"You've got a revival going on tonight?" Howard tried to sound casual, hoping to calm the pastor, whom they'd obviously disturbed and upset. His eyes immediately went to the canal, which he could now clearly see, running through the back of the church's property.

"Yes," the pastor replied, making no effort to hide his displeasure. "We checked and I'm sure this doesn't violate any city ordinances, so is there a problem?"

Might as well get right to the point. "Are you aware, sir, that there's a city-wide alert tonight regarding the canals?"

"No I wasn't. So what?"

"Everyone's supposed to stay away from the canals until the crisis is over. I'm concerned your tent is too close to the canal over there." Howard pointed.

The pastor looked toward the canal and stared, trying to comprehend why the policeman had broken his concentration. How long would it take to get focused again?

"Why could you possibly be worried about the tent being this close to the canal? No one's going to fall in, if that's what you're worried about."

No, but you might be torn to pieces.

Howard said, "You've obviously not been reading the papers or listening to the radio lately, have you, Pastor?"

"No, as a matter of fact I've been quite busy preparing for the very revival you're now delaying the start of, Officer."

"Eleven people have been killed by the canals this week, Pastor. Seeing as how you've got a canal running through the back of your property, and you being so concerned about your congregation and all, I would think you'd be all over this."

"Well it's a good thing you're on the job then, Officer. I feel safe now and I'm sure my congregation does too."

They squared off like boxers.

Sister Tanya poked her head around the corner, was about to call out when she saw the policeman and Pastor Keith in a face-off. She shut her mouth and disappeared.

The pastor saw her and it made him realize he had become unnecessarily, and perhaps rudely, upset, which was very unpastor-like of him. He sighed and said, "I'm sorry for losing my patience, officers. What would you have me do? What would make you happy?"

"You could make sure your congregation exits directly to the church or the parking lot, and that absolutely no one walks out here by the canal."

"I'll make sure that happens. Is there anything else?"

"Yes," Howard said. He could at least try. "You could reschedule the revival and send everyone home."

The pastor smiled but didn't say anything and Howard knew he was barking into the wind. He could call into HQ and get the authority to shut the revival down, something inside screamed for him to do just that, but what were the odds the creature would attack such a large group, especially if no one came out here by the canal?

So he said, "Well, have a good one," and they left.

The pastor returned to his pacing.

Their timing could not have been worse. The revival should be starting right now and he had been ready, ready to knock their socks off. Then the cops show up and break his concentration. Over what? Keep the kids away from the canal? What kind of idiots do they take us for? Of course the parents in my congregation won't let their kids play by the canal.

He couldn't help being mad at the policemen. He'd prepared a dynamic start for the revival, but now, thanks to those two nosey cops, he'd lost his momentum and was too upset to go on.

He looked at his watch and got an idea.

He fetched Sister Tanya and told her to have the choir sing one of their hymns, the rowdiest one; he'll jump in and start the revival just as they finish.

This will work. He'll get a few minutes to regain his momentum and the hymn will get the congregation clapping and swaying.

He paced furiously; three minutes to showtime.

Baskel, Captain Bozeman, and several other detectives sat around a table at police headquarters. Each had a copy of the roster: who was where and doing what. The coffee pot was gurgling, spitting out high-octane brew that was guzzled as fast as it was made.

Baskel looked at the bottom of the page, where it read "Detective Daniel Lawless and Deputy Sandra Jensen" followed by a "?". The question mark meant they were floaters and weren't expected to follow any specific route.

No one had heard from them since they left the station that afternoon. Big surprise. Baskel picked up the phone, hit redial, and hung up at Lawless's voicemail prompt, dialed Lawless's home and Jensen's apartment numbers and got the same result.

Captain Bozeman watched Baskel go through the routine again and said, "Dave, we've got things under control here. Why don't you go find them?"

"You sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. How many people do you think we need sitting around this table? Make sure you take a radio, though. We don't want any cell phone batteries dying again."

Baskel nodded, said as he left, "I'll let you know when I find them," and picked up a radio on the way out.

Outside, the crowd of news people had thinned. He hoped they had the good sense to go back to their hotels or to a bar, afraid some would have the bad sense to do something really stupid, like stake out a canal.

The sun set as he made his way to Jensen's apartment. His dream haunted him; he found himself looking at the darkening sky and scanning the horizon for flying monsters. He felt like a kid again, scared of the dark. He could almost feel the monster coming out of its hidey-hole to do its business, the business of terrorizing and eating people.

He tried Lawless's cell phone again but wasn't listening when the voicemail came on. He thought about their preparations: it'd felt good to plan and mark up the map, move assets around; do something. But now, driving in his car while scanning the skies for flying dragons, he had a terrible feeling it wasn't enough: they needed Lawless and his goofy visions.

And maybe even that wouldn't be enough.

His eyes scanned the near-dark sky.

The creature woke from its slumber of change, terrified by its hunger. It raced through the canal, holding its new legs flat against its body for greater speed.

