Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set
Author: F. Paul Wilson
Date: 2014-01-13 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Literature & Fiction; Ghosts; Occult; Stephen King; blake crouch; Paranormal; Supernatural; Adventure
Description: A box set of six supernatural, paranormal, and horror thrillers from international bestselling authors. More than 455,000 words of fiction, including the complete text of: VIRGIN by F. Paul Wilson-- She was hidden in the desert...to rest in peace. They shouldn't have disturbed her. HAUNTED HOUSE by J.A. Konrath & Jack Kilborn—People are dying to leave. WOLF HUNT by Jeff Strand-- Two thugs. One innocent woman. And one VICIOUS frickin’ werewolf. EERIE by Blake Crouch & Jordan Crouch-- One scary m*****f****** house. SPEED DATING WITH THE DEAD by Scott Nicholson-- Ghost hunters at a paranormal con
Publisher: Haunted Computer Books

Ultimate

Supernatural Horror

Box Set

Featuring:

Virgin
(by F. Paul Wilson)

Haunted House (by J.A. Konrath & Jack Kilborn)

Wolf Hunt (by Jeff Strand)

Eerie (by Blake Crouch and Jordan Crouch)

Speed Dating with the Dead (by Scott Nicholson)

The
Final Winter (by Iain Rob Wright)

Copyright ©2013 by F. Paul Wilson, J.A. Konrath, Jeff Strand, Blake Crouch, Jordan Crouch, Scott Nicholson, and Wright Ideas Ltd.

VIRGIN

a novel by

F. Paul Wilson

VIRGIN

Copyright © 1996 by F. Paul Wilson

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1880325759

First Edition (under the pseudonym Mary Elizabeth Murphy): Berkley Books - January 1996

VIRGIN

After they banished me from Jerusalem I wandered south, leaving my position and my inheritance behind.  What need had I of money?  I wished to be dead.

I tore my blue robe with the three-striped sleeve and cast it from me.  I traded it to a beggar for the filthy, louse-infested rags on his back.  But the lice have not bitten me.  They deserted the rags as soon as I donned them.

Even the vermin will have nothing to do with me.

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

1991

Israel

The Judean Wilderness

“Don’t spare that switch, Achmed,” Nabil called back from the lead position where he played the flashlight along the slope rising ahead of them.  “Getting there second is as good as not getting there at all.”

I know that, Achmed thought and swatted the donkey’s flanks with greater vigor.

He and his brother panted as they pulled and drove the reluctant beast up the incline into the craggy foothills below the high wilderness.

Behind him the parched land sloped away to the Dead Sea; ahead lay the mountains, forbidding during the day, terrifying at night.  Countless stars twinkled madly in the ebon dome of the sky, and the near-full moon on high etched the sere landscape with bleached light and bottomless shadow.  The beam from Nabil’s flashlight was barely distinguishable in the moonglow.

An empty sky now, but not long ago a dark object had screamed through the night, trailing fire and smoke.  Achmed and Nabil had leapt from their camel-hair blankets and stumbled out of their tent into the cool night air in time to see the bright flare of its explosive collision with the nearby hills.

Achmed remembered his initial awe and terror.  “It is the hand of Allah!”

He also remembered Nabil’s none-too-gentle shove against his shoulder.

“Goat!  It’s a missile.  You heard the talk around the fire last night.  The hero Saddam is sending missiles against his enemies.  Thousands of missiles.  And he’s killing Jews and infidels by the millions.  Already he has sent the Americans howling with their tails between their legs.  Soon there will be no more Israel and our herds will graze among our enemies’ bones in the ruins of Tel Aviv.  Let’s go!”

“Go where?” Achmed cried as his older brother began pushing through the huddled goats toward their tethered ass.

“Into the hills!”

“Why?”  He wasn’t challenging his older brother—a good Bedouin boy did not question the eldest son of his father—he simply wanted to know.

Nabil turned and pointed toward the jagged sawblade of rock that cut the western sky.  His face was shadowed but Achmed knew from the impatience in his voice that his brother was wearing his habitual you’re-so-stupid scowl.

“That was a missile that just passed, a giant bullet.  And what are bullets made of?”  Achmed opened his mouth to answer but Nabil wasn’t waiting.  “Metal!  And what do we do with any scrap metal we find?”

“We sell it,” Achmed said quickly, and suddenly he saw the reason for Nabil’s haste.  “There will be lots of metal!” he said.

Nabil nodded.  “Tons of it.  So move those feet, camel face!”

Once again he realized why their father placed so much trust in Nabil, and why he was glad Nabil had been born first.  Achmed doubted he could handle the responsibility of being the eldest son—the only thing he did better than Nabil was play the rababah, hardly a useful skill.  He hoped he was as muscular as Nabil when he reached seventeen in three years, and prayed he’d be able to sport such a respectable start at a beard.  At times he despaired of outgrowing this reedy, ungainly body.

And tonight was but further proof of his unsuitability for leadership.  Never would he have thought of making profit for the family from the remnants of a spent and exploded missile.  But he could lend his back to gathering the scrap so that his abu could be proud of both of his sons.

And now, as they clambered up a slope that seemed ever steeper, a thought struck him.  The goats!  Father had entrusted them with one of the family herds, to take it north in search of better grazing.  That herd now stood untended and unguarded on the plain below, ready to be driven off unchallenged by any passer-by with a larcenous heart.

Achmed turned and gazed back down the slope.  The Dead Sea gleamed in the moonlight like a strip of hammered silver, shadowed on the far side by the mountains of Jordan and outlined on the near by the black, shore-hugging ribbon of Highway 90.  No lights moved on the highway.  Their herd was safely huddled in a dry basin kilometers from the road.  He realized his fears were groundless.  Who would be wandering about the wilderness in the dead of night?  The only thing moving here was Hamsin, the desert wind.

As he returned to the climb, a question popped into his mind.

“Nabil!  Why has this missile landed here instead of in Tel Aviv?”

“Probably one of the Israelis hit it with a lucky shot and knocked it off course.”

Of course, Achmed thought.  Why didn’t I think of that?  Nabil always had an answer.

Achmed followed his brother up the steepening incline of the dry wadi, so steep at times that he had to heave his shoulder against the donkey’s smelly hindquarters to assist the beast up the slope.  Eventually they came to a ribbed outcrop of stone that towered over them.  In the daytime this rock would have looked sandy red and yellow.  Now in the moonlight it glowed goats-milk white, streaked with the stark shadows of its crevices.

“What do we do now?”

Nabil looked around, then up, then ranged left and right along the face of the rock as if he expected to find a path into the cliffside.

“I don’t know.  There must be away around this.  The missile crashed atop it.  We must find a way up.”

“Maybe it crashed on the other side.  I couldn’t tell from where we stood.  Could you?”

Achmed saw his brother shake his shadowed head.  “I’m sure it crashed atop this cliff.  Almost sure.  Maybe if we travel around it we’ll find a way up.”

To the left looked no more promising than the right, but something in Achmed drew him leftward.

“That way,” he said, surprised by the certainty in his voice as he pointed south.

Nabil stared at him a moment, then shrugged and turned south.

“As good a way to start as any.”

The going got rougher.  No path here, no sign that man or beast had ever traveled this route.  Their sandals and the donkey’s hooves slipped on the loose shale that littered their way.  The jagged edges angled up, cutting Achmed’s feet and ankles.

After struggling along for a few hundred feet, Nabil turned and stopped the donkey.

“This isn’t going anywhere.  We’ll turn back and try the other way.”

“We’ve come so far already,” Achmed said.  “Just a little further.  Let’s see what’s around that bend before we turn back.”

“All right.  To the bend and no more.”

They struggled farther along the narrow path, and as they were slithering past a jagged rib in the cliff wall, Nabil called back from the lead.

“You were right!  It ends here.  We can get past it here!”

As Achmed followed the donkey around the rib, he saw that the far side was just as steep as the near, with no gully or ravine to allow them passage to the top.  And worse, the leading edge of the outcrop was topped by an overhang of stone that would have daunted them even had there been a way to climb the face.

They had entered the mouth of a deep canyon.  Beyond the outcrop a broad dry wadi swept down from the upper reaches of the range; half a dozen feet above that, a small, raised field.  And beyond the field stood another sheer-faced cliff even more forbidding than the one they had just skirted.

Nabil stood in the moonlight, head back, hands on hips, staring at the cliff face.

“There’s no way up.”

Achmed’s voice choked on his disappointment.  He could only nod.  He’d been so sure...

Something stung his nostrils.  He blinked his suddenly watery eyes.  He couldn’t see it but he could smell it.  Smoke...riding the breeze that wafted down the wadi.

“Nabil...?”

But his brother had smelled it too.

“Achmed!  Follow!  Quickly!”

They drove the donkey up the gentler slope of the dry riverbed.  As they neared the small field the smoke became thicker.  Another hundred feet and Achmed spotted the flames.

“It’s here!” Nabil cried.  “It crashed here!”

They dragged and pushed the donkey up the far bank of the wadi and stopped at the top to stare at the tiny field that ran across the base of the canyon mouth.  Stunted fig trees reached their twisted branches heavenward at regular intervals across its narrow span.  A few of them were burning.  Dozens of tiny grass fires crawled along the field’s smooth surface.

“Let’s get to work!” Nabil said.

As his older brother tethered the donkey to the nearest tree, Achmed spotted a dark lump in the sand to his right.  He knelt and touched it, gingerly.  Hard, with sharp, twisted edges.  And warm.  Still warm.

“I’ve found a piece!” he cried aloud.

The first piece! he boasted silently.

Nabil pointed to a spot near the donkey’s feet.  “Drop it here.  When we’ve collected as much as we can carry, we’ll load up and head back to the herd.  And hurry, Achmed.  As sure as you breathe, we’re going to have company soon.”

Company?  Did he mean other Bedouin, or Israelis?  Not that it mattered.  Either way, they stood to lose whatever metal they gathered.

‡

Over Beit Shemesh

Chaim Kesev set his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.  He wasn’t cold—far from it in this bulky flack jacket.  No, the incessant vibrations from the engine coursing throughout the helicopter’s fuselage were penetrating the padding of his seat, jittering up his spine, piercing his skull, and running to his teeth.  He was sure a couple of them would rattle loose if he had to take much more of this.

Man was not meant to fly.

Kesev hated flying, and he hated flying in helicopters most of all.  But after he’d watched the computer plot the course of the errant SCUD on the map, and seen the area encircled for maximum probability of impact—120 kilometers southeast of Tel Aviv—he knew he couldn’t wait in the city for the report from the crash site.  Everyone else in the tracking center had been relieved that the SCUD had landed in an unpopulated area of the Southern District wilderness.  Not Kesev.  Not when it was that particular area.

As soon as the all clear had sounded, he’d pushed his way aboard the reconnaissance helicopter.  His presence had raised eyebrows among the crew.  Who was this pushy little man, this swarthy, slight, five-eight, middle-aged, bearded wonder to elbow his way onto their craft?  But when he’d flashed them his Shin Bet identification they’d sealed their lips.  None of them had the nerve to challenge the wishes of a Domestic Intelligence operative when the country was under attack.

Kesev stared down at the mountainous terrain below and wondered where they were.

“How much further?” he asked the copilot lounging in the seat directly ahead of his.

“Not much longer now, sir,” the airman said, then laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Sorry, sir.  It’s just that whenever my family used to take a trip, I’d drive my father crazy saying, ‘Are we there yet?  Are we there yet?’  And that’s the answer he’d always give me: ‘Not much longer now.’  And here I am, saying it to you.”

“I was not aware,” Kesev said icily, “that a question concerning our arrival at the crash site of a weapon hurled at us by one of our most vicious enemies, a weapon that might contain chemical or biological toxins, could be construed as childish.”

“Sir,” the copilot said, straightening in his seat and half turning toward him.  “I meant nothing like that.  I—”

He knew he was being unfair, but he was edgy and irritable and wanted to lay off some of that burden on this youngster.

“Nor was I aware that I was driving you crazy.”

“Sir, I was just—”

“Just keep us on course.”

“Yes sir.”

On course.  The missile in question had been anything but.  SCUDs had a reputation for being about as accurate as fireworks rockets, but this particular missile’s course had added a new dimension to the concept of erratic.  It had turned so far south that it never came within range of the Patriots the army had borrowed from the Americans.  For a while it looked as if it might crash into the Dead Sea, but its trajectory had flattened momentarily, carrying it into the Wilderness.

Near the Resting Place.

Kesev had no doubt that it had missed the Resting Place.  A direct hit was inconceivable.  But anything focusing attention on that area posed a threat to the secret.  He wanted to see the crash site himself, and wanted to be present when the inspection team arrived.  He’d be there to deal with any other intelligence service that might try to tag along.  Domestic intelligence was Shin Bet’s domain and Kesev was here to claim it for them.  He feared that if he didn’t stake out his territory now, Mossad and Aman would be horning in, and might wander into areas they shouldn’t.

One area—the Resting Place—was not to be disturbed.  Never disturbed.  He shuddered to think of the consequences...

Kesev tried to shake off the unease that had encircled his throat since he’d seen the computer MPI printout.

“I’m still waiting for the answer to my question,” he said to no one in particular.

“ETA twenty minutes, sir,” the copilot said without looking at him.

That’s better, Kesev thought.  That is the proper way to treat one of Shin Bet’s top operatives.

Then he reconsidered.  Perhaps he was being too hard on the youth.  He’d been a young upstart once.

Dear Lord, how long ago had that been?

Never mind.

“Who do you think aimed this missile?” Kesev said, trying to lighten the leaden mood that had settled on the cabin.  “A blind man?”

“Yeah,” the pilot said.  “Ayatollah Stevie Wonder.”

The copilot laughed and Kesev forced a smile, all the while wanting to ask, Who is Stevie Wonder?  But he feared sounding out of touch.  He was ever on guard against sounding out of touch.

“Yeah,” the copilot said.  “Someone put a mean hook on that SCUD.”

“Hook?”

“You ever play golf, sir?”

Kesev had tried it once or twice but had been unable to comprehend the fascination the game held for so many of his countrymen.

“Of course.”

“Well, you aim a SCUD at Tel Aviv and it just misses the Dead Sea.  I’d say that’s one hell of a hook.”

Missed Tel Aviv by 120 miles.  That was indeed far off course.  Too far off.  Almost...

Don’t think crazy thoughts, he told himself.  It’s an accident.  Just another one of those crazy things that just seem to happen.

But he’d long known from personal experience that some things that seemed to “just happen,” didn’t.

And he trembled at the possibility that this errant SCUD incident might be one of those.

‡

The Judean Wilderness

Achmed darted about the field, collecting metal scraps of assorted sizes until both arms were full, then he scampered back and dumped his finds on the steadily growing pile by the donkey.  The clang of metal on metal echoed like cracked bells through the still air.

On his next run, he ranged farther, searching for the crater where the missile had exploded.  He figured he might find the most metal there.  Then again, he might not—the blast might have hurled it in all directions, leaving metal everywhere but the crater.  But either way, he wanted to see it, be near it, wanted to stand in the heart of its power.

He thought he saw a depression on the far side of the field, at the base of the opposite wall of the canyon.  He ran for it.

As he neared he noticed that the otherwise smooth sand of the field was increasingly littered with shards of stone and streaks of darker earth, and how that trees surrounding the depression were broken or knocked flat.  The sparse grass smoked from fires that had already burned out.

This was it.  The missile must have exploded here.

When he arrived at the crater he saw that the blast had shattered part of the cliff wall, causing a minor landslide into the crater.  A deep cavity there in the wall.  Almost as if...

He picked up a stone and hurled it at the hollow.  It flew into the blackness but did not bounce back.  It disappeared, as if it had been swallowed.  Then Achmed heard it strike.  Not with the solid impact of rock upon rock—with more of a clink.  And then a clatter.  As if it had struck something hard and thin and hollow...and broken it.

Achmed stood on the crumbling rim of the crater and stared into the blackness in the wall.  No mere blast cavity here.  This was a cave.  He shivered with anticipation as thoughts of Muhammad adh-Dhib raced through his mind.  Every Bedouin knew the story of the ten-year-old boy who discovered the first Dead Sea scrolls in Qumran, not too many miles north of here; the tale had been told around the fires for more than half a century.  And had there been a Bedouin boy since who did not dream of finding similar treasure?

“Nabil!  Nabil come quickly!  And bring the light!”

Nabil come running up.  “What is it?”

“I think I’ve found a cave!” Achmed said, pointing to the dark splotch in the wall.

Nabil snorted.  “There are caves all over these hills.”

“No.  A secret cave.”

Nabil froze an instant, then flicked on the flashlight and aimed the beam into the darkness.  Achmed’s heart picked up its rhythm when he saw the smooth edges of the opening and the deep blackness beyond.

“You’re right, little brother.” Nabil kept the beam trained on the opening as he moved around the rim of the crater.  “It is a cave.”

Achmed followed him to the mouth.  Together they peered in.  The floor of the cave was littered with small rock fragments, a thick layer of dust, and...something else.

The beam picked out an object with four short straight legs and what appeared to be a seat.

Achmed said, “Is that —?

“A bench or a chair of some sort.”

Achmed was shaking with excitement.  He grabbed Nabil’s shoulder and found that his brother too was shaking.

“Let’s go in,” Nabil said.

Achmed’s dry mouth would not allow him to speak.  He followed his brother’s lead, climbing over the pile of broken and fallen-away stone.  They entered the cave in silence.

Dry, musty air within, laden with dust.  Achmed coughed and rubbed his nose.  They approached the little bench, covered with a think coat of dust like everything else.  Achmed reached out to brush the dust away, to see what sort of wood it was made of.  He touched it lightly.

The bench gave way, falling in on itself, crumbling, disintegrating into a lumpy pile of rotted flakes.

“Oaf!” Nabil hissed.

“May Allah be my witness, I barely touched it!”

Apparently Nabil believe him.  “Then this cave must have been sealed for a long time.  This place is old.”

He flashed the beam around.  To the right—another bench and what looked like a low table; to the left—

Nabil’s gasp echoed Achmed’s.

Urns.  Two of them: one lying on its side, broken; the other upright, intact, its domed lid securely in place.

“That’s what my stone must have hit!”

Nabil was already moving forward.  He angled the beam into the broken urn.

“A scroll!!”  His older brother’s voice was hushed.  “There’s a scroll in this one!  It’s torn and crumbling...it’s ancient!”

Achmed dropped quivering to his knees in the dust.

“Allah be praised!  He has led us here!”

Nabil lifted the lid of the second urn and beamed the light into its mouth.

“More scrolls!  Achmed, they will be singing our names around the night fires for generations!”

“Allah be praised!”  Achmed was too overcome to think of anything else too say.

Nabil replaced the lid and swung the flashlight beam back to the broken urn.

“You take that one.  It’s already broken but be careful!  We don’t want to do any more damage to that scroll.  I’ll take the unbroken one.”

Achmed bent, slipped his sweating, trembling palms under the broken urn, and gently lifted it into his arms as if it were a cranky infant brother who had finally fallen asleep.  He rose to his feet and edged toward the mouth of the cave.  He didn’t need the flashlight beam to light his exit—after the deep night of this tiny cave, the moonlit canyon outside seemed noon bright.  He stepped carefully over the jumbled rocks outside the mouth, then waited on level ground for Nabil.

This is wonderful, he thought.  Our family will be rich, and Nabil and I will be famous.

He saw the hand of Allah in this, rewarding him for his daily prayers, his fasting, and his strict observance of Holy Days.  He turned and faced south, toward Mecca, and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.  Then he looked at the moon, thanking Allah for making it bright tonight.

But the prayer choked in his throat and he nearly dropped the treasure in his arms when he noticed a figure standing atop the far cliff they had skirted to reach this canyon.  Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, it seemed to be watching him.  For a moment he was transfixed with fear, then he heard Nabil behind him.  He turned to see his brother stepping over the rubble before the cave mouth.

“Nabil!”

His brother looked up and stumbled, but caught himself before he fell.

“What is it?” he said between his teeth.

“Up on the cliff...”  Achmed turned to look and saw that the upper edge of the cliff was now empty.  The sentinel figure had vanished.

“What?” Nabil said, the irritation mounting in his tone.  “Finish what you begin!”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you standing there like a blind camel?  Move!  We’ll take these back to the donkey then search the cave for more.”

They had just reached the donkey and were laying their treasures in the sand when Achmed heard something.  He lifted his head and listened.  A low hum.  No...a pulsating thrum.

“Tayya’ra!”

Nabil leapt into motion.   “Quickly!  The scrolls!  Bundle them up!”

They pulled the blankets they had brought, wrapped the urns in them, then slung them over the donkey’s back.

“Let’s go!”

“What about the metal?” Achmed cried.

“Forget the metal!  We have a far greater treasure!  But if the Israelis find us, they’ll steal it!  Hurry!”

With Nabil pulling from the front and Achmed again switching from behind, they drove the donkey down the bank and across the wadi.  As they slipped around the leading edge of the outcrop, the sound of the helicopter grew louder.

‡

“It could be anywhere down there,” the copilot said.

Kesev stared below, watching the bright beam of the searchlight lance the darkness and dance along the peaks, plateaus, and crevasses that dominated this area of the Wilderness.  They had been running a crisscrossing search pattern for thirty minutes now.

“I think we can be pretty sure no one was hurt by this thing,” the pilot said after a few more minutes of searching.  “Maybe we’d better put this off, come back when it’s light and—”

“Keep going.” Kesev was getting the lay of the land now.  “Follow this canyon south.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the pilot and copilot exchange glances and discreet shrugs, but neither challenged his authority.

The canyon widened below them, and then the search beam picked up white wisps trailing through the air.

“Smoke!” the copilot cried.

Kesev pointed.  “It exploded on the canyon floor.”

He released a soft sigh of relief.  A glance to his left at the top of the east wall of the canyon reassured him that the Resting Place was untouched.

Close, he thought.  Too close.

And then he remembered that the canyon floor had its own secrets.

“Swing the light around,” he said.  “See if we can find the point of impact.”

It took less than a minute.

“There!” the copilot said.  “At two o’clock.  Looks like it took out part of the cliff wall too.”

Kesev went rigid in the seat.  The SCUD crater was right where the cave had been—still was.  Had the explosion—?

“Take us down.”

“Sir, we’ve accomplished our objective,” the pilot said.  “We’ve found the impact sight and determined that there’s been no personal injury or property damage, so—”

“Land this thing now,” Kesev said softly, just loud enough to be heard over the engine noise, “or you’ll spend the rest of your career working a broom handle instead of that joystick.”

The pilot turned.  For a heartbeat or two he stared at Kesev from within the confines of his flight helmet, then took the copter down.

As soon as the wheels touched earth, Kesev was out of his harness.  He pulled off his flack jacket—he didn’t need it, had only worn it because of regulations—and reached for the hatch handle.

“Stay here and train the search beam on the crater.  This will take but a minute.”

He opened the hatch and ran in a crouch through the hurricane from the whirling blades, following the path of the search beam.  He cursed as he neared the crater he saw that the cave had been exposed by the blast.  What abysmal luck!

On the other hand, how fortunate that he’d obeyed his instincts and come along to check this out.  As a result, he was first on the scene.  He could prevent this minor mishap from escalating into a catastrophe.  He skirted the edge of the crater and stepped over the rocks tumbled before the cave mouth.  Whoever was working the search beam back in the copter was doing a good job keeping it trained on him.  The cave lit up before him.

That was when he noticed the footprints.

Panic clamped his heart in an icy fist as his gaze ranged wildly about the cave.

Empty.  But in the dust on the floor...sandalprints...two sets...one larger than the other...the old chair—reduced to dust...the urns...

The urns!  Gone!  No, not completely.  Fragments from one lay scattered in the dust.

How could this be?  How could a pair of thieves have come and gone so soon?  So swiftly?  It wasn’t possible!

And yet the fresh footprints reminded him that it was indeed possible.

The urns...what had they held?  It had been so long, he could barely remember.  Anything of value?  Old shekels?  He didn’t care about losing little bits of gold or silver.  What he did mind was word of the find getting out and causing archeological interest to center on the area.  That could prove extremely dangerous.

But what had he put in those urns?  He prayed it was nothing that might reveal the secret of this place.  He racked his brain for the memory.  It was there, just out of reach.  It—

The scroll!

Dear Lord, he’d left the scroll in one of those urns!

Kesev staggered in a circle, his breath rasping, his heart beating wildly against the inner surface of his sternum as his vision blurred and lights danced in his vision.

He had to get it back!  If it fell into the hands of someone who could translate it—

He leapt from the cave and ran back to the helicopter.

“Give me a flashlight!  A canteen too.”  When the copilot handed them out, Kesev jerked a thumb skyward.  “Return to base.  I’m staying here.”

“That’s not necessary, sir,” the pilot said.  “The inspection team will be here at first light and—”

“Someone’s already beat us here.  Probably picking up scrap metal.  I’ll stay on and make sure they don’t come back and disturb anything else.”

Kesev was back outside, stepping clear and waving them off.  He couldn’t see them inside the cabin, but he was sure the two airmen were shrugging and saying, If the crazy little man from Shin Bet wants to stay in the middle of nowhere until morning, let him.

Kesev watched the copter rise, bank, and roar away into the night.  As the swirling dust settled on and about him, Kesev stood statue still among the stunted olive trees and listened... for anything.  For any hint of movement that might lead him toward the thieves.  But all he heard was the ringing aftermath of the helicopter’s roar.  His hearing would be of little value for the next quarter hour or so.

He walked back to the cave.  He had to look again, had to be sure he’d seen those footprints, be absolutely certain the urns were gone.

He searched the cave inch by inch, poking the flashbeam into every nook, corner, crack, and crevice.  And as he searched he pounded the remaining furniture to rotted splinters; the same with the remnants of bedding against the rear wall; he systematically shattered anything that might hint that the cave had ever been inhabited by a human being.  He took the crumbled remnants of the furniture and pulverized them under his heels, then he kicked and scattered the resultant powder, mixing it with the fine dust that layered the floor.

Satisfied that he’d made the cave as uninteresting as possible, he pocketed the broken fragments of urn, then went outside and cried silently to the sinking eye of the moon.

Why?  Why has this happened?

Kesev did not wait for an answer.  Instead he headed across the field toward the east wall of the canyon.

One more place left to check.

He knew the way.  He hadn’t been up to the ledge in a long, long while, but his feet had trod the hidden path so many times that they carried him along now with no conscious effort.

He reached the top and stood on the broad ledge, breathing hard.  He’d grown soft in many ways.  He coughed and sipped from the canteen.  So dry out here.  The membranes inside of his nostrils felt as if they were ready to crack and peel like old paint.  In the old days he wouldn’t have noticed, but he’d grown soft living so near the sea all these years in Tel Aviv.

He hurried to the mound of rocks that covered the entrance to the Resting Place.  They remained undisturbed, as he’d expected.  Still, relief flooded through him.

This was holy ground.  Kesev had vowed to protect it.  He would gladly die—more than gladly—to preserve its secret.

But his relief was short lived.  The secret of the Resting Place lay within the coils of the stolen scroll.  Its theft could have disastrous consequences.

He drifted to the edge of the ledge and stared down the sheer three-hundred-foot drop to the canyon’s shadowed floor.  In the old days, at least for someone who didn’t know the torturous little path to the top, this sort of climb would daunt all but the most foolhardy adventurer.  Nowadays, with modern climbing techniques—or helicopters, for those with deeper pockets—such a precipice offered but a momentary obstacle.

He turned and stared east, across the lengthening shadows behind the foothills that sloped down to the mirror surface of the Dead Sea.  He hurled the urn fragments into the air and knew he’d never hear the clatter of their impact on the rocks so far below.  The Resting Place was safe up here, hidden from the casual observer as well as the determined searcher...

Unless...

Unless a searcher had something to guide him.

Where are you? he thought as he searched the craggy wilderness spread out below.  Where are you thieving bastards hiding?  You can’t stay hidden forever.  I’d be searching for you now if I weren’t afraid to leave this place unattended.  But I’ll find you eventually.  Sooner or later you’ll have to show yourselves.  Eventually you have to slither out from under your rock to sell what you’ve stolen from me.  And then I’ll have you.  Then you’ll wish you’d never laid eyes on that scroll.

The scroll...how much did it tell?  How detailed were its descriptions of the area?  If only he could remember.  So long since he’d last read it.  Kesev squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, trying to massage the hidden information from the reluctant crevices of his brain.

Was the scroll even legible any longer?

That was his single best hope: that the scroll had been in the urn the thieves had broken, that it had been damaged to the point where its remnants were little more than an incoherent jumble of disjointed sentences.

Kesev turned and was so startled by the sight of her that he nearly tumbled backward off the ledge.

Robed and wimpled exactly as she had been in life, she stood near the rubble that blocked the entrance to the Resting Place and stared at him.  Kesev waited for her to speak, as she had spoken to him many times in the past, but she said nothing, merely stared at him a moment, then faded from view.

So many years, so many years since she had shown herself here.  Kesev had heard reports from all over the world of her appearances, but so long since she had graced this spot with her presence.

Why now, just after the scroll had been pilfered?  What did this mean?

Kesev stood on the precipice and trembled.  Something was happening.  A wheel had been set in motion tonight.  He could almost feel it turning.  Where was it taking him?  Where was it taking the world?

I approached the Essenes at Qumran but they tried to stone me.  I fled further south, wandering the west shore of the sea of Lot.  Perhaps Massada would have me.  Surely they would welcome one of my station.  Or perhaps I would have to push further south to Zohar.

I do not know where to go.  And I am alone in Creation.

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

THE PRESENT

ONE

Fall

Jerusalem

The poor man looked as if he were going to cry.

“You...you’re sure?”

Harold Gold watched Professor Pearlman nod sagely as they sat in the professor’s office in the manuscript department of the Rockefeller Archeological Museum and gave Mr. Glass the bad news.

Richard Glass was American, balding, and very fat—a good hundred pounds overweight.  He described himself as a tourist—a frequent visitor to Israel who owned a condo in Tel Aviv.  Last month he’d brought in a scroll he said he’d purchased at a street bazaar in the Arab Quarter and asked if its antiquity could be verified.

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Glass.”  Pearlman stroked his graying goatee.  “A gloriously skillful fake, but a fake nevertheless.”

“But you said—”

“The parchment itself is First Century—we stand by that.  No question about it.  And the ink contains the dyes and minerals in the exact proportions used by First Century scribes.”

The first thing the department had done was date the parchment.  Once that was ballparked in the two-thousand-year-old mark, they’d translated it.  That was when people had begun to get excited.  Very excited.

“Then what—?”

“The writing itself, Mr. Glass.  Our carbon dating tests—and believe me, we’ve repeated the dating numerous times—all yield the same result: the words were placed on the parchment within the past ten or twelve years.”

Mr. Glass’s eyes bulged.  “Ten or twelve—!  My God, what an idiot I am!”

“Not at all, not at all,” Professor Pearlman said.  “It had us fooled too.  It’s a very skillful job.  And I assure you, Mr. Glass, you cannot be more disappointed than we.”

Amen to that, Harold thought.  He’d been in a state of euphoria for the past month, thanking God for his luck.  Imagine, being here on sabbatical from NYU when the manuscript department receives an item that could make the Dead Sea scrolls look like lists of old matzoh recipes.  When he’d read the translation he’d suspected it might be too explosive to be true, but he’d gone on hoping...hoping...

Until the dating on the ink had come in.

Harold leaned forward.  “That’s why we’re very interested in where you got it.  Whoever forged this scroll really knows his stuff.”

He watched Glass drum his fingers on his thigh, carefully weighing the decision.  No one in the department believed for a moment that Richard Glass had picked up something like this at a street stall.  Harold knew the type: a wealthy collector, buying objects here and sneaking them back to the states to a mini-museum in his home.  He also knew that if Glass named his true source he might precipitate an investigation of other purchases he’d made on the antiquities black market, and his shipments home would be subject to close scrutiny from here on in.  No serious collector could risk that.

“We’re not interested in legalities here, Mr. Glass,” Professor Pearlman assured him.  “We’d simply like to interview your source, learn his sources.”

Harold grinned.  “I think most of us would like to shake his hand.”

No lie there.  Undoubtedly the forger possessed some sort of native genius.  The scroll Glass had presented was written on two-thousand-year-old parchment in ink identical to the type used in those days.  The forger had used an Aramaic form of Hebrew enriched with Greek and Latin influences—much like the Mishna, the earlier part of the Talmud—and had created a narrative that alternated between first and third person, supposedly written by a desert outcast, a hermit but obviously a well-educated one, living in the hills somewhere west of the Dead Sea.  But the events he described...if they’d been true and verifiable, what a storm they would have caused.

Perhaps that was the forger’s whole purpose: controversy.  The money from the sale to someone like Glass was a lagniappe.  The real motive was the turmoil that would have arisen had they not been able to disprove the scroll’s authenticity.  The forger could have sat back and watched and smiled and said, I caused all this.

After a seemingly interminable wait, Glass shook his head.

“I don’t know the forger.  I can’t even find the stall where I bought it—and believe me, I’ve searched high and low for it.   So I can’t help you find the creator of this piece of junk.”

“It’s not junk,” Pearlman said.  He slid the wooden box containing the scroll across the desktop toward Glass.  “In its own way, it’s a work of art.”

Glass made a face and lumbered to his feet.

“Then hang it on your wall.  I want nothing further to do with it.  It only reminds me of all the money I wasted.”  He took the box and looked around.  “Where’s your trash.”

“You can’t be serious!” Harold said.

Glass turned to him.  “You want it?”

“Well, I—”

He shoved the box into Harold’s hands.  “Here.  It’s yours.”

With that he turned and waddled from the office.

Professor Pearlman looked at Harold over the tops of his glasses.  “Well, Harold.  Looks like you’re the proud owner of a genuine fake first century scroll.  It’ll make a nice curiosity back at NYU.”

Harold gazed down at the box in his hands.  “Or a unique gift for an old friend.”

“A colleague?”

“Believe it or not, a Catholic priest.  He’s something of an authority on the early Christians.  He’s read just about everything ever written on the Jerusalem Church.”

Pearlman’s brown eyes sparkled.  “I’ll bet he’s never read anything like that.”

“That’s for sure.”  Harold almost laughed aloud in anticipation of Father Dan Fitzpatrick’s reaction to this little gift.  “I know he’ll get a real kick out of this.”

I despaired.

The Lord oppressed me, my fellow men oppressed me, the very air oppressed me.  Perhaps the only fitting place for me was in Sodom or Gomorrah, cities of the dead, hidden beneath the lifeless waves.  I threw myself into the salty water but I could not drown.

Even the sea will not have me!

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

TWO

Manhattan

Father Daniel Fitzpatrick stopped in front of the Bank of New York Building, turned to the ragged army that had followed him up from the Lower East Side, and raised his hands.

“All right, everybody,” he called to the group.  “Let’s stop here for a sec and organize ourselves.”

Most of them stopped on command, but some of the less alert—and there were more than a few of those—kept right on walking and had to be pulled back by their neighbors.

Father Dan stepped up on the marble base of a sculpture that looked like a pair of six-foot charcoal bagels locked in a passionate embrace and inspected the ranks of his troops.

Even if we turn back now, he thought, even if we don’t do another thing tonight, we’ll have made a point.

Already they’d garnered more than their share of attention.  During the course of their long trek uptown from Tompkins Square Park they’d earned themselves a police escort, a slew of reporters and photographers, and even an Eyewitness News van complete with minicam and blow-dried news personality.

Why not?  This was news, a mild spring evening, and a fabulous photo op to boot.  A small army of chanting, sign-carrying homeless marching up Park Avenue, around and through the Met Life and Helmsley Buildings, to the Waldorf—the contrast of their unkempt hair, shambling gaits, and dirty clothes against the backdrop of luxury hotels and pristine office buildings was irresistible.

As Dan raised his hands again and waited for his followers’ attention, he noticed all the camera lenses coming to bear on him like the merciless eyes of a pack of hungry wolves.  He was well aware of the media’s love of radical priests, so he’d made sure he was in uniform tonight: cassock, Roman collar, oversized crucifix slung around his neck.  The works.  He was well aware too of how his own appearance—clean-cut sandy hair, slim, athletic build, younger looking than his thirty-two years—jibed with that of his followers, and he played that up to maximum effect.  He looked decent, intelligent, dedicated—all true, he hoped—and most of all, accessible.  The reporters would be fighting to interview him during and after the demonstration.

And as far as Dan was concerned, that was what this little jaunt to the Waldorf was all about: communication.  He hated the spotlight.  He much preferred to keep a low profile and let others have center stage.  But no one else was interested in this little drama, so Dan had found himself pushed into a leading role.  Media-grabbing was not his thing, but somebody had to get across the message that these people needed help, that they couldn’t be swept under the rug by the presidential wannabe appearing at the Waldorf tonight.

That wannabe was Senator Arthur Crenshaw from California, and this high-profile fundraiser was a golden opportunity to confront the senator on his radical proposal to solve the homeless problem.  Normally Dan wouldn’t have given a second thought to a crazy plan like Crenshaw’s, but the way it had taken hold with the public was frightening.

Camps.

Of course Crenshaw didn’t call them camps.  The word might elicit visions of concentration camps.  He called them “domiciles.”  Why have a hundred programs scattered all over the country? Senator Crenshaw said.  All that duplication of effort and expense could be eliminated by gathering up the homeless and putting them in special facilities to be built on government lands.  Once there, families would be fed and sheltered together, with the children attending schools set up just for them; all adults would receive free training for gainful employment; and those who were sick or addicted or mentally ill would receive the care they needed to make them productive citizens again.

The public—especially the urban-dwelling public—seemed to be going for the Domicile Plan in a big way, and as a result the concept was gaining support from both parties.  Dan could understand the attraction of getting the homeless out of sight while balming one’s conscience with the knowledge they were being cared for as they were retooled for productivity, but he found the whole idea unsettling.  The domiciles did sound like concentration camps, or detention camps, or at the very least, gilt-edged prisons, and he found that frightening.  So would many of the homeless folks he knew—and Dan knew plenty.

But how many homeless did Senator Arthur Crenshaw know?

These were people.  It was easy to forget that.  Yes, they were on the bottom rung of the socioeconomic ladder—hell, most of them had fallen off the ladder—and they sure as hell didn’t look like much.  They tended to be dirty and smell bad and dress in clothing that wasn’t fit for the rag pile.  They offered nothing that society wanted, and some undoubtedly had AIDS and wouldn’t be around much longer anyway.  But each had a name and a personality, and they’d hoped and dreamed about the future before they’d forgotten how.  Truth was, they could all vanish into smoke and the world would not be appreciably poorer; only a few would mark their passing, and even fewer would mourn them.

But they were people, dammit!

People.

Not a cause.

People.

Dan hated that the homeless had become such a trendy cause, with big-name comedians and such doing benefits for them.  But after the stars took their bows, after they were limoed back to their Bel Aire estates, Dan stayed downtown and rubbed elbows with those homeless.  Every day.

And sometimes at the end of a particularly discouraging day of elbow-rubbing with the folks who wandered in and out of the kitchen he ran in the basement of St. Joseph’s church, even Dan found a certain guilty attraction in Crenshaw’s Domicile Plan.  Sometimes he wondered if maybe Crenshaw could indeed do more for them than he ever could.  But at least with Dan they had a choice, and that was important.

And that was why they had come here tonight.

They stood quietly now, waiting for their last-minute instructions.  They numbered about thirty, mostly males.  Dan had hoped for more.  Forty or fifty had promised to make the march but he was well satisfied with a two-thirds showing.  You quickly learned to lower your expectations when working with these people.  It came with the territory.  After all, if they had enough control over their lives to act responsibly, if they knew how to follow through with a plan—even as simple a plan as gathering in Tompkins Square at six o’clock—they probably wouldn’t be homeless.  About half of the ones who were here carried signs, most of which Dan had hand printed himself during the week.  Among them:

SAY NO!

TO CONCENTRATION CAMPS

FOR THE HOMELESS!

and:

WHAT ABOUT US?

WHERE DO WE FIT IN?

and Dan’s favorite:

ARE WE OUR

BROTHER’S KEEPER?

OR DO WE TELL

BIG BROTHER TO KEEP HIM?

“All right,” he said, shouting so he could be heard in the back.  “Let me say this once more in case some of you have forgotten: We’re not here to cause trouble.  We’re here to draw attention to a problem that cannot be solved by putting you folks in camps.  We’re here for informational purposes.  To communicate, not to confront.  Stay in line, don’t block traffic, don’t enter the hotel, don’t fight, don’t panhandle.  Got that?”

Most of them nodded.  He had been pounding this into them all week.  Those who could get the message had already got it.  This last harangue was for the benefit of the press microphones and the police within earshot, to get it on the record that this was intended as a strictly peaceful demonstration.

“Where’s Sister Carrie?” someone of them asked.

That had to be One-thumb George, but Dan couldn’t place him in the crowd.  George had asked the question at least a dozen times since they’d left Tompkins.

“Sister Carrie is in her room at the convent, praying for us.  Her order doesn’t allow her to march in demonstrations.”

“I wish she was here,” the voice said, and now Dan was sure it was One-thumb George.

Dan too wished Carrie were here.  She’d done as much as he to organize this march, maybe more.  He missed her.

“And I’m sure she wishes she could be here with us,” Dan shouted.  “So let’s make her proud!  Waldorf, ho!”

Pointing his arm uptown like an officer leading a charge, he jumped off the sculpture base and marched his troops the remaining blocks.  He was just starting to position the group when Senator Crenshaw’s limousine pulled up before the entrance.  Dan had a brief glimpse of the senator’s head—the famous tanned face, dazzling smile, and longish, salt-and-pepper hair—towering over his entourage as he zipped across the sidewalk, and then he was through the front doors and gone.

Damn!  He’d shown up early.

He heard groans from the demonstrators but he shushed them.

“It’s okay.  We’ll be all set up for him when he comes out.  And we’re not leaving until he does.”

They spent the interval marching in an oval within the area reserved for their demonstration, demarcated by light blue horses stenciled in white with Police Line - Do Not Cross.  Dan led them in chants updated from the sixties, like: “Hey, hey, Arthur C., why you wanna imprison me?” and “Hell, no!  We won’t go!”  And of course there were the endless repetitions of “We Shall Overcome.”

The choices were calculated.  Dan wanted to bring to mind the civil rights marches and anti-war protests of the sixties to anyone who saw this particular demonstration on TV.  Many of the movers and shakers in the country today—the President included—had participated in those demonstrations in their youth; many of them still carried a residue of nostalgia for those days.  He hoped enough of them would realize that but for luck and the grace of God they might be marching on this line tonight.

As he marched and led the chants and singing, Dan felt alive.  More truly alive than he had in years.  His priestly routines had become just that—routine.  Hearing confession, saying Mass, giving sermons—it seemed little more than preaching to the converted.  The souls who truly needed saving didn’t go to Mass, didn’t take the sacraments.  His priestly duties around the altar at St. Joseph’s had become...empty.

But when he left the main floor and went downstairs to the soup kitchen in the basement—the place he’d dubbed Loaves and Fishes—then he felt as if he truly were doing God’s work.

God’s work...Dan had to smile at the phrase.  Wasn’t God’s work for God to do?  Why was it left to mere mortals like him and Carrie to do God’s work?

And lately, in his darkest moments, Dan had begun wondering if God was doing anything.  The world—at least the part of it in which he spent his days—was, to put it bluntly, a fucking mess.  Everywhere he looked people were sick, hurt or dying—from AIDS, from racism, from drugs, from child abuse, from stabbings, shootings, or just plain old kick-ass muggings.  And the violence was escalating.  Every time Dan told himself it can’t get any worse than this, sure enough, it did.

And every year there seemed to be more homeless—more lost souls.

Tighten up on the misery spigot, will you, God?  We’re up to our lower lips down here.

Yeah.  Where was the hand of God in all this?  Why wasn’t it doing God’s work?  A long, continuous howl of agony was rising from this city, this world.  The Middle East was ablaze with a fire that might never burn out; when Muslim factions weren’t targeting infidels, they were targeting each other.  Suicide bombers in Israel, reprisals in Palestine, race riots if Paris, bombings in London.  And Africa—a perpetual cycle of slaughter, famine, AIDS.

Was Anybody listening?  Why didn’t He respond?  Dan could do only so much.

Like tonight.  This was doing something—or at least Dan hoped it was.  An infinitesimal something.  Who knew if it would accomplish anything?  All you could do was try.

And then word came out that the thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner was over.  The doorman started signaling the hovering limos forward.  Taxis nosed in like koi at feeding time.  Dan pulled Dirty Harry out of the line and set him in the middle of the circle.

“All right, everybody!  He’s coming.  Chant as loud as you can.  Harry’s going to lead you.”

“Me?” Harry said.  He had long greasy hair, a thick beard matted with the remains of his last three meals, and probably hadn’t changed his four or five layers of clothing since the winter.  “I dunno what to—”

“Just keep leading them in the same stuff we’ve been doing all night,” Dan told him.  “And give me your posters.  I want to get up close.”

Harry lifted the sandwich-board placards over his head and surrendered them with obvious reluctance.  Dan grabbed them, waved, and hurried off.  He didn’t dare slip them over his own head—not after Dirty Harry had been wearing them.

He headed for the Waldorf entrance.  As he squeezed between two of the barricade horses, one of the cops moved to block his way but let him pass when he saw the collar.

Ah, the perks of the Roman collar.

Celebrity gawkers, political groupies, and the just plain curious had formed a gauntlet along the path from the Waldorf entrance.  Dan pushed, squirmed, wheedled, and elbowed his way to the front row where anyone exiting the hotel would have an unobstructed view of the sandwich-board’s message:

CONCENTRATION

CAMPS ARE

UNAMERICAN!

Finally he saw his man.  Senator Crenshaw appeared at the door.  He stopped inside the glass, shaking hands and smiling at some of the hundreds of people who’d plunked down a grand for a chicken dinner.  Dan ground his teeth as he calculated how many people he could feed at St. Joe’s for the cost of just one of those dinners.

