spotted the misty affection in his comrades' eyes, he knew they were feeling the same.
"Look," Jack began again, propping his boot on the railing behind the bar with a thump that echoed in the now-empty room. "It's just a matter of putting the pieces together."
He stared at their blank faces. He somehow managed to smile while still grinning.
"All right, class. We shall begin again," he said and they did.
And this time they began to see.
"... and the bullet hole from the sheriff's gun - in his forehead, remember? It was already closing, right? And it was trapping the blood from Hernandez's silver cross gash, right?"
No one spoke.
"Right?" repeated Jack.
"Right," Cat responded slowly. "Well?"
"Well, what, goddammit?" growled Carl.
Cat suddenly sat forward. "The gash hadn't healed..."
"From the cross..." continued Adam.
"From the holy silver cross," Jack corrected.
"But the bullet wound was already closing!" Carl jumped in, seeing it all now. He stood up from his stool and slapped the flat of his hand loudly on the top of the bar.
Jack was grinning mischievously. "You see it, don't you?"
Carl looked disgusted. "I see it, all right. I just don't believe it."
And then Cat saw it. He moaned. "I don't believe it either," he said. But now he, too, was starting to grin.
Cat leaned close to her against the bar. "A cloud of dust and a hearty Hi-yo fucking Silver!"
And everybody, save Annabelle, laughed. She looked downright angry. "Would someone please tell me what's going on?"
"Silver bullets," said Father Adam. Then he paused and, with a nod toward Jack, amended, "Holy silver bullets, blessed by the Church."
"But I thought silver bullets were for werewolves," Annabelle asked.
"They are," replied Adam calmly.
Too calmly, thought Jack. He held up a hand to cut off the questions all had turned to ask the young priest. "No!" he barked firmly. "No! I don't even want to know, Adam."
Adam smiled, eyed his glass.
"You hear me?" Jack insisted.
"I hear you."
Jack turned to Carl. "Can you pour the bullets?"
Carl grinned smugly. He sat back down. "Sure, I can pour them. But can anybody here shoot except me?"
Jack frowned. "You're not going, Joplin. You're the base man. How many times do I have to - "
"This is different," Carl insisted. "I'm a marksman. Somebody else could..."
Jack leaned his elbows on the bar and stared him into silence. His voice was gentle but absolutely final. "It's not going to happen, my friend."
Carl hated this. "Well, dammit!" he retorted. "Can you shoot?"
"Qualified whenever Uncle Sam asked."
Carl snorted. "Qualified! Shit! Any fool don't shoot himself in