Sheriff Lauters was at Dr. Perry's, sitting in his little study, thinking over all the mumbo-jumbo Claussen had told the doc and the doc had told him. And every moment, he got a little angrier.
"Damn that Jesus-spouting fool," Lauters said. "If he was here now, I swear to God I'd ring his scrawny neck. Stupid sonofabitch."
"Take it easy, Bill," Perry said, stretching his back and wincing. "Claussen doesn't know any better."
"Yes, he does. Goddamit, he does. He's an educated man. He should know better than to be spreading around old wives' tales like that. Werewolves, monsters…my ass."
"Hopefully, he'll keep it to himself."
The sheriff grunted in disgust. "That's a whole hell of a lot to be hoping for, Doc."
Perry shrugged. It was his back he was concerned with at the moment. Not murders. Not Claussen. Not werewolves and bogies. His lower back was knotted up with a raw, twisting pain. It was not getting better. One of these days he wouldn't get out of bed at all.
"You mark my word, Doc. Come Sunday that damn ass will be spouting off about werewolves and devils and God knows what in his sermon."
"Nothing we can do about that, Sheriff."
"We'll see about that." Lauters strapped on his guns and took off out the door. "We'll just see."
"Sheriff-" Perry started to rise, but the pain in his back set him down again, his forehead beaded with sweat. Licking his lips, he opened his lower desk drawer and took out a small black box. In it was a syringe and several small bottles of morphine.
Alone, Perry injected himself.