He watched him through the glass and reviewed what he knew about Senator Arthur Crenshaw, the Silicon Valley giant.  At age thirty, he’d started CrenSoft on a shoestring.  His software innovations earned him huge profits, which he plowed back into the company, which in turn yielded even larger profits.  When Microsoft bought him out for an ungodly sum, he traded the corporate rat race for politics.  He didn’t start small.  He challenged an incumbent for one of his native California’s US Senate seats and won.  Now he had his eye on the Presidency.  He hadn’t declared himself yet, but no one seemed to have any doubt that come next winter he’d be stumping in New Hampshire when the next round of Presidential primaries rolled around.

A widower now—his wife had died five years ago—with one grown son, he was a formidable candidate.  The born-again line of moral righteousness and family values he spouted guaranteed him a built-in core constituency.  But he needed a broader base if he was aiming for national office, and he was steadily building that with his speech-making and his strong-featured good looks.  Especially his speech-making.  Crenshaw was a mesmerizing orator, whether from prepared text or off the cuff.  In unguarded moments even Dan had found himself nodding in agreement with much of his rhetoric.

But when he listened carefully, Dan tapped into an undercurrent that told him this was a man who had quickly become extremely powerful in his own little world and had grown used to having things his own way, a man of monstrous self-esteem who knew—knew—he had the answers, who believed there could be only one way of doing things—the Arthur Crenshaw way.

But Father Daniel Fitzpatrick was here tonight to let him know that there were a few folks around who didn’t think Senator Crenshaw had all the answers, and that he was downright wrong when it came to the Domicile Plan.

Here he comes, Dan thought as the glass door was held open for Crenshaw by a broad-shouldered Hispanic with dark glasses and “security” written all over him.

A cheer went up from the onlookers as the senator stepped outside.  Lots of normally liberal Manhattanites seemed enthralled with the man.  Dan put it down to his physical resemblance to Bill Clinton, but knew it went deeper than that.  The man was magnetic.

And as the cheer rose, so did the chanting from Dan’s homeless.  Good for you, Harry, he thought.

Crenshaw walked the gauntlet, shaking hands and smiling that smile.  When he came within half a dozen feet, Dan held up his placard and thrust it toward the senator to make sure he didn’t miss it.  The dark-skinned security man moved to push Dan back but Crenshaw stopped him.  He stared at the message, then looked Dan in the eye.

“Is that directed at me?”

Dan was momentarily taken aback by the man’s directness.  He’d expected to be ignored.  But he met the senator’s steely blue gaze with his own.

“Yes, senator.  And at your out-of-sight-out-of-mind Domicile Plan.  You can’t lock the homeless up in camps and think that will solve the problem.”

“I resent that,” Crenshaw said, his eyes flashing, his voice soft but forceful.

The crowd around the entrance had stopped cheering; they were listening instead.  Only the chanting of the homeless from behind the barricades disturbed the sudden silence.

Dan was not prepared for this.  His mouth went dry; his voice was hoarse when he replied.  “And I think the homeless will resent being carted off to camps in the middle of nowhere.”

“What’s you’re connection with the homeless, father?”

“I run a kitchen for them downtown.”

Crenshaw nodded.  “That’s very admirable.  My hat’s off to you.  But how many of their lives have you changed?”

“I don’t under—”

“How many have you gotten off the street and into some sort of self-supporting activity?”

Dan had a feeling he was being maneuvered into a corner, but he had to answer—and truthfully.

“I couldn’t say.  We barely have enough money to keep them fed.”

“Exactly!  They need funds and there aren’t enough funds to go around.  That’s why we have to centralize our efforts to help them.”  He gestured to the crowd.  “Look around you, father.  See these people?  They support the Domicile Plan.  They’re all willing to put their money where their mouths are, because they’re going to pay for the Plan with their tax dollars.  But they want to see those dollars well spent.  Soup kitchens only perpetuate the problem—like giving a transfusion to a bleeding patient without sewing up the wound.”

God, he’s good, Dan thought.  And he means every word.  He truly wants to help.  That’s what makes him so convincing.  But he’s still wrong!

“I couldn’t agree more,” Dan said, “but concentration camps aren’t a moral alternative.”

Senator Crenshaw’s eyes flashed with sudden anger.

“You’re handy with the loaded terms, aren’t you, father.  And I’m sure you have a real talent for dishing out the soup on the breadline at your kitchen, but have you ever actually gone into a factory and worked to earn a single dime to pay for their shelter?  Or your own, for that matter?  Have you ever labored to grow a single grain of wheat or a single kernel of rice to feed them?  Or yourself?  Have you ever woven or cut or sewn a single stitch for their clothing?  Or for your own?  If you want to be a man of God, then limit your concerns to Godly things; but if you want to be a man of the people, then get out and sweat with them, Father.  Until you do, you’re nothing but a middleman, trafficking in their troubles.  A hand-wringing monger of misery, hoisting yourself up on their crosses to allow yourself to be better seen from afar.  Which is fine, if that’s the way you want to spend your life.  This is still a free country.  But don’t block the way of those who really want to help.”

Dan was stunned by the tirade.  Before he could frame a reply, Crenshaw turned away and stepped into his waiting limo.  His security man closed the door, glanced at Dan with a smirk on his dark face, then slipped around to the other side.

Someone patted him gently on the shoulder.  Dan looked around and saw an elderly stranger standing next to him.

“Don’t take it too hard, Father.  We all know you mean well.  But you just ain’t getting it done.”

Still mute, Dan turned back to the street and watched Senator Crenshaw’s limo pull away.  On the surface he knew he appeared unscathed, but he was bleeding inside.  Hemorrhaging.  Crenshaw’s words had cut deep, right to the heart of his deepest doubts.  And the elderly stranger had twisted the knife.

Knowing I was not fit for the company of other men, I turned from my southward course and searched the wilderness for a place to spend the rest of my allotted days alone.

I wandered the deserted hills, searching for a sign.  Finally, as I climbed a steep incline, I looked up and beheld a bellied cliff with an overhanging ledge.  The letter tav leaped into my mind.  Tav...the letter to which the Kabbalah grants a numerical value of 400...highest of all the letters.

This was the sign I had sought.  This is where I would stay: the lowest huddling in the shadow of the highest.

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

THREE

Emilio Sanchez regarded his employer with awe as the limo whisked them uptown.

If only I could use words like that, he thought.  I would not have to be a guard dog.  I could be anything...even a Senador.

But Emilio had come to terms long ago with who he was...and what he was.  He was a guard dog.  He would always be a guard dog.  And with those facts in mind, he had become the best damn guard dog in the world.

“You sliced up that padre like a master chef, Senador.  One would almost think your words were planned.”

“In a sense, Emilio, they were.  I spotted the priest and his group on the way in but I didn’t know what they were up to.”

“And you asked me to find out.”

“Right.  And when you told me they were homeless types, I spent the time before my speech preparing a few remarks in case they cornered me on the way out.”

Imagine...to be able to come up with word-razors while listening and responding to tabletalk.

“But they didn’t corner you,” Emilio said.

“No matter.  I liked what I came up with.  Too good to waste.  So I let the priest have it.”

“With both barrels.”

The Senador smiled and nudged Emilio with an elbow.  “You of all people should understand that.”

Emilio nodded.  He understood.  One of his rules had always been: Don’t aim a gun if you have no intention of pulling the trigger.  And if you do pull the trigger, shoot to kill.

Emilio’s cellular phone trilled softly in his breast pocket.  He pulled it out and tapped the SEND button.

“Sanchez.”

“We’ve found him.”

Emilio recognized Decker’s voice.

“Good work.  Where is he?”

The Senador stiffened beside him.  “Charlie?  They’ve located him?”

Emilio nodded as he listened to Decker’s reply.

“Chelsea.  Where else?”

“Public or private?”

“A dive called The Dog Collar, believe it or not.  On West Street.  Want me to bring him in?”

“No.  Wait for me outside.  And make sure he doesn’t leave before I get there.”

“Will do.  I called Mol.  He’s coming over.  We’ll meet you here.”

“Good.”

Emilio stared straight ahead as he punched the END button.

“Charlie is in a bar in Chelsea.  Want me to bring him back to the hotel?”

The Senador sighed and rubbed his eyes for a long moment.  Then: “No.  Who knows what shape he’s in?  I don’t want a scene.  Use the jet to take him home, then send it back for me.  I won’t be leaving until tomorrow night anyway.”

“Very well.  I should be back by early afternoon.”

“No.  Not you.  I want you to stay with Charlie.  Do not let him off the grounds.  Do not let him out of your sight until I get back.”

“If that is your wish, then that is the way it will be.”

The Senador laughed softly.  “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if that were true with everything.  I’d have wished Charlie to be a different sort than he is.  Let us pray that he’ll cooperate this time.”

He took Emilio’s hand in his and bowed his head.  Emilio set his jaw.  The very thought of holding another man’s hand, even in prayer, even if it was the Senador, made him queasy.  He bowed his head but he did not pray.  That was for women.  Old women.  This incessant praying was the only part of the Senador’s character he did not respect.  It was unmanly.

But in all other matters he revered him.

That did not mean that he understood him.  Why track down Charlie and bring him back to Paraiso?  He had done a good job of hiding himself away.  Why ferret him out?  Let him stay hidden.  Let sleeping dogs lie...

If you’re going to do anything, Emilio thought as the Senador prayed, do something permanent.  As much as I like Charlie, just say the word and he will really disappear.  Without a trace.  Forever.

But he knew the Senador would never order the death of his maricon son.

‡

After dropping the Senador at the Plaza and seeing him safely to his suite, Emilio returned to the limousine, but this time he took the front passenger seat.

“You’ll probably be more comfortable in the back,” the driver said.

“I will not argue with that, Frederick,” Emilio said.  He knew the man’s name, home address, and driving record.  He’d checked all that out before letting the Senador into the limo.  “But I wish to speak to you as we drive.”

“Okay,” the driver said.  Emilio detected wariness in his tone.  That was good.  “But you can call me Fred.  Where to?”

“Downtown.”

“Any particular—?”

“Just drive, Fred.”

As Fred turned onto Fifth Avenue, Emilio said, “Have you chauffeured many famous people around?”

Fred grinned.  “You kidding?  You name ‘em, and if they’ve been to the Apple, I’ve driven them around.  Madonna, Redford, Bono, Winona Ryder, Cher, Axl Rose...the list goes on and on.  Too many to mention.”

“I’ll bet you can write a book about what’s gone on in the rear section of this car.”

“A book?”  He laughed.  “Try ten books—all of them X-rated!”

“Tell me some of the stories.  The juiciest ones.”

“Uh-uh.  No way.  My lips are sealed.  Why y’think all those folks hire me?  Why y’think they always ask for Fred?  Because Fred gets Alzheimer’s when people come sniffing around about his clients.”

Emilio nodded.  That jibed with what he’d heard about Fred.

He pulled a switchblade from the side pocket of his coat and pressed the button on the handle.  The gleaming narrow blade snicked out and flashed in the glow of the passing street lamps.

“Wh-what’s that all about?” Fred said, his voice half an octave higher now.

“I’ve caught some dirt under one of my fingernails.”

“B-better keep that out of sight.  They’re illegal here.”

“So I’ve heard.”  Emilio used the point to scrape under a nail.  “Listen, Fred.  We’re going to be stopping at a place called The Dog Collar.”

“Oh, boy.  On West Twenty-Sixth.  I know the joint.”

“Some of your famous clients have been there?”

He nodded.  “Yeah.  And you wouldn’t believe me if I told you who—which I’m not.”

“I admire your discretion, Fred.  Which brings me to the heart of our little talk.  You will receive a generous tip tonight, Fred.  An extravagant tip.  It is meant to not only seal your lips tighter than usual, but to erase from your memory everything that occurs from this moment until you drop me off at LaGuardia.”

“You’re not going to mess up my passenger area, are you?”

“I’m not planning to.  But on the subject of ‘messing up,’ I feel obliged to give you a warning: In my homeland we have a way of dealing with someone who has seen too much and talks about it.  We cure him of his affliction by removing his tongue and eyes.  Unless we’re feeling particularly merciful, in which case we leave the eyes and take only the eyelids.  And the tongue, of course.  The tongue always goes.  Do you understand what I am saying, Fred?”

Emilio hoped the driver would not take this as an empty threat.  He knew of no such tradition in Mexico, but that didn’t matter.  He meant every word, and would personally do the cutting.  And enjoy it.

Fred gulped.  “Yeah.  Loud and clear.  No problem.”

“Excellent.  Then you can look forward to being hired whenever Senator Crenshaw comes to town.”

Fred’s expression did not exactly reflect unbridled joy at the prospect.  He said, “You want to hit the Dog Collar now?”

Emilio folded the stiletto blade and put it away.

“Yes.  Immediately.”

As they drove on in silence, Emilio hoped the Senador had some plan for Charlie, some solution for the threat he posed.  For he was indeed a threat.  In order to be president, the Senador first had to be nominated by his party.  And in order to secure that nomination, he had to run in primary elections in various states.  Emilio had studied all this in his civics lessons for his citizenship test, and he’d heard the Senador discuss it numerous times, but none of it made much sense.  However, one thing that did make sense was that many of those primary states were in regions of the country where a the right kind of rumor could tilt a close race the wrong way.  And if the primaries were going to be as hotly contested as the experts were predicting, having a maricon son might be the kiss of political death.

But there seemed to be more to it than that.  The Senador seemed obsessed with finding Charlie and keeping him under wraps.  Emilio didn’t understand.

What he did understand was that whatever kept the Senador from the White House also kept Emilio from the White House.

The White House.  It had become Emilio’s dream.

Not to become president.  That was to laugh.  But for Emilio Sanchez to accompany the Senador to the world’s center of power, that was the ultimate spit in the eye to the many throughout his life who had said he’d go nowhere, be nothing unless he changed his ways.

But I never changed, Emilio thought.  And look at me now.  I am the most trusted aide of United States Senator Arthur Crenshaw.  I am riding in a stretch limo through New York City.  I have my pick of the women in the Senate Building in Washington.  I own my own Coup de Ville.  And I’m still moving up.  Up!

Even now he loved to drive his shiny Cadillac back to his native Tijuana and park in front of the old haunts.  Pay some street tonto to guard the car while he went inside and watched their eyes go wide and round as he flashed his money and rings and bought a round for the house.

In the span of a few heartbeats the word would get around: Emilio’s back!  Emilio’s back!  So that when he strolled the narrow streets the children would follow and call his name like a deity and beg for his attention.  And not far behind them would be their mothers and older sisters, doing the same.

He loved to drive by the St. Ignatio School where the priests and sisters had tried to beat some religion into him and make him like all the other sheep they imprisoned in their classrooms.  He loved to stop in front of the adobe chapel and blow the horn until one of those black-robed fools came out, then give them the dirty-digit salute and screech away.

He knew where his mother was living--still in the same old shack down in the Camino Verde settlement where he’d been born--but he never visited her.  They’d be ice-skating in Hell before he gave that puta the time of day.  Always putting him down, always saying he was a good-for-nothing puerco just like his father.  Emilio had never known his father, and he’d spent years hating him for deserting his family.  But after Emilio’s last blow-up with his mother, he no longer blamed his old man for leaving.

That blow-up had come when Emilio turned twenty and took the bouncer job at The Cockscomb, the toughest, meanest, low-rent whorehouse in Tijuana.  His mother had kicked him out of the trailer, telling him he was going to hell, that he was going to die before he was twenty-one.  Emilio had sauntered off and never looked back.

He proved himself at The Cockscomb.  He’d been fighting since he was a kid and he’d learned every cheap, dirty, back-alley brawling trick there ever was, usually the hard way.  He had the scars to prove it.  He was good with a knife--very good.  He’d stabbed his share and had been stabbed a few times in return.  One of his opponents had died, writhing on the floor at his feet.  Emilio had felt nothing.

He started working out, popping steroids and bulking up until his shoulders were too wide for most doorways.  He had a short fuse to begin with, and the juice trimmed it down to the nub.

But not to where he was out of control.  Never out of control.  He always eased the belligerent drunken Americanos out to the street, but Heaven help the locals who got out of line.  Emilio would beat them to a pulp and love every bloody minute of it.  Another man died from one of those beatings, but he’d deserved it.  Over the succeeding years he caused the death of three more men--two with a blade, and one with a bullet.

He moved up quickly through the Tijuana sex world, from whorehouses, to brothels, to chief enforcer at the renowned Blue Senorita, a high-ticket bordello and tavern that catered almost exclusively to Americanos.  Orosco, the owner, liked to brag that the Blue Senorita was a “full service whorehouse,” catering to all tastes--strip shows, live sex shows, donkey sex shows; where a man could have a woman, or another man, or a young girl, or a young boy, or--if he had the energy and a fat enough wallet--all four.

For his first few years at the Blue Senorita Emilio had been proud of his position--inordinately so, he now thought--but the sameness of its nightly routine, along with the realization that he had risen as far as he could go and that somewhere along the corridor of his years, when he’d aged and softened and slowed, he’d be replaced by someone younger and stronger and hungrier.  Then he’d find himself out on the street with no income, no savings, no pension.  And he’d wind up one of those useless old men who hung around the square in their cigarette-burned shirts and their pee-stained pants, sipping from bottles of cheap wine and yammering to anybody who’d listen about their younger days when they’d had all the money they could spend, and any women they wanted.  When they’d been somebody instead of nobody.

He could see no future for him in Tijuana.  Nowhere in all of Mexico.  Perhaps America was the place.  But maybe it was too late for him in America.  He would be turning thirty soon.  And how would he get in?  Damned if he’d be a wetback.  Not after practically managing The Blue Senorita.

The featureless corridor of his future seemed to stretch on ahead, with no exits or side passages.  Just a single door at the far end.  Emilio promised himself to keep an eye peeled for a way out of that corridor.

Charlie Crenshaw turned out to be that way.

Emilio hadn’t realized that at first.  The pudgy, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy had looked terribly young when he stumbled into The Blue Senorita that night ten years ago.  He’d been roaring drunk and obviously under age, but he’d flashed his money and spread it generously, and everyone had nudged each other when he bought doe-eyed José for an hour.

When the maricon’s time was up, Emilio had let him out a side door and stood watching to make sure he got good and far away from The Blue Senorita before he forgot about him.  But at the mouth of the alley the kid was jumped by three young malos.  Emilio hesitated.  Served the little maricon right to be beat up and robbed, but not on The Blue Senorita’s doorstep.  The local policia wouldn’t care—Orosco paid them plenty not to—but if the brat got killed there could be a shitstorm from the States and that might lead to trouble from the capital.

Cursing under his breath, Emilio had pulled on his weighted leather gloves and charged up the alley.  By the time he waded into the fight, the kid was already down and being used as a soccer ball.  Emilio let loose on the malos.  He crushed noses, crunched ribs, cracked jaws, shattered teeth, and broke at least one arm.  He smashed them up and left them in a bleeding, crying, gagging, choking pile because it was his job to look out for The Blue Senorita’s interests, because he wanted to make sure these malos never prowled The Blue Senorita’s neighborhood again.

Because he liked it.

He dragged the unconscious kid back to the side door and checked out his wallet.  He learned his name was Charles Crenshaw and that he was only fifteen.  Fifteen!  Hell to pay if he’d been kicked to death out here.  He shuffled through pictures of the boy with his parents, posed at different ages before different homes.  As the boy grew, so did the houses.  The most recent was a palace.

The little maricon was rich.

And then Emilio came to a photo of the boy and his father standing before a building with a shiny CRENSOFT sign over the reflecting pool set in the front lawn.  CrenSoft...Crenshaw...the rich boy’s father owned a company.

As he stared at the wallet, thoughts of blackmail, and even ransom tickled Emilio’s mind.  But those were just quick fixes.  They would change nothing.  Perhaps there was another way...

And somewhere down the long, featureless corridor of his future , he saw a red EXIT sign begin to glow.

Emilio threw Charlie over his shoulder and carried him back to his apartment.  He placed a call to the family, told the father where Charlie was, and said to come get him.  Then he sat back and waited.

The father arrived at dawn.  He was taller than Emilio, and about ten years older.  Every move, every glance was wary and full of suspicion.  He had another man with him; Emilio later learned he was the father’s pilot.  When Emilio showed him Charlie’s battered, unconscious form, the father’s face went white.  He rushed to the bed and shook the boy’s shoulder.  When Charlie groaned and turned over, the father seemed satisfied that he was only sleeping it off.  Emilio noticed him checking to make sure his son’s watch and ring were still where they belonged.

When the father spoke, his voice was tight and harsh.

“Who did this?”

“Tres malos,” Emilio said.  His English was not very good then.

“Where are they?” the father said in fluent Spanish

Emilio ground a fist into his palm.  “Worse off than your son.”

The father looked at him.  “You helped him?  Why?”

Emilio shrugged.  He’d been practicing that shrug all night.

“They would have killed him.”

“Why would they do that?”

“He’s an Americano who looks rich.  Plus he’s a boy who likes boys.  They figure sure, he’s easy to kick over.”

The father’s eyes turned to ice.  “And are you a man who likes boys?”

Emilio laughed.  “Oh, no, senor.  I like the women.  If I want to play with a boy”—he patted his crotch—”I got one right here.”

The father didn’t smile.  He continued to stare at Emilio.  Finally he nodded, slowly.  “Thank you.”

Emilio helped him and the pilot carry Charlie to the car outside, then handed Charlie’s wallet to the father.  The father checked the credit cards and the bills.

“I see they didn’t rob him.”

“And neither did Emilio Sanchez.  Good bye, senor.”

Emilio played his riskiest card then: He turned and walked back into his apartment building.

The father hurried after him.  “Wait.  You deserve a reward of some kind.  Let me write you a check.”

“Not necessary.  No money.”

“Come on.  I owe you.  There’s got to be something I can do for you, something you need that I can get you.”

Emilio took a deep breath and turned to face him.  This was the big moment.

“Can you get me a job in America, senor?”

The father looked confused.  As Emilio had figured, the rich Americano hadn’t counted on anything like this.  He was dumbfounded.  Emilio could almost read his thoughts: You save my son’s life and all you want in return is a job?

“I’d think that’d be the least I could do,” the father said.  “How do you make your living now?”

Another of those rehearsed shrugs.  “I’m a bouncer at the whorehouse where your son spent much of his money last night.”

The father sighed and shook his head in dismay.  “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” he whispered to the floor.  Then he looked back at Emilio.  “That’s not much of a resume.”

“I know the value of silence.”

The father considered this.  “Okay.  I’ll give you a shot.  Apply for a work visa and I’ll fit you into plant security.  We’ll see how you work out.”

“I will work out, senor.  I promise.”

The father kept his word, and within a matter of weeks Emilio was patrolling CrenSoft’s Silicon Valley plant, dressed in the gray uniform of a security guard.  It was deadly dull, but it was a start.

Charlie came by one day to thank him.  He said he remembered being attacked by the three punks, but little else.  Emilio found the boy very shy--he must have needed a tankful of tequila to work up the courage to walk into The Blue Senorita--and completely normal in most ways.  As the years went on, Emilio actually grew fond of Charlie.  Strange, because Emilio had always hated maricones.  In truth, Charlie was the only one Emilio had ever really known.  But he liked the boy.  Maybe because there was nothing swishy about him.  In fact, no one in security, or anywhere else in CrenSoft, seemed to have the vaguest notion that Charlie was a maricon.

Which was probably why the father called on Emilio to find Charlie the next time he ran off.  Each time Emilio brought the boy back, the father offered him a bonus, and each time he refused.  Emilio was waiting for a bigger payoff.

That came when the father sold his company.  The entire staff, including security, went with the deal.  All except Emilio.  Mr. Crenshaw took Emilio with him when he built his mansion into a cliff overlooking the Pacific between Carmel and Big Sur.  He put Emilio in charge of security during the construction, and when it was finished, he kept him on as head of security for the entire estate.  The Senador called the place Paraiso.  The papers, the architectural magazines, and the TV reporters compared Paraiso to San Simeon, and people from all over the world came to gawk at it.  It was Emilio’s job to keep them out.  He was aided in the task by the fact that access was limited to a single road which wound through rough terrain and across a narrow, one-car bridge spanning a deep ravine with a swift-flowing stream at its base.

After Mr. Crenshaw became Senator Crenshaw, Emilio often shuttled between Washington and California on the Crenshaw jet.  And now he was shuttling down the West Side of Manhattan in a stretch limo.

Life was good on the fast track.

Emilio hadn’t wasted his spare time during the past ten years.  He’d gone to night school to improve his English and his reading.  And he’d kept in shape.  He’d sworn off the steroids but kept working out.  The result was a slimmer, meaner frame, with smaller but denser muscles.  At forty-one he was faster and stronger than he’d been in his halcyon days at The Blue Senorita.  And this Dog Collar place might be a little like his old stomping grounds...and he did mean stomping.

He popped his knuckles.  He almost hoped somebody got in his way when he picked up Charlie.

“It’s up here on the left,” Fred said.

But Emilio was watching to the right.  On the near side of West Street, near the water, a group of young men dressed in everything from leather pants to off-shoulder blouses were drinking beer and prancing around.  Every so often a car would stop and one of them would swish over and speak to the driver.  Sometimes the car would pull away as it had arrived, and sometimes the young man would get in and be whisked off for a rolling quicky.

Fred did a U-turn and pulled up in front of The Dog Collar.  As Emilio stepped out, Decker and Molinari appeared from the shadows.  Decker was fair, Molinari was almost as dark as Emilio.  They were his two best men from the Paraiso security force.

“He’s still there.  Want us to—?”

“I’ll get him,” Emilio said.  “You two watch my back.”  He pulled out a pair of plain, black leather gloves.  “And be sure to wear your gloves.  You don’t want to split a knuckle in this place.”

They smiled warily and pulled on their gloves as they followed Emilio inside.

“He’s wearing a red parka,” Decker said as he and Mol flanked the door.

Crowded inside, and dark.  So dark Emilio had to remove his shades.  He scanned the bar that stretched along the wall to his right.  No women—not that he’d expected any—and no red parka.  He met some frank, inviting stares, but no sign of Charlie.  He checked out the floor--crowded with cocktail tables, a row of booths along the far wall and an empty stage at the rear.  Slim waiters with boyish haircuts and neat little mustaches slipped back and forth among the tables with drinks and bar food.  Emilio spotted two women—together, of course—but where was Charlie?

He edged his way through the tables, searching the faces.  No red parka.  Maybe he’d taken it off.  Who knew what Charlie might look like these days--the color of his hair, what he’d be wearing?  One thing Emilio had to say for the boy, he was discreet.  He wasn’t deliberately trying to ruin his father’s political chances.  He usually rented a place under an assumed name, never told any of his rotating lovers who he was, and generally kept a low profile.  But nonetheless he remained a monster political liability.

Maybe that was why the Senador had decided it was time to reel Charlie in.  He’d been gone for almost two years now.  Emilio had tracked him to New York through the transfers from his trust fund.  He’d traced him across the country but now he couldn’t spot him across this single room.  Had he made Decker and slipped out the back?

Emilio was about to return to the door to quiz Decker when he saw a flash of red in the rearmost booth and homed in on it like a beacon.  Two guys in the booth—the one holding the parka had his back to him.  Emilio repressed a gasp when he saw his face.  It was Charlie.  The curly brown hair was the same, as were the blue eyes, but he looked so thin.  Emilio barely recognized the boy.

Why do I still think of him as a boy? he wondered.  He’s twenty-five.

Perhaps it was because part of his brain would always associate Charlie with the pudgy teenager he’d carried out of that Tijuana alley.

Charlie looked up at Emilio with wide blue eyes that widened further when he recognized him.

“Oh, shit,” Charlie said.  “You found me.”

“Time to go home, Charlie.”

“Let me be, Emilio.  I’m settled in here.  I’m not bothering anybody.  I’m actually happy here.  Just tell Dad you couldn’t find me.”

“That would be lying, Charlie.  And I never lie...to your dad.”

He grabbed the boy under his right arm and began to pull him from his seat.  Charlie tried to wriggle free but it was like a Chihuahua resisting a pitbull.

The guy in the other half of the booth stood and gave Emilio a two-handed shove.

“Get your mitts off him, fucker!”

He was beefier than Charlie, with decent pecs and a good set of shoulders under the T-shirt and leather vest he wore, but he was out of his league.  Way out.

“No me jodas!” Emilio said and smashed a right uppercut to his jaw that slammed him back into the inner corner of the booth.  He slumped there and stared up at Emilio with a look of dazed pain.

Emilio turned and started dragging Charlie toward the door, knocking over tables in his way.  He didn’t want a full-scale brawl but he wouldn’t have minded another maricon or two trying to block his way.  But most of them seemed too surprised and off guard to react.  Too bad.  He was in the mood to kick some ass.  He saw the bartender come out from behind the bar hefting an aluminum baseball bat.  Decker and Mol intercepted him, and after a brief struggle Mol was holding the bat and the bartender was back behind the bar.

Once he was free of the tables, Emilio swung the stumbling Charlie around in front of him and propelled him toward the door.  Decker and Mol closed in behind them as they exited.  Emilio heard the bat clank on the floor as the doors swung closed.  Half a dozen steps across the sidewalk and then they were all inside the limo, heading uptown.

Charlie opened the door on the other side but Emilio pulled him back before he could jump out.

“You’ll get killed that way, kid.”

“I don’t care!” Charlie said.  “Dammit, Emilio, you can’t do this!  It’s kidnapping!”

“Just following orders.  Your father misses you.”

“Yeah.  Sure.”

Charlie folded his arms and legs and withdrew into himself.  He spent the rest of the trip staring at the floor.

Emilio kept a close eye on him.  He didn’t want him trying to jump out of the car again--although that might be a blessing for all concerned.

He sighed.  Why did the Senador want this miserable creature around?  He seemed to love the boy despite the threat posed by his twisted nature.  Was that parenthood?  Was that what fathering a child did to you?  Made you lose your perspective?  Emilio was glad he’d spared himself the affliction.  But if he’d had a child, a boy, he’d never have let him grow up to be a maricon.  He would have beaten that out of him at an early age.

What if Charlie did die by leaping from a moving vehicle?  Or what if he fell prey to a hit-and-run driver?  A major stumbling block on the Senador’s road to the White House would be removed.

Emilio decided to start keeping a mental file of “accidental” ways for Charlie to die should the need suddenly arise.  The Senador would never order it, but if the need ever arose, Emilio might decide to act on his own.

I was two decades and a half in the desert when they came to me.  How they found me, I do not know.  Perhaps the Lord guided them.  Perhaps they followed the reek of my corruption.

They too were in flight, hiding from the Romans and their lackeys in the Temple.  The brother of He whose name I deserve not to speak led them.  They were awed by my appearance, and I by theirs.  Barely did I recognize them, so exhausted were they by their trek.

I was astounded to learn that they had brought the Mother with them.

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

FOUR

Father Dan Fitzpatrick strolled the narrow streets of his Lower East Side parish and drank in the colors flowing around him.  Sure there was squalor here, and poverty and crime, all awash in litter and graffiti, but there was color here.  Not like the high-rise midtown he’d visited last night, with its sterile concrete-and-marble plazas, its faceless glass-and-granite office towers.

A mere forty blocks from the Waldorf, the Lower East Side might as well be another country.  No skyscrapers here.  Except for aberrations like the Con-Ed station’s quartet of stacks and the dreary housing projects, the Lower East Side skyline rises to a uniform six stories.  Window-studded facades of cracked and patched brick crowd together cheek by jowl for block after block, separated occasionally by a garbage-choked alley.  They’re all brick of varying shades of red, sometimes brown or gray, and every so often a daring pink or yellow or blue.  With no room behind or to either side, a mazework of mandatory fire escapes hangs over the sidewalks, clinging to the brick facades like spidery steel parasites, ready-made perches for the city’s winged rat, the pigeon.

Everywhere Dan looked, everything was old, with no attempt to recapture youth.  Graffiti formed the decorative motif, layer upon layer until the intertwined snake squiggles and balloon letters were indecipherable even to their perpetrators.  The store signs he could read advertised old bedding, fresh vegetables, used furniture, and the morning paper, offered food, candy, magazines, cashed checks, and booze, booze, booze.  And some Korean and Vietnamese signs he couldn’t read.  He passed pawn shops, bodegas, boys clubs, schools, churches, and playgrounds.  Children still played, even here.

He looked up at the passing windows.  Behind them lived young, hopeful immigrants on their way up, middle aged has-beens on their way down, and too many running like hell just to stay in place.  And out here on the streets dwelt the never-weres and the never-will-bes, going nowhere, barely even sure of where they were at any given moment.

He wore his civvies this morning—faded jeans, flannel shirt, sneakers.  He wasn’t here on Church business and it was easier to get around without the Roman collar.  Especially in Tompkins Square.  The collar drew the panhandlers like moths to a flame.  And can you believe it—every single one of them a former altar boy?  Simply amazing how many altar boys had become homeless.

Tompkins Square Park was big, three blocks long and running the full width between Avenues A and B.  Black wrought-iron fencing guarded the perimeter.  Oaks, pale green with new life, stood inside the fences but spread their branches protectively over the surrounding sidewalks.  Homeless shantytowns used to spring up here every so often, and just as often the police would raze them, but closing the park between midnight and 6 a.m. every night had sent the cardboard box brigade elsewhere.

Dan walked past the stately statue of Samuel S. Cox, its gray-green drabness accentuated by the orange, red, and yellow of the swings and slides in the nearby playground, and strolled the bench-lined walks, searching for the gleaming white of Harold Gold’s bald head.  They’d met years ago when Dan had audited Hal’s course on the Dead Sea scrolls.  They’d got to talking after class, found they shared an abiding interest in the Jerusalem Church—Hal from the Jewish perspective, Dan from the Christian—and became fast friends.  Whenever one dug up a tasty little tidbit of lore, he shared it immediately with the other.  Dan was sure Hal had picked up some real goodies during his sabbatical in Israel.  He was looking forward to this meeting.

He didn’t see Hal.  Lunch hour was still a while off but already seats were becoming scarce around the square.  Then Dan spotted someone waving from a long bench in the sunny section on the Avenue A side.

No wonder I couldn’t spot him, Dan thought as he approached Hal’s bench.  He’s got a tan.

As usual, Hal was nattily dressed in a dark blue blazer, gray slacks, a pale blue Oxford button-down shirt, and a red-and-blue paisley tie.  But his customary academician’s pallor had been toasted to a golden brown.  His nude scalp gleamed with a richer color.  He looked healthier and better rested than Dan had ever seen him.

“The Middle East seems to agree with you,” Dan said, laughing as they shook hands.  He sat down next to him.  “I can’t remember ever seeing you looking so fit.”

“Believe me, Fitz, getting away for a year and recharging the batteries does wonders for the mind and body.  I heartily recommend it.”  He looked around.  “You came alone?”

“Of course.  Who else would I bring?”

Dan knew perfectly well who Hal was looking for.

“I don’t know.  I thought, well, maybe Sister Carrie might come along.”

“No.  She’s back at St. Joe’s, working.  You’ll have to come by if you want to see her.”

“Maybe I will.  Been a long time since I stopped in.”

Dan knew Hal had a crush on Carrie.  A strictly hands-off, unrequited, love-from-afar thing that reduced him to a stumbling, stammering twelve-year old around her.  But he wasn’t alone.  Everybody loved Sister Carrie.

“Do that.  And bring some food.  A long time since you made a contribution.”

Just then an eighth of a ton of black woman in a frayed yellow dress lumbered up and spread a large green garbage bag on the bench.  She seated herself so close to Dan that one of her massive thighs rubbed against his.  He smiled at her and inched away to give her some room as she settled herself.

Hal clapped Dan on the shoulder.  “Saw you on TV last night, Fitz.”

“Did you.  How was I?”

“You sounded good.  I thought you came off very well.”

You wouldn’t think so if you’d been there, Dan thought.His herd at his heels, he’d slunk back to St. Joe’s with his tail between his legs.  At least that was they way it had felt.  The on-camera interview Hal had seen had been taped during the fund-raising dinner, while he and the demonstrators were all waiting for Senator Crenshaw to come out.  After the senator’s exit—after he’d been sliced and diced—Dan had fielded a few questions from reporters but his answers weren’t as sharp as they might have been.  They’d seemed almost...empty.

But perhaps that was just his own perception.  Everyone he’d seen so far today had told him that he and the protesters had come across extremely well on the tube.  Dan would have to take their word for it.  He’d lacked the nerve to tune in last night.

Luckily, no one seemed to have caught Senator Crenshaw’s little diatribe on tape.  Dan knew the wounded part of him within would shrivel up and die if he had listen to that again.

“What the—?”

Hal’s voice jolted Dan back to the here and now.  He glanced up and saw Hal staring past him in horrified fascination at the fat black woman.  She’d removed the mirrored half of a compact and a pair of tweezers from her huge purse and was now plucking at her face.  Dan couldn’t see anything to pluck at but that didn’t seem to deter the woman.  She was completely engrossed in the task.

Hal shook himself.  “Anyway, seeing you reminded me that I have a present for you.”

He picked up a football-size box from the bag between his feet and placed it in Dan’s hands.

“What’s this?”

“A gift.  From the past...sort of.”

Dan hadn’t expected a gift, though God knew his spirits needed lifting after last night.

“Well, don’t just stare at it.  Open it.”

No ribbon or wrapping to remove, just a plain, oblong wooden box.  Dan lifted the lid and stared.

“What...?”

“Your own Dead Sea scroll.”

Dan glanced at his friend.  He knew Harold was kidding, but this thing looked so damned...real.

“No, really.  What is it?”

Harold launched into the explanation.  A fascinating story, during which a pair of thin, dark-haired, mustached men seated themselves on the far side of the black woman; each began drinking his lunch from a brown paper bag.  Dan listened to Hal and sensed the mixture of excitement and disappointment in his voice.  When he finished, Dan looked down at the loosely rolled parchment in the box on his lap.

“So, you’re giving me a first century parchment filled with twenty-first century scribbles.”

“An oddity.  A collector’s item in its own right.”

Dan continued to stare at the ancient roll of sheepskin.  He was moved.

“I...I don’t know what to say, Hal.  I’ll treasure this.”

“Don’t get carried away—”

“No, I mean it.  If nothing else, the parchment was made in the early days of the Church.  It’s a link of sorts.  And I’m touched that you thought of me.”

“Who else do I know who’s so nuts about the first century?”

“You must have been crushed when you found out.”

Harold sighed.  “Crushed isn’t the word.  We were all devastated.  But I tell you, Fitz, I wouldn’t trade the high of the first few days with that scroll for anything.  It was the greatest!”

Just then a woman dressed in satin work-out pants and a red sleeveless shell top walked over to the bench and stood on the other side of Hal.  She was middle aged with a bulging abdomen.  Dan noticed that she wore red slipper-socks over red lace knee-highs.  She’d finished off the ensemble by wrapping Christmas paper around her ankles.

Hal looked down at her feet and said, “Good Lord.”

She smiled down at him.  “Ain’t blockin’ yer sun, am I?”

Hal shook his head.  “No.  That’s quite all right.”

She then pulled a bottle of Ban deodorant from her pocket and began to apply it to her right underarm—and only to her right underarm.  Dan and Hal watched her do this for what seemed like five minutes but was probably only one.  During the process she also managed to coat half of her shoulder blade as well.

She was still at it when Dan turned back to his gift and spotted a legal-size envelope tucked in next to the scroll.  He pulled it out.

“What’s this?”

Hal dragged his eyes away from the woman with the deodorant.  “The translation.  I know you’re pretty good at old Hebrew, but this will save you from risking damage to the scroll by unrolling it.  And as jumbled, paranoid, and crazy as it may read, you can rely on the accuracy of the translation.  The folks who did it are tops.”

“As usual, Hal.  You’ve thought of everything.”

An elderly man in a shabby blue suit slipped past the Ban lady and seated himself next to Hal.  Immediately he began untying his shoes.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he said in an accented voice as he slipped the first one off.  “They’re really sweaty.  I need to air my feet something awful.”

“Be my guest,” Hal said, rolling his eyes at Dan as the odor from the exposed feet and empty shoes began to rise.  “We were just leaving.  Weren’t we, Fitz.”

“Gee, I kind of like it here, Hal,” Dan said in his most guileless tone.  “Why don’t you save our seats while I run up to the corner and buy us a couple of hot dogs.  We can eat them right here.  You like sauerkraut?”

“I’ve lost my appetite,” Hal said through a tight, fierce grin.  “Let’s.  Go.  For.  A.  Little.  Walk.  Shall.  We?”

Dan hadn’t the heart to play this out any longer.  After all, Hal had just given him a first century scroll.

“Sure.”

As they left, the Ban lady took their spots and switched to her left underarm.

When they reached the sidewalk on Avenue A, Hal said, “I think I preferred living under the threat of a Hamas attack.”

Just then a very pale woman with very black hair, black blouse and black stretch pants walked by balancing a loaded green plastic laundry basket on her head.

“And sometimes I wonder if I’ve truly left the Middle East.”

Dan smiled.  Poor, fastidious Hal.  “You should be at Princeton or Yale.”

“Yeah.  I could have been.  But I thought I’d like New York.  Don’t they get to you?”  Dan shrugged.  “Those folks are like most of the people I hang out with every day, but considerably more functional.”

“How do you do it?  You all but live with them.  And you don’t have to.”

“Jesus hung with the down and outs.  Why shouldn’t I?”

He noticed Hal looking at him closely.  “You don’t think you’re Jesus, do you?”

Dan laughed.  “Hardly.  But that’s what being a priest is all about—modeling your life on the J-man, as he’s known around here.  Truth is, we don’t know much about His life.”

“Well, we do know that he rubbed the higher-ups the wrong way.”

“I’ve done my share of that.”

Dan thought of his long-running battle with Father Brenner, St. Joseph’s pastor, over his soup kitchen in the basement.

“It got him killed.”

Dan laughed again.  “Not to worry.  I’m not looking to get my palms and soles ventilated.”

“You can’t be too careful, Fitz.” Hal glanced back toward the plaza.  “A lot of these folks are more than a few bricks shy of a full load.”

Dan nodded.  “I’m aware of that.”  He thought of the couple of occasions when some of Loaves and Fishes’ “guests” got violent, mostly screaming and shouting and pushing, but one had gone so far as to pull a knife during an argument over who would sit by a window.  “And I’m careful.”

“Good.  I’m sure there’s a place in heaven for you, but I don’t want you taking it just yet.”

“Heaven’s not guaranteed for anybody, Hal.  Sometimes I wonder if there is such a place.”

Hal was looking at him strangely.  “You?”

He didn’t want to get into anything heavy so he grinned.  “Just kidding.  But how about lunch?  It’s the least I can do.”  He pointed to Nino’s on the corner of St. Mark’s Place.  “Slice of Sicilian?”

“I’ll take a rain check.” Hal extended his hand.  “Got to run.  But I want to get together with you again after you’ve read the translation.  See if you can make any sense of it.”

“I’ll do my best.  And thanks again.  Thanks a million.  Nice to own something this old—and know it’s one of a kind.”

Hal frowned.”Not one of a kind, I’m afraid.  Shortly before I left, an Israeli collector came in with another scroll identical to this one.  The parchment and the writing carbon dated the same as yours—about two thousand years apart.”

Dan shrugged.  “Okay.  So it’s not one of a kind.  It’s still a great gift, and I’ll treasure it.  But right now I’ve got to get back to the shelter for the lunch line.”

Hal waved and started down the sidewalk.  “See you next week, okay?  For lunch.  I should have my appetite back by then.”

Dan waved and headed back to St. Joe’s, wondering how many these weird scrolls were floating around the Middle East.

She had been dead for two years and more, yet her body showed no trace of corruption.  The brother had kept her death a secret.  He and the others feared that Ananus or Herod Agrippa or even the Hellenists might make use of her remains to further their various ends.

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

FIVE

Ramat Gan, Israel

Chaim Kesev stared westward from the picture window in the living room of Tulla Szobel’s sprawling hilltop home.  He could see the lights of Tel Aviv—the IBM tower, the waterfront hotels—and the darkness of the Mediterranean beyond.  The glass reflected the room behind him.  A pale room, a small pale world—beige rug, beige walls, beige drapes, pale abstract paintings, low beige furniture that seemed designed for something other than human comfort, chrome and glass tables and lamps.

Kesev wrinkled his nose.  With all the money lavished on this room, he thought, the least you’d think she could do was find a way to remove the cigarette stink.  The place smelled like a tavern at cleanup time.

He had arrived here unannounced tonight, shown Miss Szobel his Shin Bet identification, and all but pushed his way in.  Now he waited while she procured the scroll from a room in some other quarter of the house.

The scroll...he’d begun a low-key search for it immediately after its theft.  A subtle search.  Not I’m looking for a scroll recently stolen from a cave in the Judean Wilderness.  Have you seen or heard of such a thing?  That kind of search would close doors rather than open them.  Instead, Kesev had extended feelers into the antiquities market—legitimate and underground—saying he was a collector interested in purchasing first-century manuscripts, and that money was no object.

Perhaps his feelers hadn’t been subtle enough.  Perhaps the seller he sought preferred more tried-and-true channels of commerce.  Whatever the reason, he was offered many items over the years, but none were what he sought.

Then, just last year, his feelers caught ripples of excitement from the manuscript department at the Rockefeller Museum in Jerusalem.  A unique first century scroll had been brought in for verification.  As he homed in on the scent, word came that the scroll turned out to be a fake.  So he’d veered off and continued his search elsewhere.

And then, just last month, whispers of another fake, identical to the first—the same disjointed story, written in the same Aramaic form of Hebrew, on an ancient parchment.

Something in those whispers teased Kesev.  The scant details he could glean about the fakes tantalized him.  He investigated and learned that the first scroll had been brought in by an American who had since returned home.  But the second...a wealthy woman from a Tel Aviv suburb had brought that in, and taken it home in a huff when informed that she’d been duped.

Kesev was standing in her living room now.

He heard her footsteps.

