Leave me alone, Gun thought. Fight with Sam Schaeffer, fight with the whole damned Bureau. But leave me alone. Because I'm looking for the son of a bitch that killed that old man, and I'm going to get him. If you just leave me to hell alone, Lieutenant.

Killpath peered through half closed lids at his reflection, thrust up his chin in a gesture of satisfaction and about-faced.

Gun waited for Killpath to sit down behind the desk near the window. He sat stiff-backed in a chair that did not swivel, though it was obvious to Gun that Killpath felt his position as acting captain plainly merited a swivel chair. The desk before him was in no better repair than the rest of the furniture crowded into the room, including wooden file cabinets with some of their pulls yanked off and a wardrobe stained with the roof seepage of countless seasons.

Killpath pulled one thin leg up, clamping his arms around the shinbone to press his knee into an incredibly scrawny gut. It was the posture which the men had come to recognize as that of Killpath defying his ulcer. He put his chin on his kneecap, stretching his neck like that of a turkey on a chopping block, and stared wordlessly at his sergeant.

Gun waited.

The 7:45 bell rang and he could hear the outside doors bang shut, closing in the assembled day watch.

Finally, Orville intoned through his hawk nose, ``We cann't have people running in any time they please, Sergeant.''