Yes, the voice retorted, but for how long? It mimicked his own doubts. He was, after all, playing a hunch; there was no guarantee those bodies would resuscitate. There had been no actual bite—would that matter? How was this affliction or disease or curse or whatever the hell it was transmitted, anyway? Was it by supernatural means, as in the bite, the actual occult ritual of biting? Or was it some alien bacillus that reanimated a dead body with omnipotent hunger pangs? And how would such a supernatural germ get passed along—the mucus, the saliva? The vision of the dying child and his murderous burden came back like a shot. The wound could have been, must have been tainted by Danner’s own spore. Which could mean . . . Stiles shrugged. Whatever it meant, he wouldn’t take any chances. That was why he couldn’t let Bean or Sanders or anyone else in on his find. Murders bring investigations and they bring the county coroner and the bodies are inevitably bagged and taken away. It just wouldn’t do to have the three come back in the middle of their own autopsies, in a morgue where Stiles couldn’t put them back to sleep.

Logic was another reason to wait. It made perfect sense for the boys to come back and for Danner to make an appearance. The latter had been lucky last night; it isn’t every day one’s supper comes to him so conveniently. He would not be so lucky again. Blind and crippled, Danner could flounder in the countryside for weeks, months, unless . . . unless he had three servants to search for him, to corral his meals, and watch over him and make sure he was hidden before daylight.

And besides that, logic aside, Stiles had a gut feeling. Most would have called it paranoia and dismissed it, but Stiles had been at this for too long. He knew when to ignore a hunch and when to play one. Danner would be back, he knew. He felt the anger rise again and tried forcing it down. He should have been cold, calculating. But he just couldn’t seem to grasp the assassin’s attitude this time out. Maybe because this time he wasn’t just the gunman riding into town with no stake in the game. This time he was involved, because, like it or not, it was his fault. He should’ve cut Danner in two when he first laid eyes on him, but he was too intent on getting into that house, on finding the Enemy. For Alex.

“You got me into this, Slick,” he said aloud. “Again. Why can’t you ever get me out?”