“Here, Mr. Kesev,” said a throaty voice.  Her Ivrit carried a barely noticeable Eastern European accent.  “I believe this is what you want.”

He turned slowly, hiding his anticipation.  Tulla Szobel was in her mid fifties, blonde hair, reed thin, prematurely wrinkled, and dressed in a beige knit dress the color of her walls.  A cigarette dangled from her lips.  She held a lucite case between her hands.

Kesev took the case and carried it to the glass-and-chrome coffee table.  Without asking permission, he lifted the lid and removed the scroll.

“Careful!” she said, hovering over him.

He ignored her.  He uncoiled a foot or so of the scroll and began reading—

Then stopped.  This wasn’t the scroll.  This looked like the scroll, and some of it read like the scroll, but the writing, the penmanship was all wrong.

“They were right,” he said, nodding slowly.  “This is a fake.  A clumsy fake.”

Miss Szobel sniffed.  “I don’t need you to tell me that.  The Rockefeller Museum—”

“Where did you get this?” Kesev said, rerolling the scroll.

She puffed furiously on her cigarette.  “Why...I...picked it up in a street bazaar.”

“Really?”

They all said that.  Amazing.  Israel seemed full of lucky collectors who were forever happening on priceless—or potentially priceless—artifacts in street stalls, and purchasing them for next to nothing from vendors who had no idea of their true worth.

“You must take me to him.”

“I wish I could,” she said.  “I’ve been looking for him myself, trying to get my money back.  But he seems to have vanished into thin air.”

“You are lying,” Kesev said evenly, replacing the lucite lid and looking up at her.

She stepped back as if he’s spit at her.  “How dare you!”  She pointed a shaking finger toward her front door.  “I want you out of—”

“If I leave without the name that I seek I will return within the hour with a search warrant and a search team, and we will comb this house inch by inch until we turn up more forgeries from this mysterious source.”

Kesev couldn’t back up a word of that threat, but he knew the specter of a search of the premises would strike terror into the heart of any serious antiquities collector.  They all dipped into the black market now and then.  Some bought there almost exclusively.  If Miss Szobel followed true to form, a search might result in the seizure of half her collection; maybe more.

Miss Szobel’s pointing arm faltered and fell to her side.

“Wh-why?  On what grounds?  Why does Domestic Intelligence care—?”

“Oh, it’s not just the Shit Bet.  The Mossad is involved too.”

She paled further.  “The Mossad?”

“Yes.  We have reason to believe that these scrolls are merely the latest in an ongoing scheme to sell worthless fakes to wealthy collectors and funnel the money to Palestine terrorist organizations.”

Amazing how facile a liar he’d become.  It hadn’t always been this way.  As a younger man he’d insisted on speaking nothing but the truth.  But that youth, like truth, was long gone, swallowed by time and tragedy.

He sighed and rose to his feet.  “Please do not leave the house, Miss Szobel.  I will return in—”

“Wait!” She motioned him back toward the couch.  “I had no idea terrorists were involved.  Of course I’ll tell you where I bought it.”

“Excellent.”  Kesev removed a pen and a note pad from his breast pocket.  “Go ahead.”

“His name is Salah Mahmoud.  He has a shop in Jerusalem—the old town.  In the Moslem quarter, off Qadasiya.”

Kesev nodded.  He knew the area, if not the shop.

“Thank you for your cooperation.”  He bent and lifted the scroll and its lucite box from the table.  “I’ll need to take this back to Shin Bet headquarters for analysis.”

“Must you?” She followed him to the door.  “ I will get it back, won’t I?”

“Of course.  As soon as we are finished with it.”

He waved good-bye and headed for his car.  Another lie.  Miss Tulla Szobel had seen the last of her forged scroll.  He’d take it with him to Jerusalem for his visit to a certain Salah Mahmoud.  The dealer couldn’t plead ignorance if Kesev held the scroll under his nose.  Threats probably wouldn’t suffice to loosen Mahmoud’s tongue.  Kesev might have to get rough.  He almost relished the thought.

I asked the brother why he had come to me with this miracle.

He said to me, Because it has been told to us that you are to guard her, and protect her as if she were your own mother and still alive.

I told him, Yes.  Yes, I will guard her with my life.  I will do anything you ask.

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

SIX

Manhattan

The Gothic, granite-block bulk of St. Joseph’s Church sits amid the brick tenements like a down-on-her-luck dowager who’s held onto her finer clothes from the old days but hasn’t the will or the means to keep them in good repair.  Her twin spires are alternately caked black with city grime and streaked white with the droppings of the pigeons that find perches on the spires’ remaining crockets.  The colors of the large central rose window over the double doors are barely discernible through the grime.  She’s flanked on her left by the rectory and on her right by the Convent of the Blessed Virgin.

From his room in the rectory Father Dan saw the hungry homeless lining up next to the worn stone steps in front of St. Joe’s, waiting to get into the Loaves and Fishes for lunch.  He dearly would have loved to sit here and read the translation of the scroll Hal had given him, but duty called.

He left the wooden box on his bed and hurried down to the rectory basement.  From there it was a quick trip through the dank, narrow tunnel that ran beneath the alley between the church and the rectory to the basement of St. Joe’s.  As he approached the door at the far end, the smell of fresh bread and hot soup drew him forward.

The tunnel ended in the kitchen area of Loaves and Fishes.  He stepped inside.  Heat thickened the air.  All the ovens were going—donated by a retired baker—heating loaves of Carrie’s special bread: multiple grains mixed with high-protein flour, enriched with eggs and gluten.  A meal in itself.  Add a bowl of Carrie’s soup and you had a feast.

Dan sniffed the air as he headed for the huge stove and the cluster of aproned volunteers stirring the brimming pots.

“Smells great.  What’s the soup du jour?”

“Split pea,” Augusta said.

“Split pea?  I ordered boeuf bourguignon!”

A slim brunette at the center of the cluster turned and gave him a withering, scornful stare.

“Don’t you be starting that again,” she said, pointing a dripping spoon at him.

“Oh, that’s right,” he said.  “I forgot.  This is a vegetarian soup kitchen.”

The volunteers glanced over their shoulders and giggled.  This argument had become a litany, recited almost daily.

“Hush up or we’ll be making a beef stew of you!”

Now they were laughing aloud.  The brunette tried to hold her scowl but finally a smile broke through and its brilliance  lit the room.

“Good morning, Sister,” Dan said.

“Good morning, Father,” she replied.

Sister Carolyn Ferris fixed him a moment with her wide, guileless blue eyes.  Her normally pale cheeks were flushed from the heat of the stove.  The rising steam had curled her straight dark hair, cut in a bob, into loose ringlets around her face.

She was in her late twenties, dressed in the shapeless, oversized work shirt and baggy pants she favored when working at the shelter.  Her lips were on the thin side, and her teeth probably could have done with a little orthodontic work in her teens, but she’d joined the convent at fourteen so they remained au naturel.  The way her smile lit up her face erased all memory of those minor imperfections.

As often as he’d seen it, Dan never tired of that smile.  He’d enjoyed it in all its permutations, and sometimes he’d catch a hint of sadness there, a deeply hidden hurt that clouded her eyes in unguarded moments.  But only for a moment.

Sister Carrie was the sun and the Lower East Side her world; she shone on it daily.

But for all her gentle, giving, girlish exterior, she was tough inside.  Especially when it came to her beliefs, whether religious or dietary.  No meat was served at the shelter—”We won’t be killing one of God’s creatures to feed another, at least not as long as I’m in the kitchen”—which was just as well because the food dollars stretched considerably further with the Sister Carrie menu.

And Dan, who’d always been pretty much of a beer-and-a-burger man himself, had to admit that he’d got out of the meat habit under her tutelage and no longer missed it.  At least not too much.

“Sorry I’m late.  What needs to be done?”

“Our guests should be getting low on bread by now.”

She always called them “our guests,” and Dan never failed to be charmed by it.

“Consider it done.”

She smiled that smile and turned back to the stove.  Shaking off the lingering after effect, Dan gathered up half a dozen loaves and carried them out to the shelter area.

A different mix of odors greeted him in the Big Room.  Split-pea and fresh-bread aromas layered the air, spiced with the sting of cigarette smoke and the pungency of unwashed bodies swathed in unwashed clothes.

Dan squeezed past Hilda Larsen’s doubly ample middle-aged rump and dumped the loaves onto one of the long tables lined up against the inner wall that made up the serving area.

“Good afternoon, Father,” she said, smiling as she stirred the soup with her long, curved ladle.

“Hello, Hilda.  You look ravishing as usual today.”

She blushed. “Oh, Father Dan.”

Thank God for volunteers like Hilda, Dan thought as he picked up the bread knife and began cutting the loaves into inch-thick slices.

A small army of good-hearted folks donated enough hours here at the shelter to qualify as part-time employees.  Most of them were women with working husbands and empty nests who’d transferred the nurturing drive from their now grown and independent children to the habitués of Loaves and Fishes.  Dan realized that the kitchen filled a void in their lives and that they probably got as much as they gave, but that didn’t make him any less appreciative.  Loaves and Fishes would never have got off the ground without them.

“Could youse hand me wunna dose, Fadda?”

Dan looked up.  A thin, bearded man in his forties with red-rimmed eyes and a withered right arm held a bowl of soup in his good hand.  His breath stank of cheap wine.

“Sure thing, Lefty.”

Dan perched a good thick slice on the edge of the bowl.

“Tanks a lot, Fadda.  Yer a prince.”

Looked as if Lefty had got into the Mad Dog early today.  Dan watched him weave toward one of the tables, praying he wouldn’t drop the bowl.  He didn’t.

“Hey, Pilot,” said the next man in line.

Rider, in his suede jacket.  At least it had been suede in the sixties; now the small sections visible through the decades of accumulated grime were as smooth and shiny as dressed leather.  Probably an expensive jacket in its day, with short fringes on the pockets and a long fringe on each sleeve; only a couple of sleeve fringes left now, gone with the lining and the original buttons.  But no way would Rider give up that coat.  He’d tell anyone who’d listen about the days he’d worn it back and forth cross country on his Harley, tripping on acid the whole way.  But Rider had taken a few too many trips.  His Harley was long gone and most of his mind along with it.

“How’s it going, Rider?”

Dan dropped a heavy slice on his tray.  Rider always called him Pilot.  Because Rider slurred his words as much as anyone else, Dan had asked him once if that was Pilot with an “o” or an “a-t-e.”  Rider hadn’t the vaguest idea what Dan was talking about.

“Good, Pilot.  Got a new lead on my Harley.  Should have it back by the end of the week.”

“Great.”

“Yep.  Then it’s so long.”

Rider’s quest for his last bike, stolen sometime during the late eighties, lent a trace of structure to his otherwise aimless day-to-day existence.  Rider was the shelter’s Galahad.

The rest of the regulars filed by with a few newer faces sprinkled in; a couple of those might become regulars, the rest would drift on.  The locals, the never-miss-a-meal regulars were all here, some in their twenties, some in their sixties, most of indeterminate age somewhere between.  Some called themselves John and Jim and Marta and Thelma, but many had street names: Stony, Indian, Preacher, Pilgrim, Lefty, Dandy, Poppy, Bigfoot, One-Thumb George, and the inimitable Dirty Harry.

They all got one bowl of soup and one thick slice of Sister Carrie’s famous bread.  After they finished they could have seconds if anything was left over after everyone had firsts.  Off to his left, Dan heard scuffling and a shout as the seconds line formed.

“Oh, Father,” Hilda said, leaning over the counter to look.  “I think it’s Dandy and Indian again.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Dan ducked under the table and got to the trouble spot just as Dandy was picking himself off the floor and crouching to charge Indian.  Dan grabbed him by the back of his jacket collar.

“Whoa, Dandy!  Hang on a sec.”

Dandy whirled, snarling.  The fire in his eyes cooled immediately when he saw who he faced.  He shrugged to settle his jacket back on his shoulders and straightened his tie.  Dandy had earned his name from his taste in fourth-hand attire.  He always managed to pick the brightest colors from the donated clothing.  His latest getup consisted of an orange shirt, a green-and-white striped tie, a plaid sports jacket, and lime green golf pants.  All frayed, all dirty, but worn with the air of someone who considered his life a fashion statement.

“Lucky for Indian you came along.”

“What happened?”

“He pushed me out of my place in line.”

Dan glanced at Indian who faced straight ahead, ignoring the two of them.  Dan knew he’d get nothing out of Indian, who wasn’t Indian at all—unless that kinky hair and ebony skin were West Indian.  Indian never spoke, never smiled, never frowned.  Apparently someone had called him a cigar-store Indian years ago and the name had stuck.

“You were cutting into the line, weren’t you, Dandy.”

“No way.”

“Dandy.”  Dan knew Dandy didn’t like to wait on line, especially with those he considered his sartorial inferiors.  “This wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I didn’t cut.  I axed.  I axed him if he minded if I got ahead of him.  He didn’t say no so I—”

Dan jerked his thumb over his shoulder.  “End of the line, Dandy.”

“Hey, Father—”

“We’ve got plenty today.  You won’t miss out.”

“But I got places to go.”

Dan said nothing further.  He stared Dandy down until he shrugged and headed for the end of the line.

Like dealing with eight-year olds, he thought as he headed back to the serving area.

But juvenile behavior was only one side of them, and that was the least of their problems.  A fair number of them were mentally ill—paranoids, borderline personalities, and outright schizophrenics—and many had drug and alcohol problems.  Multiple substance abuse was common.  Some combined the problems: chronic brain syndromes from long-term drug and/or alcohol abuse, or mental illness compounded by substance abuse.

For most of them it was a no-win situation.  And Senator Crenshaw’s concentration camps would do nothing for them.

Dan had finished slicing the bread and the ones who wanted seconds had passed through when he heard a chorus of voices saying, “Hello, Sister Carrie,” and “Good afternoon, Sister Carrie,” and “Thanks for the great meal, Sister Carrie.”

He glanced up and there she was, wiping her hands as she surveyed the diners.

“Did everyone have enough?” she said.

They answered almost as a group: “Oh, yes, Sister Carrie.”

Dan watched her walk out through the Big Room and slip among her guests, an almost ethereal presence, speaking to them, touching them: a hand on a shoulder here, a pat on a head there, a whispered word for old friends, a handshake and a smile for the new faces.  He envied her ability to make everyone of them feel special, to know they mattered.

“Was it good?” she said when she reached the far end of the Big Room.

They cheered and applauded, and that made her smile.  And the light she shed on the room made the applause double in volume.

Hilda was tsking and shaking her head.  “Look at them!  They’re ga-ga over her.”  But there was wonder rather than disapproval in her voice.  “What a politician she’d have made.”

Dan could only nod, eternally amazed at Carrie’s talent for making people love her.

Still smiling, she curtsied and returned to the kitchen.  As the room’s illumination seemed to dim by half, the guests began to clear their places and shuffle out to the street or line up for the bathroom.

Dan was wiping away the bread crumbs when he heard cries of, “Word up, Doc” and “How’s it go, Doctor Joe?”  He looked up and saw a short, white-coated Hispanic strolling toward him.

“Things slow at the clinic?” Dan said.

“I wish.”

Dr. José Martinez’s dark eyes twinkled as he picked up a leftover piece of bread, tore it, and shoved half into his mouth.  He had mocha skin, dark curly hair, and a body-builder’s frame.

“Want some soup?”

“Carrie make it?”

“Of course.”

“Then that’s my answer.”

“What?”

“Of course.”

“Right.”

Dan got him a bowl and a spoon and slid them across the table.

Joe stared down at the steaming green but didn’t reach for the spoon.

“Something wrong?”

Joe continued staring at the soup.  “Three new HIV conversions this morning.”

“Jesus!”

“Jesus had nothing to do with it.”

“I know, but...anybody we know?”

Finally, José looked up from the soup.  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Sure, sure, and I appreciate that, but we’ve got close quarters here.  Know what I’m saying?”

“Sure I do.  But you can’t catch AIDS sitting next to someone.  It doesn’t jump plate to plate.”

“No kidding.  But it does jump vein to needle and needle to vein, and not a few of our guests have been known to shoot up when mood and opportunity permit.”

José shook his head.  “Can’t tell you, Fitz.”

“I don’t want names.  Don’t tell me who, just tell me how many HIV positives in and out of here.”

Dan wasn’t looking to ostracize anyone, but it certainly would be useful to know who was positive.  A lot of St. Joe’s guests regularly fell or got into fights.  It was a common occurrence for one of them to stagger in hurt and bleeding—amazing how much blood could pour out of a minor scalp cut—and either he or Carrie would clean them up.  He wasn’t so worried about himself, but Carrie...

“I don’t have to look at any faces to tell you that you’ve got HIV positives here.  The homeless population is loaded with them.”

Dan knew that.  He just wished he knew who.

“So when do I put on the rubber gloves?”

“Whenever you see red.”  José took the other half of his bread slice and dipped it into his soup.  “By the way, how’s Sister Carrie?”

“You just missed her.”

“Oh.”

“She’s in the back.  Want me to get her?”

“No.  Don’t bother her.  Just wanted to say hello if she happened to wander through.”

Is that the only reason people come here? Dan thought.  To see Carrie?

First Hal asking about her, now José.  Like puppies, panting for a glimpse of her.  No lascivious ogling here—no curves in those asexual, baggy clothes she wore—just a simple desire to bask in her glow.  He knew their love for her was the unrequited, worship-from-afar kind, and he should have been used to it by now, but he wasn’t.

After all, Dan loved her too.

I knew a place for her, a small cave set far back on the ledge above the tav rock.  Together we prepared a bier for her and placed her upon it.

And then we sealed her in, carrying rocks that one man could not lift alone, and choking the mouth of the cave with them.

It will take many men to reopen her Resting Place.  But they shall not touch these stones.  They shall have to deal with me first.

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

SEVEN

Paraiso

As Emilio wheeled the black Bentley limo through the iron gates on the rim of his estate, Arthur Crenshaw sat alone in the back seat and closed his eyes, praying for guidance in the coming confrontation with his son.

Charlie, Charlie, what are we going to do about you?

He’d been up all night praying over the problem.  And during the six-hours alone in the passenger compartment of his Gulfstream II, four-and-a-half miles above the country he prayed would elect him its president, he’d continued praying for an answer.

Thank the Lord for prayer.  He only wished he’d discovered it sooner in his life.  He’d never been much for it in his younger days.  In fact he remembered secret sneers at the breast-beaters, the bead-pushers, the doe-eyed heaven-gazers who couldn’t solve their problems on their own and had to beseech some Santa Claus in the sky to bail them out.  He’d always considered them fools and losers.

Until he ran up against a problem neither he nor anyone else could solve: Olivia’s cancer.

The tumor had started in her left ovary, growing insidiously, worming its way out into her pelvis.  By the time the first symptoms appeared—subtle even then—it was seeded throughout her abdominal cavity.

What a vicious, ruthless, perfidious disease, a spreading army of militant cells causing no pain, no visible lumps, no blockages, covertly infiltrating the abdomen until it had gained a foothold upon every organ within reach.

Even now Arthur suppressed a moan as he remembered the moment in the hospital room when they got the news.  Too late, the doctors said.  They’d give it their best shot but the prognosis was bleak.

Still fresh in his mind was the look on Olivia’s face—the panic and terror that raced across her features before she controlled them and donned the brave mask she wore to her grave.  For the timeless instant between the devastating realization that her lifespan was numbered in months, and the determination that she would not surrender to the tumor, her innermost fears had lain naked before him.

Olivia, God bless her, never gave up.  Together they tried everything.  When traditional therapies failed, she volunteered for experimental protocols.  When the cancer resisted those, Arthur took her around the world, to the sincere quacks and out-and-out charlatans who offered hope to the hopeless.  Arthur spent a fortune—perhaps two fortunes—but it was only money.  What was money?  He could always make more.  But there was only one Olivia.

And brave Olivia, she withstood the endless array of tests and scans and pills and needles and baths and rubs until she could stand no more.

Because none of it was working.

And then, for the first time in his adult life, Arthur Crenshaw began to pray.  Not for himself—he swore he’d never stoop to praying for himself—but for Olivia.  He resented the need to pray.  He knew now it was pride.  He’d always been the problem solver, always the one who managed to find the needed answer.  But he’d already done everything humanly possible; now the only place left to seek help was beyond the human.

He went to a church and spoke to a young minister who told him to put Olivia’s problem in God’s hands and pray to Him to save her.

Arthur did just that.  He prayed and he forced himself to let go, to step back and trust in the Lord.  To his dismay, despite his prayers, his agonized cries to Heaven, Olivia continued her downward course.

Only one person appeared to benefit from his prayers: Arthur Crenshaw.  It left him feeling buoyed, lighter than air, filled with an inner glow that could only be the Peace of the Lord.

He could imagine the facile rationalizations the unbelievers in his circle would offer to explain his sudden inner tranquillity: Giving over responsibility for Olivia to God had relieved him of an awesome psychological burden.  What he interpreted as Divine Grace was merely his psyche rebounding after being released from the crushing weight of accountability for Olivia’s cure.

Nonsense.

God had willed him to be tranquil so that he could fully concentrate on being with Olivia.  Which was exactly what he did.

And when Olivia died in his arms in their bedroom in Paraiso, they were both at peace.

But Arthur hadn’t stopped praying then.  Prayer had become a habit during Olivia’s illness and so he’d continued a ritual of starting and finishing each day by talking with the Lord.  And when he’d been troubled by problems with the company, when a solution eluded him, he’d pray.  And, praise the Lord, not long after he prayed the answer would come to him.

He was well aware of the non-believer’s rational explanation for that, as well: When you gave a problem over to God you stopped gnawing at it; you relaxed your stranglehold on its elements, allowing them to reassemble into new and different configurations.  The fresh perspectives afforded by those new configurations, the different light in which you saw the problem, allowed you to arrive at a solution.  Nothing divine about it.  The same thing happened with Transcendental Meditation.  With self-hypnosis.  With standard mental relaxation techniques.

Again, nonsense.  Arthur came to realize that the Lord had become an integral part of his life and was working through him.  To bind himself closer to Him, he went to Bible study groups, prayer meetings, healing sessions, immersing himself in the new Christian Fundamentalism and becoming one of its more visible members.  And when he sold his company and decided to run for the Senate, he discovered that his new beliefs guaranteed him a huge, ready-made constituency eager to help propel him to the Capitol.

Surely anyone with half a brain could see the hand of God at work in all this.

He opened his eyes as he heard the rattle of the bridge timbers under the wheels.  He leaned against the window and stared down over the edge of the narrow, one-car span.  Afternoon sunlight dazzled and danced on the cascading surface of the brook one hundred feet below.

Emilio guided the Bentley from the bridge onto a path that wound through the pines for half a mile, then they broke from the shade into the light.  Before them stretched a lush garden of flowering fruit trees surrounded by sprays of forsythia and rhododendrons and azaleas.  Wild flowers bloomed in the interstices.  No grass.  Just ground cover and natural mulch.  Arthur spent tens of thousands of dollars a year to keep the garden looking wild and untended and yet perfect.  Beyond the garden stretched the western sky.  And two hundred feet straight down—the Pacific Ocean.

Emilio pulled into the bower that served as a carport.  Arthur opened his own door—he disliked being waited upon—and stepped out.  The fresh, salt tang of the on-shore breeze felt marvelous after the fumes of New York.

Every time he returned from a trip he appreciated anew Olivia’s wisdom in naming their home Paraiso.

Then he thought of his son and his mood darkened.  Yes, their home looked like a paradise.  If only it could be a paradise.

“Where’s Charlie?”

“He was still asleep when I left,” Emilio said.

Arthur nodded.  Time for the showdown.  He didn’t want this.  And when he’d left New York he hadn’t known what to do.  But during the flight he’d prayed and placed the problem in God’s hands.

And praise the Lord, by the time the Gulfstream had landed he had the solution.

He strode toward the low dome that was the only part of the house visible from the garden.  He tapped the entry code into the keypad and the door swung inward.  He passed the door of the waiting elevator, preferring the extra time the spiral staircase would afford him.  As he descended to the top floor, the endless grandeur of the Pacific opened before him.

Arthur had built the house downward instead of up, carving it into the rocky face of the oceanfront cliffs.  It hadn’t been easy.  When he finally found a suitable coastal cliff south of Carmel that was an extrusion of bedrock instead of the soft clay that dominated the area, strong enough to support his dream house, he ran up against the California Coastal Commission.  Many were the times during his epic battles with those arrogant bureaucrats that he’d wished he’d never started the project.  But he was determined to see it through.  After all, he’d promised Olivia.  It took threats, bribes, and in one case, plain, old-fashioned blackmail to get all the permits.  It was during that period that he learned the power of government, and decided that the only way to protect himself from it was to join the club and wield some of that power himself.

But Paraiso was finally built, exactly to his specs.  The entire front was a dazzling array of floor-to-ceiling windows, enticing the sky and the sea indoors, making them part of the interior.  From the sea, Paraiso appeared as a massive mosaic of steel and crystal—a three-story bay window.  At night it glowed like a jewel set into the cliffside.  On sunny weekends the waves below were acrawl with a bobbing horde of boats, private and chartered, filled with sightseers pointing and gazing up in open-mouthed awe.

Within, the ceilings were high, the rooms open and airy.  The dining room, the kitchen, Arthur’s office, and the bedrooms made up the two lower levels.

Arthur paused on the first landing and surveyed the sprawling expanse of his favorite place in the world, the pride of Paraiso—the great room that occupied the entire top floor.  The afternoon sun beat through the glass ceiling; he adjusted a switch on the wall to his left, rotating the fine louvers above to reduce the glare.  He gazed outward through the convex expanse of glass before him and watched the whitecaps flecking the surface of the Pacific.  Carved into the living rock of the room’s rear wall was a huge fireplace, dark and cold.  He and Olivia had planned to spend the rest of their days entertaining friends and family in this room.  Since her death he’d converted it to a chapel of sorts.  No pews or crosses or stained glass windows, just a quiet place to pray and contemplate the wonder of this majestic corner of Creation.  It was here that he felt closest to God.

Be with me, Lord, he thought as he tore himself away from the view and continued toward the lower levels.

He found Charlie in his bedroom, its walls still decked with the Berkeley pennants and paraphernalia leftover from his undergraduate days.  He was sipping coffee from the lunch tray Juanita had prepared for him.  He looked up and slammed his cup on the tray.  His eyes blazed.

“Damn you to hell.”

Arthur stood in the doorway, unable to move, unable to speak, staring at the son he hadn’t seen in nearly two years.

Charlie looked awful.  The old gray sweatsuit he’d worn to bed hung around him in loose folds.  He looked a decade older than his twenty-five years.  So thin.  Cheeks sunken, face pale, his black, sleep-tangled hair, usually so thick and shiny, now thin and brittle looking.  His eyes were bright in their deep sockets.  The dark stubble on his cheeks accentuated his pallor.

“Charlie,” he said when he finally found his voice.  “What’s happened?”

“What’s happened is I’ve become the Prisoner of Zenda.”

Charlie had never been a sturdy sort, but now he looked positively gaunt.  Arthur wanted to throw his arms around him and tell him how much he’d missed him, but the look in Charlie’s eyes stopped him cold.

He sat on the foot of the bed, carefully, so as not to upset the tray.

“You know better than that.  This is your home.”

“Not with turnkey Sanchez around.”

“Charlie, I brought you back for your own good.  That’s not the kind of life for you.  For anybody.  It’s an abomination in the eyes of God.”

“It’s my life.”  Charlie’s eyes flashed.

Arthur had never seen him so defiant.

“It’s a sinful life.”

“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness—isn’t that what a United States Senator is supposed to protect?”

“I want to help you turn your life around.”

“Just in time for the primaries?”

If only it were that simple, Arthur thought.  If that was all there was too it...

He shuddered as old memories surged to the fore.  Violently he thrust them back down into the mire where they belonged.

No.  This was not only for himself.  Charlie’s sodomite urges were a test.  If Arthur could help his son out of this moral quagmire, he would prove himself, he would...redeem himself.  And God would know what a weapon he had in Arthur Crenshaw.

“Do you like the life you’re living, Charlie?”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It has its moments.”

“In the wee small hours, Charlie...when it’s just you and God and the dark outside the window...how do you feel?”

Charlie’s gaze faltered for the first time.  He fiddled with a slice of toast on his breakfast tray.

“I wake up at three or four in the morning, shaking and sweaty.  And I sit there thinking about how I’ve failed you.  I remember how Mom never put me down, but every so often I’d catch her watching me and there’d be this unreadable look in her eyes.  I didn’t know what she was thinking, but I have to assume I disgusted her.  And I know what you think, Dad—you’ve always been up front about that.  So I sit there in the dark thinking about the revulsion I sparked in the two most important people in my life.”  His voice fell to a whisper.  “And I feel like such a loser.”

Arthur felt his throat tighten.  He had to help this boy.  He reached out and put a hand on Charlie’s arm.  Dear Lord, it was so thin.

“You can’t be judged a loser until you’ve given up trying, Charlie.  And that’s why I brought you home.  I want you to try.”

Charlie looked up at him again.  “Try what?”

“To change.”

He shook his head.  “That’s not possible.”

“It is, Charlie,” he said, gently squeezing his arm.  “With God’s help and the right doctors, you can do it.”

Charlie’s laugh rang hollow against the walls.  “I think God must have lots of concerns more pressing than my sexual orientation.  And really, Dad, if it’s the election you’re worried about, relax.  No one connects me with you.  And even if they did, it could actually work to your advantage.  We’re a pretty cohesive voting block now.  We proved that in the last election.”

We...Arthur shuddered at Charlie’s casual alignment of himself with the likes of Act Up and Queer Nation and the pathetic human mutants and aberrations that marched in those Gay Pride parades.  If getting elected depended on their votes, he’d rather not run.

But public knowledge of Charlie’s homosexuality was only part of the real threat.

“I won’t deny the election is important to me.  You know that.  There’s so much good I can do for this country if they’ll only let me.  I have plans.  I can make us great again.”  He didn’t just believe that—he knew it.  “But if I can’t help my own son back on the right path, how can I expect to do it for an entire nation?”

“Dad—”

“Give me a year, Charlie.  One year of prayer and therapy.  That’s all I ask.  You’re young.  One year out of the rest of your life is not too much for your father to ask, is it.  If there’s been no change by the end of that time, and if I see you’ve made a sincere effort, then I’ll accept your...the way you are and never bother you again about it.”

Charlie was staring at him.  “Accept me?  I don’t think you can.”

“If you can try, I can try.  One year.”  He thrust out his hand.  “What do you say?”

“One year...that’s too long.”

“Half a year then.  Six months.  Please!”

Charlie hesitated and Arthur sent up a prayer: Please make him accept, Lord.  Between the two of us I know we can make him normal.

Tentatively, Charlie reached out and grasped his father’s hand.

“All right.  Six months.  As long as you understand that I’m not promising you results, just to give it the old college try.”

Arthur blinked back the tears that surged into his eyes.  He pulled Charlie close and embraced him.

“That’s all I ask, son.  That’s all a father can ask.”

Thank You, Lord, he said in silent prayer.  I know this is going to work.  If I can teach my boy to pray, if he can learn as I have learned, if he can find for himself just one tenth of the peace I find in You, he will be saved. I trust in You, Lord, and I know that You will help me in this.

But as he held his son, Arthur was alarmed at how frail he seemed.  He could feel the corduroy ridges of ribs through Charlie’s sweatshirt.  Weight loss, night sweats...Charlie couldn’t possibly have...

No.  That was impossible.  God wouldn’t do that to him.  Arthur didn’t know if he could handle that.  Not after Olivia.  He was strong, but he had his limits.  He wasn’t cut out to be a modern-day Job.

He cast the thought from his mind and held his son tighter.

“Everything’s going to be all right, Charlie.  God will make it so.”

I swore to all present that I would guard her until my last breath.  I told the brother, I will kill to keep her safe.

But he said to me, No, you must not kill.

And then I swore I would die to keep her safe.  But within I promised that if the need arose I would gladly kill to keep her secret.  It is the least I can do.

I do not fear killing.  I have killed before, slipping through the crowds in Jerusalem, stabbing with my knife.  And I fear not damnation.  Indeed, I am already thrice-damned.

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

EIGHT

Manhattan

As Sister Carolyn Ferris reached behind the scratched and dented dresser in her room at the Convent of St. Ann, she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall behind it.

You’re twenty-eight, she thought, and you still look like a child.  When are you going to get wrinkled so men won’t stare at you?

Maybe if she’d spent her teenage years worshipping the sun instead of God, she’d have at least a few wrinkles to show.  But she’d entered the convent at fourteen, and as a result her skin was pale and flawlessly smooth.  She kept her thick, dark, hair cut in a bob—straight, functional, easy to care for.  She wore no make-up—never a trace of mascara or shadow for her large blue eyes, never even a touch of color to her thin lips, and when out in public she tried to look as serious as possible.  Yet despite
her shapeless clothing and carefully cultured Plain Jane look, men still approached her.  Even in habit!

Maybe I should put on forty or fifty pounds.  That would stop them.  Or would it?

But no matter how much she ate, her body burned it off.  She seemed doomed to remain 120 pounds forever.

She removed the compact-like case from under the rear lip of the bureau top and opened it.  Inside was a foil and plastic card with twenty-one clear bubbles, one for each of the contraceptive pills the pack contained.  The label inside the lid read Yasmin and gave the patient’s name as Margaret Jones.  Half the pills were gone.  Quickly, Carrie pushed the next light-peach tablet in line through the foil and popped it into her mouth, dry swallowing it as she shut the case and returned it to its hiding place.

Good.  The daily risk of taking her pill was out of the way.  With no locks on the doors within the Convent of the Blessed Virgin, someone could pop in at any time.

Carrie had noted she had two refills left on her pills.  After that, the fictitious Margaret Jones would need another appointment at the West Side Planned Parenthood clinic.  She shuddered at the thought.  She hated pelvic exams and lived in fear of the chance that someone in the waiting room might recognize her as Sister Carrie.  But she put up with the indignities and the fear to avoid the greater terror of pregnancy.

Since she’d be traveling alone, she’d leave her habit behind.  She adjusted the collar of her starched white blouse and straightened the jacket of her black gabardine suit.  “Sensible” shoes—black pumps with one-inch heels—completed the picture.

She checked the rest of her room to make sure it was neat.  A bed, a night stand with a hand-painted statue of the Blessed Virgin, a reading lamp, a dresser, a crucifix, and a closet—not much to take care of.  Everything in place.  One last thing to do...

She knelt by her nightstand and gazed at her Virgin Mary statuette.  She repeated the same prayer she said every time she was about to sin:

Forgive me, Mother Mary.  I wish I could have been like you, but I was never given the choice.  And though I sin with full knowledge and forethought, please know that I am devoted to you and always shall be.  Yet despite all my devotion, I know I’m still a sinner.  But in just this one thing.  In everything else I gladly deny myself to do your work, do your bidding.  Yet a small part of my heart remains unruly.  I hope, I trust, I pray that in your own heart you will find room to forgive this sinner.

Sister Carrie crossed herself, rose, and headed for the first floor.

On the way out she checked in with Mother Superior to let her know she was leaving and told her when to expect her back.

The older woman smiled and looked up at her over the tops of her reading glasses.  “Tell your father our prayers are with him.”

“Thank you, sister.  I’m sure that will give him comfort.”

If you knew that monster as I do, Carrie thought, you’d withhold your prayers.  Or perhaps you wouldn’t  She stared a moment at Mother Superior’s kindly face.  Perhaps you’d pray for even the most ungodly sinner.

Not me, Carrie thought, turning and heading for the street.  Not for that man.  Not even an “Amen.”

Supposedly she was visiting him at the nursing home.  Usually the sisters traveled in pairs or more if shopping or making house calls to the sick or shut-ins, but since this was a parental nursing home visit, Carrie was allowed to travel alone.

She’d never been to the nursing home.  Not once.  The very thought of being in the same room with that man sickened her.

Brad took care of the visits.  Her brother saw to all that man’s needs.  The cost of keeping him in the Concordia, which its director described as “the Mercedes Benz of nursing homes,” was no burden for Brad.  Her investment banker brother’s Christmas bonus alone last year had come to over a million dollars.

Brad traveled a lot to earn that kind of money.  Many of his clients were headquartered on the West Coast and he spent almost as much time in California as he did here in Manhattan.  So whenever he headed west he’d call and leave word that he’d be out of town.  That meant his condo was hers to use whenever she wanted a change from the convent.  Carrie availed herself of that offer by saying that her brother’s absence made it necessary for her to attend to her father more often at the nursing home.

And when she visited the condo, she did not visit it alone.

Poverty, chastity, and obedience, she thought as a cab pulled up outside the convent.  This afternoon  I’m breaking all my vows at once.

A tsunami of self-loathing rose from her belly into her chest, reaching for her throat, momentarily suffocating her.  But it receded as quickly as it had come.  She had hated herself for so long that she barely noticed those waves anymore.  They felt like ripples now.

She descended the convent steps and slipped into the cab.

‡

As the taxi rounded Columbus Circle and headed up Central Park West, Carrie gazed through the side window at the newborn leaves erupting from the trees in the park, pale, pale green in the fading light.  Spring.  The city’s charms became most apparent in spring.  Nice to live up here, far from the squalor of downtown.

She spotted a homeless man, trudging uptown on the park side, wheeling all his worldly possessions ahead of him in a shopping cart.

Well, not too far.  You couldn’t escape the homeless in New York.  They were everywhere.

You can run but you can’t hide.

Brad had run to the Upper West Side, to Yuppy-ville.  Or Dinc-ville, as some folks were calling it these days.  But Brad wasn’t a dinc.  Wasn’t married, lived alone.  Carrie guessed that made him a sinc: single income, no children.  He could have lived anywhere—Westchester, the Gold Coast, Greenwich—but he seemed to like the ambiance of the gentrified neighborhoods, and often spoke of the friends he’d made in the building.

The cabby hung a mid-block U-turn on Central Park West and let her off in front of the building.  Carrie counted up five floors and saw a light in one of Brad’s windows.  Had to be one of Brad’s windows—his condo took up the entire fifth floor.  She smiled as desire began to spark within her.  She was the latecomer this time.  Usually it was the other way around.

Good.  She wouldn’t have to wait.

The doorman tipped his cap as he ushered her through to the lobby.  “Beautiful evening, isn’t it, Sister.”

“Yes, it is, Ricardo.  A wonderful evening.”

Carrie had to use her key to make the elevator stop on the fifth floor.  The sparks from groundlevel had ignited a flame of desire by the time she stepped out into a small atrium and unlocked the condo door.  Slowly she swung it open and slipped through as silently as possible.  Light leaked down the hall from the dining room.  She removed her shoes and padded toward it in her stockinged feet.

On an angle to her right she spotted him, hunched at Brad’s long dining room table, his back to her, his sandy-haired head bowed over half a sheaf of typewritten sheets, so engrossed in them she had no trouble entering the room unnoticed.

Desire grew to a molten heat as she crept up behind him.

Closer now, she noticed the waves in his hair as it edged over his collar and ears, the broad set of the shoulders under his shirt.  She loved this man, loved the scent of him, the feel of him, the sound of his voice, the touch of his fingers and palms on her.  She wanted him.  Now.  Every day.  Forever.  The times they could sneak away to be together were too, too few.  So she made these times count, every minute, every second, every racing, pounding heartbeat they were together.

She laid her hands on his shoulders and gently squeezed.

“Hi there.”

He jumped.  Through the fabric of his shirt she felt his shoulder muscles harden to rock then relax.  He turned in the chair and looked up at her.

“God, don’t do that!  My heart almost stopped.”

Carrie tilted his head back and kissed him on the lips.  His skin carried a trace of Old Spice.  She nodded toward the papers on the table.

“What’s so interesting?”

“The translation of an old scroll.  It’s—”

“More interesting than me?”

She kissed the tip of his nose, then each eye in turn.

“Are you kidding?”  Father Daniel Fitzpatrick rose, lifted her in his arms, and carried her toward the guest bedroom.  “Not even close.”

‡

Dan was dozing.  He often nodded off as they snuggled after their lovemaking.  Carrie rose up on an elbow and stared at his peaceful features.

I love you, Danny boy.

They first met about five years ago when he stepped in as the new associate pastor at St. Joe’s, ran into each other occasionally at parish affairs, and for the past three years or so had been working side by side at Loaves and Fishes.  They’d come to know each other well during those years, discovering that they shared the ecclesiastically incorrect notion that the Church should expend at least as much effort in nurturing minds and bodies as saving souls, that the well-being of the last was dependent to a large extent on the health of the first two.

Last year they became lovers.

Precipitously.

A strange courtship—long, slow, and tentative, never kissing or even holding hands.  An occasional bump of the shoulders, a brush of a hand against an arm, long looks, slow smiles, growing warmth.  Carrie doubted it would have progressed beyond that stage if she hadn’t taken the initiative last summer.

Up to that time she had used Brad’s condo as a vacation spa—her private retreat from the soup kitchen, from the convent, from the world in general.  She’d soak for hours in his whirlpool bath while watching old movies from his film library.  She’d return to the convent physically and mentally refreshed.  But last summer she asked Dan to drop her off on his way to the Museum of Natural History to see a new exhibit.  When he pulled up in front, she asked him to come inside and see how the other half lived.

And hour later, one of them was no longer a virgin.

It wasn’t me.  Oh, no...not by a long shot.

After the first time they both went through a period of terrible guilt—Dan’s much deeper and more wracking than hers—and for awhile Carrie feared he might never speak to her again.  Then their paths crossed in a deserted hallway and he took her hand and said they had to talk.  The only place to do that was Brad’s apartment.  So they met there on the condition that they would talk and nothing more.

And talk they did.  Dan poured out his feelings for her, his doubts about his calling, about the priorities of the priesthood and the Church itself.  Carrie told him that she had none of those doubts: Sister Carolyn Ferris was all she ever wanted to be, all she ever would be.  But she knew she loved him and she couldn’t change that.

Despite their good intentions, they wound up in the guest room bed again.  And when they were together like that, neither could find any wrong in it.

They made love here as often as timing and circumstance permitted, which wasn’t nearly often enough.  And after they loved they talked.  Dan opened up to her as she was sure he opened to no one else.

And finally, Carrie opened to Dan.   She hadn’t intended to, but one afternoon the story burst from her in a rush and she told Dan about that man...her father...and how he’d started sneaking into her bedroom at night when she was twelve...

Mom had been sick for a while, almost helpless.  Her multiple sclerosis had accelerated to the point where the only time she spent out of bed was in her wheelchair.  That man had said his dear Carrie had to do what Mom couldn’t, that it was her duty as a good daughter.  And when it was over, and she’d cry, he’d tell her it was her fault for tempting him and making him want to do what he’d done, and if she told Mom he’d tell everyone what she’d done...everyone.

For two years it went on, Mom becoming increasingly disoriented, growing weaker and weaker, fading into the sheets of her bed, and that man sneaking into Carrie’s room with increasing boldness and frequency until Mom died.  She’d been so terrified of what would happen with Mom gone that she ran away immediately after her funeral.

Ran to the Convent of the Blessed Virgin.  Virgin... something young Carrie Ferris was not.  But the sisters had accepted her and she’d been one of them ever since.  She’d devoted her life to God, and to Mary, but she’d never felt worthy of her calling.

Dan had been stiff and silent as she’d wept on his shoulder.  She’d never told anyone—anyone—until then, and it had felt so good to get it out.  Yet she was so afraid, as she’d been afraid all her life, that anyone who knew the truth would hate her and shun her.  But Dan had held her close and absorbed her wracking sobs, and the secret became a bond that welded them even closer.

Carrie kissed Dan’s cheek and slipped from his side.  She found a terry cloth robe in the bathroom and wrapped it around her as she wandered through the silence of the huge apartment.

She almost wished she smoked.  As much as she hated the smell, a cigarette would have given her something to do with her hands.  She liked to keep busy and she always felt at loose ends here in Brad’s.  She couldn’t do any cleaning because his housekeeper kept the place immaculate; she couldn’t rearrange things because none of it was hers.  So she stuck her idle hands—those Devil’s workshops—into the pockets of the robe and continued to wander aimlessly.

As she meandered through the dining room she spotted the typed sheets Dan had been so intent on when she’d entered.  She sifted through until she found the face sheet.  The title caught her interest.

Translation: the Glass scroll

The Glass scroll . . . what was that?

She glanced at the first paragraph and her interest was piqued.  She scanned the second, then the third.  Captured, she sat down and began to read.

I have left this place But once.  I traveled north to Qumran one night and stole upon the sleeping Essenes.  I moved among them like a shadow, taking two jars of scrolls and some ink.  I loaded them on the back of three goats and returned to the Resting Place where I feasted upon one goat and kept the other two for breeding.

And then I began to write my story.

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

NINE

Jerusalem—the Old City

Kesev followed Qadasiya north from the Via Dolorosa.  His footsteps echoed on the street stones.  Well after midnight and all quiet in the Moslem quarter.

Suddenly the sound of a car engine echoed off the surrounding stone walls and bouncing lights cast long, jittering shadows up ahead.  Had to be a Jeep.  A military patrol most likely.  Things had been quiet in the Moslem quarter for a while now, but the patrols stayed on schedule.  That was the way to make sure things remained quiet.

Kesev had donned Arab dress for the night—a frayed jellaba and a striped keffiyeh held in place around his head with a worn akal.  He knew he looked more Arab than many natives of the quarter, and if the patrol spotted him they’d stop and ID him.  He ducked into an alley and crouched behind some debris, waiting for them to pass.   One look at the Shin Bet ID in his wallet and the patrol would wish him well and continue on its way.  But Kesev didn’t want to be stopped at all—the supposedly sleeping walls were full of eyes.  He didn’t want anyone to know he was here, especially his superiors.

This business had nothing to do with the Shin Bet.

Kesev stepped out of the alley after the patrol had passed.  He scanned the street to see if anyone else might emerge in its wake.  Nothing moved.  Rising above the silent Old City, the Dome of the Rock gleamed in the starlight.  A brilliant gold in daylight, it looked more silver now.