It sensed life and leapt out of the canal, its new legs extending. The planet's star was still lighting the sky, but not enough to harm it. It spied the prey it had sensed, standing on four legs fifty feet away. The prey saw the creature and made a vibration with their mouths. Several of them began moving, making the vibration while they plodded, their heavy bodies sagging and swaying side to side.

Driven half-mad by hunger, the creature sprinted to the closest prey, its new legs carrying its heavy body as if it had been born with them. They were exactly the length the creature needed: any longer they would slow it down in the water, any shorter they would be useless on land. Each foot had three toes capped with a six-inch nail made of the same metal-like material as its teeth.

Its head remained level as it ran; its six-foot-long neck flexing and extending to absorb what little up-and-down movement its body made. Its prey watched it with stupid eyes, making their vibrations but failing miserably to escape. With its jaw full extended, the monster struck one of the creatures, biting off a large chunk. It swallowed and bit again. Gaining immediate strength from the prey's life-force, it fought off the urge to reject the foul flesh, so accustomed had it become to its preferred prey.

It killed and ate five of the creatures before returning to the canal, confident it had sufficient energy to last until it could hunt with its young.

When she reached her lair and the young clamored to be fed, she did not give up her meal. She made a vibration and commanded them to come. She had eight young but only six came forward, nipping aggressively at her new legs and at each other. She looked them over, nipped back, and felt satisfied these were ready to hunt. They were only half grown but the prey on this planet were weak and these would have no difficulty taking them.

The other two young hung back, unsure of themselves. They were smaller and more timid than their six aggressive siblings. She killed them both. She could not have them weakening the gene pool at such a critical time.

She made a vibration, instructing the strong six to bite their dead siblings. They obeyed, rushing and biting, tearing. Each one recoiled at the taste of their kind's flesh and she was satisfied they had learned the most valuable lesson they would ever be taught: they must never look at others of their kind as prey, no matter how hungry they were.

She made a vibration and swam out of the lair. The young followed, hungry, eager to hunt their own prey, to feed.

"Unit one-zero-four, come in."

Buddy jumped when the radio crackled. Randy heard it too and looked down at his waist. Failing to see the radio clipped to his belt, his head snapped up and he glared at Buddy.

"You took the radio!"

Buddy shrugged, picked the radio up and started pressing buttons.

Randy raced across the street, shouting, "Lemme get it! Lemme get it!"

Too late, Buddy thought, finding the Send button.

"Yeah, uh. This is unit one-oh-four. Come in." Buddy grinned from ear to ear. It was the first time he'd actually talked into a police radio, when it wasn't just practice, that is.

"You're not supposed to say 'oh,' idiot! You're supposed to say 'zero!'" Randy skidded to a stop in front of Buddy and reached for the radio. "Here. Let me do it."

"No way, Rand. I got it. You get to do the next one."

The radio crackled: "This is the light check, unit one-zero-four. All lights should be on and should stay on until sunrise. Over."

Buddy grinned, but didn't know what to say.

"Gimme the radio," Randy pleaded, hopping from foot to foot. "You're supposed to answer."

"What do I say?" Buddy asked, holding the radio out of Randy's reach.

"Gimme it! I'll do it! Come on, you're blowing it!" Randy stopped hopping and started shaking his hands, juking his body up and down, flexing his knees.

Buddy pressed the Send button. "Roger that. We're turning on the lights right now." He smiled at Randy, then thought and pressed the button again and said, "Over."

That was it. He'd handled his first real police call. He was still grinning when he handed the radio to Randy, who scowled and stared at it, willing it to crackle again.

"Thanks a lot, numbnuts," Randy muttered, scuffing back across the road.

Buddy reached into a grocery bag full of snacks and pulled out a donut. He took a bite, chewed, and washed it down with a hit of Pepsi. He finished the donut and started in on another one. White powdered sugar dusted his lips and chin and sprinkled over his jeans. He slurped more Pepsi and grabbed a handful of chips.

Randy was leaning against the canal railing, still staring at the radio. It was almost dark and Buddy had trouble seeing Randy's sad face, somewhat spoiling his fun. He should have thought to bring a flashlight.

Both boys concentrated on what they held in their hands, junk food and a radio, and forgot about their lights. Their canal lay in darkness, lit only by the moon, what little starlight filtered through the Valley smog, and a streetlight half a block away.

"What'd they say?" Jim asked Fred, yelling across the street through cupped hands. Their road was busy and a steady stream of cars whizzed by.

"They said turn the lights on and leave them on all night," Fred called back.

"See, I told you they thought we were a bunch of stooges! They think we're so stupid we have to be told to turn the lights on."

Their lights had been on for ten minutes and their canals were well lit. Fred stood and looked over the railing into the water. At first he'd been intrigued by their assignment, thinking they might be doing something important, but so far they were batting five hundred; four pairs of jogger/walkers had heeded their warning, but four others had not, and they had been rude. He was used to kids being rude, but adults? Couldn't they see the city was serious about this?

