Billie was standing at Pete’s work counter when she saw, among the tools and car parts and empty beer cans, some unusually altered shotgun shells. She picked one up. It had crepe streamers attached to the top and a cork with a nail through it glued to the bottom. The plastic casing had been scored and a length of tape wrapped around the middle. From the look of it, the tape had been impregnated with long silver clippings and slivers of wire. “What the hell is this?” she asked.

“A little home cooking,” Bean said, taking it out of her hands and laying it back on the table. “They’re fragmentation grenades. They land on the cork, and the nail detonates the shell. Since the casing has been scored, the charge blows outward rather than up, and that sprays the pieces of silver in every direction. Nasty little thing, isn’t it? I thought Stiles could use them, but . . . doesn’t look like that now, does it?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bart told me about his stuff being gone. Looks to me like he’s just took off.”

Billie bristled at the notion. “You know what your problem is, Bean? You haven’t got any faith. He said he’ll be here. Okay?”

Bean had a cynical retort in mind but didn’t get the chance to use it. He was interrupted by the sound of an engine outside. Del ran to the door, then came back with an I-told-you-so grin. “Wrong again, Chuck,” the boy proclaimed.

Everyone stopped and turned their attention toward the doorway as a figure appeared there. Stiles was clad in black fatigues and knit cap and gloves. Even his face was smudged black, so that he looked like a shadow pulled loose from the ground. His mere presence had a distinct effect on the townspeople assembled there; a flash of relief, and of hope, swept through the room, but with it a tinge of fear. Bean could feel it. This dark angel might be their only salvation, but he also put them on edge.

The deputy felt empathy with them. Stiles made him nervous too.