Continuing along Qadasiya, Kesev shoved three sticks of gum into his mouth.  He chewed steadily, savoring the peppermint sweetness as he turned into the narrow side street that led to Salah Mahmoud’s antique shop.  The dealer lived above his place of work, the better to keep watch over his inventory, Kesev supposed.

Kesev had been watching the shop for three days and nights now, and had finally paid it a visit this afternoon.  Most of the statuettes and carvings on Mahmoud’s dusty shelves were junk, some outright fakes, waiting to hook some well-heeled European or American tourist with a craving to take home a piece of the Holy Land.

Mahmoud himself was obviously playing to the foreigners with his waxed mustache and red fez perched atop his balding head.  With his jowls and rumpled suit, he looked like a transplant from Hollywood.

But the portly dealer’s manner had changed abruptly when one particular customer arrived.  Mahmoud greeted the German-speaking man warmly, ushered him to a secluded corner where they spoke in whispers, then led him up a flight of stairs at the rear of the store.  That would be where the items of real value were stored, Kesev decided.

During an apparently casual perusal of the artifacts and rickety third-hand furniture that passed for antiques, Kesev had surreptitiously surveyed the premises and found no security device more sophisticated than a bell attached to the inside of the front door.

Now, in the shadowed recess of that front door, Kesev used a slim piece of plastic to slip the latch on the rickety, post-World War Two lock.  Gently he eased the door open a few inches, spit the gum into his palm, reached inside and used it to fix the clapper to the side of the bell.

Once inside, he pulled a penlight from the folds of his jellaba and wound his way among the dealer’s wares to the stairs at the rear.  He had spent most of the evening mulling the best way to proceed from here.  He’d heard the squeaks and groans from the old wooden staircase as Mahmoud and his customer had ascended this afternoon, so sneaking up was out.  That left a more direct approach.

Kesev switched the penlight to his left hand and pulled a silenced Tokarev 9mm from his robe.  Then he took a backward step and charged up the stairs, taking them three at a time.  He threw his shoulder against the upper door and smashed through to the second floor.  Days of watching had told him that Mahmoud lived alone and slept in the room overlooking the street.  Kesev barreled straight ahead, burst into the room in time to find a very startled and frightened Salah Mahmoud sitting up in bed, reaching into the top drawer of his night table.  Kesev kicked the drawer closed on the dealer’s wrist and jabbed the business end of the Tokarev against his throat as he began to cry out.

“Not a sound, Mr. Mahmoud,” Kesev said softly in Arabic.  “I have come to rob you, not to kill you.  But I am not adverse to doing both.  Understand?”

Mahmoud nodded vigorously, his jowls bulging and quivering under his chin, his eyes threatening to jump from their sockets.  He looked like a toad that had just come face to face with the biggest snake it had ever seen.

“Wh-whatever it is you want,” Mahmoud said, “take it.  Take it and go!”

“That’s a very good start.”

Kesev allowed him to remove his hand from the drawer.  As the dealer cradled his injured wrist in his lap, Kesev switched on the bedside lamp.  He removed Mahmoud’s snub-nosed .38 from the drawer and tossed it under the bed.  Then he produced the scroll he’d coerced from Tulla Szobel and dropped it on the sheet.

“I want the original.”

Mahmoud stared at the scroll, then looked up.  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Kesev felt his anger flare but controlled it.  He forced himself to smile.  It must have been a disturbing grimace because Mahmoud flinched.

“Before I came here,” Kesev said evenly, “I decided I would allow you one lie.  That was it.  Now that it’s out of the way, you may answer truthfully.  Where is the original?”

“I swear I don’t know what you are talking about.”

He struck the dealer a backhanded blow with the Tokarev.  Mahmoud fell on his side, a mass of quaking blubber, moaning, clutching his cheek.  Blood seeped between his fingers.

Kesev’s arm rose to deliver another blow but he reined his fury and lowered the pistol.  Instead he grabbed the front of Mahmoud’s nightshirt and pulled him close.  He turned the broad face so that they were nose to nose.  He wanted the dealer to look into his eyes, to see the fury there to feel the truth of what Kesev was going to say.

“Listen to me, Salah Mahmoud, and listen well.  The original of that scroll was stolen from me.  I intend to retrieve what is mine, and since nineteen-ninety-one I have been searching for it.  You are merely the latest phase of that search.  Now, you can be a stepping stone or you can be a stumbling block.  The choice is entirely yours.”

Mahmoud opened his mouth to speak but Kesev pressed the barrel of the Tokarev’s silencer against his lips.

“But let me warn you.  I will not tolerate lies.  This is extremely important to me and I have already expended enormous time and effort in my search.  I am out of patience.”

He pressed the silencer more firmly against Mahmoud’s mouth.

“This pistol has a seven-shot clip loaded with 9mm hollowpoint bullets.  Do you know what a hollowpoint does after it enters the body?  It flattens and widens, tearing through the flesh in an expanding cone of destruction.  The bullet enters through a little hole and exits through a gaping maw.  It is not a pretty thing, Salah Mahmoud.”

Sweat beaded the dealer’s forehead, dripping into his eyes.

“So...here are the ground rules: I will ask questions and you will answer truthfully.  The first time I think you are lying I will shoot you in the left knee.”   The dealer stiffened and shuddered.  “The second lie will earn you a bullet in the right knee.  The third in your right elbow, the fourth in your left.  The fifth bullet I will use on your manhood.  By that time I will have decided that you are either a pathological liar, or you really don’t know anything.  I will then leave you.  Alive.  And you will spend the rest of your days unable to walk, unable to use crutches or a wheelchair, unable to feed yourself or wipe yourself, your urine running through a tube into bag strapped to your leg.  Is that what you want?”

Mahmoud shook his head violently, spraying drops of perspiration in all directions.

“Good.”

Kesev straightened and stepped back from the bed.  He had no particular desire to shoot this man, but he would do so.  He had to retrieve that scroll.

He pointed to the forged scroll on the bed.

“Now tell me: When did you get this scroll?”

Mahmoud hesitated.  His nightshirt was soaked with sweat.  His eyes darted about the room, like a rabbit looking for a hole to run to.

Kesev worked the slide to chamber a round.

“No!” Mahmoud cried, trying to curl into a ball.

Kesev pulled the trigger once.  The Tokarev jerked and gave out a phut! as a bullet tore into the mattress near the dealer’s face.

Mahmoud thrust out his hands amid the flying feathers and began to whimper.  “Please don’t shoot!  I’ll tell you!  I’ll tell you everything!”

Kesev lowered the pistol a few degrees.  “I’m waiting.”

“I made that scroll.”

Kesev raised the pistol again.

“It’s true!  I copied it myself from a crumbling original!”

“Really.  And where did you find the original?”

“I-I didn’t.  Two nephews of my father’s uncle’s brother discovered it in a cave in the Wilderness.  I don’t know if it’s true, but they claimed one of Saddam’s missiles uncovered it.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

Kesev felt relief begin to seep through him, but he resisted it just as he’d resisted the rage.  He could not let down his guard, not until the scroll was safely back in his hands.

Mahmoud was still talking, babbling, flooding the room with rapid-fire Egyptian-flavored Arabic.

“Their father brought their find to me: a written scroll that was heavily damaged—the boys had been in a hurry and did not know how to care for it—and a sealed jar containing two unused scrolls.  I began reassembling the fragments of the written scroll as best I could.  So many pieces!  It took me years—years—to complete the task.  When I had finished I copied what was left of the text onto the blank parchments.”

“Copied?  Copied how?”

He shrugged, almost apologetically.  “I...I’ve done this before.  I have formulae for all the ancient inks.  I was especially careful with the copying because I knew the parchments would pass the dating test.”  His attempt at a smile was a miserable failure.  “I figured, why sell one scroll when I could sell three?”

“Did you read it?  Did you understand it?”  Kesev held his breath as he waited for the answer.

“I tried.  But my Aramaic is rudimentary at best; there were words I could not translate.  And besides, the scroll was incomplete.  Fragments were out of place and some were missing completely.  I reassembled them the best I could but—”

“Where is that original now?”

“It...”  His voice shrank to a whisper.  “It’s gone.”

Sudden rage crackled through Kesev’s brain.  He leaned forward and jammed the muzzle of the silencer against Mahmoud’s thigh.

“You sold it?”

“No-no!  Please!  It’s gone!  Whisked away into the air!”

“I warned you about lying!”

“Please!  I swear by Allah!  The wind took it!  It happened in the back room, not ten meters from here, just as I was finishing the first copy.  Suddenly all the windows in the building crashed inward and a blast of icy wind tore through the halls and rooms.  The winds seemed to gather in my work room.  They rattled my walls, knocked me to the floor, and upset my work table.  The scroll fragments swirled into the air in a whirling column, then they blew out the window and were gone.  Years of work—gone.”

Kesev’s rage cooled rapidly, chilled by the dealer’s words.  A wind...filling the halls and rooms...stealing the fragments in a miniature whirlwind...

“You must believe me!” Mahmoud wailed.  “Every word is true!”

Kesev nodded slowly, almost absently.  The fat forger wasn’t lying.  He wouldn’t make up something so fantastic and try to pass it off as the truth.

And that meant that the original scroll had been destroyed, reduced to scattered, indecipherable bits of parchment...but not before it had been copied.

“How many copies did you make?” Kesev asked finally.

“Two.  There were only two blank scrolls.  I forged the second copy from the first.”

How many scrolls had been in the sealed jar?  Two sounded right but he couldn’t be sure.  He didn’t remember.

Two copies: one here in Kesev’s possession, and the other in America.  That thought would have panicked him if he hadn’t known it had been branded a forgery.

He had a sense that events were spinning out of control.  An odd progression of incidents—the errant SCUD, the theft of the scroll, the copies, the destruction of the original.  Especially unsettling was the last incident.  An unnatural wind had whirled the scroll fragments into oblivion, but only after they had been copied.  After.  Unfortunate happenstance, or design?  He sensed a power at work, a deft hand moving behind the scenes.  But what power?  And to what end?

He had to stay on guard.  The scroll in America was probably rolled up and sealed in a glass case, just like Tulla Szobel’s.  A curio.  Something to be looked at but not touched.  And besides, how many Americans knew Aramaic?  Highly unlikely that anyone would realize what it was about.

But something was happening.  Once again he was overwhelmed by the sensation of giant wheels turning, ready to crush him if he stepped the wrong way.

Increased vigilance was the key.  He’d have to find a way to keep a closer watch on the Resting Place.  And be ready to deal swiftly and surely with any curious Americans he found wandering in the area.

So here sit I, alone, a filthy cave for a home and only locusts, wild honey, a few goats, and figs for sustenance.  I who once dwelt in luxury, who once wore the striped blue sleeve and had free access to the Temple.

I am alone and mad.  And sometimes I imagine I am not alone.  Sometimes I see her walking.  Sometimes she speaks to me.  But it isn’t her.   Only a fever-dream of my madness.

I pray that each day is the Last Day, but each ends like the one before it.  When will it end?  Dear Lord, when will you allow it to end for me?

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

TEN

Manhattan

Dan awoke with a start—bright light in his eyes and an excited voice in his ear.

“Dan!  Wake up!  Wake up!”

He blinked.  Carrie...leaning over him...dark hair falling about her face...bright eyes wide with excitement.  God, she was beautiful.  She made him want to sing though he knew damn well he couldn’t carry a tune.  How had he spent his whole life without this woman—not any woman...this woman?  Celibacy was an unnatural state for a human being.  He didn’t care what the Church said, he was a better person—a more compassionate, more understanding, more fully rounded man—and therefore a better priest because of Carrie.

He’d never been in love before.  Grade school and high school puppy loves, sure.  But this went beyond physical attraction, beyond infatuation.  If Carrie were a lay person he’d leave the Church for her—if she’d have him.  But Carrie had no intention of leaving her order.  Ever.  So he’d have to settle for things the way they were.

Of course, if she’d been laity, the relationship never would have begun.  He wouldn’t have let her within arm’s reach.  His guard would have been up, his defenses primed at all times when he was around her.  But Carrie, being a nun, being a member of the club, so to speak, had slipped past his guard without even trying.

That first afternoon in her brother’s condo had awakened a long-dormant hunger in him.  Along the course of his years as a priest he’d learned to structure his life without regard to sex.  Excruciatingly difficult at first.  He’d found it went beyond avoiding thoughts of sex.  It meant avoiding thinking about avoiding thoughts of sex.  You did that by cramming your days full of activity, by hurling yourself headlong into the never-ending hustle and bustle of a downtown urban parish, by sublimating your own needs to those of your parishioners.  After all, that was what it was all about, wasn’t it?  That was why you joined the priesthood.  And if you did your job right, at the end of the day you collapsed into bed and slept like the dead until dawn when it was up and out for early Mass and back again into the parish whirl.

After a while you got pretty good at it.  After a while, the lusty parts of the brain atrophied and became too weak to bother you with much more that an occasional, feeble nudge.

Unless something kick-started them with a steroid charge and pumped them up to strength again.

Something like making love to Sister Carrie.

Now he was like a randy teenager.  He wondered where the guilt had gone.  Overwhelmingly awful at first, especially when she’d told him about her father and what he’d done to her.  Dan had almost despaired then, wondering if he might be aiding and abetting some dark, self-sabotaging compulsion within Carrie.  She’d run to the convent to escape a sexually molesting father; she’d become a model nun, a paradigm of virtue and saintliness except for the fact that she was having a sexual relationship with her parish priest...a man everyone called “father.”

Dan had always been skeptical of facile parlor psychoanalysis, but the doubts nagged at him when he was apart from Carrie.  When he was with her, however, they melted in the warmth of her smile, the glow of her presence.  Carrie seemed perfectly comfortable with their relationship; it had taken him a while, but now he was just as comfortable.

Dan loved her as he had never loved another human being, and that love let him see the world in a whole new light, brought him closer to the rest of humanity.  How could that be wrong?

He loved Carrie completely, and he wanted her—all the time.  Every moment they were together at Loaves and Fishes was a struggle, a biting agony to keep his hands off her.  He’d learned to freeze his emotions at those times, confine his thoughts to the instant, force his brain to regard her as no more than a pleasant coworker and to leave her clothes on whenever he looked at her.

But God, it was hard.

But more than wanting Carrie physically, he wanted her emotionally.  Just being near her was a thrill.  But being near her in bed was Heaven.  Like now...

He noticed her bathrobe hanging open, exposing the rose-tipped globe of her left breast.  He reached for it but she brushed his hand away with a sheaf of papers.

“What is this?” she said, shaking them in his face.

“Wha—?”  Dan propped himself up on his elbows and stared at the papers in her hand.

“Where did you get this, Dan?”

He couldn’t remember ever seeing Carrie this excited.

“Oh, that.  Harold’s back from Jerusalem.  It’s the translation of a scroll that somebody turned in to the Rockefeller Museum over there.  He gave it to me as part of a little gift.”

She laughed.  “A gift?  He gave this to you as a gift?  But this is fabulous!  Why hasn’t the world been told?”

“There’s nothing to tell, Carrie.  The scroll is a fake.”

She stared at him in silence, the glow of excitement slowly fading from her eyes.  She shook her head.

“No.”  Her voice was a whisper.  “That can’t be.”

“It’s true.  Hal said the carbon dating showed the ink is twelve years old tops.”

Carrie was still shaking her head.  “No.  There’s got to be a mistake.”

Dan leaned forward and kissed her throat.  “What’s so important about it?  It’s paranoid, jumbled, and seems deliberately obscure.  The forger was probably some nut who—”

“It’s about Mary.”

Now it was Dan’s turn to stare.  “Mary?  Mary who?”

“The Blessed Virgin Mary.”

Dan knew from Carrie’s expression that he’d better not laugh, but he couldn’t repress a smile.

“Where on earth did you get an idea like that?”

“From this.”  She held up the translation.  “The dead woman he’s talking about, the body he’s supposed to guard—it’s Mary’s.”

“I guess that means we’re tossing out the Glorious Mystery of the Assumption.”

“Don’t be flip, Dan.”

“Sorry.”

And he meant it.  He knew of Carrie’s devotion to the Blessed Virgin and didn’t want to tread on any of her vital beliefs.  But even though he was a priest, Dan had never been able to buy the Assumption.  The thought of Mary’s soul re-entering her body after her funeral, then reviving and being carried aloft to heaven by a host of angels was pretty hokey.

That sort of fairy tale stuff was all through the Bible, Old Testament and New, and had nothing to do with Dan’s idea of what the Church was all about.  Nifty little stories to wow the kids and get their attention, but sometimes fairy tales only served to distract from the real message in the Gospels: the brotherhood of man.

“But you’ve got to admit,” he said cautiously, “that the Assumption is a bit hard to buy.”  Carrie didn’t react; she simply stared down at the papers in her hands.  So he pressed on.  “I mean, we can agree, can’t we, that Heaven isn’t a place.  It’s a state of being.  So how could Mary be ‘assumed’ into Heaven body and soul when Heaven is a spiritual state?  Her body was a physical object.  It couldn’t go to Heaven.  It had to go somewhere else.  And I doubt it’s in orbit.”

A vision of the space shuttle passing the floating body of the Virgin Mary popped into his head.  He shook it off.

Carrie looked up at him, her eyes bright again.

“Exactly!  And that’s what this is all about.  This tells us where she really is!”

Uh-oh.  He’d backed himself into that one.  “Now wait just a minute, Carrie.  Don’t get—”

“Listen to me, Dan!  Whoever wrote this was assigned the task of guarding the body of a woman, a very important woman.  ‘Twenty years and five after his death they found me.’  Tradition holds that Mary died twenty-two years after her son’s crucifixion.  The timing is almost perfect.”

“But Carrie, the guy never says whose death.  In all the Gospels and letters and other texts, Jesus was called by name or referred to as the Master, the Lord, the Son of Man, or the like, and the Dead Sea scrolls referred to the Messiah as the ‘Branch of David’ or a ‘shoot from the stump of Jesse’ or as the ‘Prince of the Congregation.’  I’d expect the writer to use one of those terms at least once if he was referring to Jesus.”

“Maybe he wrote the scrolls for himself.  Maybe he feared mentioning Jesus by name—there were all sorts of persecutions back then.”

“That’s possible, of course, but—”

“But I get the feeling from this that he didn’t feel worthy to speak Jesus’s name.”

A rather melodramatic interpretation, Dan thought, but he said nothing.  Carrie’s intensity impressed him.  The translation had really got to her.  She was inspired, afire with curiosity and...something else...something he couldn’t put his finger on.

“And here,” she said, tapping one of the pages, “this part where he refers to ‘his brother.’  Who else can that be but Saint James the Apostle, the brother of Jesus.”

“His brother or his cousin, depending on which authority you believe.”

But he sat up straighter in the bed and took the page from her.  As he scanned the passage it occurred to him that she had a point.  The recent publication of some obscure Dead Sea scroll fragments suggested a link between the Essenes of Qumran and the Jerusalem wing of the early Christian church, or “Nazarean movement,” as it was called.  The Jerusalem Church had been led by St. James.  King Herod Agrippa martyred his share of early Christians, and even the High Priest Ananus was after them.  So they were periodically fleeing into the desert.

“You know,” he said softly, “I never saw it before.  I mean, the writing was so disjointed and cryptic, but the timing fits.  If we assume that ‘his death’ refers to the crucifixion, and that ‘his brother’ arrived ‘two decades and a half’ later, that would date the Glass scroll somewhere around 58 AD”  Dan felt a tingle of excitement in his gut.  “James was still alive in 58.  Ananus didn’t have him killed until 62.”

Carrie clutched his arm.  “And tradition says Mary died 22 years after Jesus’ death, which is pretty darn close to two decades and a half.”

Dan could tell Carrie was getting pumped again.  It seemed to be contagious.  His own heart had picked up its tempo.

“But who wrote this?  If we can trust the little he says about himself, I would guess he was a scribe or a Pharisee, or both.”

“How can you tell that?”

“Well, he’s educated.  Hal told me the scroll was written in the Aramaic of the time with Greek and Latin words and expressions thrown in.  The striped blue sleeve he mentions, and his former free access to the Temple—he’s got to be a Pharisee.”

“He talks about the inheritance he left behind.”

“Right.  A rich Pharisee.”

“But weren’t the Pharisees proud?  This guy’s wearing rags and he says even the lice won’t bite him.  And he tried to drown himself.”

“In the Dead Sea, apparently—it was called the Sea of Lot back in those days.  Okay.  So he’s a severely depressed Pharisee who’s fallen on hard times and suffers from a heavy-duty lack of self-esteem.”

Carrie smiled.  God, he loved that smile.  “Sounds like he’d fit right in at Loaves and Fishes.  But what’s this about Hellenists?”

Dan reread the passage.  The pieces began falling into place.  “You know...he could be referring to Saint Paul’s wing of the early church.  The two groups had a falling out.”

“I knew there were disagreements, but—”

“More than disagreements.  A complete split.  James and his followers remained in Jerusalem as observant Jews, sticking to all the dietary laws and customs while they awaited the Second Coming of the Messiah, which they assumed would happen any day. Paul, on the other hand, was out in the hinterlands, working the crowds, converting Jews and Gentiles alike to his own brand of Christianity.  His father was a Roman and so Paul had a different slant on Jesus’s teachings, one that sacked the dietary laws and most Jewish traditions.  It mentions here ‘the brother’s’ fear of the ‘Hellenists using the mother’s remains for their own purposes’—the scroll has got to be referring to James’s rivalry with Paul’s movement.”

Dan stared at Carrie, his heart pounding, his spirits soaring.  Good God, it all fit!  The scroll described an encounter with James and the remnant of the Jerusalem church shortly before James was martyred.

“Carrie, this is incredible!  Why hasn’t anybody else—?”  Then he slammed on the brakes as he remembered.  “Wait.  Just wait.”  He shook his head to clear away the adrenaline buzz.  “What am I doing?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong.  The scroll is a fake, Carrie.  The ink is modern.  We’ve got to remember that.  A damn skillful job, but a proven forgery.  Almost had me going there, wondering why nobody else had put these pieces together.  Then I realized why: Nobody bothered to try.  Why waste time interpreting a fake?”

“No,” Carrie said, shaking her head defiantly.  “This is true.”

“Carrie,” he said, stroking her arm, “somebody tried to pull a fast one on the world.”

“Why?  Why would someone want to do such a thing?”

“Maliciousness.  Like calling in a bomb scare to a concert and watching everybody scramble out.  Malicious mischief on an international scale.  If the scroll had been released to the world as authentic, someone would have come to the same conclusion as we.  The liberal and fundamentalist sects of the Christian world would be up in arms, the Vatican would be releasing encyclicals, the Judean Desert would be filled with expeditions in search of the remains of the Mother of God.  There’d be years of chaos.  And all the while, our forger would be sitting back, giggling, knowing he caused it all.”

“But to what end?  I don’t get it.”

Dan looked at her.  No, Carrie wouldn’t get it.  This sort of maliciousness was beyond her comprehension.  That was why he loved her.

“A power trip, Carrie.  Pure ego.  The same loser personality that creates a computer virus.  The Christian world is in chaos, all because of some lame-o’s clever forgery.  All I can say is it’s a damn good thing the Rockefeller Museum did a thorough testing job.”

“I don’t care what the tests say,” she said, tapping the sheets on her lap.  “This is true.”

“Carrie, the ink—”

“I don’t care!  I don’t care if the ink’s still wet!  This man speaks the truth.  Can’t you feel it?  There’s real pain here, Dan.  Whoever wrote these words is isolated—from his friends, from his family, from his God.  The loneliness, the anguish...it seeps through in every sentence.”

“Then how do you explain the carbon dating?”

“I can’t.  And I’m not going to try.  But I am going to prove the truth of these words.  And you’re going to help.”

Dan had a sudden bad feeling about what was coming.

“I am?”

“Yes, dear.  Somehow, some way, you and I are going to Israel and we’re going to find the earthly remains of the Virgin Mary.”

Dan smiled, humoring her.  She was simply a little crazy now.  She’d get over it.  Besides, there was no way they’d be able to get away to Israel together.

ELEVEN

The Judean Wilderness

Dan wiped his face on his sleeve as they drove through the barren sandy hills.

“Let’s find a shady spot and take a break.”

“There is no shade,” Carrie said.  “But I’ll drive if you want.”

He peered through the Explorer’s dusty windshield at the undulating landscape shimmering before them.  They’d been wandering through the desert mountains most of the morning, following one wadi, then another, turning this way and that.  Still Dan was unable get a handle on his surroundings.  He’d never seen anything like it.  So barren, so desolate, so close to the sky, so alone.  No wonder the prophets went to the desert to find and talk to their God—this was a place devoid of earthly distractions.

Except, perhaps, survival.

“No.  Better if I drive and you navigate.”

“Okay.  But we’re going to find it soon.  It’s somewhere up ahead, I just know it.”

“How can you possibly know it?”

She looked at him.  Her face was flushed, just like it got in the shelter kitchen, but her eyes were brighter and more exited than he could remember.

“I can feel it.  Can’t you?”

Dan shrugged.  The only thing he felt was hot.

The air conditioner had given out somewhere around Enot Qane and they’d been sweltering ever since.  At least Dan had.  Not Carrie.  The heat didn’t seem to affect her.  Or perhaps she was too excited to notice.

Carrie had changed.  She’d always been driven, and her boundless energies had been focused on keeping St. Joe’s homeless kitchen operating at peak efficiency, doing as much as possible for as many as possible.  But her focus had shifted since that evening when she discovered the translation of the forged scroll.  She’d become obsessed with finding this so-called Resting Place.

Nothing would turn her from the quest.  Dan had argued with her, pleaded with her, tried to reason with her that she was falling victim to an elaborate hoax.  He threatened to make her go alone, even threatened to expose to Mother Superior the true reason for the leave of absence she’d requested this summer.

Carrie had only smiled.  “I’m going, Dan.  With you or without you, whether Mother Superior knows or not, I’m going to Israel this summer.”

For a while he’d hoped that money, or rather the lack of it, would keep her home.  Neither of them had any savings—their vows of poverty saw to that—and this pipe-dream trip of Carrie’s was going to be costly.  But money turned out to be no problem at all.  Her brother Brad had seen to that years ago when he’d presented her with an American Express card in her name but drawn on his account.  Keep it handy in case of an emergency, he’d told her.  Or use it to buy whatever you need whenever you need it.

Carrie had filed it away, literally forgetting about it until she decided that she needed two tickets to Israel.  She said Brad wouldn’t mind.  He had deep pockets and was always trying to buy her things...trying to assuage his guilt, she’d said, although she wouldn’t say what kind of guilt he was assuaging.

And so it came to pass that a certain Ms. Carolyn Ferris and a male companion arrived in Tel Aviv at the height of the summer, hopped a tour bus to Jerusalem where they spent two nights in the Hilton, toured the Old Town for a day, then rented a four-wheel-drive, off-road vehicle, stocked it with a couple of flashlights, a cooler filled with sandwiches and soft drinks, and headed south.

And now here they were, trekking through the Judean Wilderness—the Midbar Yehuda of yore—in a Ford Explorer on a wild goose chase.  Carrie’s wild goose chase.  And that was why Dan was along.

Weren’t you supposed to protect the one you loved from harm, from the pain of dashed hopes at the end of wild goose chases?

Well, even though Dan knew this quest of hers was a hoax, the trip wasn’t a total loss.  They’d seen the Holy Land.  During their day in Jerusalem they’d walked the Via Dolorosa—the original Stations of the Cross—and visited the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Garden of Gesthemane, and the Pater Noster Church on the Mount of Olives.

Through it all, Carrie had been so excited, like a child on her first trip to Disney World.  “We’re really here!” she’d kept saying.  “I can’t believe we’re really here!”

And all along the Via Dolorosa: “Can you believe it, Dan?  We’re actually walking in Jesus’s footsteps!”

That look on her face was worth anything.  Anything except...

He glanced over at her, sitting in the passenger seat, scanning the cliffs ahead as the Explorer bounced up the dry drainage channel.  A yellow sheet of paper sat in her lap.  Dan had drawn a large tav on it—the Hebrew equivalent of the letter T, or Th.  Carrie was hunting for a cliff or butte in the shape of that tav.  Dan doubted very much they’d find one, but even if they did, there’d be no Virgin Mary hidden in a cave there.

And that worried him.  He didn’t want to see Carrie hurt.  She’d invested so much of herself in this quest, allowed it to consume her for months to the point where there was no telling what the painful truth might do to her.  Let them spend their entire time here driving in endless circles, finding nothing, then heading home disappointed and frustrated that the desert had kept its secret, but leaving still alive the hope that somewhere in this seared nothingness there remained the find of the millennium, guarded by time and place, perhaps even by God Himself.  Better that than to see her crushed by the realization that she’d been duped.

Ahead of him, the wadi forked into two narrower channels, one running northwest, the other southwest.  The trailing cloud of dust swirled around them as Dan braked to a halt.  He coughed as some of it billowed through the open windows.

“Where to now?”

“I’m not sure,” Carrie said.

Without waiting for the dust to settle, she stepped out and stared at the cliffs rising ahead of them.  Dan got out, too, as much to stretch his legs as to look around.  A breeze drifted by, taking some of his perspiration with it.

“You know,” he said, “I do believe it’s gotten cooler.”

“We’re finally above sea level,” Carrie said, still staring ahead as if expecting to find a road sign to the tav cliff.  The light blue short-sleeve shirt she wore had dark rings of perspiration around her armpits and across her shoulder blades where they’d rested against the seat back.  Her loose, lightweight slacks fluttered around her legs.  She stood defiantly in the sun, unbowed by the heat.

Dan looked back the way they’d come.  Rolling hills, dry, sandy brown, almost yellow, falling away to the Dead Sea, the lowest spot on earth—the world’s navel, someone had called it.  The hazy air had been unbearably thick down there, chokingly laden with moisture from the evaporating sea; leaden air, too heavy to escape the fifty-mile trench in which it was trapped.  Maybe it wasn’t cooler up here, but it was drier.  He could breathe.

Above, the sky was a flawless turquoise.  The land ahead was as dry and yellow-brown and barren as behind, but steeper here, angling up sharply toward a phalanx of cliffs.  Looked like a dead end up there.

He plucked a rag from the floor by the front seat and began wiping the dust from the windshield.

“When’s the next rain?” he said.

“November, most likely.”

Dan had to smile.  Carrie had done her homework.  She’d spent months preparing for this trip, studying the scroll translation and correlating its scant geographical details with present day topographical maps of the area.  He bet she knew more about the region than most Israelis, but that probably wasn’t saying much.  They hadn’t seen another soul since turning off the highway.  They were completely alone up here.  The realization gave Dan a twinge of uneasiness.  They hadn’t thought to rent a phone—not that there’d be a cell out here anyway—and if they broke down, they’d have to start walking.  And if they got lost...

“We’re not lost, are we?” Dan said.

“I don’t think so.  I’m sure he came this way.”

How could she be certain?  Sure, she’d put a lot of research into this trip, but there hadn’t been much to go on to begin with.  All they knew was that the fictional author of the scroll—”fictional” was an adjective Dan used privately when referring to the author; never within Carrie’s hearing—had turned west from his southward trek and left the shore of what he called the Sea of Lot to journey into the wilderness.

But where had he turned?

“I don’t know, Carrie...”

“This has to be the way.  “She seemed utterly convinced.  Didn’t she have even a shade of a doubt?  “Look: He mentioned being driven out of Qumran—that’s at the northern end of the sea.  He says he headed south toward Masada and Zohar but he never mentions getting there.  He doesn’t even mention passing En Gedi which was a major Oasis even then.  So he must have turned into the wilderness somewhere between Qumran and En Gedi.”

“No argument there.  But that stretch is more than thirty miles long.  There were hundreds of places we could have turned off the road.  Why did you pick that particular spot  back there?”

Carrie looked at him and her clear blue eyes clouded momentarily.  For the first time since their arrival she seemed unsure of herself.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly.  “It just seemed like the right place to turn.  I’ve read the translation so many times I feel as if I know him.  I could almost see him wandering south, alone, depressed, suddenly feeling it was no use trying to find other people to take him in, that he was unfit for human company, and turning and heading into the hills.”

Dan was struck by the thought that she might be describing her own feelings as a fourteen-year old entering the Convent of the Blessed Virgin.

That moment back on the highway had been kind of spooky.  They’d been cruising south on Route 90 along the Dead Sea shore when Carrie had suddenly clutched his arm and pointed to a rubble-strewn path, little more than a goat trail, breaking through the roadside brush and winding up into the hills.

“There!  Follow that!”

So Dan had followed.

“Which way does it seem we should go now?” he said and knew right away from her expression that it hadn’t come out the way he’d meant it.

Her eyes flashed.  “Look, Dan.  I know you think I’ve gone off the deep end on this, but it’s important to me.  And if—”

“What’s important to me is you, Carrie.  That’s all.  Just you.  And I’m worried about you getting hurt.  You’ve pumped your expectations so high...”

Her eyes softened as she challenged the sun with that smile.  “You don’t have to worry about me, Dan, because she is up here.  And we’re going to find her.”

“Carrie...”

“And now that I think about it, it seems we should take the south fork.”  She swung back into her seat and closed her door.  “Come on, Driver Dan.  Let’s go!  Time’s a-wastin’!”

Dan sighed.  Nothing to do but humor her.  And it wasn’t so bad, really.  At least they were together.

‡

Almost four o’clock.  Dan was thinking about calling it a day and heading back to the highway while there was still plenty of light left.  Wouldn’t be easy finding his way back down in the light.  No way in the dark.  He was just about to suggest it when Carrie suddenly lurched forward in her seat.

“Oh, my God!” she cried, her eyes darting between the windshield and the sheet of paper in her lap.  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, could that be it?”

Dan skidded to a halt and craned his neck over the steering wheel for a look.  As before, the trailing dust cloud caught up to them and he could see nothing while they were engulfed.  But as it cleared...

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

No, he thought.  It’s got to be a mistake.  The sun is directly ahead, it’s glancing off the dirt on the windshield.  A trick of the light.  Got to be.

Hoping, praying that his eyes were suffering from too much glare, Dan opened the door and stepped out for a better look.  He shielded his eyes against the sun peeking over the flat ledge atop a huge outcropping of stone ahead of them, and blinked into the light.  He still couldn’t tell if it—

And then the sun dipped below the ledge, silhouetting the outcropping in brilliant light.  Suddenly Dan could see that the ledge ran rightward to merge with the wall of the mountain of which the outcropping was a part, and leftward to a rocky lip that overhung a sheer precipice bellying gently outward about halfway down its fall.

Damned if it didn’t look just like a...tav.

“Do you see it, Dan?”

He glanced right.  Carrie was out of the cab, holding the yellow sheet of paper at arms length before her and jumping up and down like a pre-schooler who’d just spotted Barney.

He hesitated, unsure of what to say.  As much as he wanted to avoid reinforcing her fantasies, he could not deny the resemblance of the cliff face to the Hebrew letter he’d drawn for her.

“Well, I see something that might remotely—”

“Remotely, shlemotely!  That cliff looks exactly like what you drew here, which is exactly the way it was described in the scroll!”

“The forged scroll, Carrie.  Don’t forget that the source of all these factoids is a confirmed hoax.”

“How could I possibly forget when you keep reminding me every ten minutes?”

He hated to sound like a broken record, but he felt he had to keep the facts before her.  The scroll and everything in it was bogus.  And truthfully, right now he needed a little reminder himself.  Because finding the tav rock had shaken him up more than he wished to admit.

“Sorry, Carrie.  I just...”

“I know.  But you’ve got to believe, Dan.  There’s truth in that scroll.”  She pointed at the tav rock looming before them.  “Look.  We’re not imagining that.  It’s there.”

Dan wanted to say, Yes, but if you want to perpetrate a hoax, you salt the lies with neutral truths, and the most easily verifiable neutral truths are simple geological formations.  But he held his tongue.  This was Carrie’s show.

“What are we waiting for?” she said

Dan shrugged and got back in behind the wheel.  The incline ahead was extra steep so he shifted into super low.

“Can you believe it?” Carrie said, bubbling with excitement as they started the final climb.  “We’re traveling the same route as Saint James and the members of the Jerusalem Church when they carried Mary’s body here.”

“No, Carrie,” he said softly.  “I can’t believe it.  I want to believe it.  I’d give almost anything to have it be true.  But I can’t believe it.”

She smiled that smile.  “You will, Danny, me boy-o.  Before the day is out, you will.”

‡

The closer they got to the rock, the less and less it resembled a tav...and the more formidable it looked.  Fifty feet high at the very least, with sheer walls that would have challenged an experienced rock climber even if they went straight up; but the outward bulge and the sharp overhang at the crest made ascent all but impossible.

As they rounded the outcropping, Dan realized they’d entered the mouth of a canyon.  The deep passage narrowed and curved off to the left about a quarter of a mile north.  He stopped the Explorer in the middle of the dry wadi running along the eastern wall.  Cooler here.  The canyon floor had been resting in the shadow of its western wall for a while.  To his left he spotted a cluster of stunted trees.

“Aren’t those fig trees?” Carrie said.

“Not sure.  Could be.  Whatever they are, they don’t look too healthy.”

“They look old.  Old fig trees... didn’t the scroll writer said he was subsisting on locusts, honey, and wild figs?”

“Yeah, but those trees don’t look wild.  Looks like somebody planted them there.”

“Exactly!” Carrie said, grinning.

Dan had to admit—to himself only—that she had a point.  It looked as if someone had moved a bunch of wild fig trees to this spot and started a makeshift grove...out here...in the middle of nowhere.

But that only meant the forger of the scroll had to have been here in order to describe it; it didn’t mean St. James had been here, or that the Virgin Mary was hidden away atop the tav rock.

But a big question still remained: Who had planted those fig trees?

He turned to Carrie but her seat was empty.  She was walking across the wadi toward the tav rock.  Dan turned off the motor and ran around to catch up to her.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Looking for a way up.”  She was studying the cliff face as she walked.  “The scroll says there’s a path.”

Dan scanned the steep wall looming before them.

“Good luck.”

“Well, this isn’t nearly as smooth as the far side.  There could be a way up.  There must be.  We simply have to find it.”

Dan saw countless jagged cracks and mini-ledges protruding randomly from the surface, but nothing that even vaguely resembled a path.  This looked hopeless, but the scroll had been accurate on so many other points already, there just might be a path to the top.

He veered off to the left.

“Giving up so soon?” Carrie said.

“If there is a path,” he said, “you won’t spot it from straight on.  It’ll only be visible from a sharp angle.  You didn’t spot one as we rounded the front of the cliff, so let’s see what things look like from the back end.”

She nodded, smiling.  “Smart.  I knew I loved you for some reason.”

Dan figured he’d done enough nay-saying.  The only way to get this over with was to find a path to the top—if one existed—and convince Carrie once and for all that there was no cave up there and that the Virgin Mary was not lying on a bier inside waiting to be discovered.  Then maybe they could get their lives back to normal—that is, as normal as life could be for a priest and a nun who were lovers.

He reached the northern end of the outcropping and wound his way through the brush clustered around its base.  When he was within arms reach of the base itself, he looked south along the cliff wall.

“I’ll be damned...”

Carrie hurried to his side.  “What?  Did you find it?  Is it there?”

He guided her in front of him and pointed ahead.  Starting a dozen feet behind them and running up the face of the cliff at a thirty-degree angle was a narrow, broken, jagged ledge.  It averaged only two feet or so in width.

Carrie whirled and hugged him.  “That’s it!  You found it!  See?  All you need is a little faith!”  She grabbed his hand and began dragging him from the brush.  “Let’s go!”

He followed her at a walk as she ran back to where the ledge slanted into the floor of the canyon floor.  By the time he reached it she was already on her way, scrabbling upward along the narrow shelf like a lithe, graceful cat.

“Slow down, Carrie.”

“Speed up, slowpoke!” she laughed.

She’s going to kill herself, he thought as he began his own upward course along the ledge.  He glanced down at the jagged rubble on the hard floor of the wadi below and quickly pulled his gaze away.  Maybe we’re both going to get killed.

He wasn’t good with heights—not phobic about them, but not the least bit fond of them.  He concentrated on staying on the ledge.  Shale, sand, and gravel littered the narrow, uneven surface before him, tilting toward the cliff wall for half a dozen feet or so, then a crack or a narrow gap, or a step up or down, then it continued upward, now sloping away from the wall.  These away sections were the worse.  Dan’s sneakers tended to slip on the sand and he had visions of himself sliding off into—

“Dan!”

A high-pitched squeal of terror from up ahead.  He looked up and saw Carrie down on one knee, her right leg dangling over the edge, her fingers clawing at the cliff wall for purchase.  She’d climbed back into the sunlight and it looked as if her sharp-edged shadow was trying to push her off.

Dear God!

“Carrie!  Hang on!”

He hurried toward her as quickly as he dared but she was back on the ledge and on her feet again by the time he reached her.

“What happened?”

Pale, panting, she leaned against the cliff wall, hugging it.  “I slipped, but I’m okay.”

Suddenly he was angry.  His heart was pounding, his hands were trembling...

“You almost killed yourself, dammit!”

“Sorry,” she said softly.  “That wasn’t my intention, I assure you.”

“Just slow down, will you?  I don’t want to lose you.”

That smile.  “That’s nice to hear.”

“Here.  Let me slide past you and I’ll lead the way.”

“Not a chance.  I’ll take my time from here on up.”  She held up two fingers.  “Promise.”

Carrie kept her word, taking it slow, watching her footing, with Dan close behind.  They reached the sunlit summit without another mishap.  He glanced around—no one else here, and no place to hide.

“Oh, Lord,” Carrie said, wandering across the top of the tav toward the far edge.  “Look at this!”

Dan caught up to her and put an arm around her shoulders, as much from a need to touch her as to stop her from getting too close to the edge.  The sun cooked their backs while the desert wind dried the sweat from the climb, and before them stretched the eastern expanse of the Midbar Yehuda, all hills and mounds and shadowed crags, looking like a rumpled yellow-brown blanket after a night of passion, sloping down to where a sliver of the Dead Sea was visible, sparkling in the late afternoon sun.

Breathtaking, Dan thought.  This almost makes the whole wild goose chase worthwhile.

Together they turned from the vista and scanned the mini-plateau atop the tav.  It ran two hundred feet from the front lip to the rear wall, and was perhaps a hundred and fifty feet wide.  And against that rear wall, to the left of center, lay a pile of rocks.

Carrie grabbed his upper arm.  He felt her fingers sink into his biceps as she pointed to the rocks.

“Oh, God, Dan!  There it is!”

“Just some rocks, Carrie.  Doesn’t mean—”

“She’s there, Dan.  We’ve found her!  We’ve found her!”

She broke from him and dashed across the plateau.  Dan hurried after her.

Here it comes, he thought.  Here’s where the roof falls in on Carrie’s quest.

By the time he reached the pile, Carrie was on it, scrambling to the top.  The jumble stood about eight feet high and she was already at work pulling at the uppermost rocks to dislodge them.

“Easy, Carrie.”  Dan climbed to her side and joined her atop the pile.  “The last thing we need is for you to slip and sprain an ankle.  I have no idea how I’d get you back down.”

“Help me,” Carrie said, breathless with excitement.  “She’s just a few feet away.  We’re almost there!  I can feel it!”

Dan joined her in dislodging the uppermost rocks and letting them roll to the base.  The first were on the small side, cantaloupe sized and easy to move.  But they quickly graduated to watermelons.

Carrie groaned as she strained against one of the larger stones.  “I can’t budge this.  Give me a hand, will you?”

Dan got a grip on the edge of the rock and put his back into it and together they got it overbalanced to the point where it tumbled down the pile.

Dan saw even bigger stones below.

“We’re going to need help,” he said, panting and straightening up.  The sun was still actively baking the top of the tav rock and he was drenched.  “A lever of some sort.  We’ll never move those lower rocks by ourselves.  Maybe I can find a tree limb or something we can use to—”

“We’ve got to get in!”  Tears of frustration welled in her eyes as she looked up at him.  “We can’t stop now.  Not when we’re this close.  We can’t let a bunch of lousy rocks keep us out when we’re so close!”

With the last word she kicked at one of the larger stones directly below her—and cried out in alarm as it gave way beneath her.  Dan grabbed her outflung hand and almost lost his own footing as the entire pile shuddered and settled under them with a rumble and a gush of dust.

“You all right?” Dan said, pulling her closer.

She coughed.  “I think so.  What happened?”

“I’m not sure.”  The dust was settling, layering their skin, mixing with their sweat.  Even with mud on her face Carrie was beautiful.  Over her shoulder, down by Carrie’s feet, Dan saw a dark crescent in the mountain wall.  “Oh, Jesus.”

Carrie turned and gasped.  “The cave!”

Maybe, Dan thought.  Maybe not.  The only sure thing about it is it’s a hole in the wall.

But he knew it was the upper rim of a cave mouth.  Had to be.  Everything else in this elaborate scam had followed true to the forged scroll.  Why not the cave too?

But what sort of ugly surprise waited within?

Before he could stop her, Carrie had dropped prone and pushed her face into the opening.

“We left the flashlights in the car,” she was saying.  “And I can’t see a thing.”

Quickly he pulled her back.  “Are you nuts?”

“What’s the matter?”

“You don’t know what’s in there.”

“What could be in there?”

“How about snakes or scorpions?  Or how about bats?  It’s a cave, you know.”

“I know that, but—”

“But nothing.”  He pulled her to her feet.  “You keep your nose out of there while I go get the flashlights.”

“All right,” she said reluctantly as she allowed him to guide her down to the bottom of the pile.  “Can’t see anything anyway.”

“Precisely.  So you just wait here while I go back to the Explorer.”

“Okay, but hurry.”  She squeezed his hand.  “Don’t hurry so much you fall, but hurry.”

Dan made the round trip as quickly as he could, hugging the cliff wall all the way, concentrating on the path and not looking down.  He did spot another cave in the far wall of the canyon—probably where the fictional author of the scrolls supposedly had lived.  He reminded himself to check it out before they left.

