The Fever Kill

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Crease had spent seven years carting his father home from barrooms and whorehouses, picking him out of the alleys and gutters and carrying him on his back through the frigid streets of Hangtree. The old ladies who woke before dawn would tsk loudly on their porches or smile with all the small cruelty they felt they deserved to pass back to the world. Edwards and the deputies would pace their cruisers alongside and follow mile after mile while Crease struggled beneath his father's weight. The cops would keep their dome lights on so he could see their eyes, the way they grinned. Crease didn't know who he wanted to kill more, them or his father or himself.

Sometimes Edwards would be waiting far ahead on the corner, his handsome features lit by a street lamp or the flare of a match from lighting a cigar. His golden curls drifting in the breeze, pale blue eyes burning. He'd wait until Crease would almost reach him, and then he'd get in the cruiser and fade down a side street, leaving the butt of his cigar still glowing.

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