The weapons were a testament to that. Bill did not tell them where he had acquired the guns he wanted them to take along - another precaution - and no one wanted to ask him. It was another part of his life, a link to his heritage that made them all uncomfortable. Ever since they had discovered that he was a Prowler, they were reluctant to ask him about his past. It was difficult enough to reconcile their love for the man with the knowledge of what he was.
Once upon a time, Bill Cantwell had played football for the New England Patriots. Whenever Jack thought about that, he marveled at the man's control of his physical appearance. Prowlers had to concentrate in order to look human, and it was nothing short of miraculous that Bill had been able to play a game as brutal as professional football and never reveal his true form.
They knew him as a former professional football player, a bartender, a friend. Yet it was clear that he was very old, perhaps centuries old. Before he had played for the Patriots, he must have been many other things. Logic indicated that Bill Cantwell was not even his real name, though that was something else no one wanted to ask him.
It rained all of Thursday morning. It was nearly noon when Jack pulled his battered old Jeep into the narrow alley behind Bridget's. Molly was upstairs, double-checking what she had packed and putting a call in to her mother. Mrs. Hatcher was an alcoholic and worse, and lived in a shabby apartment in a run-down section of Dorchester. Molly called her rarely and went to see her even less. It was not that she didn't love her mother, Jack knew, but that the woman did not care if Molly called or not, could barely seem to remember she had a daughter. Contact became too painful for Molly.
The only other vehicle parked behind the pub that day was Bill's enormous Oldsmobile. Bill bent over the open trunk of the Olds, hair matted to his head by the rain, which dripped in a steady flow from his beard.
Courtney stood just outside the open kitchen door of the pub with a huge black umbrella over her head. The umbrella and the grim expression on her face caused her to resemble a woman standing vigil at a graveside. Jack dumped his bags into the Jeep and walked back to her, ducking his head under the umbrella so that they were only inches from each other.
"Hey," he said, voice low, his words meant just for her. "It isn't a funeral."
Courtney blinked, her mouth dropping open in shock. "That was in really bad taste," she chided him. "I know it isn't a funeral, little brother. I'm just worried about you. About both of you."
The wind swept the heavy rain down at an angle; the buildings provided none of the protection they might have if it had been just a light shower. It was not. It was a storm, the sky low and dark, roiling like an ocean, pregnant with the promise of more rain. With her umbrella cocked at an angle to keep her as dry as possible and leaning on her cane, Courtney looked small and frail to her brother. For a long moment, he hesitated.
"I don't wanna go," he said at last.
She looked stricken. "Then don't go. Let somebody else fight them." Courtney's eyes, usually filled with such life, had none of their familiar sparkle. "We've done our share against these animals, Jack. Nobody's gonna think less of you if you and Molly just stay home. And I . . . if I lose you, little brother . . . you're all I have."
Her voice was so plaintive that Jack almost could not respond. Finally he smiled softly and stepped forward to hold his sister.
"Court, you've got it wrong," he said. "I don't want to go 'cause I don't want to leave you here. Me and Molly, we'll be all right. We find something, or even suspect something, you and Bill will get a call. We'll figure out what to do from there. I'm just . . . I don't want to leave you with the pub to run, and the possibility that . . . there might be more where Tanzer came from."
Mouth set in a firm line, Courtney nodded once. "I'll be fine. Not that you're not a full partner these days, Jack, but you weren't much help back when you were nine. I can handle it. As for the . . . as for them, I'll be careful. And I've got Bill."
Jack narrowed his eyes. Courtney noticed, and seemed pained by his expression.
"You don't trust him?" she whispered.
He barely heard her above the rain. "It isn't that. I mean, he's still Bill. We'd probably be dead without him. I guess I just . . . I don't know if I can ever put aside knowing that he's one of them."
Courtney bristled. "He isn't one of them. Same species, that's all. But so are you and Hitler and Jeffrey Dahmer. Doesn't make you one of them."
Jack took a long breath. He glanced at Bill, who was down the alley, still fussing with something in his trunk, and wondered how good his hearing was. Then he turned back to Courtney and nodded.
"We've been through this. I know you're right. He's the closest thing to an uncle or whatever I've ever had. The closest thing to family we've had since Mom died. But it's hard not to hold something back, y'know? I mean, they're a whole race of Hitlers and Dahmers, and