The sun had continued its slide and the shadow of the canyon’s western wall had crawled three-quarters of the way up the tav by the time he returned to the top with the two flashlights.

He stood there a moment, panting, sweating from the climb, before he realized he was alone on the plateau.

“Carrie?”  He dashed toward the rock pile, shouting as he ran.  “Carrie!”

“What?”

Her head popped up atop the rock pile, smiling at him, and as he clambered up the boulders he saw her lying on her belly with her legs and pelvis inside the opening.  She looked like someone half-swallowed by a stony mouth.

“My God, Carrie, couldn’t you wait?  Get out of there!”

“I’m fine.”  She reached a hand out to him.  “Flashlight please.”

“I’ll go first.”

“No way.  You didn’t even want to come.”

Dan was tempted to withhold the flashlight, make her climb out of there and let him shine a beam around inside before she crawled in.  But the excitement, the child-like eagerness in her eyes weakened him.  And after all, this was her show.

He flicked one on to make sure it worked, then slapped the handle into her waiting palm.

“Be careful.  And wait right there.  Don’t go anywhere without me.”

“Okay.”

Another smile, so confident looking, but Dan noticed the flashlight shaking in her hand.  She pushed herself backward and slipped the rest of the way inside.

A chill of foreboding ran through him as he saw her disappear into that hole, swallowed by the darkness.  God knew what could be in there.

“Carrie?  You there?  You okay?”

Her face floated back into the light.  “Of course I’m okay.  Kind of cool in here, and dusty, and it looks...empty.”

I could have told you that, Dan thought, but kept it to himself.  He’d give anything to make this right for her, but that was impossible.  So the least he could do was be there when the hurt hit.

“Stand back a little.  I’m coming in.”

Dan slid down onto his back and entered the opening feet first.  A tight squeeze but he managed to wriggle through with only a few minor scrapes and scratches.

Carrie stood a few feet away, her back to him, playing her flashlight beam along the walls.

“You’re right,” he said, coughing as he brushed himself off.  “A lot cooler in here.  Almost cold.”

Quickly he flashed his own beam around.  Not a cave so much as a rocky alcove, maybe a dozen feet deep and fifteen wide, with rough, pocked walls.  And no doubt about its being empty.  Not even a spider.  Just dust—dry, powdered rock—layering the floor.  Only Carrie’s footprints and his own marred the silky surface.

What do I say? he wondered.  Do I say anything—or let Carrie say it first?

As he stepped toward her, Carrie suddenly moved away to the left.

“Look.  I think there’s a tunnel here.”

Dan caught up to her, joined his flash beam to hers, and realized that what he had thought to be a pocket recess near the floor of the cave was actually an opening into another chamber.

Carrie dropped to her hands and knees and shone her light through.

“See anything?” Dan said, hovering over her.

“Looks like more of the same.  Tunnel’s only a couple of feet long.  I’m going in for a look.”

Dan squatted behind her and gently patted her buttocks.  “Right behind you.”

Carrie began to crawl, then stopped, freezing like a deer who’s heard a twig break, then quickly scrambled the rest of the way through.

“Oh, Dan,” he heard her say in a hoarse, quavering  voice just above a whisper.  “Oh-Dan-oh-Dan-oh-Dan-oh-Dan!”

He belly-crawled through as fast as his elbows and knees could propel him and bumped his head on the ceiling as he regained his feet on the other side.

But he instantly forgot the pain when he saw what lay in the wavering beam of Carrie’s flashlight.

A woman.

An elderly woman lying supine in an oblong niche in the wall of the chamber.

“It’s...” Carrie’s voice choked off and she cleared her throat.  “It’s her, Dan.  It’s really her.”

“Well, it’s somebody.”

A jumble of emotions tumbled through Dan.  He was numb, he was exhausted, and he was angry.  He’d been preparing himself to comfort Carrie when she discovered she’d been played for a fool.  Entering the cave was supposed to be the last step in this trek.  Now he had one more thing to explain.

The scroll, the careful and clever descriptions of this area of the Wilderness were one thing, but this was going too far.  This was...ghoulish was the most appropriate word that came to mind.

“It’s her.  Look at her.”

Dan was doing just that.  The woman’s robe was blue, its cowl up and around her head; short, medium build, with thick strands of gray hair poking out from under the cowl.  Her wrinkled skin had a sallow, almost waxy look to it.  Her eyes and lips were closed, her cheeks slightly sunken, her nose generous without being large.  Even in the wavering light of the flash beams, she appeared to be a handsome, elderly woman who might have been beautiful in her youth.  She looked so peaceful lying there.  He noticed her hands were folded between her breasts.  Something about those hands...

“Look at her fingernails,” Carrie said, her voice hushed like someone whispering during Benediction.  Obviously she shared his feeling that they were trespassing.  “They’re so long.”

“I hear they continue to grow...the nails and the hair... after you’re dead.”

Carrie stepped closer but Dan gripped her arm and held her back.

“Don’t.  It might be booby-trapped.”

Carrie shook off his hand and whirled to face him.  He couldn’t see her face but the anger in her whisper told him all he needed to know about her expression.

“Stop it, Dan!  Haven’t you gone far enough with this Doubting Thomas act?”

“It’s not an act, and I wish there was more light.”

“So do I, but there isn’t.  I wish we’d brought some sort of lantern but we didn’t.  This is all we’ve got.”

“All right.  But be careful.”

Dan fought a sick, anxious dread that coiled through his gut as he watched her approach the body.  And it was a body.  Had to be.  Too much detail for it to be anything other than the real thing.

But whose body?  What sort of mind would go to such elaborate extremes to pull off a hoax.  A sicko like that would be capable of anything, even a booby trap.

Of course, there was the possibility that these actually were the earthly remains of the mother of Jesus Christ.

Dan wanted to believe that.  He dearly would have loved to believe that.  And probably would be fervently believing that right now if not for the fact that the scroll that had led them here had been proven beyond a doubt to have been written less than a dozen years ago.

So if this wasn’t the Virgin Mary, who was she?  And who had hidden her here?

Carrie was standing over her now, staring down at the woman’s lifeless face.

“Dan?  Do you notice something strange about her?”

“Besides her fingernails?”

“There’s no dust on her.  There’s dust layered everywhere, but not a speck of it on her.”

Dan stepped closer and sniffed.  No odor.  And Carrie was right about the dust: not a speck.  He smiled.  The forger had finally made a mistake.

“Doesn’t that indicate to you that she was placed here recently?”

“No.  It indicates to me that dirt—and dust is dirt—has no place on the Mother of God.”

As he watched, Carrie sank to her knees, made the sign of the cross, and bowed her head in prayer with the flashlight clasped between her hands.

This isn’t real, Dan thought.  All we need is a ray of light from the ceiling and a hallelujah chorus from the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to make this a Cecil B. DeMille epic.  This can’t be happening.  Not to me.  Not to Carrie.  We’re two sane people.

Impulsively, gingerly, he reached out and touched the woman’s cheek.  The wrinkled flesh didn’t give.  Not hard like stone or wood or plastic.  More like wax.  Cool and smooth...like wax.  But it wasn’t wax, at least not like any wax Dan had ever seen.

He heard a sob and snatched his hand away...but the sound had come from Carrie.  He flashed his beam toward her face.  Tears glistened on her cheeks.  He crouched beside her.

“Carrie, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.  I feel so strange.  All this time I thought I believed, and I prayed to her, and I asked her to help me, to intercede for me, but now I get the feeling that all that time I didn’t believe.  Not really.  And now here she is in front of me, not two feet away, and I don’t know what I feel or what I think.”  She looked up at him.  “I don’t have to believe anymore, do I, Dan?  I know.  I don’t have to believe, and that feels so strange.”

One thing Dan knew was that he didn’t believe this was the Virgin Mary.  But it was somebody.  He played his flashlight beam over her body.

Lady, who are you?

Another thing he knew was that Carrie was heading for some sort of breakdown.  She was teetering on the edge now.  He had to get her out of here before she went over.  But how?

“What do we do now?” he said, straightening up.

He felt her grip his arm as she rose to her feet beside him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we’ve found her...or someone...or something.  Now what do we do?”

“We protect her, Dan.”

“And how do we do that?”

Carrie’s voice was very calm, almost matter of fact.  “We take her back with us.”

TWELVE

Tel Aviv

“What’s the matter, baby?” Devorah said from behind him, casually raking her sharp nails down the center of his back.

Kesev sat on the edge of the bed in her apartment.  They always wound up at Devorah’s place, never his.  They both preferred it that way.  Kesev because he never allowed anyone in his apartment, and Devorah because when she was home she had access to her...props.

He’d met her last year.  An El Al stewardess.  She could have been Irish with her billowing red hair, pale freckled skin, and blue eyes, but she was pure Israeli.  Young—mid-twenties—with such an innocent, girlish face, almost child-like.  But Devorah was a cruel, mischievous child who liked to play rough.  And when it came to rough she preferred to give rather than receive.  Which was fine with Kesev.

Their little arrangement had lasted longer than any other in recent memory.  Probably because her job took her away so much, she’d yet to grow tired of his black moods and long silences.  And probably because Devorah had been unable to find a way to really hurt him.  Kesev absorbed whatever she could dish out.  She considered him a challenge, her perfect whipping boy.

So Devorah seemed happy with him, while he was...what?  Happy?  Satisfied?  Content?

Hardly.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt something approaching any of those.

The situation was...tolerable.  Just barely tolerable.  Which was more than he’d learned to hope for.

“You weren’t really into it tonight,” she said.

“Sorry.  I...I’m distracted.”

“You’re always distracted.  Tonight you’re barely here.”

Probably true.  A vague uneasiness had stalked him all day, disturbing his concentration at the Shin Bet office, stealing his appetite, and finally settling on him like a shroud late this afternoon.

More than uneasiness now.  A feeling of impending doom.

Could it have something to do with the Resting Place?  He followed the wire services meticulously and there’d been no word of a new Dead Sea scroll or startling revelations regarding the mother of Christ.  Not even a ripple.

But that was hardly proof that all was well, that all was safe and secure.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our date for tomorrow,” he said, turning to face her.

She lay sprawled among the sheets, her generous breasts and their pink nipples exposed.  Even her breasts were freckled.  But she didn’t lay still long.  She levered up and slapped him across the face.

“I don’t like broken promises!” she hissed between clenched teeth.

The blow stung but Kesev didn’t flinch.  Nor was he angry.  One deserved whatever one got when a promise was betrayed.

“There is a hierarchy of promises,” he said softly.  “Some promises take precedence over others.”

“And this promise.  Is this what distracts you?”

“Yes.”

“Does it involve another woman?”

“Not at all.”  At least not in the sense she meant.

“Good.”  She smiled as she clicked a handcuff over his right wrist.  “Come.  Let Devorah see if she can make you forget all your mysterious distractions.”

‡

The Judean Wilderness

It had taken some heavy persuasion, but Dan managed to convince Carrie to leave the cave so they could talk outside...in the light...in the air...away from that...thing.

He felt instantly better outside.  It had seemed like night in there.  Even though the entire tav rock was in shadow now, he squinted in the relative brightness.

And he was still staggering from Carrie’s words.  He’d never thought they’d find anything on this trip, so he’d never even dreamed that Carrie might want to...

“Take her back?  To the US?  Are you serious?”

“We have to,” she said.  “If we don’t, other people might decipher that other scroll you mentioned and find her.  The wrong kind of people.  People who’d...misuse her.”

“Then why don’t we just move her from here and bury her where no one will find her?”

She wheeled on him.  “This is the mother of God, Dan!  You don’t just stick her in the dirt!”

“All right, all right.”  He could see she wasn’t rational on this.  “But even if we could get her back home—and believe me, that’s a big if—what’ll we do with her?  Give her to a museum?  To the Vatican?”

“Oh, no.  Oh, Lord, no,” she said, vigorously shaking her head.  “We’ve got to keep her secret.  She was hidden away for a reason.  We have to respect that.  Imagine if some crazy Muslims got hold of her, or some sort of satanic cult.  Think how they might desecrate her.  Now that we’ve found her, we have a very clear duty: We have to take her back with us and hide her where no one else can find her.”

“You’re not thinking, Carrie.  We’ll never get her past customs.”

“There’s got to be a way.  Your friend Hal says people are smuggling archeological artifacts out of the Mid East all the time.  Call him.  He can tell you how.”

“Call Hal?  Sure.  Hand me the phone.”

“This is not a joking matter, Dan.”

He saw her tight features and the look in her eyes and realized how serious she was.  But she wasn’t thinking straight.  Finding that strange body in there, whoever it was, had jumbled up her rational processes.  He had to get her away from here, get her calmed down so she could get some perspective on this whole situation...

And calling Hal might be just the excuse he needed.

“All right.  We’ll call Hal and see what he says.”

Her expression relaxed.  “You mean that?”

“Of course.  We’ll drive back to the highway, maybe go to En Gedi...”  He glanced at his watch.  “It’s seven hours earlier in New York so we can still catch him in his office.  And we’ll ask his advice.”

“You go.  I’m staying here.”

“No way, Carrie.  No way I’m leaving you sitting up here at night in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’ll be all right.  Now that I’ve found her, you can’t expect me to leave her.”

“If she is who you think she is, she’s been fine here for two thousand years.  One more night isn’t going to matter.”

“I’m staying.”

Dan had humored her as far as he could.  He wasn’t backing down on this point.

“Here’s the deal, Carrie,” he said, fighting to keep from shouting.  “Either we go down to En Gedi together or we stay up here and starve together.  But under no circumstances am I leaving you alone.  So it’s up to you.  You decide.  And make it quick.  Because when night falls, we’re stuck here—I won’t be able to find my way back to the highway in the dark.”

They went round and round until she finally agreed to accompany him to En Gedi in return for a promise to come straight back to the tav at first light.

The downhill trip going was shorter by hours than the uphill trip coming, but it seemed much longer.  Carrie hardly spoke a word the whole way.

‡

En Gedi

They lay side by side in their double bed in the local guest house.  Dan’s arms and legs were leaden with fatigue as he floated in a fog of exhaustion.  Here they were, in bed together in one of the world’s most ancient resorts, a green oasis of grasses, vineyards, palm trees, and even a waterfall in the midst of the barren wastelands.  A beauty spot, a lovers’ rendezvous, mentioned even in the ancient Song of Solomon, and all he could think of was sleep.

Not that Carrie would have been receptive to any romantic advances anyway.  She’d seemed more than a bit aloof since they’d left the tav.

That and the knowledge that they’d be returning to the Wilderness tomorrow only heightened Dan’s fatigue.

Hal had been no help.  As soon as they had arrived in En Gedi, Dan called him and explained that they needed a way to get a five-foot-long artifact out of the country.

“Quietly, if you know what I mean.”

Hal had known exactly what he meant and gave him a name and a telephone number in Tel Aviv.  He’d said he was very interested and wanted to see this artifact when it reached the states.  Dan had thanked him and hung up.

Yeah.  Thanks a lot, Hal.

Nothing was working out the way he’d hoped.  He’d expected Hal to tell him to forget it—no way to get something that size past the inspectors.  Instead of no way, it was no problem.

Damn!

Carrie had remained in a sort of semi-dream state.   What little conversation she’d initiated had been whispers of “Can you believe it?  Can you believe we’ve actually found her?” as they stocked up on twine, blankets, work gloves, a pry bar, a lantern, and hundreds of feet of rope.

And now, beside him in bed, after a long silence...

“I’ve been thinking...”

“Great.”  Dan dragged himself back from the borderlands of sleep.  “Does that mean you’re giving up this ca-ca idea of bringing that corpse home?”

“Please don’t refer to her so coarsely.  Please?”

“Okay.  Just for your sake.  Not because I believe it.”

“Thank you.  Now tell me: Who do you think wrote the scroll?”

“A clever, phony bastard.”

“All right,” she said with exaggerated patience.  “Let’s humor Sister Carrie and assume that the scroll is genuine.  Who wrote it?”

“We’ve been over this already.  A Pharisee.  An educated man.”

“But what of that passage where he says ‘I do not fear killing.  I have killed before, slipping through the crowds in Jerusalem, stabbing with my knife.  And I fear not damnation.  Indeed, I am already thrice-damned.’  That doesn’t sound like a Pharisee.”

“What’d you do, memorize that translation?”

“No.  But I’ve read it a few times.”

More than a few, Dan bet.

He said, “Some of the upper-class Israelites, a few Pharisees among them, got involved with the anti-Roman rebels, some with the zealots.  These were a rough bunch of guys, sort of the Israelite equivalent of the IRA.  They mounted guerrilla attacks, they murdered collaborators and informants and generally did whatever they could to incite revolt.  These were the guys who gathered at Masada after the fall of Jerusalem.  They held out for three years, then all 950 of them chose to die rather than surrender to the Roman siege.  This scroll writer is patterned after that sort of zealot.”

“He was a pretty tough cookie then.”

“Extremely.  Not the kind you’d want to cross.”

“I wonder what happened to him?”

“He’s probably hanging around, laughing up his three-striped sleeve, waiting for someone to chase the wild goose he created.”

He regretted the words immediately, but he was tired, dammit.

Carrie yanked the sheet angrily and turned onto her side, her back to him.

“Good night, Dan.  Get some sleep.  We’re out of here at dawn.”

“Good night, Carrie.”

But exhausted as he was, thoughts of the forger kept sleep at bay.  And the more Dan thought about how this slimy bastard had sucked Carrie in, making her believe all this nonsense, the more he wanted to get back at him.

And removing that corpse or whatever it was from its cave was the perfect way.

Then it wouldn’t matter who came searching for the secret atop the tav rock—the New York Times, the Star, or even a mission from Vatican itself—all they’d find was an empty cave.  The tomb is empty!  There’d be no turmoil, no orthodox confusion, no Catechismal chaos.  And the forger would be left scratching his head, wondering where his clever little prop had disappeared to.

Dan smiled into the darkness.  Two can play this game, Mr. Forger.

Tomorrow Carrie would have enthusiastic help in her efforts to smuggle the forger’s prop out of Israel.

After that, Dan would have plenty of time to coax her back to her senses.  If he could.  He was more than a little worried about Carrie’s mental state.  She seemed to be drifting into some religious fantasy realm.  He sensed some strange chemistry between her and that body that he could not begin to comprehend.  A switch had been thrown inside her, but what circuits had been activated?

Maybe it all went back to her childhood.  Maybe it was all tied up in the abuse by her father.  Little Carrie had been a virgin and no one had protected her; now here she was with what she believed to be the Virgin Mary and the grown-up Carrie was going to become the protector.

More parlor psychoanalysis.  But perhaps it gave some clue as to why this artifact was so important to her.

Too important, perhaps.

And that frightened him.  How would she react when it finally became clear—as it must eventually—that the body she thought belonged to the Blessed Virgin was a hoax?  What if she cracked?

Whatever happened, he’d be there for her.

But what if he couldn’t bring her back?

He stared into the darkness and wished Hal had brought him another sort of gift from the Holy Land.  Anything but that damned scroll.

‡

Tel Aviv

Kesev watched the morning news on TV while he sipped his coffee and considered the journey ahead of him.  Oppressed by some nameless sense of urgency, he’d left Devorah’s in the early morning hours, fighting the urge to jump into his car and drive into the Wilderness.

Instead he’d driven home and attempted to sleep.  Wasted hours.  He’d had not a minute of slumber.  He should have driven to the Resting Place.  He’d have been there by now and all these vague fears would be allayed.

He’d called into Shin Bet with an excuse about a family emergency that would keep him from the office all day, but he wondered if this trip were even necessary.  He’d be on the road all day, probably for nothing.  Only 80 air miles, but three times that by car.  And for what?  To satisfy a nameless uneasiness?

Idly, he wondered if he could get a helicopter and do a quick fly-by, but immediately discarded the idea.  He’d made a spectacle of himself back there in ‘91 during the Gulf War when he’d refused to leave the SCUD impact site until all the investigations had been completed.  He’d actually camped out there until the last missile fragment had been removed and the final investigator had returned home.  There’d been too many questions about his undue interest in that particular piece of nowhere.  If he requested a copter now...

He sighed and finished his coffee.  Better get moving.  He had a long drive ahead of him, and he’d know no peace until he’d reassured himself.

Absence...guilt twisted inside of him.  He wasn’t supposed to be away from the Resting Place.  Ever.  He’d promised to stay there and guard it.

He shook off the guilt.  How long could you sit around guarding a place that no one even knew existed?

The Resting Place was as safe as it ever was, protected by the greatest, most steadfast guardian of all—the Midbar Yehuda.

‡

The Judean Wilderness

Carrie held her breath going through the little passage to the second chamber.  But then the beam flashed against the Blessed Mother and she let it out.

“She’s still here!  Oh, thank God, Dan!  She’s still here!”

“What did you expect?” Dan muttered as he crawled in behind her with the electric lantern.  “Not as if we left her on a subway.”

She knew Dan was tired and irritable.  Anyone seeing him stumbling around the guest house this morning would have thought he’d been drinking all night.  Her own back ached and her eyes burned, but true to her word, Carrie had awakened him at first light this morning and had them on the road by the time the sun peeked over the Jordanian highlands on the far side of the Dead Sea.  It had glowed deep red in the rearview mirror as it crept up the flawless sky, stretching the Explorer’s shadow far before them as they bounced and rolled into the hills.

And now as she stood in the chamber, staring down once more at the woman she knew—knew—was the Mother of God, she felt as if her heart would burst inside her.  She loved this woman—for all her quiet courage, for all the pain she must have suffered in silence.  But the Virgin didn’t look quite like what she’d expected.  In her mind’s eye she’d imagined finding a rosy-cheeked teenager, or at the very least a tall, beautiful woman in her early twenties, because that was the way Carrie had always seen her pictured.  But when she thought about it, the Virgin probably had been average height for a Palestinian woman of two thousand years ago, and must have been pushing seventy when she died.

Dizziness swept over Carrie as she was struck again by the full impact of what—who—she had found.  God had touched this woman as He had touched no other human being.  She’d carried the incarnation of His Son.  And now she lay here, not two feet in front of Carrie.

This is really her.  This is the Mother of God.

Until yesterday, the Blessed Virgin had been a statue, a painting, words in books.  Now, looking at her aged face, her glossy, uncorrupted flesh, Carrie appreciated her as a woman.  A human being.  All those years, all those countless Hail Marys, and never once had Carrie realized that this Mary she’d prayed to as an intercessor had once been a flesh-and-blood human being.  That made all the suffering in Mary’s life so much more real.

And rising with the love came a fierce protective urge, almost frightening in its intensity.

No one must touch her.  No one must desecrate or defile her in any way.  No one must use her for anything.  Anything!  The Church itself couldn’t be trusted.  Who knew what even the Vatican might do?  She’d dreamed during the night of the Blessed Mother’s remains on display in St. Peter’s in Rome and it had sickened her.

Mary had given enough already, and Carrie knew it was up to her to see to it that no one demanded any more of her.

Dear Mother, whoever was left to guard you is long since dead and gone.  I’ll take care of you.  I’ll be your protector from now on.

She unfolded the dark blue flannel blankets she had brought.  Dan set the lantern down and helped her spread them out on the floor.  The bright light cast their distorted shadows against the wall where the Virgin lay in her stony niche.

“All right,” she said when the blankets were right.  “Help me move her out.”

She didn’t want anyone else touching the Virgin, not even Dan, but she couldn’t risk lifting her out of that niche on her own.  God forbid she slipped from her grasp and tumbled to the floor.

As Dan approached the Virgin’s upper torso, Carrie waved him back.

“I’ll take this end.  You take her feet.”

Her hands shook as she approached the Virgin.  What was this going to be like, touching her?  She hesitated a moment, then wriggled her fingers under the Virgin’s cloak and cowl, slipping her hands under her neck and the small of her back.  The fabric felt so clean, so new...how could this be two thousand years old?

Unsettled, she glanced to her right.  What did Dan think?  But Dan stood there with his hands under the Virgin’s knees and ankles, expressionless, waiting for her signal.

She suddenly realized that things had changed since yesterday afternoon.  Until then, Dan had been in charge.  Sure, this trip had been her idea, but Dan had made all the flight arrangements, decided where to stay, what car to rent, while she’d done all the research.  But here, in this chamber, in the presence of the Virgin, she was in charge.

“All right,” she said.  “Lift.”

And as she lifted, a knifepoint of doubt pierced Carrie for an instant: So light!  Almost as if she were hollow.  And so stiff.

She brushed the misgivings away.  The Virgin was small, and God had preserved her flesh.  That was why she was so light and stiff.

Carefully they backed up, cradling the Virgin in their arms, then knelt and gently placed her on the blankets.

“Stiff as a board,” Dan said.  “You know, Carrie, I really think—”

Carrie knew what he was going to say and she didn’t want to hear it.

“Please, Dan.  Let’s just wrap her up and move her out as we agreed.”

He stared at her a moment, then shrugged.  “Okay.”

Dan seemed to have had a change of heart overnight.  Last night he’d been dead set against her plan to bring the Virgin back to New York, yet this morning he seemed all for it.  But not because he’d suddenly become a believer in the authenticity of their discovery.  He was still locked into his Doubting Thomas role.

The Virgin’s unnatural lightness and rigidity, plus Dan’s continuing doubts, only fanned her desire to move the Virgin to a safer hiding place.  Even if she fell into the hands of people with the best intentions, they’d want to examine her, test her to verify her authenticity.  They’d scan her, take samples of her hair, skin scrapings, biopsy her, maybe even—God forbid—autopsy her.

No way, Carrie thought as she folded the blankets over the Virgin, wrapping her rigid form in multiple flannel layers.  No way.

Dan helped her tie the blankets in place with the heavy twine they’d bought in En Gedi.  They tied her around the shoulders, waist, thighs, and knees.  With Carrie leading the way, slipping through the little tunnel first and guiding their precious bundle after her, they moved the Virgin into the front chamber, then through the opening at the top of the cave mouth onto the rock pile.

Squinting in the brightness of the mid-morning sun, they carried her to the far edge of the mini-plateau atop the tav.

“I didn’t realize she was this light,” Dan said, “and that gives me an idea on how we can increase our safety factor here.”

“Who’s safety?”

“Our prize’s.”

Carrie couldn’t get over the change in Dan’s attitude.

“I’m all ears.”

‡

Dan’s voice echoed down from atop the tav rock.

“Ready?”

Carrie shielded her eyes with her hand and looked up.  Dan was a silhouette against the bright blue of the sky, standing on the tav’s overhang directly above, waving to her.  She answered with a broad wave of her own.

“Go ahead!”

As Carrie saw the snugly tied-and-wrapped bundle slip over the edge of the lip and start its slow descent toward her, she became unaccountably afraid.  Everything was set—she’d moved the Explorer under the lip just as Dan had suggested, and here she was, ready to guide the Virgin into the vehicle when she was lowered to within reach—but she could not escape the felling that something was about to go wrong.

She should have stayed with Dan.  Two sets of hands up there were better than one.  He’d tied the heavier rope to the cords around the Virgin while she’d made her way to the bottom.  What if he hadn’t tied the knots securely enough?  What if the rope slipped out of his hands as he was lowering her?

What if he dropped her on purpose, hoping she’d smash into a thousand pieces to prove that he’d been right all along?

Carrie reigned in her stampeding thoughts.  How could she even think such a thing?  She was sure it hadn’t crossed Dan’s mind.

Then why had it crossed hers?

Maybe she was losing perspective.  It was the heat, the distance from home, the isolation of the desert...it was the epiphany of standing before the Mother of God and then cradling her remains in her arms.

So much had happened in the past 24 hours and the cumulative effect was...overwhelming.

She shook herself and concentrated on the blue of the descending bundle, twisting and swaying on its slowly lengthening tether.  Dan was out of sight beyond the lip.  She lifted her arms, waiting.  Soon it was just above her, and then she had a grip on two of the binding cords.  As it continued its descent she swung it around and guided it feet first toward the open rear door of the Explorer.

And then it was done.  The Virgin was off the tav and safely at rest in the back of their car.

Dan must have noticed the sudden slack.  His voice drifted down from overhead.

“Everything okay down there?”

She waved without looking up.  Her eyes were fixed on the blanket-wrapped bundle lying before her.  She still didn’t know what she’d do with the Virgin once she got her to New York; she simply knew she had to keep her near.

She spoke softly.  “Perfect.”

“Heads up!” Dan called from above.

She glanced up and saw the remaining length of the rope stretched out in the air, coiling like a collapsing spring as it fell to earth.

“I’m on my way,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later he arrived, lugging the lamp and the flashlights.  He quickly loaded them into the back of the Explorer.

Carrie said, “What about the rope?”

“We’ll leave it.  Can’t fly it back to the States anyway.”

“How about that other cave?  Didn’t you say you wanted to take a look in it before we leave?”

He stared across the canyon a moment, then shook his head.

“Maybe some other time.”

“Other time?  When will there be another time?’

“Probably never.  But I think I’ve had enough of this place for now.  I’d like to be out of here.”

Carrie nodded.  She had the same feeling.  She didn’t know why, but she had an urge to put this place behind them as quickly as possible.

‡

As Kesev cruised down Route 90 he saw a black, truck-like vehicle pull onto the highway about half a mile ahead and accelerate toward him in the northbound lane.  No roads around here, at least nothing paved.  Whoever was driving must have been roaming the hills and desert.  Nothing unusual about that.  Off-road exploring was popular with tourists these days, which was why the rental companies in the Central and South districts did such a brisk business in four-wheel drive vehicles.  But what bothered Kesev was where the truck had come onto the highway.

Right where Kesev always turned off.

He gave it a good going over as it passed: black Ford Explorer, dust caked, man driving, woman in the rear seat, Eldan Rent-A-Car sticker on the back bumper.  He made a mental note of the license plate.

When he made his usual turn off and saw the still settling dust trailing west toward the hills, he stopped his Jeep and jotted the license plate number in the notepad he always carried.

Just in case.

They he gunned the Jeep toward the uplands.

He had a bad feeling about this.

That bad feeling worsened as he spotted patches of rutted earth and tire tracks here and there along the path toward the Resting Place.  Never, in all the times he’d been back and forth, had he encountered a single tire track this far into the Wilderness.  Not even his own from previous trips.  Sharav, the incessant desert wind, saw to that, scouring the land clean of all traces of human passage, usually overnight.

Which meant these were fresh tracks.  But who’d made them?  The couple in that Explorer?  Or somebody else—somebody who even now might be desecrating the Resting Place.

Despite the Jeep’s efficient air-conditioning, Kesev began to sweat.  He upped his speed past the safety limit into the reckless zone.  He didn’t care.  Something was wrong here.

He ground his teeth and cursed himself for not leaving last night.

Finally the tav rock hove into view.  No other vehicles in sight, but that brought no relief—he was following a double set of tire tracks.  Two vehicles?  Or a single vehicle arriving and departing?

He swung around the front of the tav and let out a low moan as he spotted the lengthy coil of rope tangled under the overhang.

“Lord in Heaven,” he whispered, “don’t let this be!  Please don’t let this be!”

Fear knotted around his heart as he gunned the jeep into the canyon and slewed to a halt at the base of the path to the top.  Without bothering to turn off the engine, he leaped out and scampered up the ledge as fast as he dared, muttering and crying out as he climbed.

“Never should have left here”...Please, God!  Let her still be there!...”What was I thinking?”...Dear Lord, if she is still there I swear I will never leave this place again.  Not even for food!...”Should have moved back after the scroll was stolen, should have foreseen this!”...Please hear me, Lord, and have mercy on a fool!

The instant Kesev’s head cleared the top of the plateau, his eyes darted to the mouth of the Resting Place.  At first glance the barricade of rocks appeared undisturbed and he slumped forward onto the ledge, gasping, nearly sobbing in relief.  But as he rose to his feet to send up a fervent prayer of thanks, he spotted the dark crescent atop the barricade—an opening into the Resting Place.  The sight of it drove a blade of panic into his throat.

“No!”

He broke into a dead run, clambered up the rocks and all but dove head first into the opening.  Enough light streamed through the opening to guide his way to the tunnel.  He scrambled through to the second chamber.  Stygian darkness here.  Kesev’s heart was a mailed fist pounding against the inner wall of his ribs as he felt his way across the chamber to the niche where the Mother’s bier had been set.  His fingers found the edge, then hesitated of their own accord, as if afraid to proceed any further, afraid to find the niche empty.

He forced them forward—

Empty!

“No!”

Sobbing, he dropped to his knees and crawled around on the stone floor, running his hands over every inch of its craggy surface, choking in the clouds of dust he raised, all in the futile hope that she might still be here.

But she was not.  The Mother was gone.  The Resting Place had been vandalized and the Mother stolen.

Tearing at his beard, Kesev staggered to his feet and screamed as the blackness surrounding him seeped into his despairing soul.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!”

For an eternal moment he stood there, impotent, lost, devoid of the most tenuous hope, frozen, incapable of thought...

And then he remembered the car he’d seen turning onto Route 90 earlier...the black Explorer.

Maybe it wasn’t too late.   Maybe he still had a chance.  He had no honor to salvage, and no hope of redemption, but if he could retrieve the Mother and return her to the Resting Place, he could continue his task as her guardian.

Hope bubbled up like a cold spring in the heart of a desert...but he dared do little more than wet his lips.

All the way back to the highway, Kesev fixed the image of the Explorer in his mind, trying to remember whatever details he could about the driver and passenger.  They’d been shadows, identifiable as male and female and little more.  When he screeched onto Route 90 again, he floored the accelerator, pushing the Jeep to 150 kilometers an hour in the open stretches, ready to flash his Shin Bet ID at any highway cop who tried to slow him down.

He called information and learned that Eldan had a car rental office in the Jerusalem Hilton.

Hope edged a trifle higher.

‡

He located the Eldan desk in the spacious lobby of the tower portion of the Hilton.  The pert brunette there wore a name tag that said “Chaya” in English.  Kesev made sure she was properly impressed by his Shin Bet ID, then he handed her the sheet from his notepad with the number of the Explorer’s license plate.

“Did you rent a Ford Explorer with this plate out of here?”

“Explorer, you say?”  She tapped a few instructions into the terminal before her.  A few beeps later, Chaya smiled.  “Yes, sir.  To an American.  Carolyn Ferris.  Out of New York.”

What luck!  Found them on the first try.  Then again, if you were going to explore the area around the Dead Sea, Jerusalem was the ideal base.

“Have they returned the car yet?”

She shook her head.  “Not yet.”

“When’s it due back?”

“Today, I would assume.  They took it on a two-day special—unlimited mileage.  But there’s nothing to say they won’t keep it till tomorrow.  They have an option for extra days.”

Tomorrow—he prayed they wouldn’t keep it till then.  Especially since he wasn’t even sure this Ferris couple were the ones he wanted.  The tire tracks around the Resting Place might not be theirs.

But they were the only lead he had.

If only there were some way to involve Shin Bet in this.  He could have the tire tracks identified as to their size and brand and from that get a list of what vehicles used them as standard equipment.  If a Ford Explorer was on the list, he’d issue an all-points alert for the Ferrises and their vehicle.

But Shin Bet would want to know what crime they’d committed or were suspected of committing.  Theft?  What did they steal?

Kesev could not answer those basic questions, so Shin Bet had to stay out of it.

He was on his own.

He wrote down his cell number and handed it to the Eldan clerk.

“I will be close by and will be checking in with you frequently.  But if I am not about, call this number immediately should you hear from the Ferrises.  Make sure you fill in whoever relieves you.”

“Are they dangerous?” Chaya said, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice.

He smiled to reassure her.  It wasn’t easy.  He wanted to grab the front of her blouse and pull her half across the counter and shout that they may have stolen a relic that God Himself had designated as untouchable and only God Himself knew what might happen to Kesev—to the entire world—if it was not returned immediately to its designated Resting Place.

Instead he kept his tone low and even.

“Absolutely not.  They are just a couple of tourists who may have witnessed something and we need to question them.  The problem is that they don’t know we’re looking for them and we don’t know where to find them.  Not yet.  But with your help we can clear up this matter swiftly and everyone can go about their business.”

Meanwhile, he didn’t have to sit idle.

He went to one of the Hilton’s house phones and asked the operator to connect him with the Ferris room.  He slammed his fist on the counter when she informed him that there was no Ferris registered at the hotel, then glanced around to see if he’d startled anyone.  He did not want to attract attention.  He forced himself to return the receiver gently to its cradle.

Then he pulled out his phone and called all the major and some of the minor hotels in Jerusalem, asking to be connected to the Ferris room.

No luck.  They weren’t registered in Jerusalem.  One could almost believe they’d driven to the north end of Route 90, and instead of turning left toward Jerusalem, turned right toward Jordan.  Or worse yet, were hijacked by some Hezbollah crazies...

The thought staggered Kesev, weakening his knees.

The Mother...in the hands of that rabble

No.  Such a thing was unthinkable, so why torture himself with it?

Kesev found himself a seat in the lobby where he had an unobstructed view of the Eldan desk.  He calmed himself with the thought that he had done all that one man could do at the moment.  All that was left was the waiting.  So he sat and waited.  He was good at waiting.  An expert.

Sooner or later the Ferris couple would show up to return their car.  When they did he would confront them.  He’d know if they were hiding something.  And if they were, he’d get it out of them.  First by intimidating them with his Shin Bet credentials.  If that didn’t work, there were other ways.

Kesev slipped his left hand into his pocket and gripped the handle of the long folding knife he always carried.

Yes, he thought grimly.  He knew other ways, and he was quite ready to use whatever means were necessary to return the Mother to the Resting Place.

THIRTEEN

Tel Aviv

“It should be right around the next corner to the left,” Carrie said, glancing between the street signs and the map on her lap.

“I sure as hell hope so,” Dan muttered from the front seat.

Carrie reached forward and gave his shoulder a gentle rub.

Poor Dan.  Not a happy camper at the moment.  He’d complained most of the trip that her sitting in the back made him feel like a chauffeur.  Carrie was sorry about that, but with the way the Explorer had bounced around the hills, she’d been afraid the Virgin would be harmed.  She’d folded down part of the rear seat and pulled the Virgin’s blanket-swathed form beside her to steady and protect it.

But even after they hit paved road she’d stayed here, her fingers gripping one of the cords that bound the blankets.  Carrie felt good sitting close to the Virgin.  Despite the danger in smuggling her out of the country—Carrie had no idea how the Israeli government felt about smuggling, but she was sure it could cost Dan and her years in jail if they were caught—she felt strangely calm.  At peace.

“Damn this traffic!”

Dan was anything but at peace.  They’d got lost twice already, and now they were sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic that would give Manhattan’s cross-town crawl a run for its money, all of which might have been bearable if the air conditioner had been working.  Tel Aviv in the summer...almost as hot as the desert they’d left this morning, but suffocatingly humid thanks to the Mediterranean, only blocks away.

“At last!” Dan said as he turned off Ibn Givrol in the northern end of the city.

Carrie saw it too: The Kaplan Gallery.  Gold letters on black marble over two large windows filled with paintings and sculpture.  A spasm of anxiety tightened her fingers around the cord.  She prayed Bernard Kaplan would help them.  If not, where else could they go?

Dan had called Kaplan from Jerusalem and asked if he could arrange a shipment for them similar to the one he’d arranged for Harold Gold.  Dan said Kaplan had been non-committal on the phone but gave them directions—not very good directions—to his gallery.

Dan double-parked and turned to her.

“Stay with the car.  I’ll leave the engine running and go inside.  Hope this isn’t a wasted trip.”

Carrie nodded and watched him disappear through the gallery doors.  She sat in the heat and fumes, ignoring the glares of annoyed drivers as they inched around the Explorer.  As long as they weren’t police...

Dan seemed to take forever inside.  Finally, when she was almost ready to run in and see what was taking him so long, he emerged with a man in a gray business suit—tall, tanned, silver hair slicked straight back.

Dan introduced him as Bernard Kaplan.  He said Mr. Kaplan had called Harold in the interim and Harold had vouched for them.

“He wants to get a look at the size of our, uh, sculpture.”

“Ah, yes,” Kaplan said with a British accent—or was it Australian?—and flashed a dazzling set of caps as he looked at the bundle.  “About life-sized, as you said.  I’ll have a couple of my men bring it in and we’ll—”

“That’s okay,” Carrie said quickly.  “We’ll bring it in ourselves.”

Kaplan glanced at Dan who nodded and said, “It could be fragile and this way we’ll take full responsibility for any damage.”

Kaplan shrugged.  “Right.  Very well, then.  I’ll have one of my men find a parking spot for your car.”

With Carrie taking the shoulders and Dan the legs, they carried the bundled Virgin the length of the gallery to the shipping area at the rear where they placed her on a bench.

Before she could stop him, Kaplan had a knife out and was cutting the cords.

“What are you doing?” Carrie said.

“Going to take a look at this sculpture of yours.”

“Must you?”

“Of course.  How else can I list it for the manifest?”

She watched anxiously as Kaplan cut the rest of the cords and unwrapped the blankets.  He gave a low whistle when he saw the Virgin’s face.  His diction seemed to regress.

“Well, now, that’s bloody somethin’, in’it?”

He leaned closer and touched the Virgin’s face, running the tip of his index finger over her cheek.  Carrie wanted to grab his wrist and yank him away, but restrained herself.

A few more indignities, Mother Mary, then you’ll be on your way to safety.

“What is this?” Kaplan said.  “Some sort of wax?  I’ve never seen anything like it.  The detail is incredible.  Where’d you get it?”

Dan glanced at Carrie before he spoke.  On the trip from the desert they’d agreed that rather than invent a series of lies, the best course was to give no answers at all.

“We’d prefer to keep our source a secret,” Dan said.

Kaplan nodded and straightened.  Carrie sighed with relief as he folded the blankets back over the Virgin.

“Very well.  But I see no problem shipping this out.  We’ll simply list it as a wax sculpture—a piece of contemporary art.”

An idea flashed in Carrie’s mind.  She turned to Dan.  “Why can’t we do that ourselves?  Ship it home on the plane with us?”

“You could do that,” Kaplan said.  “You wouldn’t need me for that.  But remember, anything going aboard an El Al flight gets a going over like no other place in the world.  Direct inspection, dogs, metal scanners, x-rays—”

“Never mind,” Carrie said quickly as she imagined the Virgin’s skeleton lighting up on an inspector’s fluoroscopic scanner.  “We’ll do it your way.”

“Very well.  I can include it with a consignment of other crates I’ve scheduled for shipment, and have it on a freighter out of Haifa tonight.”

“Wonderful!  When will it get to New York?”

“It’s not going to New York,” Kaplan said.  “At least not on this freighter.  The Greenbriar will take your shipment to Cork Harbor.  After that, we’ll have to make other arrangements for the second leg.”

“Can’t we get a non-stop?”

Kaplan’s smile was tolerant.  “No, love.  We don’t want a direct route.  Why draw a line straight to your door?  Much safer to break up the trip.  We ship your crate to a fictitious name in Cork where one of my associates picks it up, holds it awhile, then puts it on another ship to New York.  Bloody near impossible to trace.”

Carrie was uncomfortable with the thought of the Virgin lying in a moldy warehouse in Ireland, but if this sort of route would safeguard her secret...

“How do we pay you?”

“Cash, preferably.”

She looked at Dan.  Cash?  Who had cash?  All she had was the AmEx card Brad had given her.

“Do you take plastic?”

Kaplan sighed.  “I suppose we can work something out.”

‡

Jerusalem

Kesev had given up sitting and waiting.  Now he was pacing and waiting.  He’d explored every nook and cranny of the lobby, browsed all the shops until he thought he’d explode with frustration.  Where were these people, these Ferrises?  They had to turn in their rental sooner or later.

Didn’t they?

An awful thought struck him.  He ran to the Eldan counter.  Chaya was still there.  She’d just finished with a customer when Kesev arrived.

“How many offices—rental centers—do you have?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, furrowing her brow.  “Let’s see... a couple in Tel Aviv, a couple in Haifa, one at Ben Gurion—”

This was worse than he thought.  “Can these people, the Ferrises, turn their car in at any of them?”

“It’s not a practice we encourage.  In fact, there’s a drop-off fee that—”

Kesev tried to keep from shouting.  “Can they or can’t they?  A simple yes or no will do.”

“Yes.”

I am cursed by God, he thought.  I have always been cursed.

He wanted to scream, but that would solve nothing.

“I want you to call every Eldan agency in the country.”

“But sir—”

“Every one of them!  It won’t take you long.  See if the Ferris car has been turned in at any of them.  If not, give them this very simple message: The Ferrises rented their car here and you wish to be notified immediately if they turn in their car anywhere else.  Immediately.  Is that clear?  Is that simple enough?”

She nodded, cowed by his ferocity.

“Good.  Then get to it.”

He turned and stalked away from the counter to continue his pacing.  And as he paced he was haunted with the possibility that the Ferris couple might have had nothing at all to do with the disappearance of the Mother.

‡

Haifa

Haifa had its beauties and Carrie wished she could spend some time here seeing the sights.  Behind them rose Mount Carmel, high, green and beautiful; somewhere on its slopes, near the Stella Maris lighthouse, sat the Mount Carmel monastery, home of the Carmelite order; and in a grotto on the monastery grounds stood the cedar-and-porcelain statue of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.  Carrie would dearly love to climb the mountain to see it.

But she had to be all business now as she and Dan stood in the monolithic shadow of the huge Dagon grain silo and watched the inspector check off the crates on the manifest from the Kaplan Gallery.  Her American Express account now carried the purchase price of a piece of “modern sculpture” from the Kaplan Gallery.  Carrie had nothing tangible to show for that charge, but the Virgin had been packed up and placed on the gallery’s shipping manifest.  Carrie scanned the ships anchored in the harbor but couldn’t make out their names in the hazy air.  One of them was the Greenbriar which would unknowingly start the Virgin on the first leg of her long journey to a new home.  Beyond the long breakwater stretched the azure expanse of the Mediterranean, bluer than she’d ever imagined a sea could be.

