"The less mumbo jumbo we have to deal with, the better. If there are such things as vampires, and if we got one here, we have to figure out how to track him, catch him, and kill him. We have to treat him like an animal, observe his habits and use 'em to our advantage. And the first thing we have to do is separate the myts, from the true.
"The first have to do, Robert said, is find thing we out how we can protect people from him." him "Or her," Rich said.
"True enough." Robert nodded.
"Let's think about this logically." Pee Wee set his coffee cup down on the floor next to the couch. "If this guy's a vampire, he lives forever, right? He must be a hundred years old. Two hundred, maybe.
If that's so, why haven't we heard about him before? Why hasn't he wiped out whole towns? I'll tell you why--because he moves on. It's a big world, and a crowded one, and I bet a vampire could feed a little in one place and then keep moving and no one'd ever know."
"Hell," Robert said. "Maybe he hibernates. Like a bear. Comes out every century, drinks some blood, goes back to sleep."
"Maybe," Rich said doubtfully, and there was silence in the room after he spoke.
Robert picked up his coffee from the floor, drank it, and the three of them stared out of the living room --through the huge window into the endless desert beyond.
It was nearly noon when they arrived back in town. Robert radioed over to the station, learned that nothing had happened this morning, and said he would be in after lunch. He turned toward Rich. "You in a big hurry? Let's cruise over to Buford's, grab some chow."
"Okay."
The cruiser slowed for two teenagers crossing the high way in front of the liquor store.
"You know what?" Rich said. "All these years we've been going to Buford's, and I don't even know his last name."
"I thought Buford was his last name."
"I think it's his first."
"We'll check." Robert pulled into the parking lot of the hamburger stand, and they both got out. Robert ordered a half-pound Monstro Burger, large fries, and a large Dr. Pepper, and after only a second's deliberation, Rich ordered the same.
Robert grinned. "No willpower." He bent to peek through the order window as Buford pulled two huge hamburger patties from the refrigerator and slapped them on the grill. "I know this is a stupid question," he said to the cook, "but is Buford your first name or your last name?"
"Both."
"Both? Buford Buford?"
"That's what my daddy named me."
Robert glanced over at his brother. "Hear that? I guess we're both right." His smile faded as Rich, frowning, to a hand-lettered sign on the in pointed surreptitiously side of the glass next to the pickup window: "New Hours
11 A.M.-6 P.M."
Robert turned back toward Buford. "You're closing at six now?"
"Yeah." The cook did not elaborate.
"You're going to miss the dinner crowd."
"I changed the hours last week." He paused. "I don't want to work after dark anymore."
Rich and his brother exchanged glances, saying nothing.
The sizzling of the burgers grew louder. "Rumor has it," Buford said,
"that you caught your vampire." "What?"
"Mike Vigil. He went crazy and thought he was a vampire. "Mike's crazy all right, but he's no vampire. Besides, : he was in Florence under observation the other night when Clifford killed. '
"I didn't put no store by it." He flipped over the burgers, pulled a handful of sliced onions from the refrigerator, and dumped them on the grill. He worked the onions with his spatula for a moment. "I think I saw the vampire last week."
Robert tried to peer through the window to judge whether or not Buford was pulling his leg, but all he could see through the dirty rusted screen was the cook's white i aproned chest and clean-shaven bottom jaw.
"I wasn't sure whether I should tell you, but I promised myself that if you came in, I'd bring it up." He pointed his spatula toward Rich. "I don't want none of this in the paper, understand?"
Off the record," Rich agreed.
"I haven't even told my wife. Don't want to frighten her."
"What happened?"
"I was here late, all alone, and all of a sudden I got... kind of a weird feeling. I can't describe it, but it was like I knew something was out there, watching me, waiting for me to leave. Scared the living shit out of me. When I finally did leave and go out to my car, I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A white shape.
Big. Kind of fluttering. But then it was gone. I didn't stop to look for it. I just hopped in my car and hauled ass."
"It disappeared?"
"It disappeared into the arroyo," Buford said. "It went into the arroyo."
"The arroyo," Rich said. "It comes back to the arroyo."
Robert shook his head. "We searched it. We didn't find anything but dead bugs and animals. No tracks. NothingP "How far did you follow it?"
"Five miles. The damn thing stretches all the way to Rocky Gulch."
"Maybe he uses the washes and gullies and arroyos like trails or tunnels, uses them to get in and out of places. God knows there's a network of them across the desert."
"That's reassuring," Robert said. He sighed. "We'll check it out again. I don't have anything else to go on."
"You could stake this place out, wait and see if he comes back."
"Steak it out," Rich said with a wry grin. "I get it." Robert turned to his brother. "Maybe I'll talk to Rossiter about it. It's about time those guys pulled their weight around here."
"Yeah. I'm sure they're going to assign FBI agents to wait night after night at a hamburger stand for a vampire to show up."
"We have to do something. Do you have any ideas?" Rich shook his head. "Neither do I."
A blue Chevy Impala pulled into the burger stand's parking lot.
Sunlight glinted off the silver crucifix hanging from the car's rearview mirror.
Buford slid aside the screen on the pickup window and pushed through a tray. "Lunch is served."
Wheeler awoke feeling tired. He had not seen Jesus for over two weeks, and the strain was making him tense, nervous, jumpy. He knew he was doing the Lord's bidding, but he did not feel confident enough in the worthiness of his own thoughts and actions to make decisions without higher approval. What if he were doing something wrong? What if Jesus wanted shakes instead of shingles on the roof of His house? What if Jesus didn't approve of drywall and foam insulation?
There were so many things to consider.
He got out of bed, took a quick shower, and got dressed. The cat Covey had killed yesterday was still lying curled in the basting pan on top of the kitchen counter, its broken dripping eyes staring at nothing, and Wheeler touched a tentative finger to the congealed blood surrounding the animal's body. The blood was sticky, neither cold nor hot, and had the consistency of melted taffy.
The butterflies began flying in his stomach, but Wheeler ignored them and placed two pieces of bread in the toaster. He poured himself some orange juice, took a spoon and knife from the utensil drawer. When the toast was done, he spooned a generous helping of blood onto the bread, spreading it with the knife. It smeared almost as well as jelly.
As always, he gagged when he bit into the blood, but he forced himself to keep chewing, his brain ordering his rebellious tastebuds to ignore the information they were receiving firsthand and concentrate on the importance of getting used to the thick, unnatural flavor.
He was able to eat both slices of toast without spitting out a single bite.
After breakfast, he drove straight to the church. The five men of the morning shift were on top of the newest addition, working on the frame for the second floor, and before he even rounded the corner onto Arrow, he saw the parallel series of black beams they'd put up since yesterday protruding proudly upward from behind the other buildings on the block.