His mind wandered and he thought about the state of society in general. People were rude now. No one used turn signals anymore, they just drifted into your lane when they felt like it. No one held doors for others and men didn't give up their seats to women. When he was young, that was automatic. He blamed women's lib. And the cell phones: he couldn't have a meal in a restaurant or watch a movie without two or three of them going off. Worst thing was, the idiots took the calls, yapping at their table as if everyone wanted to hear the details of their pathetic lives, or, if they were at the movies, they would rush out of the theater whispering, as if they were neurosurgeons being summoned to perform emergency brain surgery.

The country was awash with rude people.

Fred worked himself into a funk and thought about packing up and going home, or anywhere he wouldn't have to listen to Jim Waterman complain. Or put up with rude people.

Instead, he lit a cigarette. People of his generation saw a thing through to the end. If a guy said he was going to do something, he put in his time and finished. He didn't leave the ballgame in the eighth inning to beat the traffic, he waited until the last pitch was thrown.

He puffed and heard Jim yell, "I can smell your stinky stick all the way over here, Reese!"

Fred wished he had brought earplugs, then remembered he had. Gladys made him tote one of those ridiculous kits around wherever he went: Band-Aids and tweezers and gauze and disinfectant and a little tin of Tylenol and ... yes! Ear plugs.

He popped them in his ears when he was sure Jim wasn't looking.

He smiled and puffed. Let the fool talk all he wanted.

Sister Tanya watched Pastor Keith prance on the stage and didn't know whether to laugh or cry or scream or run. Pastor Keith wasn't Pastor Keith tonight, he was someone else.

The revival started twenty minutes ago when the choir sang an old gospel hymn, one she was unfamiliar with. The congregation had turned around to watch, some even turning their chairs. It was a very lively hymn, she heard someone call it a "negro spiritual." People clapped and swayed.

Toward the end of the hymn, Pastor Keith ran onto the stage. He looked disappointed when all he saw were the back of people's heads, and he shot her a dirty look, as if it was somehow her doing.

To get the congregation's attention, he'd moved to the front of the stage, running and skipping back and forth, clapping louder than everyone. A minute later the choir stopped and he launched into his speech, or talk, or sermon; she wasn't sure what to call it.

At first she was shocked. It was so unlike Pastor Keith to behave like this, almost crude at times. His sermons were always dignified. He might raise his voice on occasion, when making a point about the evils of pornography or sex or drugs, but it wasn't his usual style. He'd said many times that the Word of God needn't be shouted into anyone's heart; when they heard it preached plain and simple, they would open their hearts and let it in.

Well, he was certainly trying to shout it in tonight, and jump it in, and run it in, and pray it in. It took her a while to warm to his performance, but soon she was clapping with the congregation, who really seemed to be eating it up, especially the guests.

The choir sang another hymn and Pastor Keith prayed. At least she thought it was a prayer. She wasn't sure because he hollered a couple of times. He preached a little more, then did something she'd never seen him do: he called for the speaking in tongues. Theirs was not a Pentecostal or "holly roller" church and she had never heard anyone speak in tongues.

What happened next shocked her: a man jumped up and began babbling in a language she'd never heard. She stared at him. Pastor Keith stared at him. The congregation turned in their seats so they could stare.

Pastor Keith caught on fire. He leapt off the stage, almost landing in Morris Simpson's lap, and ran to the man, shaking and pumping his hand, calling out for more speaking in tongues. Another man jumped up and began babbling. Pastor Keith ran back to the stage and began shouting and yelling. A woman in the front stood and babbled, followed by another in the back. Soon there were five, six, seven, eight babblers, all going at the same time. Then she heard bleating, like a sheep - was it a man? a woman? a child? she couldn't tell - and then mooing.

She placed her hands over her ears, feeling that everyone, or maybe just her, had gone mad. She waited for Pastor Keith to put an end to this lunacy but he only encouraged it. He fell to his knees and hollered another prayer.

When Sister Tanya felt the sudden urge to cluck like a chicken, she ran out of the tent and kept running until she was halfway to the church. She kept her hands over her ears and gulped in air, trying to calm herself. She didn't know if she was terrified or thrilled, if she should go back in or go home. Her heart raced and she placed a hand over it, willing it to slow.

Then, not understanding why anything was happening the way it was, she closed her eyes and began caressing her breast. She'd never felt like this before; so alive, so electric. She pulsated in places she couldn't ever remembering pulsating in. Her heart fluttered.

She dropped her hand and ran back to the tent. Whatever Pastor Keith was whipping up in there, she was sure she wanted more of it.

Jensen opened the door and let Baskel in. His eyes were immediately drawn to the Lazy Boy recliner that sat in the middle of her living room.

"Odd time to rearrange furniture, isn't it?"

"Actually, that's new," Jensen said, closing the door. "I just bought it off a neighbor."

Lawless came in from the kitchen carrying a glass of water. "Hello, Detective."

"Hey," Baskel said back, staring at the chair. Something strange was going on. For one thing, they both seemed relaxed, way too relaxed considering the circumstances.

"You guys got things going?" Lawless asked him.

"Yeah, everything's going as planned so far." Baskel sat on the couch. "Captain told me to find you, see if you had anything going on."