The creak of nails snapped her attention back to the docks.  The inspector was using a pry bar to open one of the crates.  She looked more closely.

Good God, it was the Virgin’s crate!

She stepped forward but Dan grabbed her arm.

“Easy, Carrie,” he whispered.  “I told you we shouldn’t have come.”

True enough.  Carrie should have been satisfied that the Virgin was safe after watching Kaplan’s staff seal her into that excelsior-filled shipping crate, but she couldn’t let her go.  Not yet.  She’d insisted on accompanying the crate to Haifa.  There’d been this overpowering urge to see her off, like a child coming to the docks to wish a beloved parent bon voyage.

And now she was glad she’d come.

“That’s our crate.  Why did he have to pick ours?”

“Kaplan warned us that they do spot checks.  Don’t worry.  She’ll pass.  Just stay calm.”

Carrie held her breath as the inspector lifted the crate top and pushed the excelsior aside.  He unfolded the blankets and she saw him freeze for a moment as he stared at the Virgin’s face.  She watched him lean closer, staring.

Please don’t touch her.  PLEASE don’t!

The inspector looked up from the crate and scanned the area.  He had close-cropped gray hair, wore aviator sunglasses, and carried himself like an ex-military man.  When he spotted Dan and Carrie, he tucked his clipboard under his arm and approached them.

Beside her, Carrie heard Dan mutter a soft, “Uh-oh.”

The inspector thrust his hand at Dan.  “Good day.  My name is Sidel.  You are the owner of that sculpture, I believe?”

“Yes,” Carrie said.  She noticed that he didn’t offer to shake hands with her.  “We just acquired it.”  She emphasized the first word.

“It’s most unusual for people to come down to the docks to see off a shipment, but in your case I can understand why.  What an extraordinary piece.  Who’s the artist, if I may ask?”

“Frankly, I don’t know,” Dan said.  “We saw it and just had to have it.”

Sidel nodded.  “I can understand.  I do a little toying with modeling clay myself, so I can appreciate the fantastic detail of this work.  You’re shipping it to Ireland?”

Carrie felt her heart begin to thump.  Why all these questions?

But Dan was cool.  “The name’s Fitzpatrick, after all.”

“Enjoy it,” Sidel said, turning away.  “I envy you.”

Sidel returned to the crate, stared at the Virgin a moment longer, then shook himself and covered her again.  Carrie’s heart rate began to slow as the crate top was nailed back into place.  She sagged against Dan.

“Oh, Lord.  That was close.  For one very long minute there I thought...”

“You and me both.  All right.  We’ve seen her off.  Time to go.”

Reluctantly, Carrie had to agree.  They’d discussed their options as they’d followed the Kaplan Gallery truck to Haifa.  Dan saw two courses: Stay in Israel a while longer, then head home, or head directly home tonight.  He favored the latter.

Carrie agreed with getting out of Israel as soon as possible.  Just as she had at the Resting Place, she felt an urge to keep moving.  But she preferred a third route: Fly to Ireland and meet the Greenbriar in Cork, make sure the Virgin was transferred properly, then fly back to New York and wait for her there.

They’d argued but eventually Carrie had won, as she’d known she would.  From the outset she hadn’t the slightest intention of doing it any other way.

She’d called and learned that there was an El Al flight to London tonight.  If they hurried, they could make it.  From there it was practically a shuttle flight to Shannon.

They wheeled into Ben Gurion Airport with time to spare.  But they received a shock when they turned in the Explorer at the El Dan desk.

“Ferris!” said the thin, mustached man behind the counter.  “Boy, have you caused a stir.”

Carrie saw Dan go pale and felt her own heart kick up its tempo again.

“Really?” Dan said.  “What’s the problem?  Look, I know we rented the car in Jerusalem but I thought we could return it anywhere we—”

“Oh, that’s not the problem.  No drop-off fee if you turn it in here.  But somebody at the Jerusalem desk has been burning up the wires looking for you two.  Something about a Shin Bet fellow who wants to talk to you.”

“Shin Bet?” Carrie said.

“Right.  Domestic Intelligence.  Somewhat akin to your FBI, I believe.  But don’t worry.  You’re not in any trouble.  Just wants to ask you some questions.”

“Well, uh, we’ll be glad to cooperate in any way we can,” Dan said.  “Just, uh, have us paged.  We’ll be around for a while.”

His grip was tight on her arm as he led her toward the El Al ticket counters.  Her mouth felt dry.  Were they in trouble?

“Dan, what’s the matter?  Why would this Shin Bet—?”

His voice was tight.  “Somebody’s onto us.  How long before we leave?”

Carrie glanced at her watch.  “A little less than an hour.”

“Damn!”  He stopped.  “Look.  Before we buy our tickets and check our bags, let’s get changed.”

“Why?  What for?”

“It might give us an edge to be in uniform.”

‡

Jerusalem

Kesev had come to the end of his patience.  He was about ready to explode with frustration and start breaking some Hilton property when he saw someone gesturing to him from the Eldan desk.

Chaya had gone home.  Sharon, a brittle-looking peroxide blonde had replaced her.  She was waving a bony arm over her head.

“We found them!” she said, grinning as he approached.

Kesev’s heart leapt.  He wanted to take her in his arms and dance her around the lobby.  Perhaps God had not deserted him after all.  Perhaps this was just a warning.

“When?  Where?”

“They turned their rental into one of our Tel Aviv locations just a few moments ago.”

“Which one?”

“Ben Gurion.”

Kesev went cold.  The airport!  Merciful God, they’re leaving the country!

He wheeled and ran for the door.

“Where are you going?” Sharon called out behind him.  “You can call from here.  They said they’d be there awhile and you could page them!”

Page them?  Kesev groaned as the meaning of her words sank in.  The Ben Gurion desk must have blabbered that someone was looking for them.  They’d probably be long gone by the time he got there.

‡

Ben Gurion Airport

Kesev was sure he made the fifty kilometers to Ben Gurion in record time.  For once luck was on his side.  The airport was designated Tel Aviv but actually it was in Lod, just east of the city.  If he’d had to fight city traffic, he’d still be in his car.  But he wasn’t looking for a racing medal.  He wanted the Ferrises.

He flashed his ID at the El Al ticket desk and had them run a computer search for a couple by that name.  They found a single.  Carolyn Ferris.  On a one-way to Heathrow.  Seat 12C, non-smoking.  Boarding now.  Gate 17.

A single.  He was looking for a couple.  But this Carolyn was the only Ferris he had.  And if he didn’t check her out right now, she’d be gone.

Kesev ran for Gate 17.

He wasn’t armed so he had no problem with the metal detectors and his Shin Bet ID got him to the boarding area without a ticket.  But along the way he picked up a friend: Sergeant Yussl Kuttner of airport security.

The last thing Kesev wanted at this point was someone looking over his shoulder, but he had no choice.  Anything that deviated from normal airport routine was Kuttner’s business, and allowing an unticketed man onto an El Al plane, even if he was Shin Bet, was certainly not routine.  Kuttner was armed and he wasn’t letting Kesev out of his sight.

“Just what is this passenger suspected of, Mr. Kesev?” Kuttner said, puffing as he trotted beside Kesev.

Kesev improvised.  “The home office didn’t have time to fill me in on all the details.  All I know is that an archeological artifact has been stolen and that the thieves will be trying to smuggle it out of the country.”

“And Shin Bet believes this passenger in 12C is involved?”

“We don’t know.  We do know one of the suspects is named Ferris.  That’s why I need to speak to her.  You really don’t have to bother yourself.”

“Quite all right.  Besides, if you want to remove her from the plane, you’ll need me.”

Kesev clenched his jaws.  This was getting stickier and stickier.  If only he’d had more time to set this up.

Kuttner led him down the boarding ramp to the loaded plane and explained the situation to the stewardesses while Kesev moved down the aisle, looking for row 12.

He froze, staring.  The right half of row 12 held only one passenger.  Seats A and B were empty.  Seat C was occupied by a nun.  A young, pretty nun.  Almost too pretty to be a nun.  That gave him heart.

“Excuse me, Sister,” he said, leaning forward.  “Is your name Ferris?”

“Why, yes,” she said, smiling.  She had a wonderful smile.  And such guileless blue eyes.  “Sister Carolyn Ferris.  Is something wrong?”

What to say?  He had no time to ease into this, so he might as well throw it in her face and see how she reacts.

He flashed his Shin Bet ID and kept his voice low.  “You’re wanted for questioning in regard to the theft of an archeological treasure that belongs to the Israeli government.”

She reacted with a dumbfounded expression.

“What?  Are you mad?  Just what sort of treasure am I supposed to have stolen?”

“You know exactly what it is, Sister.  It doesn’t belong to you.  Please give it back.”

“Does it belong to you?”

The question took Kesev by surprise.  And she was staring at him, her narrowed eyes boring into his, as if seeing something there.

“No...no...it belongs to—”

“Who are you?” she said.

“I told you.  Kesev, with—”

“No.  That’s not true.”  Her eyes widened now, as if she were suddenly afraid of him.  “You’re not who you say you are.  You’re someone else.  Who are you—really?”

Now it was Kesev’s turn to be dumbfounded.  How did she know?  How could she know?

Reflexively he backed away from her.  Who was this woman?

“Excuse me, Sister,” said another voice.  “Is this man bothering you?”

Kesev looked up to see a tall priest rising from an aisle seat a few rows back, glaring down at him as he approached.

“The poor man seems deranged,” Sister Carolyn said.

The priest reached above the nun’s seat and pressed the call button for the stewardess.  “I’ll have him removed.”

Kesev backed away.  “Sorry.  My mistake.”

The last thing he wanted was a scene.  He had no official capacity here and no logical reason he could give his superiors for pulling this woman off the plane.

Besides, he was looking for a man and a woman, not a nun.  Especially not that nun.  Something about her, something ethereal...the way she’d looked at him...looked through him.  She’d looked at him and she knew.  She knew!

He staggered forward through a cloud of confusion.  What was happening?  Everything had been fine until that damn SCUD had crashed near the Resting Place.  Since then it had been one thing after another, chipping at the foundations of his carefully reconstructed life, until today’s cataclysm.

Kuttner looked at him questioningly as he reached the front of the cabin.

“Not her,” Kesev said.  “But I want to check the cargo hold.”

The head stewardess groaned and Kuttner said, “I don’t know about that.”

“It will only take a minute or two.  The object in question is at least a meter and a half in length.  It can’t be in a suitcase.  I just want to check out the larger parcels.”

Kuttner shrugged resignedly.  “All right.  But let’s get to it.”

‡

Dan quietly slipped into 12A.  His boarding pass had him in 15D—they’d decided it was best not to sit together—but Carrie had this half of row 12 to herself so he joined her.  But not too close.

When no none was looking he reached across the empty seat and grabbed her hand.  It was cold, sweaty, trembling.

“You were great,” he whispered.

She’d been more than great, she’d been wonderful.  When he’d seen that little bearded rooster of a Shin Bet man stalk down the aisle, he’d prayed for strength in the imminent confrontation.  But he’d stopped at Carrie’s seat, not Dan’s.  And then Dan had cursed himself for not realizing that their pursuer would be looking for someone named Ferris.  But Carrie had stood up to that Shin Bet man, kept her cool, and faced him down.  Dan had only stepped in to add the coup de grace.

“I don’t feel great.  I feel sick.”

“What did you say to him at the end?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he hadn’t seemed too sure of himself in the first place, but—”

Carrie’s smile was wan but real.  “We can thank your idea of getting into uniform for that.”

“Sure, but you said something and all the color went out of him.”

“I asked him who he really was.  As he was speaking to me I had the strangest feeling about him, that he was an impostor—or maybe that isn’t the right word.  I think he’s truly from their domestic intelligence, whatever it’s called, but he’s also someone else.  And he’s hiding that someone else.”

“Whatever it is, I’d say you struck a nerve.”

“I didn’t really have a choice.  I just knew right then that I was very afraid of the person he was hiding.”

“So am I, though probably not for the same reason.  Damn, I wish we’d get moving.  What’s the hold up?”

Dan looked past Carrie through the window at the lights of the airport, and wondered what Mr. Kesev was up to now.  He wouldn’t feel safe until they were in the air and over the Mediterranean.

“And yet,” Carrie said softly, “there’s something terribly sad about him.  He said something that shocked me.”

“What?”

“He said ‘please.’  He said, ‘Please give it back.’  Isn’t that strange?”

‡

Kesev stood at one of the panoramic windows in the main terminal and watched the plane roar into the sky toward London.

Nothing.

He’d found nothing in the cargo hold or baggage compartment large enough to contain the Mother.

That gave him hope, at least, that the Mother was still in Israel.  And if she was still here, he could find her.

But where was she?  Where?

He trembled at the thought of what might happen if she were not safely returned to the Resting Place.

FOURTEEN

The Greenbriar—off Crete

Second mate Dennis Maguire was rounding the port side of the superstructure amidships when he saw her.

At least it seemed to be a her.  He couldn’t be sure in the downpour.  The figure stood a good fifty feet away in the center of the aft hold’s hatch, wrapped head to toe in some sort of blanket, completely unmindful of the driving rain as she stared aftward.  He couldn’t make out any features in the dimness, but something in his gut knew he was looking at a she.

They’d run into the squall shortly after dark the first night out of Haifa.  Maguire was running a topside check to make double sure everything was secure.  A sturdy little tramp, the Greenbriar was.  With a 200-foot keel and thirty feet abeam, she could haul good cargo in her two holds, and haul it fast.  But any storm, even lightweight Mediterranean squalls like this one, could be trouble if everything wasn’t secured the way it was supposed to be.  And Captain Liam could be hell on wheels if something went wrong because of carelessness.

So Maguire had learned: Do it right the first time, then double check to make sure you did what you thought you did.

And after he wound up this little tour of the deck, he could retire to his cabin and work on his bottle of Jameson’s.

I’m glad I haven’t touched that bottle yet, he thought.

Because right now he’d be blaming the whiskey for what he was seeing.

A woman?  How the hell had a woman got aboard?  And why would any woman want to be aboard?

She stood facing aft, like some green-gilled landlubber staring homeward.

“Hello?” he said, approaching the hatch.

She turned toward him but the glow from the lights in the superstructure weren’t strong enough to light her features through the rain.  And then he noticed something: the blanket or cloak or robe or whatever she was wrapped up in wasn’t moving or even fluttering in the wind.  In fact, it didn’t even look wet.

He blinked and turned his head as a particularly nasty gust stung his face with needle-sharp droplets, and when he looked again, she was gone.

He ran across the hatch and searched the entire afterdeck but could not find a trace of her.  So he ran and told the captain.

Liam Harrity puffed his pipe and stared out at him from the mass of red hair that encircled his face.

“What have we discussed about you hitting the Jameson’s while you’re on duty, Denny?” he said.

“Captain, I swear, I haven’t touched a drop to me lips since last night.”  Maguire leaned closer.  “Here.  Smell me breath.”

The captain waved him off.  “I don’t want to be smelling your foul breath!  Just get to your bunk and don’t be after coming to me with anymore stories of women on my ship.  Get!”

Dennis Maguire got, but he knew in his heart there’d been someone out there in the storm tonight.  And somehow he knew they hadn’t seen the last of her.

‡

Paraiso

“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” the Senador said, shaking his head sadly.

Emilio Sanchez stood at a respectful distance from the father and son confrontation.  He had moved to leave the great room after delivering Charlie here, but the Senador had motioned him to stay.  Emilio was proud of the Senador’s show of trust and confidence in him, but it pained him to see this great man in such distress.  So Emilio stepped back against the great fireplace and stared out at the seamless blackness beyond the windows where the clouded night sky merged with the Pacific.  He watched their reflections in the glass.  And listened.

“I thought we had an understanding, Charlie.”  The Senador leaned forward, staring earnestly across the long, free-form redwood coffee table at his son who sat with elbows on knees, head down.  “You promised me six months.  You promised me you’d stay here and go through therapy...learn to pray.”

“It’s not what you think, Dad,” Charlie said softly in a hoarse voice.  He sounded exhausted.  Defeated.

The fight seemed to have gone out of Charlie.  Which didn’t jibe at all with his recent flight from Paraiso.  If he wasn’t bucking his father, why did he run?

Two days ago the Senador had called Emilio to his home office in a minor panic.  Charlie was gone.  His room was empty, and he was nowhere in the house or on the grounds.  Juanita said she’d passed a taxi coming the other way when she’d arrived early this morning.

Emilio had sighed and nodded.  Here we go again.

Fortunately Juanita remembered the name of the cab company.  From there it was easy to trace that particular fare—the whole damn company was buzzing about picking up a fare at Paraiso that wanted to be taken all the way to Frisco.  The driver had dropped his fare off on California Street.

Charlie had run to his favorite rat hole again.

Over the years, during repeated trips in search of Charlie, Emilio had been in and out of so many gay bars in San Francisco that some of the regulars had begun to think he was a maricon himself.  To counteract that insulting notion, he’d made it a practice to bust the skull anyone who tried to get friendly.

But this time he hadn’t found Charlie down in the Tenderloin.  Instead, he’d traced him to the Embarcadero.  Charlie had taken a room in the Hyatt, of all places.

When Emilio had knocked on his door, Charlie hadn’t acted surprised, and he hadn’t launched into his usual lame protests.  He’d come quietly, barely speaking during the drive back.

That wasn’t like Charlie.  Something was wrong.

“What am I to think, Charlie?” the Senador was saying.  “You promised me.  Remember what you said?  You said you’d ‘give it the old college try.’  Remember that?”

“Dad—”

“And you were doing so well!  Doctor Thompson said you were very cooperative, really starting to open up to him.  And you seemed to be getting into the spirit of the prayer sessions, feeling the presence of the Lord.  What happened?  Why did you break your promise?”

“I didn’t break my promise.”  He didn’t look up.  He stared at the table before him, seemingly lost in the redwood whorls.  “I was coming back.  I needed—”

“You don’t need that...sort of...activity,” the Senador said.  “By falling back into that sinfulness you’ve undone all your months of work!”

“I didn’t go back for sex.”

“Please don’t make this worse by lying to me, Charlie.”

During the ensuing silence, Emilio realized that normally he too would have thought Charlie was lying, but today he didn’t think so.

“It’s the truth, Dad.”

“How can I believe that, Charlie?  Every other time you’ve disappeared to Sodom-On-The-Bay it’s been for sex.”

“Not this time.  I...I haven’t been feeling well enough for sex.”

“Oh?”

A premonition shot through Emilio like a bullet.  The Senador should have felt it too, but if he did, his face did not betray it.  He was still staring at Charlie with that same hurt, earnest expression.  Emilio rammed his fist against his thigh.  Bobo!  Charlie’s pale, feverish look, his weight loss...he should have put it together long before now.

“I’ve been having night sweats, then I developed this rash.  I didn’t run off to Frisco to get laid, Dad.  I went to a clinic there that knows about...these things.”

The Senador said nothing.  A tomblike silence descended on the great room.  Emilio could hear the susurrant flow through the air conditioning vents, the subliminal rumble of the ocean beyond the windows, and nothing more.  He realized the Senador must be holding his breath.  The light had dawned.

Charlie looked up at his father.  “I’ve got AIDS, Dad.”

Madre.  Emilio turned.

“Wh-what?”  The Senador was suddenly as pale as his son.  “That c-can’t be t-true!”

He was stuttering.  Not once in all his years with him had Emilio heard that man stutter.

Charlie was nodding.  “The doctors and the blood tests confirmed what I’ve guessed for some time.  I’ve just been too frightened to take the final step and hear someone tell me I’ve got it.”

“Th-there’s got to be some mistake!”

“No mistake, Dad.  This was an AIDS clinic.  They’re experts.  I’m not just HIV positive.  I’ve got AIDS.”

“But didn’t you use protection?  Take precautions?”

Charlie looked down again.  “Yeah.  Sure.  Most of the time.”

“Most of the time...”  The Senador’s voice sounded hollow, distant.  “Charlie...what on earth...?”

“It doesn’t matter, Dad.  I’ve got it.  I’m a dead man.”

“No, you’re not!” the Senador cried, new life in his voice as he shot from his seat.  “Don’t you say that!  You’re going to live!”

“I don’t think so, Dad.”

“You will!  I won’t let you die!  I’ll get you the best medical care.  And we’ll pray.  You’ll see, Charlie.  With God’s help you’ll come through this.  You’ll be a new man when it’s over.  You’ll pass through the flame and be cleansed, not just of your illness, but of your sinfulness as well.  You’re about to be born again, Charlie.  I can feel it!”

Emilio turned away and softly took the stairs down to his quarters.  He fought the urge to run.  Emilio did not share the Senador’s faith in the power of prayer over AIDS.  In fact, Emilio could not remember finding prayer useful for much of anything, especially in his line of work.  Rather than listen to the Senador rattle on about it, he wished to wash his hands.  He’d touched Charlie today.  He’d driven Charlie all the way back from San Francisco, sitting with him for hours in the same car, breathing his air.

When he reached the bottom floor, he broke into a trot toward his quarters.  He wanted more than to wash his hands.  He wanted a shower.

‡

The Greenbriar—east of Gibraltar

“A woman on board,” Captain Liam Harrity muttered as he thumbed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.  “What utter foolishness is this?  Next they’ll be after telling me the ship can fly.”

Gibraltar lay three leagues ahead, its massive shadow looming fifteen degrees to starboard against the hazy stars.  Lights dotted the shores to either side as the Greenbriar prepared to squeeze between two continents and brave the Atlantic beyond.  A smooth, quiet, routine trip so far.

Except for this woman talk.

Harrity leaned against the Greenbriar’s stern rail and stared at the glowing windows in the superstructure amidships.  A good old ship, the Greenbriar.  A small freighter by almost any standards, but quick.  A tramp merchant ship, with no fixed route or schedule, picking up whatever was ready to be moved, from the Eastern Mediterranean to the UK and all points between, no questions asked.  Harrity had been in this game a long time, much of it spent on the Greenbriar, and this was the first time any of his crew had talked about seeing a woman wandering the decks.

Not that there weren’t enough places to hide one, mind you.  Small though the ship might be, she had plenty of nooks and crannies for a stowaway.

But in all his years helming the Greenbriar, Harrity had never had a stowaway—at least that he knew of—and he wasn’t about to start now.  Like having a prowler in your house.  You simply didn’t allow it.

Maguire had started the talk that first night out of Haifa.  Harrity’s thought at the time was that Dennis had been nipping at the Jameson’s a little earlier than usual.  He’d let it go and not given it another thought until two nights ago when Cleary said he’d seen a woman on the aft deck as they were passing through the Malta Channel.

A temperate man, Cleary.  Not the sort who’d be after seeing things that weren’t there.

So Harrity himself was keeping watch on the aft deck these past two nights.  And so far no woman.

He turned his back to the wind and struck a wooden match against the stern rail.  As he puffed his pipe to life, relishing the first aromatic lungfuls, a deep serenity stole over him.  The phosphorescent flashes churning in the wake, the balmy, briny air, the stars overhead, lighting the surface of the Mediterranean as it stretched long and wide and smooth to the horizon.  Life was good.

He sensed movement to his left, turned, and fumbled to catch his pipe as it dropped from his shocked-open mouth.

She stood there, beside him, not two feet away.  A woman…at the rail, staring into the east, back along the route they’d sailed.  She was wearing a loose robe of some sort, pulled up around her head.  Its cowl hid her features.  Now he knew why Maguire had thought she’d been wrapped in a blanket.

He shook off the initial shock and stuck his pipe bit between his teeth.  He should have been angry—furious, for sure—but he could find no hostility within him.  Only wonder at how she’d come up behind him without him hearing her.

“And who would you be now?”

The woman continued her silent stare off the stern.

“What are you after doing on me ship?”

Slowly she turned toward him.  He could not make out her features in the shadow of the cowl, but he felt her eyes on him.  And the weight of her stare was a gentle hand caressing the surface of his mind, erasing all questions.

She turned and walked away.  Or was she walking?  She seemed to glide along the deck.  Harrity had an urge to follow her but his legs seemed so heavy, his shoes felt riveted to the deck.  He could only stand and watch as she followed the rail along the starboard side to the superstructure where she was swallowed by the deeper shadows.

And then she was gone and he could move again.  He sucked on his pipe but the bowl was cold.  And so was he.  Suddenly the deck of the Greenbriar was a lonely place.

‡

Cashelbanagh, Ireland

Like everyone else, Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio had heard the endless talk about the green of the Irish countryside, but not until he was actually driving along the roads south of Shannon Airport did he realize how firmly based in fact all that talk had been.  He gazed through the open rear window at the passing fields.  This land was green.  In all his fifty-six years he could not remember seeing a green like this.

“Your country is most beautiful, Michael” he said.  His English was good, but he knew there was no hiding his Neapolitan upbringing.

Michael the driver—the good folk of Cashelbanagh had sent one of their number to fetch the Monsignor from the airport—glanced over his shoulder with a broad, yellow-toothed smile.

“Aye, that it is, Monsignor.  But wait till you see Cashelbanagh.  The picture-perfect Irish village.  As a matter of fact, if you’re after looking up ‘Irish village’ in the dictionary, sure enough it’ll be saying Cashelbanagh.  Perfect place for a miracle.”

“It is much farther?”

“Only a wee bit down the road.  And wait till you see the reception committee they’ll be having for you.”

Vincenzo wished he’d come here sooner.  He liked these people and the green of this land enthralled him.  But the way things were looking lately, he wouldn’t get a chance for a return visit.

And too bad he couldn’t stay longer.  But this was only a stopover, scheduled at the last minute as he was leaving Rome for New York.  He was one of the Vatican’s veteran investigators of the miraculous, and the Holy See had asked him to look into what lately had become known as the Weeping Virgin of Cashelbanagh.

The Weeping Virgin had been gathering an increasing amount of press over the past few weeks, first the Irish papers, then the London tabloids, and recently the story had gained international attention.  People from all over the world had begun to flock to the little village in County Cork to see the daily miracle of the painting of the Virgin Mary that shed real tears.  Healings had been reported—cures, visions, raptures.  “A New Lourdes!” screamed tabloid headlines all over the world.

It had been getting out of hand.  The Holy See wanted the “miracle” investigated.  The Vatican had no quarrel with miracles, as long as they were real.  But the faithful should not be led astray by tricks of the light, tricks of nature, and tricks of the calculated human kind.

They chose Vincenzo for the task.  Not simply because he’d already had experience investigating a number of miracles that turned out to be anything but miraculous, but because the Vatican had him on a westbound plane this weekend anyway, to Sloan-Kettering Memorial in Manhattan to try an experimental chemotherapy protocol for his liver cancer.  He could make a brief stop in Ireland, couldn’t he?  Take a day or two to look into this weeping painting, then be on his way again.  No pain, no strain, just send a full report of his findings back to Rome when he reached New York.

“Tell me, Michael,” Vincenzo said.  “What do you know of these miracles?”

“I’ll be glad to tell you it all, Monsignor, because I was there from the start.  Well, not the very start.  You see, the painting of the Virgin Mary has been gracing the west wall of Seamus O’Halloran’s home for two generations now.  His grandfather Danny painted it there during the year before he died.  Finished the last stroke, then took to his bed and never got up again.  Can you imagine that?  ‘Twas almost as if the old fellow was hanging on just so’s he could be finishing the painting.  Anyways, over the years the weather has faded it, and it’s become such a fixture about the village that it became part of the scenery, if you know what I’m sayin’.  Much like a tree in someone’s yard.  You pass that yard half a dozen times a day but you never take no notice of the tree.  Unless of course it happens to be spring and it’s startin’ to bloom, then you might—”

“I understand, Michael.”

“Yes.  Well, that’s the way it was after being until about a month ago when Seamus—that’s old Daniel O’Halloran’s grandson—was passing the wall and noticed a wet streak glistening on the stucco.  He stepped closer, wondering where this bit of water might be trickling from on this dry and sunny day, for contrary to popular myth, it does not rain every day in Ireland—least ways not in the summer.  I’m afraid I can’t say that for the rest of the year.  But anyways, when he saw that the track of moisture originated in the eye of his grandfather’s painting, he ran straight to Mallow to fetch Father Sullivan.  And since then it’s been one miracle after another.”

Vincenzo let his mind drift from Michael’s practiced monologue that told him nothing he hadn’t learned from the rushed briefing at the Vatican before his departure.  But he did get the feeling that life in the little village had begun to revolve around the celebrity that attended the weeping of their Virgin.

And that would make his job more difficult.

“There she is now, Monsignor,” Michael said, pointing ahead through the windshield.  “Cashelbanagh.  Isn’t she a sight.”

They were crossing a one-car bridge over a gushing stream.  As Vincenzo squinted ahead, his first impulse was to ask, Where’s the rest of it?  But he held his tongue.  Two hundred yards down the road lay a cluster of neat little one- and two-story buildings, fewer than a dozen in number, set on either side of the road.  One of them was a pub—Blaney’s, the gold-on-black sign said.  As they coasted through the village, Vincenzo spotted a number of local men and women setting up picnic tables on the narrow sward next to the pub.

Up ahead, at the far end of the street, a crowd of people waited before a neat, two-story, stucco-walled house.

“And that would be Seamus O’Halloran’s house, I imagine,” Vincenzo said.

“That it would, Monsignor.  That it would.”

There were hands to shake and Father Sullivan to greet, and introductions crowded one on top of the other until the names ran together like watercolors in the rain.  The warmest reception he’d ever had, an excited party spirit running through the villagers.  The priest from Rome was going to certify the Weeping Virgin of Cashelbanagh as an inexplicable phenomenon of Divine origin, an act of God made manifest to the faithful, a true miracle, a sign that Cashelbanagh had been singled out to be touched by God.  There was even a reporter from a Dublin paper to record it.  And what a celebration there’d be afterward.

Vincenzo was led around to the side of the house to stare at the famous Weeping Virgin on Seamus O’Halloran’s wall.

Nothing special about the painting.  Rather crude, actually.  A very stiff looking half profile of the Blessed Mother in the traditional blue robe and wimple with a halo behind her head.

And yes indeed, a gleaming track of moisture was running from the painting’s eye.

“The tears appear every day, Monsignor,” O’Halloran said, twisting his cloth cap in his bony hands as if there were moisture to be wrung from it.

“I can confirm that,” Father Sullivan said, his ample red cheeks aglow.  “I’ve been watching for weeks now.”

As Vincenzo continued staring at the wall, noting the fine meshwork of cracks in the stucco finish, the chips here and there that revealed the stonework beneath, the crowd grew silent around him.

He stepped closer and touched his finger to the trickle, then touched the finger to his tongue.  Water.  A mineral flavor, but not salty.  Not tears.

“Would someone bring me a ladder, please.  One long enough to reach the roof.”

Three men ran off immediately, and five minutes later he was climbing to the top of the gable over the Weeping Virgin’s wall.  He found wet and rotted cedar shakes at the point.  At his request a pry bar was brought and, with O’Halloran’s permission, he knocked away some of the soft wood.

Vincenzo’s heart sank when he saw it.  A cup-like depression in the stones near the top of the gable, half filled with clear liquid.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce that water collected there on rainy days—rarely was there a week, even in the summer, without at least one or two rainy days—and percolated through the stones and grout of the wall to emerge as a trickle by the painting’s eye.

The folk of Cashelbanagh were anything but receptive to this rational explanation of their miracle.

“There may be water up there,” O’Halloran said, his huge Adam’s apple bobbing angrily, “but who’s to say that’s where the tears come from?  You’ve no proof.  Prove it, Monsignor.  Prove those aren’t the tears of the Blessed Virgin.”

He’d hoped it wouldn’t turn out like this.  He’d hoped discovery of the puddle would be enough, but obviously it wasn’t.  And he couldn’t leave these people to go on making a shrine out of a leaky wall.

“Can someone get me a bottle of red wine?” Vincenzo said.

“This may be Ireland, Monsignor,” Father Sullivan said, “but I hardly think this is time for a drink.”

Amid the laughter Vincenzo said, “I’ll use it to prove my theory.  But it must be red.”

While someone ran to Blaney’s pub for a bottle, Vincenzo climbed the ladder again and splashed all the water out of the depression.  Then he refilled it with the wine.

By evening, when the Virgin’s tears turned red, Vincenzo felt no sense of victory.  His heart went out to these crestfallen people.  He saw his driver standing nearby, looking as dejected as the rest of them.

“Shall I call a taxi, Michael?”

“No, Monsignor,” Michael sighed.  “That’s all right.  I’ll be taking you back to Shannon whenever you want.”

But the airport was not where Vincenzo needed to go.  He hadn’t figured on this quick a resolution to the question of the Weeping Virgin of Cashelbanagh.  His flight out wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow night.

“Can you find me a hotel?”

“Sure, Monsignor.  There’s a lot of good ones in Cork City.”

They passed Blaney’s pub again on the way out of town.  The picnic tables were set and waiting.  Empty.  The fading sunlight glinted off the polished flatware, the white linen tablecloths flapped gently in the breeze.

If only he could have told them how he shared their disappointment, how deeply he longed for one of these “miracles” he investigated to pan out, how much he needed a miracle for himself.

‡

Cork Harbor, Ireland

Carrie’s heart leapt as she recognized the crate on the pallet being lifted from the aft hold of the freighter.

“There it is, Dan!” she whispered, pointing.

“You sure?”  He squinted through the dusky light.  “Looks like any of a couple of dozen other crates that’ve come out already.”

She wondered how Dan could have any doubt.  She’d known it the instant it cleared the hold.

“That’s the one.  No question about it.”

She locked her gaze on the crate and didn’t let it out of her sight until Bernard Kaplan’s man cleared it through Irish customs and wheeled it over to them on a dolly.

“Are you quite sure you’ll be wanting to take it from here yourself?”  He was a plump little fellow with curly brown hair, a handlebar mustache, and a Barry Fitzgerald brogue.

Dan glanced at her.  “Well...”

“Quite sure, Mr. Cassidy.”  Carrie extended her hand.  “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Not at all, Mrs. Ferris.  Just remember, your crate’s got to be at Dublin harbor the morning after tomorrow, six sharp or, believe me youse, she’ll miss the loading and then God knows when she’ll get to New York.”

“We’ll be there.”

“I hope so, ‘cause I’m washing me hands of it now.”  He glanced at his watch.  “You’ve got turty-four hours.  Plenty of time.  Just don’t you be getting yourself lost along the way.”

He waved and walked off.

“Now that we’ve got her,” Dan said, tapping the top of the crate, “what do we do with her?  We’ve got to find a place to store her overnight.”

“Store her?  We’re not sticking her in some smelly old warehouse full of rats.”

“What do you think crawls around the hold of the Greenbriar, my dear?”

She caught an edge on his voice.  Not sharp enough to cut, but enough for Carrie to notice.

Things hadn’t been quite the same between them since finding the Virgin.  They’d had some moments of closeness on the plane to Heathrow after out-foxing that Israeli intelligence man, or whoever he was, and some of that had lingered during the whirl of booking the shuttle to Shannon and finding a hotel room in Cork City.  But once they were settled in, a distance began to open between them.

It’s me, she thought.  I know it’s me.

She couldn’t help it.  All she could think about since they’d set their bags down in the Drury Hotel was that crate and its precious contents.  They’d had days to kill and Dan wanted to see some of the countryside.  Carrie had gone along, but she hadn’t been much company.  One day they drove north through the rocky and forbidding Burren to Galway Bay; on another he took her down to Kinsale, but the quaint little harbor there only made her think about the Greenbriar and worry about its voyage.  She fought visions of rough seas capsizing her, of her running aground and tearing open her hull, seawater gushing into the cargo hold and submerging the Virgin’s crate, the Mediterranean swallowing the Greenbriar and everything aboard.  She spent every spare minute hovering over the radio, dissecting every weather report from the Mediterranean.

Obsessed.

She knew that.  And she knew her obsession was coming between her and Dan.  But as much as she valued their love, it had to take a back seat for now.  Just for a while.  Until they got to New York.

After all, what could be more important than seeing the Blessed Virgin safely to her new Resting Place—wherever that may be?

They hadn’t made love since finding the Virgin, and she sensed that was what was bothering Dan the most.  In New York they suffered through much, much longer intervals without so much as touching hands, but that was different.  Here they’d been sleeping in the same bed every night and Carrie had put him off again and again.  She wasn’t sure why.

After they were resettled in New York, Carrie was sure things would get back to normal.  At least she hoped so.  She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she didn’t feel quite the same about Dan.  She still loved him fiercely, but she didn’t want him as she had two weeks ago when they’d left New York for Israel.

Because right now, it just didn’t seem...right.

“We’re taking her back to the hotel with us.”

“What?”  She could see his body stiffening with tension.  “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?  We’re paying for the room and there’s nothing that says we can’t keep a crate in it.  Besides, it’s only for two nights.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

She gave him a long, level look.  “I assure you, Dan, I am not kidding.”

‡

Dan slipped his arms around her waist from behind and nuzzled her neck.  Carrie felt her whole left arm break out in gooseflesh.

“Not now, Dan,” she said, pulling free and stepping away from him.  She pointed to the crate.  Her voiced lowered to a whisper of its own accord.  “Not with her here.”

Two bellmen had lugged the Virgin’s crate up to their second-floor room and left it on the floor by the window.  Beyond the window the River Lee made its sluggish way to the sea.

Dan returned her whisper, Elmer Fudd style.  “We’ll be vewy, vewy quiet.  She’ll never know.”

Carrie had to laugh.  “Oh, Dan.  I love you, I do, but please understand.  It just wouldn’t be right.”

He stared at her a moment.  Was that hurt in his eyes?  But he seemed to understand.  She prayed he did.

He sighed.  “All right, then, how about we go down to the lounge and see Hal Roach?  He’s only down from Dublin for one night.”

“I don’t think so.”   She wasn’t really in the mood for Ireland’s answer to Henny Youngman.

“How about we just go for a walk?”

Carrie shook her head.  “I think I’d rather just stay here.”

Dan’s expression tightened.  “Watching over her, I suppose.”

She nodded.  “In a way, yes.”

“Don’t you think you might be getting just a little carried away with this, Carrie?”

Yes, she thought.  Yes, I might.

But the Virgin was here, and so here is where Carrie wanted to be.  Simple.  She’d waited all this time on tenter hooks for the Virgin’s arrival from Haifa, and she wasn’t about to let her out of her sight until her crate was safely on board the ship in Dublin Harbor.

“I just want to stay here with her, Dan.  Is that so bad?”

“Bad?  No.  I can’t say it’s bad.  But I don’t think it’s healthy.”

He stared again, then shrugged resignedly.  “All right.  This is your show.  We’ll do it your way.”  He stepped closer and kissed her forehead.  “But I do need to get out of this room... stretch my legs... maybe cross the river and grab a pint.  I’ll be back soon.”

Before Carrie could think of anything to say, he was out the door and she was alone in the room.

Well, not completely alone.  The Virgin was here.  She knelt beside the crate and rested her head on its lid.  For one shocking, nerve-rattling moment she thought she heard a heartbeat, then she realized it was her own.

“Don’t worry, Mother Mary,” she whispered to the crate.  “I won’t leave you alone here.  You’ve given me comfort through the years when I needed it, now I’ll stand by you.”  She patted the lid of the crate.  “Till death do us part.”

‡

The Judean Wilderness

“Why?”

Kesev stood atop the tav rock with the thieves’ rope knotted around his neck and screamed out at the clear, pitiless night sky.  “Why do You torment me like this?  When will You be satisfied?  Have I not been punished enough?”

But no reply came from on high, just Sharav’s ceaseless susurrance, whispering in his ears.  Not that he’d expected an answer.  All his countless entreaties down through the years had been ignored.  Why should this one be any different?

The Lord tormented him.  Kesev was not cut out to be a Job.  He was a fighter, not a victim.  And so the Lord took extra pains to beleaguer him.   Not that he was without fault in this.  If he had been at his post when the errant SCUD had crashed below, he could have chased off the Bedouin boys when they wandered into the canyon, and hidden the scrolls before the government investigative teams arrived.

And then the Mother would still be safely tucked away in the Resting Place instead of...where?

Where was she?

Gone.  Gone from Israel.  Kesev had exhausted all his contacts and what limited use he dared make of his Shin Bet resources, but she had slipped through his fingers.  He’d sensed the Mother’s slow withdrawal from their homeland.  He didn’t know how, or in which direction she’d been taken, but he knew in the core of his being that she was gone.

He also knew it was inevitable that soon she would be revealed to the world and made a spectacle of, a sensational object of scientific research and religious controversy.  Why else would someone steal her away?

The Lord would not stand for that.  The Lord would rain his wrath down upon the Earth.

Perhaps that was the meaning behind all this.  Perhaps the theft of the Mother was the event that would precipitate the Final Days.  Perhaps...

Kesev sighed.  It didn’t matter.  He’d failed in his task and now he could see no need to prolong further the agony of this life.  Since his usefulness on Earth was at an end, surely the Lord would let him end his time on earth as well.  He would not see the Final Days, and certainly he did not deserve to see the Second Coming.  He did not even deserve to see tomorrow.

He checked once more to make sure the rope was securely tied around the half-sunk boulder about thirty feet back.  Then he stepped to the edge of the tav and looked down at his Jeep parked below.  He’d left plenty of slack, enough to allow him to fall within a dozen feet of the ground.  The end would be quick, painless.  If he was especially lucky, the force of the final jolt might even decapitate him.

Without a prayer, without a good bye, without a single regret, Kesev stepped off the edge and into space.

He kept his eyes open and made no sound as he hurtled feet first toward the ground.  He had no fear, only grim anticipation and...hope.

‡

Cork City, Ireland

Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio wandered through the thick, humid air near Cork City’s waterfront.  He’d turned off St. Patrick’s Street and was looking for a place to have a drink.  His doctors had all warned him against alcohol but right now he didn’t care.  He’d had a long hard day of crushing people’s hopes and fervor, and he needed something.  Something Holy Mother Church could not provide.  He needed a different kind of communion.

All the pubs on St. Patrick were crowded and he didn’t feel like standing.  He wanted a place to rest his feet.  He spotted a pair of lighted windows set in dark green wood.  “Jim Cashman’s” read the sign, and there was a Guinness harp over the slate where the dinner menu was scrawled in chalk.

Vincenzo peeked through the open door and saw empty seats.

Bono!  He’d found his place.

He made his way to the bar and squeezed into a space between two of the drinkers—a space that would have been too narrow for him just a year ago.

Amazing what cancer can do for the figure.

The bartender was pouring for someone else so Vincenzo took a look around.  A small place, this Jim Cashman’s—hardwood floor and paneling, a small bar tucked in the corner, half a dozen tables arrayed about the perimeter, a cold fireplace, and two TVs playing the same rugby match.

None of Cashman’s dozen or so patrons paid him any attention.  And why should they?  He wasn’t wearing his collar.  He’d left that and his cassock back in his hotel room; he was now a thin, sallow, balding, gray-haired man in his fifties dressed in a white shirt and black trousers.  Nothing at all priestly about him.

He turned to the solitary drinker to his left, a plump, red-faced fellow in a tour bus driver’s outfit, sipping from a glass of rich dark liquid.

“May I ask what you’re drinking, sir?”

The fellow stared at him a moment, as if to be sure this stranger with the funny accent was really speaking to him, then cleared his throat.

“‘Tis stout.  Murphy’s stout.  Made right here in Cork City.”

“Oh, yes.  I passed the brewery on the way in.”

Michael had driven him through the gauntlet of huge gleaming silver tanks towering over both sides of the road on the north end of town, and he remembered wondering who in the world drank all that brew.

Vincenzo said, “I tried a bottle of Guinness once, but didn’t care for it very much.”

The driver made a face.  “What?  From a bottle?  You’ve never had stout till you’ve drunk it straight from the tap as God intended.”

“Which would you recommend for a beginner, then?”

“I like Murphy’s.”

“What about Guinness?”

“It’s good, but it’s got a bit more bite.  Start with a Murph.”

Vincenzo slapped his hand on the bar.  “Murphy’s it is!”  He signaled the barkeep.  “A pint of Murphy’s, if you would be so kind, and another for my advisor here.”

When the pints arrived, Vincenzo brushed off the driver’s thanks and turned to find a seat.

“Stout’s food, you know,” the driver called after him as Vincenzo carried his glass to a corner table.  “A couple of those and you can skip a meal.

Good, he thought.  I can use a little extra nourishment.

He’d lost another two pounds this week.  The tumors in his liver must be working overtime.

“Good for what ails you too,” the driver added.  “Cures all ills.”

“Does it now?  I’ll hold you to that, my good man.”

He took a sip of the Murphy’s and liked it.  Liked it a lot.  Rich and malty, with a pleasant aftertaste.  Much better than that bottle of Guinness he’d once had in Rome.  One could almost believe it might cure all ills.

Vincenzo smiled to himself.  Now wouldn’t that be a miracle.

He looked at the faces around Jim Cashman’s and they reminded him of the faces he’d seen in Cashelbanagh, only these weren’t stricken with the bitter disappointment and accusation he’d left there.

It’s not my fault your miracle was nothing more than a leaky roof.

A young sandy-haired fellow came in and ordered a pint of Smithwick’s ale, then sat alone at the table next to Vincenzo’s and stared disconsolately at the rugby game.  He looked about as cheerful as the people Vincenzo had left at Cashelbanagh.

“Is your team losing?” Vincenzo said.

The man turned and offered a wan smile.  “I’m American.  Don’t know the first thing about rugby.”  He extended his hand.  “Dan Fitzpatrick.  And I can guess by your accent that you’re about as far from home as I am.”

Vincenzo shook it and offered his own name—sans the religious title.  No sense in putting the fellow off.  “I happen to be on my way to America.  I’m leaving for New York tomorrow.”

“Really?  That’s where my...home is.  Business or pleasure?”

“Neither, really.”  Vincenzo didn’t want to get into his medical history so he shifted the subject.  “I guess something other than rugby must be giving you such a long face.”

He wanted to kick himself for saying that.  It sounded too much like prying.  But Dan seemed eager to talk.

