While Others Sleep. Helen R. Myers

when it growled, it sounded like gargling. Glaring at him out of one topaz eye, it peered through the window of the kitchen door, then launched itself into the air, leaping onto the picnic table, causing the dilapidated remains of rotting redwood to groan as it teetered.

      Issuing his own throaty response, Blade back-tracked and hoisted the fifty-pound sack of dog food from the pantry. “Shit,” he muttered at its depleted weight. It was only Wednesday and it was already half empty. He’d bought the stuff over the weekend.

      As he emerged from the house, the dog greeted him by throwing back his basketball-size head and making another of those drowning growls. Then he shook his head, shooting mucus from his flapping jowls like skeet at a firing range.

      Blade tried to duck behind the bag. “You ugly piece of—knock it off!”

      Once the assault was over, he slammed the bag on the patio and folded back the top until the crunchy pellets were exposed. “There. The Four Seasons Special of the Day. Knock yourself out.”

      Circling to the back of the house, Blade opened the vinyl garbage can and picked up the other fifty-pound sack—almost as depleted—of birdseed and filled the two feeders at opposite sides of the unfenced yard. Returning to the kitchen, he gave the mutt a wide berth, but even with its head thrust inside the sack, the dog growled.

      Once back in the kitchen, Blade removed the .9 mm stuck in the back of his jeans and set it on the counter. He hoped not to need the weapon out here—the animal seemed to be repaying his kindness by acting as a self-proclaimed security guard—but he wasn’t big on trust. It was misplaced trust and bad judgment that had landed him here in the first place.

      His coffee ready, he turned on the TV and sipped the scalding liquid while waiting for the static and snow to clear. As he eyed the date on the calendar, Blade realized yesterday had been a childhood friend’s birthday.

      “—We now join Troy Boreman at Longview High,” the no-nonsense news anchor began. “Troy, what’s the latest there? Have any of the students come forward to add new information on Stacie Holms?”

      The reporter in the windbreaker shrunk deeper into his thin jacket. “Carmen, as you can imagine, students and staff remain in shock. These kids went home yesterday focused on their basketball team’s division play-off chances, and possible spring break excursions for the seniors. This morning those same seniors have been hit with the tragic reality that one of their own will not be graduating with them in May.

      “From those I’ve spoken to so far,” the reporter continued, “eighteen-year-old Stacie Holms was a quiet girl who, while not part of the sports or academic scene, had a close circle of friends. We’re hoping to speak with them later.”

      “Troy, are the police on the premises to ensure the students’ safety, since we don’t know why this terrible thing happened?”

      “As you can see behind me, Carmen, police presence is strong—here for crowd control as much as for safety concerns. But as you know, the school already has a full-time member of the LPD based here, as does each of the middle schools—part of the department’s proactive methods of law enforcement.”

      Nodding, Carmen murmured, “Good report, Troy. Keep in touch.”

      Blade switched off the TV and leaned back against the counter to finish his coffee, and to think. Ordinarily, he didn’t pay much attention to the juvie stuff. Tough as this episode was, it didn’t compare to the number of lives snuffed out daily where he came from due to poverty, drugs, gang activity and plain old domestic violence. Kids here tended to die from sports accidents or from reckless or drunken driving. And yet he had been aware of Stacie Holms and her group for a while now; in fact, he’d seen them earlier last evening.

      The teens were memorable, what the good old boys called “show ponies”—miles of hair and makeup as expertly applied as any runway model’s, their nubile bodies shown off to distraction by skin-tight jeans and T-shirts. The middle-class Four Musketeers were regulars at Point East, a pizza-and-pool joint off Highway 80 frequented by an older crowd. The girls’ bravado and serious approach to the game of pool made them seem older, allowing the manager to give them an occasional break. They were good for business, inducing male customers to linger, which meant the booze flowed and the cash register sang.

      Blade had been increasingly aware of them as the group’s apparent leader, Ashley, started spending more time flirting with a piece of bad news on his list. Luckily, bartender-manager, Truitt Hurley chased the kids out by 11:00 p.m.—earlier if he caught them trying to steal or sneak the harder stuff. Last night they stayed on the restaurant side and left immediately after dinner. Blade figured they’d heard about the bad weather due in from Dallas and decided to play it smart and dash for home. Now he wondered.

      By the time he rinsed the mug and reclaimed the sack of dog food from the homesteading mongrel, Blade knew what he needed to do. It was time to see what people at HQ were saying. Daylight, however, was no friend.

      Lieutenant Scott McBrill, the District C night patrol watch commander, and his boss, would be long gone by now. Day Command was handled by District A on the north side of town. Blade didn’t have much use for their lieutenant, aka Mr. Hollywood, but he doubted Ted Glass knew he existed. On the other hand, at 2:00 p.m. command transferred to District B in the heart of the city. That shift continued until 10:00 p.m. and was under Lieutenant Gene Poteet, who did know him and who saw Blade as a way to climb over McBrill promotion-wise. Blade would detour entire neighborhoods to stay out of Poteet’s reach.

      Everything in the LPD was portioned into threes. The three districts were also divided into three patrol beats: 10, 20, 30 for A, 40, 50, 60 for B, and 70, 80 and 90 for C. The theory was that neighborhoods should get to know the officers watching over them and vice versa. It was an inspiring and ambitious attempt to reestablish the nostalgia of the foot cop of days gone by. Blade supposed it was working in the outer neighborhoods fairly well, where some officers actually lived around the people they protected. But undercutting that were the major highways running through the south and east sides, bringing traffic that inevitably chiseled away at the community’s stability.

      Minutes later, he backed a dusty, two-tone brown pickup out from behind the detached garage. The rusting eighties-model Ford was his camouflage, so common in the rural south that it passed virtually unnoticed on the streets. Exactly what Blade wanted when he had to leave his hideout without the cover of darkness.

      Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into the rear of District C station. Taking no chances, he passed empty spots near the doors and parked behind a couple of transport vans, opting for exercise and caution over convenience.

      Like his truck, his clothes offered a chameleon’s protection. Gone was the look-at-me leather jacket, the macho gold necklace and scuffed Tony Lamas. For this trip he wore his oldest jeans with the ragged hems, a plaid flannel shirt that had never seen an iron and that was left open over a ripped undershirt. Add the cheap athletic shoes, and he could pass for any poor yokel trying to figure out where the city had towed his wreck, or hoping a stolen trailer had, indeed, been found. With the excess gel showered away, his overgrown black hair fell low over his brow, another way to alter the shape of his face and avoid eye contact. Blade tried not to expose his eyes, aware their near aqua color were his most distinguishable feature; however, there were times when wearing shades drew more attention, and visiting a police station was one of them.

      “Hey.”

      His gaze first locked on black leather loafers. Glancing up, he saw a pair of tan Dockers, a navy sports jacket with a matching tie over a blue shirt. He met the wary scrutiny of Detective Alan Lefevre. Fair-skinned and blond-haired, the cop always appeared slightly sickly under fluorescent lights. While no friend, Blade had helped him solve a few cases—a significant one only last month.

      “Slow morning?” he replied. “You’re usually out hustling by now.”

      “One of my cases is going to trial today,” Lefevre replied.

      “That explains the conservative attire.” Usually a flashy dresser, today Lefevre could pass for a discount department store manager.

      “The