Down stairs some of the habituals would still be drifting between the tables, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and their minds blurred with too much alcohol, but the rest of the world outside had buried itself, like Count Dracula, away from the morning sun. Across the stillness a rooster crowed shrilly, and annoyed at the lack of response, did it again. I had awakened abruptly, fully conscious of being on the couch with the .45 warm in my hand. It had been an automatic reflex developed from years of waiting and watching, of hearing even when your brain was deep in the black of sleep. Inside the closed door of the bedroom I heard Kim toss restlessly, but that wasn’t what had awakened me. Then I heard it again, the slow tread of footsteps going past my door, the fractional hesitancy when they were directly opposite it. I slid off the couch, cocked the .45 under my arm so the click would be inaudible and crossed to the door in my stocking feet. I waited, listening, then yanked the door open and jumped through it, the rod in my hand swiveling with my body, and I crouched to cover both ends of the corridor.