“You could say that.”  He flashed a disarming grin.  “Woman trouble.”

“Ah.”

Vincenzo left it at that.  What did he know about women?

“A unique and wonderful woman,” Dan went on, sipping his ale, “with a unique and wonderful problem.”

“Oh?”  Through decades of hearing confessions, Vincenzo had become the Michelangelo of the monosyllable.

“Yeah.  The woman I love is looking for a miracle.”

“Aren’t we all?”  Myself most of all.

“Not all of us.  Trouble is, mine really thinks she’s going to find one, and she seems to be forgetting the real world while she’s looking for it.”

“And you don’t think she’ll find it?”

“Miracles are sucker bait.”

Vincenzo sighed.  “As much as I hate to say it.  I fear there is some truth in that.  Although I prefer to think of the believers not as suckers, but as seekers.  I saw a village full of seekers today.”

Vincenzo went on to relate an abbreviated version of his stop in Cashelbanagh earlier today.  When he finished he found the younger man staring at him in shock.

“You’re a priest?”

“Why, yes.  A monsignor, to be exact.”

“That’s great!” he snapped, quaffing the rest of his ale.  “And you’re going to New York?  Just great!  That really caps my day!  No offense, but I hope we don’t run into each other.”

Without another word he rose and strode from Jim Cashman’s pub, leaving Vincenzo Riccio to wonder what he had said or done to precipitate such a hasty departure.

Perhaps Dan Fitzpatrick was an atheist.

‡

After a second pint of Murphy’s Vincenzo decided he’d brooded enough about miracles and unfriendly Americans.  He pushed himself to his feet and ambled into the night.

A thick cold fog had rolled up from the sea along the River Lee, only a block away, and was infiltrating the city.  Vincenzo was about to turn toward St. Patrick Street and make his way back to his hotel when he saw her.

She stood not two dozen feet away, staring at him.  At least he thought she was staring at him.  He couldn’t tell for sure because the cowled robe she wore pulled up around her head cast her face in shadow, but he could feel her eyes upon him.

His first thought was that she might be a prostitute, but he immediately dismissed that because there was nothing the least bit provocative about her manner, and that robe was anything but erotic.

He wanted to turn away but he could not take his eyes off her.  And then it was she who turned and began to walk away.

Vincenzo was compelled to follow her through the swirling fog that filled the open plaza leading to the river.  Strange... the lights that lined the quay silhouetted her figure ahead of him but didn’t cast her shadow.  Who was she?  And how did she move so smoothly?  She seemed to glide through the fog...toward the river...to its edge...

Vincenzo shouted as he saw her step off the bulkhead, but the cry died in his throat when he saw her continue walking with an unbroken stride...upon the fog.  He stood gaping on the edge as she canted her path to the right and continued walking downstream.  He watched until the fog swallowed her, then he lurched about, searching for someone, anybody to confirm what he had just seen.

But the quay was deserted.  The only witnesses were the fog and the River Lee.

Vincenzo rubbed his eyes and stumbled back toward the pub.  The doctors had told him to stay away from alcohol, that his liver couldn’t handle it.  He should have listened.  He must be drunk.  That was the only explanation.

Otherwise he could have sworn he’d just seen the Virgin Mary.

‡

The Judean Wilderness

Kesev sobbed.

He was still alive.

When will this END?

He’d tried numerous times before to kill himself but had not been allowed to die.  He’d hoped that this time it would work, that his miserable failure to guard the Resting Place would cause the Lord to finally despair of him and let him die.  But that was not to be.  So here was yet another failure—one more in a too-long list.

The jolt from the sudden shortening of the rope had knocked him unconscious but had left his vertebrae and spinal cord intact.  Its constriction around his throat had failed to strangle him.  So now he’d regained consciousness to find himself swinging gently in Sharav a dozen feet above the ground.

For a few moments he let tears of frustration run through the desert dust that coated his cheeks, then he reached into his pocket for his knife and began sawing at the rope above his head.

Moments later he was slumped on the ground, pounding his fists into the unyielding earth.

“Is it not over, Lord?” he rasped.  “Is that what this means?  Do You have more plans for me?  Do You want me to search out the Mother and return her to the Resting Place?  Is that what You wish?”

Kesev struggled to his feet and staggered to his Jeep.  He slumped over the hood.

That had to be it.  The Lord was not through with him yet.  Perhaps He would never be through with him.  But clearly He wanted more from him now.  He wanted the Mother back where she belonged and was not about to allow Kesev to stop searching for her.

But where else could he look?  She’d been smuggled out of Israel and now could be hidden anywhere in the world.  He had no clues, no trail to follow...

Except the Ferris woman.  Who was she?  Had that strange, unsettling nun on the plane been her, or someone pretending to be her?  And did it matter?  All he knew was that the Explorer he’d seen in the desert that day had been rented on her card.  There might be no connection at all.  The Mother could have been stolen days before then.

He gazed up into the cold, unblinking eye of the night.

“All right, Lord.  I’ll continue looking.  But I search now on my terms, my way.  I’ll find the Mother for You and bring her back where she belongs.  But you may not like what I do to the ones who’ve caused me this trouble.”

FIFTEEN

Manhattan

Dan finished tightening the last screw in the swivel plate.  He flipped the latch back and forth, watching with inordinate satisfaction how easily its slot slipped over the swivel eye.  He fitted the shackle of the brand new combination padlock through the eye.

“We’re in business, Carrie.”

She didn’t answer.  She was busy inside the coal room with the Virgin.  Or maybe busy wasn’t the right word.  Carrie was engrossed, preoccupied, fascinated, enraptured with the Virgin.

The Virgin...Dan had heard Carrie refer to the body or statue or whatever it was so often as “the Virgin” that he’d begun thinking of it that way himself.  Certainly easier than referring to it as the Whatever.

After an uneventful transatlantic trip, the Virgin had arrived in New York late last night.  He and Carrie had been on the docks first thing this morning to pick her up.  After passing through customs they spirited her crate through the front door to St. Joe’s basement, through the Loaves and Fishes kitchen, and down here to the subcellar.  The old coal furnace that used to rule this nether realm had been dismantled and carted off when the diocese switched the church to gas heat.  That left a wide open central space and a separate coal room that used to be fed by a chute from the alley.  Carrie had chosen the old coal room as the perfect hiding place.  It was ten by ten, the chute had been sealed up long ago, and it had a door, although the door had no lock.  Until now.

Dan opened the door and stuck his face inside.  He experienced an instant of disorientation, as if he were peering into the past, intruding upon an ancient scene from the Roman catacombs.  A functioning light fixture was set in the ceiling, but it was off.  Instead, flickering candlelight filled the old coal room, casting wavering shadows against the walls and ceiling.  A couple of days ago Dan had lugged one of the folding tables from the mission down here and placed it where Carrie had directed, and that had been just about the last he’d seen of her until this morning.  She’d spent every spare moment of the interval feverishly dusting, scrubbing, and dressing up the room, draping the table with a blanket, setting up wall sconces for the candles, appropriating flowers left behind in the church after weddings or funerals, making a veritable shrine out of the coal room.

A short while ago they’d opened the crate and he’d helped her place the Virgin’s board-stiff body on the table.  Carrie had been fussing with her ever since.

“I said, the latch is in place, Carrie.  Want to come see?”

She was bending over the body where it rested on the blanket-draped table, straightening her robe.  She didn’t look up.

“That’s all right.  I know you did a great job.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s a great job.” Dan leaned back and surveyed his work.  “Adequate is more like it.  Won’t keep out anybody really determined to get in, but it should deter the idly curious.”

“That’s what we want,” she said, straightening.  She turned toward him and held out her hand.  “Come see.”

Dan moved to her side and laid an arm across her shoulders.  A warm tingle spread over his skin as he felt her arm slip around his back.  This was the closest they’d been since leaving Israel.

“Look at her.  Isn’t she beautiful?”

Dan didn’t know how to answer that.  He saw the waxy body of an old woman with wild hair and mandarin fingernails, surrounded by candles and wilting flowers.  He knew Carrie was seeing something else.  Her eyes were wide with wonder and devotion, like a young mother gazing at her newborn first child.

“You did a wonderful job with this place.  No one would ever know it was once a coal room.”

“And no one should ever know otherwise.  This is our little secret, right?”

“Right.  Our little secret.  Our big secret is us.”  Dan turned and wrapped his other arm around her.  “And speaking of us...”

Carrie slipped from his embrace.  “No, Dan.  Not now.  Not here.  Not with...her.”

Dan tried to hide his hurt.  Just being in the same room with Carrie excited him.  Touching her drove him crazy.  Used to drive her crazy too.  What was wrong?

“When then?  Where?  Is your brother—?”

“Let’s talk about it some other time, okay?  Right now I’ve got a lot still left to do.”

“Like what?”

“I have to cut those nails, and fix her hair.”

“She’s not going on display, Carrie.”

“I know, but I want to take care of her.”

“She’s not a—”  Dan bit off the rest of the sentence.

“Not a what?”

He’d been about to say Barbie Doll but had cut himself off in time.

“Nothing.  She did fine in that cave with nobody fussing over her.”

“But she’s my responsibility now.”

Dan repressed a sigh.  “Okay.  But not your only responsibility.  We’ve still got meals to serve upstairs.  I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to let the guests down.”

“You go ahead.  I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Good.”  Dan wanted out of here.  The low ceiling, the dead flowers...the atmosphere was suddenly oppressive.  “You remember the lock combination?” “Twelve, thirty-six, fourteen.”

“Right.  See you upstairs.”

He watched Carrie, waiting for her to look his way, but she had eyes only for the Virgin.

Shaking his head, Dan turned away.  This wouldn’t last, he told himself.  Carrie would come around soon.  Once it seeped into her devotion-fogged brain that her Virgin was merely an inert lump, she’d return to her old self.

But there was going to be an aching void in his life until she did.

‡

Carrie listened to Dan’s shoes scuff up the stone steps as she pulled the zip-lock bag from her pocket and removed the scissors from it.

Poor Dan, she thought, looking down at the Virgin.  He doesn’t understand.

Neither did she, really.  All she knew was that everything had changed for her.  She could look back on her fourteen years in the order—fully half of her life—and understand for the first time what had brought her to the convent, what had prompted her to take a vow of chastity and then willfully break it.

“It was you, Mother,” she whispered to the Virgin as she began to trim the ragged ends of dry gray hair that protruded from under the wimple.  “I came to the order because of you.  You are the Eternal Virgin and I wanted to be like you.  Yet I could never be like you because my virginity was already gone...stolen from me.  But you already know the story.”

She’d spoken to the Blessed Virgin countless times in her prayers, trying to explain herself.  She’d always felt that Mother Mary would understand.  Now that they were face to face, she was compelled to tell her once more, out loud, just to be sure she knew.

“I wanted a new start, Mother.  I wanted to be born anew with that vow.  I wanted to be a spiritual virgin from that day forward.  But I couldn’t be.  No matter how many showers I took and scrubbed myself raw, no matter how many novenas I made and plenary indulgences I received, I still felt dirty.”

She slipped the hair trimmings into the plastic bag.  These cuttings could not be tossed into a dumpster or even flushed away.  They were sacred.  They had to remain here with the Virgin.

“I hope you can understand the way I felt, Mother, because I can’t imagine you ever feeling dirty or unworthy.  But the dirtiness was not the real problem.  It was the hopelessness that came with it—the inescapable certainty that I could never be clean again.  That’s what did me in, Mother.  I knew what your Son promised, that we have but to believe and ask forgiveness and we shall be cleansed.  I knew the words, I understood them in my brain, but in my heart was the conviction that His forgiveness was meant for everyone but Carolyn Ferris.  Because Carolyn Ferris had be involved in the unspeakable, the unthinkable, the unpardonable.”

She kept cutting, tucking the loose trimmed ends back under the Virgin’s wimple.

“I’ve been to enough seminars and read enough self-help books to know that I was sabotaging myself—I didn’t feel worthy of being a good nun, so I made damn sure I never could be one.  I regret that.  Terribly.  And even more, I regret dragging Dan down with me.  He’s a good man and a good priest, but because of me he broke his own vow, and now he’s a sinning priest.”

Carrie felt tears welling in her eyes.  Damn, I’ve got a lot to answer for.

“But all that’s changed now,” she said, blinking and sniffing.  “Finding you is a sign, isn’t it?  It means I’m not a hopeless case.  It means He thinks I can hold to my vows and make myself worthy to guard you and care for you.  And if He thinks it, then it must be so.”

She trimmed away the last vagrant strands of hair, then sealed them in the zip-lock bag.

“There.”  She stepped back and smiled.  “You look better already.”

She glanced down at the Virgin’s long, curved fingernails.  They were going to need a lot of work, more work than she had time for now.

“I’ve got to go now.  Got to do my part for the least of His children, but I’ll be back.  I’ll be back every day.  And every day you’ll see a new and better me.  I’m going to be worthy of you, Mother.  That is a promise—one I’ll keep.”

She just had to find the right way to tell Dan that the old Carrie was gone and he couldn’t have the new one.  He was a good man.  The best.  She knew he’d understand and accept the new her...eventually.  But she had to find a way to tell him without hurting him.

She placed the bag of clippings under the table that constituted the Virgin’s bier, then kissed her wimple and blew out the candles.  She snapped the combination lock closed and hurried upstairs to help with lunch.

‡

Carrie was adding a double handful of sliced carrots to the last pot of soup when she heard someone calling her name from the Big Room.  She walked to the front to see what it was.

Augusta, a stooped, reed-thin, wrinkled volunteer who worked the serving line three days a week, stood at the near end of the counter with Pilgrim.

“He says he’s got a complaint,” Augusta said, looking annoyed and defensive.

The guests often complained about Augusta, saying she was stingy with the portions she doled out.  Which was true.  She treated the soup and bread as if it were her own.  Carrie and Dan had been over this with her again and again: The idea here was to serve everything they made, then make more for the next meal.  But they couldn’t very well tell her she wasn’t welcome behind the counter anymore—they needed every helping hand they could find.

Carrie glanced around for Dan, hoping he could field this, but he was standing by the front door, deep in conversation with Dr. Joe.

“Preacher don’t want me to say nothin’, Sister,” Pilgrim said, “but he found this in his mouth while he was eating his soup and I think you should know about it.”

He held out his hand and in the center of his dirty palm lay a three-inch hair.

“I’m Preacher’s eyes, you know.”

“I know that,” Carrie said.

Everybody knew that.  Mainly because Pilgrim told anyone who would listen whenever he had a chance.  Preacher was blind and Pilgrim was his devoted disciple, leading him from park to stoop to street corner, wherever he could find a small gathering that might listen to his message of imminent Armageddon.

“I’m usually pretty good but this one slipped by me.  I kinda feel like I let him down.”

“Oh, I’m sure Preach doesn’t feel that way,” Carrie said, plucking the hair from his palm.  “But I do apologize for this, and tell him I’ll do my best to see that it doesn’t happen again.”

“Oh, no!” Pilgrim said, agitatedly waving his hands in front of her.  “You got me wrong.  It ain’t your fault.”  He pointed a finger at Augusta.  “It’s hers.  Look at that gray hair straggling all over the place, and that’s a gray hair Preacher found.  She’s supposed to be wearing a net.  I know ‘cause I useta work in a diner and we all hadda wear hair nets.”

“He has no right to say that, Sister,” Augusta snapped.

Just then the basement phone began ringing in the far corner of the kitchen.  Hilda Larsen went to get it.

“It’s for you, Sister,” Hilda called from inside.  “Your brother.”

Uh-oh, Carrie thought as she hurried back into the kitchen and took the receiver.  Brad never called her at Loaves and Fishes.  This could only mean that his American Express bill had arrived.

“Hi, Brad.  I can explain all those charges.”  Well, most of them, anyway.

“What charges?”

“On the card.  You see—”

“I didn’t get the bill yet, Car.  And whatever it is, don’t give it a second thought.”

“I went a bit overboard, Brad.”

“Carrie, I’ve got more money than I know what to do with and no one to spend it on.  So let’s not mention AmEx charges again.  That’s not why I called.  It’s about Dad.”

Carrie felt all the residual warmth from her hours with the Virgin this morning empty out of her like water down a drain.

“What about him?”

She asked only because it was expected of her.  She didn’t care a thing about that man.  Couldn’t.  The mere mention of him froze all her emotions into suspended animation.

“He passed out.  They had to move him to the hospital.  They say it’s his heart acting up again.”

Carrie said nothing as Brad paused, waiting for her reaction.  When the wait stretched to an uncomfortable length, he cleared his throat.

“He’s asking for you.”

“He’s always asking for me.”

“Yeah, but this time—”

“This time will be just like the last time.  He’ll get you all worked up thinking he’s going to die, get you and me going at each other, then he’ll come out of it and go back to the nursing home.”

“He’s changed, Carrie.”

“He’ll always be Walter Ferris.  He can’t change that.”

Brad sighed.  “You know, I wish you’d take one tiny bit of the care and compassion you heap upon those nobodies down there and transfer it to your own father.  Just once.”

“These nobodies never did to me what that man did.  It’s because of him that I’m down here with these nobodies.  We can both thank him for where we are.”

“I’ve managed to do okay.”

“Have you?”

Now it was Brad’s turn for silence.

Carrie wanted to ask him why he hadn’t been able to sustain a relationship.  It seemed every time he got close to a woman he backed off.  Why?  What was he afraid of?  That he was like his father?  That a little bit of that man hid within him?  And that if he had children of his own he might do what his father did?

But she couldn’t say that to Brad.  All she could say was, “I love you, brother.”

And she meant it.

“I love you too, Carrie.”

Suddenly she heard voices rising in the Big Room.

“I’ve got to go.  Call me soon.”

“Will do.”

As Carrie turned away from the phone, she saw Augusta coming toward her.

“Honestly, Sister.  That wasn’t my hair.  Mine’s long and thick.  That one Pilgrim gave you is short and fine.”

“It’s okay, Augusta.”  She brushed past the old woman.  “What’s going on in the Big Room?”

“Probably another fight.  You know how they are.”

But it wasn’t a fight.  The regulars—Rider, Dandy, Lefty, Dirty Harry, Poppy, Bigfoot, Indian, Stony, One-Thumb George—and a few of the newer ones were clustered around one of the long tables.  She saw Dan standing on the far side of the circle as Dr. Joe bent over Preacher who sat ramrod straight, holding his hands before his face.

“A miracle!” Pilgrim was screeching, dancing and gyrating among the tables of the Big Room.  “I always knew Preacher had the power, and now it’s come!  It’s a miracle!  A fucking miracle!”

Carrie pushed closer.

Preacher was staring at his hands, muttering.  “I can see!  Praise God, I can see!”

She stepped back and stared at the short strand of gray hair in her hand.  It hadn’t come from Augusta.  She recognized it now.  It was the same length and color as the stray strands Carrie had been trimming from the Virgin a short while ago.  It must have stuck to her sleeve downstairs and fallen into the soup as she was adding the ingredients.

A miracle...

She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to grab Pilgrim’s hands and join him in a whirling dervish.

Oh, Pilgrim, she thought as she hurried back through the kitchen and down to the subcellar.  If only you knew how right you are!

Yes, it was a miracle.  And Carrie had a feeling it would not be the last.

‡

“Preacher can really see again,” Dan said for the third or fourth time.  Evening had come and they were cleaning up the Big Room after dinner.  “Not well, mind you.  He can recognize his hand in front of his face and not much more, but at least that’s something.  He’s been totally blind for forty years.”

Carrie had decided to hold off telling Dan about the piece of the Virgin’s hair in the soup.  He’d only go into his Doubting Thomas routine.  She’d wait till she had more proof.  But she couldn’t resist priming him for the final revelation.

She glanced around to make sure they were out of earshot of the volunteers in the kitchen.

“Do you think it’s a miracle?” she said softly.

Dan didn’t look up as he wiped one of the long tables.  “You know what I think about miracles.”

“How do you explain it then?”

“José says it might have been hysterical blindness all along, and now he’s coming out of it.  He’s scheduled him for a full eye exam tomorrow.”

“Well, far be it from me to disagree with Doctor Joe.”

Dan stopped in mid wipe and stared at her.  “Aw, Carrie.  Don’t tell me you think—”

“Yes!” she said in a fierce whisper.  “I think a certain someone has announced her presence.”

“Come on, Carrie—”

“You and José believe in your hysterical blindness, if you wish.  All I know is that Preacher began to see again within hours of a certain someone’s arrival.”

Dan opened his mouth, then closed it, paused, then shook his head.  “Coincidence, Carrie.”

But he didn’t sound terribly convinced.

Carrie couldn’t repress a smile.  “We’ll see.”

“We’ll see what?”

“How many ‘coincidences’ it takes to convince you.”

Fruitless Vigil in Tompkins  Square

Approximately 1,000 people gathered last night for a candlelight prayer vigil in Tompkins Square Park.  Surrounded by knots of curious homeless, many of whom call the park home, the predominantly female crowd prayed to the Virgin Mary in the hope that she would manifest herself in the park.

Sightings of a lone woman, described as “glowing faintly”, and identified as the Blessed Virgin, have been reported with steadily increasing frequency all over the Lower East Side during the past few weeks.

Despite many recitations of the Rosary, no manifestation occurred.  Many members of the crowd remained undaunted, however, vowing to return next Sunday evening.

(The New York Post)

SIXTEEN

Manhattan

“Something bothering you, José?”

Dan and Dr. Joe ambled crosstown after splitting a sausage-and-pepper pizza and a pitcher of beer at Nino’s on St. Mark’s and Avenue A.  José had been unusually quiet tonight.

“Bothering me?  I don’t know.  Nothing bad or anything like that, just...I don’t know.”

“That’s the first time you’ve put that many words together in a row all night, and six of them were ‘I don’t know.’  What gives?”

José said, “I don’t know,” then laughed.  “I...aw hell, I guess I can tell you: I think two of my AIDS patients have been cured.”

Dan felt an anticipatory tightening in his chest and he wasn’t sure why.

“You’re sure?”

“It’s not just my diagnosis.  They were both anemic, both had Kaposi’s when I’d seen them in July.  They came in last week and their skin had cleared and their hematocrits were normal.  I sent them to Beekman for a full work up.  The results came back today.”

“And?”

“They’re clear.”

“Cured?”

Dan saw José’s head nod in the dark.  “Yep.  They’re now HIV neg.  Their peripheral smears are normal, their CD4 cell counts are normal, their skin lesions are gone.  Not a single goddamn trace that they were ever exposed to HIV.  Hell, they both used to be positive for hepatitis B surface antigen and now even that’s gone.”

José sounded as if he was going to cry.

“But how—?”

“Nothing I did.  Just gave them the usual cocktail, and let me tell you, man, they weren’t all that reliable about taking their meds.  Fucking miracle, that’s what it is.  Medical fucking miracle.”

Dan’s mouth went dry.  Talk of miracles did that to him lately.  So did talk of people seeing the Virgin Mary in his neighborhood.

“Miracle.  You mean like...Preacher?”

“I can’t say much about Preacher.  I’ve got no medical records on him from when he was blind, so I can’t say anything about the condition of his retinas when he couldn’t see.  All I can say is that his vision has improved steadily until it’s almost twenty-twenty now.  But...these two AIDS patients, they were documented cases.”

Dan sensed a certain hesitancy in José.

“I wouldn’t happen to know these two patients, would I?”

José hesitated, then sighed.  “Normally I wouldn’t tell you, but they’re going to be in all the medical journals soon, and from then on they’ll be news-show and talk-show commodities, so I guess it’s okay to tell you they’re both regulars at your Loaves and Fishes.  You’ll hear their names soon enough.”

Dan stumbled a step.

“Oh my God.”

“Well, you knew some of them had to be HIV positive.”

Dan tried to remember who hadn’t been around lately.

“Dandy and Rider?”

“You guessed it.”

“They had it but they’re cured?”

“Yep.  Both with a history of IV drug use, formerly HIV positive, now HIV neg.  You figure it out.”

Dan was trying to do just that.

He knew Carrie wouldn’t have to think twice about an explanation when she heard the news: the Virgin did it.

And how was he supposed to counter that?  Damned if he wasn’t beginning to think she might be right.  First Preacher gets his sight back, then people all over the area start sighting someone they think is the Virgin Mary, and now two of their regulars at St. Joe’s are cured of AIDS.

The accumulated weight of evidence was getting too heavy to brush off as mere coincidence.

He glanced at José and noticed he still looked glum.

“So how come you’re not happy?”

“Because when I gave Rider and Dandy the news they gave me all the credit.”

“So?”

“So I didn’t do anything.  And if they go around blabbing that Dr. Martinez can cure AIDS, it’s going to raise a lot of false hopes.  And worse, my little clinic is going to be inundated with people looking for a miracle.”

A miracle...that word again.

Dan clapped him on the shoulder, trying to lighten him up.

“Who knows.  Maybe you’ve got the healing touch.”

“Not funny, Dan.  I don’t have the resources to properly treat the people I’m seeing now.  If the clinic starts attracting crowds I don’t know what I’ll do.”  Suddenly he grinned.  “Maybe I’ll direct them all to Saint Joe’s Loaves and Fishes.  If they’re looking for a miracle, that’s the place to find it.”

A knot of dread constricted in Dan’s chest, stopping him in his tracks.

“Don’t even kid about that!”

José laughed.  “Hey, think about it: It all fits.  Preacher regained his sight there, and both Dandy and Rider are regulars.  Maybe the cure-all can be found at Loaves and Fishes.  Maybe Sister Carrie’s stirring some special magical ingredient into that soup of hers.”

Dan forced a smile.  “Maybe.  I’ll have to ask her.”

‡

Carrie held up two zip-lock bags.

“Here they are.  The magic ingredients.”

When he’d mentioned José’s remarks to her this morning, she’d smiled and crooked a finger at him, leading him down to the subcellar.  It was the first time he’d been down here since he’d carried in the Virgin.  After Carrie lit the candles, Dan saw that the Virgin looked different.  Her hair was neater, tucked away under her wimple, and those long, grotesque fingernails had been clipped off.  The air was suffused with the sweet scent of the fresh flowers that surrounded the bier.

Carrie then reached under her bier and produced these two clear plastic bags.

Dan took them from her and examined them.  One contained an ounce or so of a fine, off-white powder; the other was full of a feather-light gray substance that looked for all the world like finely chopped...hair.

He glanced back at Carrie and found her smiling, staring at him, her eyes luminous in the candle glow.

“What are these?” he said, hefting the bags.

“Hers.”

“I don’t get it.”

Carrie reached out and gently touched the bag of fine, gray strands.  “This one’s her hair.”  She then touched the bag with the powder.  “And this is what’s left of her fingernails.”

“Fingernails?”

“I trimmed her nails and filed the cuttings down to powder.”

“Why on earth...?”

Carrie explained about the strand of hair in Preacher’s soup, and how he’d begun to see again almost immediately after.

“But that was coincidence,” Dan said.  “It had to be.”

She trapped him with those eyes.  “Are you sure?”

“No.  I’m not sure.  I no longer know what I’m sure of or not sure of.  I haven’t been sure of much for a long time, and now I’m not even sure about the things I’ve been sure I couldn’t be sure of.”

Carrie started to laugh.

Dan shook his head.  “Sounds like a country-western song, doesn’t it?”  Then he too started to laugh.

“Oh, Lord,” Carrie said after a moment.  “When was the last time we laughed together?”

“Before Israel.”

Slowly, she sobered.  “That seems like so long ago.”

“Doesn’t it.”

Silence hung between them.

“Anyway,” Carrie finally said, “I’ve been dosing the soup with tiny bits of her hair and her ground-up fingernails every day since she arrived.”

Dan couldn’t help making a face.  “Carrie!”

“Don’t look at me like that, Dan.  If I put in a couple of snippets of hair I mix it with the rosemary.  If I use some fingernail, I rub it together with some pepper.  Tiny amounts, unnoticeable, completely indistinguishable from the regular spices.”

“But they’re not spices.”

“They are indeed!  You can’t deny that things have changed upstairs since the Virgin arrived.”

Dan thought about that and realized she was right.  In fact, strange things had been happening at the Loaves and Fishes during the past month or so.  Nothing so dramatic as the return of Preacher’s sight, but the place had changed.  Nothing that would be apparent to an outsider, but Dan knew things were different.

First off, the mood—the undercurrent of suspicion and paranoia that had prevailed whenever the guests gathered was gone.  They no longer sat hunched over their meals, one arm hooked around the plate while the free hand shoveled food into the mouth.  They ate more slowly now, and they talked.  Instead of arguments over who was hogging the salt or who’d got a bigger serving, Dan had actually heard civil conversation along the tables.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t had to break up a fight in two weeks—a record.  The previously demented, paranoid, and generally psychotic guests seemed calmer, more lucid, almost rational.  Fewer of them were coming in drunk or high.  Rider had stopped talking about finding his old Harley and had even mentioned checking out a Help Wanted sign he’d seen outside a cycle repair shop.

But the biggest change had been in Carrie.

She’d withdrawn from him.  It had always seemed to Dan that Carrie had room in her life for God, her order, St. Joe’s Loaves and Fishes, and one other.  Dan had been that one other for a while.  Now he’d lost her.  The Virgin had supplanted him in that remaining spot.

Yet try as he might he could feel no animosity.  She was happy.  He couldn’t remember seeing her so radiant.  His only regret was that he wasn’t the source of that inner light.  Part of him wanted to label her as crazy, deranged, psychotic, but then he’d have to find another explanation for the changes upstairs... and the cures.

He stepped past her to stare down at the prone, waxy figure.  She looked so much neater, so much more...attractive with her hair fixed and her nails trimmed.

“You think she’s responsible.”

“I know she is.”

Dan’s gaze roamed past the flickering candles to the flower-stuffed vases that rimmed the far side and clustered at the head and foot of the makeshift bier.

“You’ve done a wonderful job with her.  But how do you keep sneaking off with all these flowers?  Aren’t you afraid one of these trips somebody in the church is going to catch you and ask you what you’re up to?”

“One of what trips?  I haven’t borrowed any flowers from the church since she arrived.”

Dan turned back to the flowers—mums, daffodils, gardenias, gladiolus, their stalks were straight and tall, their blossoms full and unwrinkled—then looked at Carrie again.

“But these are...”

“The same ones I brought down the first day.”  Her smile was blinding.  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

Dan continued to stare into those bright, wide, guileless eyes, looking for some hint of deception, but he found none.  Suddenly he wished for a chair.  His knees felt rubbery.  He needed to sit down.

“My God, Carrie.”

“No.  Just His mother.”

That wasn’t what he needed to hear.  Things like this didn’t happen in the real world, at least not in Dan’s real world.  God stayed in His heaven and watched His creations make the best of things down here while priests like Dan acted as go-betweens.  There was no part in the script for His mother—especially not in the subcellar of a Lower East Side church.

“Is it her, Carrie?  Can it really be her?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding, beaming, unhindered by the vaguest trace of doubt.  “It’s her.  Can’t you feel it?”

The only thing Dan could feel right now was an uneasy chill seeping into his soul.

“What have we done, Carrie?  What have we done?”

AIDS Cures Linked To Virgin Mary

A prayer vigil outside St. Joseph’s Roman Catholic Church on the Lower East Side last night attracted over two thousand people.  Many of those attending proclaimed the recent well-publicized AIDS cures as miracles related to the sightings of the Blessed Virgin Mary in the area during the past month.  When asked about the connection, Fr. Daniel Fitzpatrick, associate pastor of St. Joseph’s, responded, “The Church has not verified the figure that has been sighted as actually representing the Virgin Mary, and certainly there is no established link between the figure and the AIDS cures.  Therefore I would strongly caution anyone with AIDS from abandoning their current therapy and coming down here looking for a miracle cure.  You might find just the opposite.”

(N. Y. Daily News)

CDC to Begin Epidemiological

Study on Lower East Side

(Atlanta, AP) The Center for Disease Control has announced it will begin a limited epidemiological study of the five cases of AIDS reported cured of the Lower East Side of Manhattan.  A spokesman for the Center said...

(The New York Times)

Paraiso

“Are these all the clippings?” Arthur Crenshaw asked as he reread the Times article for the third time.

“The latest batch,” Emilio said.

Arthur slipped the rest of the clippings back into the manila envelope but held onto the Times and Daily News pieces.   For a moment he stared through the glass at the Pacific, glistening in the early afternoon sun, then glanced to his right where Charlie lay.

He’d turned the great room into a miniature medical facility: a state-of-the-art AIDS clinic with round-the-clock nursing, a medical consultant with an international reputation in infectious diseases, and a patient census of one.

All to no avail.

Charlie was fading fast.  He’d received maximum doses of the standard AIDS medications, including triple therapy, and had even undergone a course of a new and promising drug that was still in the experimental stages.  Nothing worked.  Apparently he’d picked up a particularly virulent strain of the virus and had ignored the symptoms in the early stages.  Only scant vestiges of Charlie’s immune system had remained by the time he’d started treatment.  On his last visit, Dr. Lamberson would not commit to how much time he thought Charlie had, but he said the prognosis was very grave indeed.  Ordinarily Lamberson would have laughed at the thought of a house call, but with what Arthur was paying him, he came when called.  He’d just brought Charlie through a severe bout of pneumocystis pneumonia and said another would certainly kill him.

Charlie was sleeping now.  His hospital bed had been wheeled closer to the glass wall so he could read in the sunlight, and he’d dozed off after a few pages.  He had no strength, no stamina, and the pounds were melting from his frame like butter.  And he was so pale.  Arthur had begun insisting on colored sheets so that he could look at his son without feeling he was being absorbed into the mattress.

Charlie, Charlie, Arthur thought as he stared at him.  If only you’d listened!  Dear boy, you never meant to hurt anyone.  You don’t deserve this.  Please don’t die, not until I can work up the courage to tell you I understand, that for a while I...I was like you.  Almost like you.

I had been back in the sixties, in the hedonistic dens behind the Victorian facades of Haight Ashbury.  Arthur had been looking for himself, trying anything—drugs, and sex.  All kinds of sex.  For a year he had lived in a commune where group sex was a nightly ritual.  Every combination was tried—men and women together, women with women, and...men with men.  He had tried it for a while, even enjoyed it for a while, but as time went on, he realized it wasn’t for him.

Been there, done that, as the expression went.

But he’d never considered it as a lifestyle.  Yet the memories haunted him.  What if someone from those days stepped forward with stories of young Artie Crenshaw having sex with other men?

Many a night the possibility dragged him sweating and gasping from his sleep.

Not fair.  Those days were long past..  An aberration.  He’d repented, and he was sure he’d been forgiven.  He wanted Charlie to be forgiven as well.  But would learning about his father’s past lighten Charlie’s burden?

Arthur didn’t know.  If only he knew.

So much he didn’t know.  Especially about AIDS.  Arthur had begun his own research, learning all he could—more than he wished to know—about HIV, ARC, CD4, p24, AZT, TP-5, and all the rest of the alphabet soup that was such an integral part of the AIDS canon.  He hired a clipping service to comb the world’s newspapers, magazines, and medical journals for anything that pertained to AIDS.  The flow of information was staggering, mind-numbing.  What he could not comprehend he brought to Dr. Lamberson’s attention.

The phone rang.  Emilio answered it, said a few harsh words, then hung up.

“Who was it?” Arthur said without looking around.

“That puta reporter again.  She wants an interview with Charlie.”

Arthur closed his eyes.  Gloria Weskerna from the Star.  It still baffled him how she’d got his home number.

Somehow she’d picked up word that Senator Crenshaw’s son was sick.  Something was wrong with the son of a potential presidential candidate.  What could it be?  She and others of her tribe had started sniffing around like stray dogs in a garbage dump, hunting for anything ripe and juicy.  Emilio had tightened security, carefully screening the nurses, setting up a round-the-clock guard at the front gate, and spiriting Dr. Lamberson and the nurses in and out in the black-glassed limousine.

“Change the phone number, Emilio.”

“Yes, Senador.  If you wish, I can change this reporter’s mind about hounding you.”

Arthur turned to face his security man.  “Really?  How would you do that?”

“She might have a serious accident—a bad fall, perhaps, after which her home could burn and her car could be stolen.  She would have so many other things on her mind that she would not have time to bother you.”

Emilio said it so casually, as if planning a shopping list for the supermarket.  Not a glimmer of amusement lightened his Latin features.  Arthur knew he was not being put on.  Emilio’s sense of humor was about as active as Charlie’s immune system.

Arthur trusted Emilio implicitly, but sometimes he was very frightening.

“I don’t think so, Emilio.  We’ll just continue to stonewall.  Our position will remain aloof: We admit nothing, we deny nothing.  Implicit in our silence is the stance that these rags are not worthy of serious attention.  That’s the only way to keep the lid on things.”

“As you wish, Senador.”

Arthur realized he could keep the lid on Charlie’s illness only so long as he stayed alive.  If he died...

He reminded himself with a pang that it wasn’t really an if, but a when...and soon.

When Charlie died, the shit would hit the fan.  He might be able to dissuade the medical examiner from doing an autopsy, but the death certificate was another matter.  He could not expect Dr. Lamberson to jeopardize his reputation, his medical license, and his entire career by falsifying a legal document.

He winced as he imagined the headlines:

SENATOR CRENSHAW’S SON DIES OF AIDS!!

That would be damaging, but he could weather it.  He could not be held accountable for his son’s actions.  In fact, he could turn it around and blame Charlie’s death on the moral bankruptcy of modern America.  America was on the road to ruin, and who better to turn it around and lead it from the darkness into the light than a man who had been so grievously injured by the nation’s moral turpitude?

Yes, he could survive, perhaps even benefit from public disclosure of the cause of Charlie’s death.  His only worry was what rats might crawl out of the woodwork when they heard that Charlie had died of AIDS.  What vermin from his past might step forward and say, “Like father, like son.”

Arthur knew he could weather either one alone, but he would fall before the combination of the two.

Everyone would be properly supportive at first, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before the various elements of the coalition he’d been forging began edging away from him.  All his born-again friends and admirers would begin looking around for someone else to support, someone who’s immediate family was not so intimately associated with sodomy.

And then his dream of a renewed America would go down in flames, be reduced to ashes.

He treasured two things most in his life: his son and his dream.  Charlie’s AIDS was going to steal both.

He looked again at the Times and Daily News clippings in his lap.  Like everyone else who read a paper or watched the network news, he’d heard about the four supposedly-cured cases of AIDS in New York.  They’d sparked some hope in the growing darkness within him, but after his experience with Olivia he’d learned that cynicism was the only appropriate response to miracle cures.  It saved a lot of heartache.

But the Times article said the CDC was getting involved... budgeting an epidemiological study.  If Arthur was correctly reading between the lines, it meant that these cures had been sufficiently verified for the CDC to judge them worth the effort and expense of sending an investigative team to Manhattan.

Interesting...

The CDC was headquartered in Atlanta.  Arthur had myriad contacts in the Bible Belt.  No problem learning what was going on in the CDC, but it might be wise to have his own man on the scene.

“Emilio, how would you feel about a trip to New York?”

‡

Manhattan

Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio suppressed the urge to vomit as he walked along Catherine Street near the Governor Alfred E. Smith Houses and waited for dark.

Dark would not be a safe time here, but he did not worry about that.  He hadn’t shaved for days and was dressed in the shabbiest clothes he’d been able to find at the Vatican Mission uptown.  He was not an attractive mugging prospect.  But even if he were killed tonight, it would not matter.

The new chemotherapy protocol was not working.  It had succeeded only in suppressing his white cell count and making him violently ill.  He’d lost more weight.  The tumors continued their relentless spread.  The end was not far off, and human predators could do nothing to him that the cancer and the chemicals had not already tried.  A quick death here might be preferable to the slow death that threatened to linger into the fall, but surely not beyond.

But please, God, not before I see her again.

The Vatican had called today.  Since he was already here in Manhattan, would he mind looking into these Blessed Virgin sightings that had become epidemic on the Lower East Side?

He’d agreed, of course.  What he did not say was that he’d been investigating for weeks.

He’d read of the sightings and had been struck immediately by the similarity between the witnesses’ descriptions of the faintly glowing woman they’d seen down here and the woman he’d seen walking on the fog over the River Lee back in July.  He did not resist the yearning to search out this Stateside apparition to see if she was the same.

So far his quest had been as successful as the new chemotherapy.

He scanned the streets around him.  He spotted numerous Asian shoppers scurrying home through the fading light, each carrying their purchases in identical red plastic sacks.  On his right sat rows of deserted, dilapidated, graffiti-scarred buildings, with empty windows in front and dark, litter-choked alleys on their flanks.  All forlorn and forbidding

She had been spotted twice near here.  So like her son to appear among the social cast offs.  If indeed it was her.  Perhaps tonight she once more would grace this lowly neighborhood with her presence.

‡

Israel

Kesev could feel the sweat trickle from his armpits as he clutched the ends of his arm rests and stared out the window of El Al flight 001.  He saw Tel Aviv and the coast of Israel fall away beneath him.  Anyone watching him would think he was afraid of flying.  He did not like it, true, but that was not what filled him with such anxiety.

Never before in his long life had he left his homeland.  The very idea had been unthinkable until now.  And even under these extraordinary circumstances, he was uneasy.  He had never wanted to be more than a few hours away from the Resting Place.  Now there would be a continent and an ocean between him and the site in the Wilderness where he had vowed to spend the rest of his days.

Not that it mattered now.  The Mother was gone.  His duty was to follow her to wherever she now lay.

And Kesev had a pretty good idea now where that might be.

New York.

He couldn’t be sure, of course.  The visions of the Virgin Mary in Manhattan meant nothing by themselves.  On any given day, someone somewhere thought he or she had been gifted with a vision of the Mother of God, and this was nothing new for New York.  Since the 1970’s a woman named Veronica in a place called Bayside had claimed to see and speak to the Virgin on a regular basis.  And more recently in Queens had been the painting of the Mother that had seeped oil.

Since the Mother’s theft Kesev had accumulated a huge collection of reports on these visions.  Lately the vast majority seemed to occur in America.  Some were utterly absurd—the image of the Blessed Virgin in the browned areas on a flour tortilla, in a patch of mold on the side of a refrigerator, in a forkful of spaghetti, on the side of a leaking fuel tank—and could be discarded without a second thought.

Others were more traditional apparitions, often repeated on a scheduled basis, such as the first Sunday or first Friday of the month, but although thousands would be in attendance for the occasion, the actual vision was restricted to a single individual.  Kesev marked these as possible but most likely the product of one unbalanced mind and fed by the public’s yearning for something, anything that might indicate a Divine Presence.  Visions had been occurring long before the theft of the Mother and would certainly continue after she was returned to where she belonged.

But these Manhattan visions...something about them had sparked a flicker of hope in Kesev.  They didn’t follow the pattern of the other sightings.  They appeared to be random, had been reported by a wide variety of people belonging to a polyglot of races and religions.  When Muslims and Buddhists began reporting visions of a softly glowing woman in an ankle-length cowled robe, identical to the image Kesev had seen countless times atop the tav rock, he had to give them credence.

And then there was the matter of the cures.

The tabloid press was always touting cures for the incurable, but these were linked to no miracle drug or quack therapy.  These were as spontaneous and random as the sightings of the Virgin Mary.

And just like the sightings they all seemed to be clustered in the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

He glanced at his watch.  The flight was due to arrive in Kennedy at 5:20 a.m. local time.  Shortly after that, Kesev, too, would be in Lower Manhattan.  Searching.

If the Mother was there, Kesev would find her.  He had to.  And when he did he would silence the thieves so they could not reveal what they knew.  Then he would return the Mother to the Resting Place where she belonged, where she would remain until the Final Days.

Only two questions bothered Kesev.  Who were these people who had stolen the Mother away from him?  The job was so smoothly and skillfully done, leaving not a trace of a trail, they had to be professionals.  If that were so, why was no one trumpeting her discovery?  He was overjoyed that there had been no such announcement, for that meant he could still set matters right before irreparable damage was done.  But why the silence?  Could it be they didn’t know what they had?  Or were they, perhaps, trying to verify what they had?  Whatever the reason, he could not let this opportunity pass.

The second question was more unsettling.  Why had the Lord allowed this to happen?  Did it mean that the Final Days were imminent?  That the End of All Things was at hand?

Part of Kesev hoped so, for he was desperately tired of living.  Yet another part of him dreaded facing the Second Coming with this new disgrace to account for.

IN THE PACIFIC

7o N, 155o W

North of the Line Islands, between the trackless rolling swells and the flawless azure sky, a haze forms, quickly thickening into a mist, then a fog, then a raft of clouds, immaculate white at first, but darkening along the underbelly as it fattens outward and reaches upward, casting cooling shadow on the warm water below, which rises to a gentle chop as the wind begins to blow.

SEVENTEEN

Manhattan

“Damn that Pilgrim!” Dan said softly as the door shut behind the two CDC investigators.  “Why can’t he keep his big mouth shut?”

Poor Dan, Carrie thought as they stood together by the serving counter.  She repressed a smile and laid a gentle hand on his arm.

“He doesn’t know the trouble he’s causing.  Preacher’s his friend.  He was blind and now he can see.  He witnessed a miracle and he wants to tell the world about it.”

“And he seems to be doing just that—literally.”

“Let him.”

“Let him?  I have no choice.  And I wouldn’t care, but now he’s telling anybody who’ll listen that if they’re looking for a miracle cure, go to Loaves and Fishes!”

“And what if he does?”

“We just saw the result!  Two guys from the CDC asking us about what we’re serving the guests!  Wanting to know if we’re using any ‘unusual’ recipes!  Good God, I thought I was going to have a heart attack!”

Carrie had to laugh now.

“What’s so funny?” Dan said.

“You should have seen your face!  You started choking while you were reading off the ingredients in my seven-grain bread!”

Dan’s reluctant smile broke through.  “I did fine until he asked me about any ‘special additives!’  That was when I almost lost it.”

“You were very good.  Very calm.  The picture of innocence.”

