Karen rose, reaching behind her to rebutton her sweater. "You're being
pretty intolerant."
"Damn it, the whole town!" He backed away, his feet sinking deep in the
cold sand.
Karen shrugged. "Don't take it so big." She looked up at him hopefully.
"Well, you'll at least drive me home?"
Belatedly, Wheelan said, "Sure. Come on." Near his car he said quietly,
"Now I'm really going to get them."
* * * * *
It wasn't until the next Wednesday that Wheelan had his leaflets ready
to hand out. The local printers had, one way and another, refused the
job. He'd had to have them done in Santa Monica.
The two cub scouts he'd hired to help him had both come down with
something late Tuesday. Wheelan stationed himself on Chambers Drive
near the two largest tourist motels early on the clear June morning.
He had handed out five of his anti-lycanthropy leaflets when Chief
Harold Neff drove up on his official motorcycle. Wheelan spotted him a
block away by his gold-painted crash helmet. It was the only one on the
force.
"Hi, there, Glenn," said Neff, after he'd parked the cycle in a red
zone. "What are you up to?"