“I hope so.  We don’t need a bunch of epidemiologists sniffing around.  I have visions of them doing these in-depth interviews with anyone around here who’s been cured of anything in the past few months and entering it all into a computer, then asking the computer to find the common denominator and having it spit out, Loaves and Fishes...Loaves and Fishes...Loaves and Fishes.”

“Oh, Dan.  Don’t worry so much.”

“I can’t help it, Carrie.  At the very least we have a smuggled artifact in the basement.  At the very most, if what you believe is true—”

“What I know is true.  And you know it’s true as well.”

Dan blinked, tightened his lips, and gave his head a quick shake.  Why wouldn’t he let his lips speak what he knew in his heart?

“At the very most,” he continued, “we’re sitting on something that could shake up all of Christianity and Judaism, and possibly all of Islam as well.”

“But no one but you and I will know,” Carrie said patiently.  How many times did she have to explain this to him?  “The Virgin’s existence was meant to be kept secret, and we are honoring that secret.”

“But just moments ago we had two government investigators here!”

“So?  Let’s just suppose that when they’d asked you about any ‘special additives,’ you’d told them, ‘Oh, yes.  I almost forgot.  We’ve got the Virgin Mary stashed away in the subcellar and we’re adding smidges of her finely-ground hair and fingernails to the soup.’  What do you think they’d put in their report?”

Dan sighed.  “Okay.  You’ve got a point.  But still...”

She reached across the counter and grasped his hand.

“Have faith, Dan.  We’re not alone in this.  Everything’s going to work out.  Just believe.”

Dan looked into her eyes and squeezed her hand in return.

“I used to believe in us, and look what happened to that.”

Carrie’s heart sank.  Not this again.

“Dan...we’ve been through this already.  Something bigger than you and I has come into our lives and we have to put our own wants and desires aside.  You said you understood.”

“I do.  At least partially.  But even if I understood fully, I’d still be hurting.  I haven’t been able to put out the fire so easily.”

But you must, she thought, hurting for him.  You must.

“Don’t the miracles make it easier?” she said, hoping to see the pain fade in his eyes.  “Don’t they make you feel a part of something glorious?”

“The cures are wonderful.”

“And they happened because of us!  The blind see, the terminally ill are cured, the deranged become lucid.  Because we brought her here.”

“I just hope those same miracles aren’t our downfall.  Look what’s happening around us.  People are seeing the Virgin Mary everywhere, the streets are acrawl with epidemiologists by day and Mary-hunters by night, there’s a candlelight vigil on every other corner, and every AIDS patient in the city seems to be trying to move to the Lower East Side.  It’s getting crazier by the minute out there.  It all seems to be building toward something.  But what?  And if someone puts all the pieces together, we may find ourselves in big trouble, a lot more trouble than we can handle.”

Carrie just shook her head.  Didn’t Dan know?  Couldn’t he feel it?  Everything was going to be fine.

‡

She is here.

Kesev had sensed that the instant his flight had touched down at JFK.  Now he sat on a filthy bench in a litter-strewn park named after Sara D. Roosevelt, whoever she was.  On the far side of the chainlink fence, across Forsythe Street, stretched a row of dilapidated houses, worse than in the poorest sections of the Arab Quarter in Jerusalem, except for the brightly colored and well kept building on the corner, the only clean structure on the block.  Kesev had found it especially interesting because of the six-pointed star of David in the circular window near the top of its front gable.  He’d thought it a temple at first, but had been confused by the inscription over the entrance: Templo Adventista del Septimo

But much closer at hand—directly in front of him—was a hoarse-voiced street preacher.  Lacking anything better to do, Kesev listened to his rant.

“Forget not what Saint Paul said to the Thessalonians: ‘The Day of the Lord so comes as a thief in the night.’  The End Times are soon upon us.  First there will come the Rapture, then the Tribulation, and then the Son of God will come again.  But only those who believe, only those who are saved will be caught up in the Rapture and spared the Tribulation.  As Paul said to his church: ‘But you, brothers, are not in darkness that that day will overcome you like a thief...For God has not appointed us to wrath, but to obtain deliverance by our Lord Jesus Christ!’  Heed those words.  Repent, believe, be not caught unprepared!”

“Amen, brothers!” cried his helper or disciple or whatever one might call the little man who followed him around like a puppy.  “Amen!  Preacher should know!  Preacher was blind and now he can see!  He sees everything!”

“First will come war—and that is already here.  Then will come plague and famine and plague—listen to the news and you’ll know that a plague is crouched in the wings, waiting to spring—followed by worldwide starvation.  There will be a great shaking of the earth, the skies will darken, the seas will die, the river Jordan shall run red.”

What nonsense is this? Kesev thought irritably.  While I suffer the frustration of my fruitless search for the Mother, must I also suffer the words of fools and madmen?  If he doesn’t shut up I will wring his neck.  And that of his prancing disciple as well.

Weeks here and no luck.  Roaming these mean, sinister streets at night, hearing of the apparition, rushing to its reported location, always too late to see it.  The frustration was making him ill tempered, building to a murderous rage.  If something didn’t break soon...

She must be aware that I am here.  Why is she toying with me?

“Repent, brothers and sisters,” Preacher said.  “Repent and take Jesus as your Lord.  For the dark End Times are soon upon us, followed by the dawn of the Second Coming of the Lord!”

“Listen to him!” the little sidekick said.  “Listen!”

But the half-dozen people who had paused a moment to listen to the raggedy man had heard it all before, so they moved on.  And with no audience, the man called Preacher and his lone disciple moved on as well.

Leaving Kesev and a thin, sickly-looking old man sharing the bench.

Good riddance, Kesev thought.

‡

Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio shifted his weight on the bench as he watched the Preacher shuffle off.  His wasted buttocks offered no padding against the hard, rough planked surface.  He wanted to get up and continue his search for the vision, but he didn’t know which way to go in the fading light.

Fading like my body, he thought.  Like my life.  Slowly, steadily, inexorably.

He was beginning to think his chance to see the vision again would never come.  He’d been traveling down from the Vatican mission to the Lower East Side night after night, hoping, praying, beseeching God and Jesus and Mary herself to honor him with the vision once more, just once more before the cancer took him.  It had become a contest of sorts, a race between the tumor and his determination to last until he saw her again.

He glanced at the bearded man a few feet to his right.

“Do you think he’s right?” he said.

The bearded man started, as if surprised that someone would speak to him.  Most New Yorkers were shocked initially when a stranger like Vincenzo opened a conversation with them.

“Sorry.  Do I think who is right?”

A strange accent.  Middle Eastern, certainly, but where?  The features framed by the beard and dark hair were Semitic.  A Palestinian?

“That preacher.  Do you think we’re headed for the Second Coming?”

“You mean, the Second Coming of the Master?”

Vincenzo wondered at this fellow’s use of the term, “the Master.”  Surely he was referring to Christ.  Who else could be expected at the Second Coming.  But it was such an archaic reference, the way the early church referred to Jesus.

“The Second Coming of Jesus, yes.  Do you—?”

The bearded man shot to his feet.  “Good-bye.  I must be going.”

“If you must.  Perhaps we’ll meet some other time.”

“I do not think so.”

He walked off.

Vincenzo wondered if he was another “Mary-hunter,” as one of the local papers had dubbed the hordes of faithful roaming the Lower East Side streets in search of the Blessed Virgin.

Perhaps, perhaps not, Vincenzo thought as he pushed himself to his feet.  But certainly something strange about that fellow. Not very friendly, which he supposed was to be expected in New York, but this fellow was almost furtive.

As he crossed Pearl Street, a man ran out of an alley, frantically waving his arms in the dusk.

“OhmyGod!  OhmyGod!  I think I saw her!  I think it’s her!”

Vincenzo’s heart leapt.  “Where?”

As the fellow pointed toward the black maw of the alley behind him, Vincenzo tried in vain to make out his features in the dusky light.

“Back there!  She was just standing there, glowing.”

“Show me,” Vincenzo said.  “Please show me!”

“Sure,” the fellow said, waving him to follow.  “Come on!”

An alarm clanged faintly in a corner of Vincenzo’s brain, but his mind was too suffused with glorious anticipation to pay it proper heed.

The darkness of the alley swallowed him.  He saw nothing.

“Where?”

He was shoved roughly from behind and fell to his knees on the garbage strewn pavement.  Fear pounded through Vincenzo as he realized he was being mugged.  He’d heard about the predators who’d begun stalking the defenseless Mary-hunters.  The papers had dubbed them “Holies-rollers.”  He began shouting for help until a heavy boot slammed into his ribs and drove the wind out of him.

“Shuddup, asshole, an’ gimme your wallet!”

Vincenzo shouted again and was kicked again.  The mugger grabbed his wrist and pulled off his watch.

“Where’s your wallet?  Gimme your fuckin’ wallet or I cut you!”

Vincenzo was reaching for his back pocket when he heard a groan above him.  He heard scuffling feet, and then a heavy weight slammed onto the pavement next to him.

“Did he stab you?  Do you need a hospital?”

Vincenzo recognized the accent—the little bearded fellow who’d been sitting on the bench with him moments ago.

“No.  I’m only bruised.  Could you help me up, perhaps?”

He raised his hand and felt another grasp it and pull him to his feet.

Immediately the man began to move off.

“Wait.  I haven’t thanked you.  There must be something—”

“You can say nothing of this,” the fellow said, stopping and turning.  “That will be thanks enough.”

“But people should know!  You’re a hero!”

“That man behind you will be dead before help arrives.  I am a stranger in this country.  I do not wish to be arrested.”

“What did you do to him?”

“My knife did to him what his knife was going to do to you.”

“But why?”

“I needed to.”

Weak and trembling, Vincenzo leaned against a wall and silently watched the stranger hurry off.  The parting words turned over in his mind.  I needed to.  Something about the way he’d said that...

Needed to what?  Help somebody...or stab somebody?

He turned for one final look into the alley that might have been his grave and saw her.

She was only a few feet away, moving closer...flowing toward him...her faint glow a beacon in the black hole of the alley.  Her robes were the same as in Cork, only now he was close enough to make out some of her features.  The tears in his eyes blurred them but he thought he detected a hint of a smile as she looked at him.

“It’s you!” he sobbed, overcome by an unplumbed longing within.  “I’ve been searching for you.  I knew I’d find you again!”

She flowed closer without slowing...closer...

Vincenzo backed up a step but she never slowed her approach.  It was as if she didn’t see him.  When she was within inches he cried, “Stop!” but she continued her irresistible course, pressing against him—but he felt nothing.  She had no substance. And then his vision was filled with light that blotted out the alley and the street and the city, light all around, light within him...

Within him...

The apparition had merged with him.  Was he within her or was she within him?

He froze, he sizzled, dazzling spots flashed and swelled and danced before his eyes, he floated, he plummeted...

And then the light faded and the city night filled his eyes again.  He whirled and saw the apparition directly behind him, flowing away.

She walked...right...through...me!

And then she began to fade.  Within seconds Vincenzo was alone again.  The wonder that filled him also began to fade as the pain began, searing bolts of agony lancing through his chest and abdomen, doubling him over, driving him to his knees.

IN THE PACIFIC

7o N, 150o W

The clouds and wind have organized into a pocket of turbulence with sharply demarcated borders.  The pocket begins to drift eastward, drawing warm moist air up from the ocean surface into its high, cool center where the moisture condenses into droplets.  Thunder rumbles and lightning flashes as rain and wind whip the churning ocean surface to a froth.  The storm swells as it accelerates its eastward course.

EIGHTEEN

Manhattan

“Okay, Monsignor.  Another deep breath, and hold this one.”

Vincenzo Riccio filled his lungs while Dr. Karras’s fingers probed his abdomen under the lower right edge of his rib cage.  The young oncologist’s normally tanned-looking skin was relatively pale today.  The overhead fluorescents of the examining room reflected off the fine sheen of perspiration on his forehead.

“Damn!” he muttered as his fingers probed more deeply under Vincenzo’s ribs.

“Something wrong?” Vincenzo said, exhaling at last.

“No.  I mean, yes.  I mean...”

Vincenzo sat up and pulled down his undershirt.

“I don’t understand.”

Karras ran a hand through his short black hair. “Neither do I.”

“Perhaps you’d better tell me the problem, Doctor.  I think I deserve to know.”

The examination had started out routinely enough, with Vincenzo arriving at the outpatient cancer clinic, reading in the waiting room until his name was called, and then being examined by Dr. Karras.  But after examining him just as he had now, Karras had stepped over to the chart and pulled out yesterday’s blood test results.  After checking those for what seemed like an unduly long time and shuffling through the sheaf of previous reports, he examined Vincenzo’s abdomen again, then sent him for a CT scan of the liver, with comparison to the previous study.

“Stat,” he’d said into the phone.  “Double stat.”

So Vincenzo had allowed himself to be swallowed by the metal gullet of the scanner where his liver could be radiographically sliced and diced, and now he was back again on the examining table.  He had an inkling as to the nature of Dr. Karras’s discomfiture, but dared not voice it...dared not even think it.

“The problem is—”

The intercom beeped.  “Doctor Weiskopf is here.”

“Weiskopf?” Karras said.  “From radiology?  What’s—?  Oh, shit.  Excuse me.”  He all but leapt for the examining room door.

A few moments later he was back, trailing in his wake a tall, bearded man whom he introduced as Dr. Weiskopf.  He looked about fifty and wore a yarmulke; a large manila x-ray envelope was tucked under his left arm.

“I’ve never met a walking miracle,” Weiskopf said softly as they shook hands.

Vincenzo suddenly felt weak.  “Miracle?”

“What else can you call it?  I looked at your scan from today, then called up your initial scan from July, and I said to myself, Moshe, a trick this Karras kid is playing on you, trying to make a fool of you by asking you to compare the very sick liver of one man to the perfectly healthy liver of another.  And then I spied an osteophyte—doctorese for a bone spur—on one of the vertebrae of the new scan; much to my shock, there was the very same spur on the old scan.  So I had to come and see this man for myself.”

Vincenzo looked from Weiskopf to Karras.  “What...what’s he saying?”

“He’s saying your liver scan’s normal, Monsignor.”

“You mean the tumor’s shrinking?”

“Shrinking?” Weiskopf said.  “It’s gone!  Pfffft!  Like it was never there.  On your first scan your liver was, if you’ll pardon the term, Swiss-cheezed with tumors—”

“Nodular,” Karras added.  “And half again it’s normal size,”

“But now it’s perfectly homogeneous.  Not even a little fatty degeneration.”

“And it’s back to normal size,” Karras said.  “I can barely feel it anymore.”

“Is that what you were doing to me?”  Vincenzo felt giddy and dizzy, wanting to laugh or cry or both, wanting to fall to his knees in prayer but struggling to maintain his composure.  “For a while there I thought you were trying to feel my spine from the front.”

Karras smiled weakly.  “Last week your liver was big and nodular.  Your liver enzymes were climbing.  Now...”

“Maybe we’re onto something with this new protocol,” Weiskopf said.

Karras was shaking his head, staring at Vincenzo.  “No.  The protocol’s a bust.  We haven’t seen significant tumor regression with anyone.”

Weiskopf tapped his x-ray envelope.  “Until now.”

“Uh-uh.” Karras was still shaking his head and staring.  “Even if it were the protocol, tumor regression would be gradual.  A slow shrinking of the tumors.  And even in a best-case scenario we’d be left with a battered and scarred but functioning liver.  The Monsignor’s CT shows a perfectly healthy liver.  Almost as if he’d had a transplant.”

“I can’t explain it,” Weiskopf said.

“Maybe you already did,” Vincenzo said.  “It’s a miracle.”

Vincenzo was regaining his inner composure now.  He hadn’t been totally unprepared for this.  After the apparition had passed through him three nights ago, he’d been wracked with horrific pain for a few moments, and then it had passed, leaving him weak and sweaty.  He’d staggered back to his quarters at the mission where he fell into an exhausted sleep.  But when he awakened early the next morning he’d felt better than he had in years.  And each passing day brought renewed strength and vigor.  A power had touched him outside that alley.  He’d been changed inside.  He’d wondered how, why.  He’d prayed, but he’d dared not hope...

Until now.

A miracle...

The doctors’ smiles were polite but condescending.

“A figure of speech, Monsignor,” Weiskopf said.

Karras cleared his throat.  “I’d like to admit you for a day or two, Monsignor.  Do a full, head-to-toe work-up to see if we can get a handle on this and...”

Vincenzo shook his head as he slipped off the examining table and reached for his cassock.

“I’m sorry, but I have no time for that.”

“Monsignor, something extraordinary has happened here.  If we can pin this down, who knows how many other people we can help?”

“You will find nothing useful in examining me,” he said as he fastened his Roman collar.  “Only confusion.”

“You can’t say that.”

“I wish it were otherwise.  But unfortunately what happened to me cannot be applied to your other cases.  At least not in a hospital or clinic setting.”

“Where then?”

“I do not know.  But I’m going to try and find out.”

Vincenzo was returning to the Lower East Side.  Something was drawing him back.

‡

“Y’soup’s goin’ cold, guy.  Ain’t y’gonna eat it?”

Emilio glanced at the scrawny little man to his right—bright eyes crinkled within a wrinkled face framed by a mass of gray hair and beard matted with food and dirt; a gnarled finger with a nail the color of asphalt pointed to the bowl that cooled before him on the table.

“Do you want it?” Emilio said.

This was Emilio’s third meal at the church-basement soup kitchen called Loaves and Fishes and so far he’d managed to get through each time without having to eat a thing.

“Well, if you ain’t gonna be eatin’ it, it’d sure be a sin to waste it.”

Emilio switched bowls with the old man, trading his full one for an empty.  He placed his slice of bread on the other man’s plate as well.

“Ain’tcha hungry?” the old man said, bending over the fresh bowl and adding his slurps to the chorus of guttural noises around them.

“No.  Not really.”  He’d had a big breakfast in the East Village before walking over to St. Joseph’s.  “I’m not feeling well lately.”

“Yeah?  Well, then, this is the place to be.”  The old man leaned closer and spoke out of the side of his mouth.  “Miracles happen here.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Talk of miracles had brought him to Loaves and Fishes.

Emilio had been in town a week and a half and hadn’t uncovered a thing.  And didn’t expect to.  A waste of time as far as he was concerned.  But the opinion of Emilio Sanchez did not count in this matter.  The Senador wanted him here, sniffing about, turning over any rocks the CDC might miss, and so here he was.  The Senador was receiving copies of the official CDC reports as they were filed.  What he wanted from Emilio was the unofficial story, “the view from street level,” as the Senador had put it.

To do that, Emilio had rented a room in one of the area’s seedy residential hotels, stopped taking showers, and let his beard grow.  He’d picked up some thrift-shop clothes and begun wandering the Lower East Side, posing as a local.

And it was as a local that he’d run into someone named Pilgrim who ranted on about his blind friend Preacher who’d begun to see at a place called Loaves and Fishes, and how all the men who’d been cured of AIDS used to come to Loaves and Fishes.

And so now Emilio came to Loaves and Fishes.

Not that he suspected to find anything even vaguely supernatural going on, but there was always the chance that the place might be frequented by someone pedaling a drug or a folk medicine that might have been responsible for the now-famous AIDS cures.

But he’d found nothing here.  Just a crowd of hungry losers stuffing their faces with anything edible they could lay their hands on.  No fights, which struck Emilio as unusual with this sort of group.  Maybe they were just too busy eating.  Nothing special about the staff, either.  Mostly lonely old biddies filling up their empty days toiling in what they probably thought was service to mankind, plus a beautiful young nun who spent too much of her time in the kitchen.

And a young priest who seemed to be in charge.  Emilio had been startled to recognize him as the same priest the Senador had chewed up and spit out in front of the Waldorf last spring.  He doubted the priest would recognize him, but just the same, Emilio kept his head down whenever he came around.

Disgusted, he decided to leave.  Nothing here.  No miracles of any kind, medical or otherwise.  As he rose to his feet, he heard the priest say he was running back to the rectory for something, but instead of leaving through the front of the room, he used a door in the rear of the kitchen.

Emilio wove through the maze of long tables and hurried up the steps to the street.  As he ambled along, blinking in the sun’s glare and trying to look aimless, he glanced down the alley between the church and the rectory.  He stopped.  Hadn’t he seen the priest go out a door in the kitchen?  He’d assumed it led up to street level.  But there was no corresponding door in the alley.  Where had the priest gone if he hadn’t returned to the rectory?

He looked up at the rectory and was startled momentarily to see the priest’s blond head pass a window.  Emilio smiled.  An underground passage.  How convenient.  He supposed there were all sorts of passages between these old buildings.

He walked on, taking small satisfaction in having cleared up a mystery, no matter how inconsequential.  Emilio didn’t like mysteries.

Further along he passed a man wearing a white lab coat and holding an open brief case before him.  The briefcase was lined with rows of three-ounce bottles.

“Hey, buddy!  You got the sickness?”

Emilio looked at him and the guy’s eyes lit with sudden recognition.  He backed up two steps.

“Oh, shit.  Hey, sorry.  Never mind.”

Emilio walked on without acknowledging him.

How could he learn anything, or even make sense of anything in this carnival atmosphere?  The entire area seemed to have gone mad.  At night people wandered about in droves carrying candles and chanting the Rosary and seeing the Virgin Mary everywhere.  Hucksters were set up on every corner selling “I (heart symbol) Mary-hunting” badges, “Our Lady of the Lower East Side” T-shirts, Virgin Mary statues, slivers of the True Cross, rosaries, and sundry other religious paraphernalia.

Quick-buck grifters and con artists had moved in too.  Emilio had already had run-ins with a few of them, and the guy he’d just passed had been the first.  He’d approached Emilio just as he’d started to today, asking him if he had “the sickness”—the local code for AIDS.

Curious, Emilio had said, “What if I do?”

With that the guy had launched into a spiel about his cure-all tonic, claiming his elixir, “Yes, the stuff right in these bottles you see before you here,” was the stuff that had cured the AIDS cases everyone was talking about.

Emilio had listened awhile, then pushed him into a corner and knocked him around until he admitted that he hadn’t even come to the city until he’d read about the cures.

Emilio had similar run-ins with a number of the snake-oil salesmen he’d come across and under pressure the stories were all the same: charlatans preying on the weak, the sick, and the desperate.

Not that Emilio cared one way or the other, he simply didn’t want to bring one of their potions back to Paraiso and look like a fool in the eyes of the Senador.

This whole trip seemed a fool’s errand.

And yet...

A feeling was in the air...and in himself...a twinge in his gut, a vague prickling at the back of his neck, a sense that these littered streets, these leaning, tattered buildings hid a secret.  Even the air felt heavy, pregnant with...what?  Dread?  Anticipation?  A little of both, maybe?

Emilio shook it off.  The Senador had not sent him here for his impressions of the area; he wanted facts.  And whatever it was that was raising his gooseflesh, Emilio doubted it would be of any use to the Senador and Charlie.

But something was going on down here.

‡

Vincenzo Riccio stood in the dusk on the sidewalk in front of St. Joseph’s church.  He did not stare up at its Gothic facade, but at the doorway that led under its granite front steps.  People carrying candles were beginning to gather on those steps.  They carried rosaries and clustered around an elderly woman in a wheelchair who was preparing them for a prayer meeting tonight.   Vincenzo paid them little heed.

He had wandered the Lower East Side all day, tracing a spiral path from the Con-Ed station by the FDR, following a feeling, an invisible glow that seemed to be centered in the front of his brain, pulling him.  Where or why it was drawing him, he could not say, but he gave himself over to the feeling, allowed it to lead him in shrinking concentric circles to this spot.

And now he was here.  The invisible glow, the intangible warmth, the only warm spot in the city lay directly before him, somewhere within this church.

In the course of the weeks he had spent down here searching for the vision, Vincenzo had passed St. Joseph’s numerous times.  He had crossed himself as he’d come even with its sanctuary, and even had stopped in once to say a prayer.  But he had not been struck by anything especially important about the place.  A stately old church that, like its neighborhood, had seen better days.

Now it seemed like...home.

But what precisely was it that he had followed here?  He had no doubt that the strange sensation was connected to the apparition that had touched him with ecstasy and cleansed him of the malignancy that had been devouring him.  Neither did he doubt that the apparition was a visitation of the Blessed Virgin.  A true visitation.  Not an hallucination, not a wish fulfillment, not a publicity stunt.  He had seen, he had been touched, he had been healed.  This was the real thing.  His wish had been granted: He had witnessed a miracle before his death.  But as a result of that miracle, his death was no longer imminent.  He had been granted extra time.  And he’d used some of that extra time to find this place.

Why?  What was so special about this St. Joseph’s church?  What significance could it have for the Virgin Mary?  It was built on land that had been an undeveloped marsh until a millennium and a half after the birth of Christianity.  Vincenzo did not know of any sacred relics housed here.

And yet...

Something was here.  The same warm glow that had suffused his entire being a few nights ago seemed to emanate from this building.  Not from where he would have expected—from the sanctuary of the church itself—but from its lower level.  From the basement which appeared to be some sort of soup kitchen.

What could be here?  The remains of some American saint unrecognized by the Church?  Was that the reason behind the Blessed Mother’s visitations?

Inside...it’s inside.

Vincenzo was drawn forward.  Why shouldn’t he go in?  After all, he was wearing his cassock and collar.  Who would stop a priest from entering a church?  Especially a monsignor on a mission from the Holy See.  Yes.  Hadn’t the Vatican itself asked him to investigate the reports of visitations in this parish?  That was precisely what he was doing.

As he descended the short flight of stone steps he passed under a hand-painted sign that read “Loaves and Fishes.” He pushed through a battered door and entered a broad room lined with long tables and folding chairs.  Toward the rear, a serving counter.  And beyond that, a kitchen.

Further inside...

Feeling as if he were in a dream, he skirted the tables and moved toward the kitchen.  A growing excitement quivered in his chest.  He heard voices, running water, and clinking crockery from the kitchen.  He rounded the corner and came upon three women of varying shapes, sizes, and ages busily scrubbing pots, plates, and utensils.  The big, red-cheeked one glanced up and saw him.

“Sorry, we’re closed until—oh, sorry, Father.  I thought you were one of the guests.  Are you looking for Father Dan?”

Vincenzo had no idea who Father Dan was.

“Is he the pastor?”

“No.  Father Brenner is the pastor.  Father Dan is the associate pastor.  He went back to the rectory about half an hour ago.”

Down...it’s beneath your feet.

“Is there a basement here?”

“This is the basement, Father,” another woman said.

“But there’s a furnace room below here,” said the thinnest and oldest of the three.

Vincenzo saw a door in the rear corner and moved toward it.

“Not that one,” said the old woman.  “That leads to the rectory.  “There’s another door on the far side of the refrigerator there.”

Vincenzo changed direction, brushing past them, unable to fight the growing urgency within him.

So close...so close now.

He pulled the door open.  A sweet odor wafted up from the darkness below.

Flowers.

As his eyes adjusted, Vincenzo made out a faint glow from the bottom of the rutted stone steps.  He started down, dimly aware of the women’s voices behind him speaking of Father Dan and something about a Sister Carrie.  Whether they were speaking to him or to each other he neither knew nor cared.  He was close now...so close.

At the bottom he followed the light to the left and came upon a broad empty space with a single naked bulb glowing from the ceiling.

No...this can’t be it...there’s got to be more here than an empty basement.

Off to his left...a voice, humming.  He followed the sound around a corner and found the door to a smaller room standing open.  As he stepped inside, his surroundings became more dream like.

I’m here...this is the place...I’ve come home...

Candlelight flickered off the walls and low ceiling of a room that seemed alive with sweet-smelling blossoms.  He saw a woman there, her back was to him and she was humming as she straightened the folds of the robes draped around some sort of statue or sculpture recumbent on—

And then Vincenzo saw the glow.  He recognized that glow, knew that glow.  The same soft, pale luminescence had enveloped the apparition.  He could not be mistaken.  Hadn’t it touched him, been one with him for a single glorious instant?  How could he forget it?  He realized then that this was no statue or sculpture before him.  This was a human body laid out on a makeshift bier.

But whose body?

Suddenly Vincenzo knew, and the realization was like a physical blow, staggering him, numbing him, battering his consciousness until it threatened to tear loose from its moorings and...simply...drift.

This was no holy relic, no unsung, uncanonized saint.  This was her!

He knew it and yet a part of him stubbornly refused to accept it.  Impossible!  Tradition held that she was assumed body and soul into Heaven.  And even if tradition were wrong, even if her body had remained preserved for two thousand years, she would not—could not—be here in this church basement in Lower Manhattan.  It defied all reason, all belief, all common sense.

Can it be her?  Can it truly be her?

As he lurched forward he heard a voice speaking.  His own.  In his native tongue.

‡

“Puo essere lei?  Puo essere veramente lei?”

Carrie cried out in shock and fear at the sound of the strange voice behind her.  She turned and saw a man in black silhouetted in the light from the door, staggering toward her.  Reflexively, she began to dodge aside, but stopped and forced herself to stand firm.  Anyone trying to get to the Virgin would have to go through her first.

Then she saw his collar.  A priest.

“Father?”

He didn’t seem to hear.  He continued forward, trembling hands folded before him as if in prayer, eyes fixed on the Virgin as his expression twisted through a strange mixture of confusion, pain, and ecstasy.

“Puo essere lei?”

She didn’t understand the priest’s words, but the devotion in his eyes caused her insides to coil with alarm.

He knows! she thought.  Somehow he knows!

Sensing he meant no harm, Carrie eased aside and let him approach.  Her mind raced as she watched him gaze down at the Virgin.  No...obviously he meant no harm, but his mere presence was a catastrophe.  No matter what his intentions, he was going to ruin everything.

“Who are you?”

He didn’t seem to hear, only continued to stare down at the Virgin.

“Who are you, Father?”  This time she touched his arm.

He started and half turned toward her, tearing his eyes away from the Virgin at the last possible second.  Carrie hadn’t realized how old and thin he looked until now.

“It’s her, isn’t it,” he said in hoarse, accented English, and Carrie’s heart sank as she searched but found no hint of a question in his tone.  “It’s truly her!”

“Who do you mean, Father?” she said, hoping against hope that he’d give the wrong answer.

But instead of answering in words, he knelt before the Virgin, made the sign of the cross, and bowed his head.

That was more than enough answer for Carrie.  She began to shake.

I’m going to lose her.  They’re going to take her away from me!

At that moment she heard the scuff of hurried footsteps out in the old furnace room, then Dan dashed in.  He skidded to a halt when he saw the figure in black kneeling before the bier, then stared at Carrie, alarmed, confused, breathing hard.

“Hilda called me over...said there was a strange priest...”  He glanced at the newcomer.  “Who...how?”

Carrie shook her head.  “I don’t know.”

Dan stood in the center of the room, looking indecisive for a moment, then he stepped forward and laid a hand on the other priest’s shoulder.

“I’m Father Daniel Fitzpatrick, Father, associate pastor here, and I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

The older man turned his head to the side, then rose stiffly to his feet.  He stared at the Virgin a moment longer, then turned toward Carrie and Dan and drew himself to his full height.

“I am Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio.  From Rome.  From the Vatican.”

Carrie stifled a groan as she heard Dan mutter, “Oh, God.  You’re the priest from the pub!”

“You must explain this,” Msr. Riccio said, gesturing toward the Virgin.  “How...how is this possible?”

“How is what possible?” Dan said.

The older priest raised a hand.  “Please.  There is no point in trying to fool me.  I was touched by her, healed by her.  I know this is the Blessed Mother.  Do you understand?  I do not believe it, think it, or feel it, I know it.  What I do not know is why she is hidden away in this dingy cellar, and how she came to be here.  Will you please explain that to me, Father Fitzpatrick.”

Dan held the monsignor’s stare for a moment, then turned to Carrie and introduced her as Sister Carolyn Ferris.

“Carrie, this is your show.  What do you want to do?  Whatever you decide, I’m with you all the way.”

Carrie felt as if she were perched on the edge of a precipice...during an earthquake.  Her mind was numb with the shock of being discovered.  She could see no sense in lying.  The monsignor already knew the core truth.  Why not tell him the details.

And suddenly hope was alive within her.

Yes!  The details.  Maybe if he knew how the Virgin had been hidden away in a cave much like this subcellar room, he’d realize that she had to remain hidden...right here.

“It began with a scroll Father Fitzpatrick received as a gift...”

‡

“I see,” Vincenzo said softly as Sister Carolyn finished her story, closing with the details of the cures and miracles at the soup kitchen one floor above.

He had been too fascinated to interrupt her long monologue more than once or twice for clarifications.  He had studied her expression for some hint of insincerity, but had found none, at least none that he could detect in the candlelight.  And as she spoke he came to understand something about this beautiful young woman.  She was deeply devoted to the Virgin.  No hint of personal gain or notoriety had crossed her mind in bringing the Virgin here to her church.  It had seemed like the right thing to do, the only thing to do, and so she had done it.  She was one of the good ones.  He sensed a hard knot of darkness deep within her, an old festering wound that would not heal, but otherwise she was all love and generosity.  Had she always been like this, or was it the result of prolonged proximity to...her?

He turned to stare again at the Virgin.

“An incredible story,” he said into the silence.

If I were someone else, he thought, or even if I had happened to stumble upon this little room only last week, before my encounter with the Blessed Mother, I would have said they are both mad.  Good-hearted, sincere, and well intentioned, to be sure, but quite utterly mad.  But I am not someone else, and I believe every incredible word.

“Then you can see, can’t you,” Sister Carolyn said, and Vincenzo sensed that she was praying he could and would see, “that she has to remain here?  Remain a secret?”

“A secret?  Oh, no.  That is the last thing this discovery should be.  This is the Mother of God, sister.  She should have a cathedral of gold, she should be exalted as an ideal, a paradigm for a life of faith and purity.”

“But Monsignor, that isn’t what the Apostles intended when they brought her to the Resting Place in the desert.”

“Who are we to say what the Apostles intended?  And besides, these are different, difficult times.  True faith, generous and loving, seems to be on the wane, replaced by wild-eyed fundamentalist factions that call themselves holy and faithful and servants of God, yet are anything but.  Think what the physical presence of the Mother of God could mean to the Church, to Christianity, to all of humanity?  This could usher in a whole new age of faith.”

“Or mean the end of faith,” Dan said.

The statement startled Vincenzo.  “Whatever do you mean?”

He pointed to the body.  “Here she is—solid, visible touchable.  She cures the incurable.  You don’t need to believe that—it happens.  No faith is necessary when the proof is before you.”

He was right.  Was that what this was all about?  The end of the need for faith?  If so, it marked the beginning of…what?  Peace?

Dear Jesus, it all fit, didn’t it.  It all made sense now.  The discovery of the scroll, the journey of these two good people to the Holy Land, finding the remains of the Blessed Virgin, removing her from the desert, the Vatican sending him to Ireland and then New York, the apparitions, his cure, his arrival in the subcellar of this humble old church—these weren’t random events.  Three times his path and the Virgin’s had crossed: in Cork City, on the streets outside, and now in this tiny room.  There was a pattern here, a purpose, a plan.

And now Vincenzo saw the outcome of that plan.

The Virgin was to be revealed to the world.  And when she was brought to the Vatican, when she joined the Holy Father in Rome, it would herald a new age.  Perhaps it would signal the Second Coming.

Philosophers and academics had been speaking of the end of history for years already.  What will they say now?

The staggering immensity of the final sequence of events that might be set into motion numbed him for a moment.

The end of history...all history.

But he couldn’t tell these two what he knew.  At least not now.  He could, however, try to reassure them.

“There is a plan at work,” he said.  “And we are all playing our parts.  You’ve played your parts, and now I must play mine.  And the Vatican must play its own part.”

“But what if the Vatican doesn’t play its part?” she cried.  “What if, instead of showing her to the world, they hide her away in one of the Church’s deepest vaults where they’ll test her and probe her and argue endlessly whether to reveal her or keep her hidden from the world?  Don’t say it couldn’t happen.  This may not look like much, but here at least she has some contact with the world.  People are benefiting from her presence.  Leave her here.”

“I can’t make that decision.”

“Once she gets to Rome, she may disappear forever, as if we never found her.”

“That is absurd,” Vincenzo said.

But within he wondered if she might not be right.  He was more familiar than she with the internecine ways of the Holy See, and realized it was all too possible that the Virgin might be lost in the labyrinth of Vatican politics.

“Please!” she cried.

He was wounded by the tears in her eyes.  How could he separate her from the Virgin?  That seemed almost...sinful.

Vincenzo shook himself.  His duty was clear.

“I’m sorry, but I really have no choice.  I must report this to Rome at once.”

Sister Carolyn began to sob.  The sound tore at his heart.  He had to leave.  Now.  Before he changed his mind.

“I’ll be back as soon as I have the Vatican’s decision.”

“Don’t be surprised if you find an empty room,” Father Fitzpatrick said.

Vincenzo swung toward him.  “Please do not do anything so foolish as to move her or try to hide her.  I found her here.  I can find her anywhere.”

He hurried out of the room leaving behind the sobbing nun and the stricken, silent priest.

This is the way it has to be, he told himself.  This is the best way, the only way.

Then why did he feel like such a villain?

He would make it up to Sister Carolyn.  He would see to it that she was not separated from her beloved Blessed Mother.  He would convince the Holy see that Sister Carolyn Ferris must accompany the Virgin to Rome to tell her story.

But first he had to convince the Holy See that the body in the subcellar of this church was indeed the Blessed Virgin.  He could do that.  They’d believe him.  He’d debunked so many reputed visitations in the past that they’d listen when he told them he’d found the real thing.  More than a visitation—the greatest find since the dawn of the Christian Era.

And then it would begin.

The Second Coming...the end of history...

‡

Carrie clenched her teeth and tried to rein in her emotions.  What was wrong with her?  She’d never cried easily before.  Now she couldn’t seem to help herself.

She’d just about regained control when Dan stepped up beside her and gently encircled her in his arms.  His touch, and the depth of love and warmth in the simple gesture, toppled her defenses.  She sagged against him and broke down again.

“It’ll be all right, Carrie. We’ll work something out.”

But what could they work out?  Her worst nightmare had come true.

She straightened and faced him.  “They’re going to take her, Dan.  They’re going to take her and seal her away where no one will ever see her again, where no one but a privileged few will even know she exists.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do know that.”  Anger was beginning to elbow aside the fear and desperate sorrow.  “And I know we didn’t go to all that trouble to find her and bring her here just so she could be locked up in a Vatican vault!”

“But what the monsignor said about a ‘plan’ makes sense.  Don’t you feel it?  Don’t you sense a hand moving the pieces around a chessboard.  We’re a couple of the pawns, Carrie.  So’s the monsignor.”

“Maybe,” she said, although she knew exactly what Dan was talking about.  She’d felt it too.  “And maybe the ‘plan’ isn’t meant to play out the way the monsignor sees it.  We can’t let the Vatican have her.”

“How are we going to stop it?  You heard what he said about being able to find her if we try to hide her.  I don’t know how or why, but I believe him.”

Carrie believed him too.  Maybe it was the cure he claimed the Virgin had performed, maybe it was part of the “plan.”  Whatever it was, the monsignor seemed to have been sensitized to the Virgin.  He was like a smart bomb, targeted on Carrie’s dreams.

She had to find a way to stop him.

And suddenly she knew how.

“All right...” she said slowly.  “If we can’t hide her from the monsignor, we won’t hide her at all...from anyone.”

“I don’t—”

“You will.”

Excitement and dread blossomed within her as she considered the repercussions of what she was about to do.

She drew Dan to the Virgin’s side.

“Will you carry her upstairs for me?”

“Upstairs?  Into the kitchen?”

“No.  Further up.  Into the church.”

‡

Dan stood in the nave of St. Joe’s with the Virgin’s stiff remains in his arms, and tried to catch his breath.  The church was locked up tight for the night, silent but for the muffled voices of the latest contingent of Mary-hunters chanting their nightly Rosary outside on the front steps.  He wasn’t puffing from the exertion of carrying her up from the subcellar—the Virgin was as light as ever—but from anxiety.

What was Carrie up to?  She wouldn’t explain.  Was she afraid he’d balk if she told him?  No.  He’d do almost anything to keep her from crying again.  He’d never heard her cry before.  It was a sound he never wanted to hear again.

“Now what?  Where do I put her?”

She stood in the church’s center aisle, turning in a slow circle, as if looking for something.  Suddenly she stopped her turn.

“There,” she said, pointing to the space past the chancel rail.

“In the sanctuary?  There’s no place—”

“On the altar.”

Dan felt his knees wobble.  “No, Carrie.  That wouldn’t be right.”

She turned and faced him, her expression fierce.  “Can you think of anyone with more of a right to be up there?”

Dan couldn’t.

“All right.  But I don’t like this.”

He passed her and walked down the center aisle, genuflected, then stepped over the chancel rail and approached the altar, a huge block of Carerra marble.  It stood free in the center of the sanctuary so the celebrating priest could say Mass facing his congregation.

This was strange, really strange.  What was this going to solve or prove?  Carrie didn’t expect the Virgin to come alive or anything crazy like that, did she?

The thought rattled Dan as he stood before the altar.  His life had been so full of strange occurrences lately that nothing would surprise him.

As he set the Virgin gently upon the gleaming marble surface of the altar, he heard a metallic clank at the far end of the church.  He turned in time to see Carrie pushing open the front doors.

“She’s here!” he heard her cry to the Mary-hunters gathered outside.  “You don’t need to look any further.  The Blessed Mother is here!  Come in!  See her!  She’s waiting for you!”

“Oh. no!” Dan said softly as he saw the Mary-hunters edge through the doors,  “Oh, God, Carrie.  What are you doing?”

They crowded forward, candles in hand, hesitant at first, the curious at the rear pushing those ahead.  They were older, mostly female, with a few younger men and women salted among them.  Plainly dressed for the most part, but they had an eagerness in common.  He saw it in their eyes.  They were searching for something but not quite sure what.

And when they saw the body stretched out on the altar they hesitated, but only for a moment, only for a heartbeat.  Then they were moving forward again, surging ahead like some giant, single-celled organism, filling the center aisle and splashing against the chancel rail.

Dan listened to the talk within the Mary-hunter amoeba.

“Is it her?”...”Do you think that’s really her?”...”That’s not what I expected her to look like”...”Aren’t you forgetting the Assumption?  Can’t be her”...”Right.  She was assumed into heaven, body and soul”...”Besides, she looks too old, all dried up...”

And then the crowd was parting like the Red Sea to make way for a pinch-faced old woman in a wheelchair.  She wore a fur cap despite the heat and was propelled from behind by a burly orderly in whites.

“Let me through.”   The woman swung her cane before her to clear the way.  “I’ll tell you if it’s her or not, but I can’t see from back here.”

Her orderly wheeled her up to the brass gates of the chancel rail and she stared across at the altar.

Over and over Dan hear voices murmur, “What do you think, Martha?” and “Martha will know,” and “What does she say?”

Apparently this Martha was an authority of some sort among the Mary-hunters.

“I...” she began, then stopped.  “This shouldn’t be but... Get me closer, Gregory.”

Her dutiful orderly unlatched the chancel gates and pushed them open.  Dan didn’t want them in the sanctuary and was stepping forward to stop him when he felt a restraining hand on his arm.

Carrie was beside him.

“Wait.  Let her look.”

Gregory wheeled old Martha through the gates and parked her next to the altar where she was almost eye level with the Virgin.  She peered closely through her bifocals, then, tentatively, she reached out and brushed the Virgin’s cheek with her fingertip.

“Oh!” she cried and threw herself back in her chair as if she’d received a jolt of electricity.

Behind her Gregory stood with hands clasped behind his back, unprepared for the sudden convulsive movement.  Martha and her chair went over backward.

A moment of mass confusion in St. Joseph’s with people shouting and crying out in alarm, and then utter silence as Gregory righted the chair, turned to lift Martha back into it, and froze.

Martha was standing beside him.

Dan couldn’t tell who was more surprised—Gregory or Martha.

The old woman looked down at her newly functioning legs and screamed.  Pandemonium reigned then as the rest of the Mary-hunters added their own screams to hers, surging forward, surrounding the joyfully weeping Martha and the altar with its precious burden.

When a modicum of control was finally restored, the Mary-hunters knelt as one and began to recite the Rosary.

Their hunt was over.

Dan felt Carrie squeeze his arm.  He turned and saw her tight grin, the fierce gleam in her eyes.

“Let the Vatican try to keep her a secret now!”

MIRACLES IN MANHATTAN

“We’ve had many healings,” Martha Harrington announced to reporters from the front steps of St. Joseph’s church on the Lower East Side yesterday.

Mrs. Harrington should know.  Three days ago she was wheelchair bound, barely able to stand without the aid of two canes, and even then for only a minute or so.  Now she breezes up and down the steps of St. Joseph’s like a teenager.  She is reportedly the first miracle cure associated with the mummified body on display within the church.

The body, which the faithful proclaim to be the earthly remains of the Virgin Mary, appeared on the altar of St. Joseph’s three nights ago during a prayer vigil on the church steps.  Since then it has become an object of worldwide devotion and the center of a storm of ecclesiastical controversy.  So far, the Archdiocese of New York has had no comment on the healings other than to say that the phenomena are under investigation.

“Not everyone is healed,” Mrs. Harrington said.  “We can’t explain why some are healed and others are not.  It would be presumptuous of me to try.  ‘Many are called but few are chosen,’ as the saying goes.”

Obviously, Martha Harrington sees herself as one of the chosen.

(The New York Times)

IN THE PACIFIC

11o N, 140o W

Now a supercell, the storm increases the whirling velocity of its central winds, growing wider, stretching into the upper atmosphere as it angles northeastward.  Its spinning core organizes into a funnel cloud that dips down...down...down until it brushes the churning surface of the ocean.  The funnel latches onto the sea like a celestial leech, whipping the water to foam as it draws up a thin stream into its 200-mile-an-hour vortex.

NINETEEN

Haifa, Israel

Customs Inspector Dov Sidel sat in his office, sipping tea and skimming this morning’s Ha’aretz.  A low-volume day at the port so he was taking his full break.  He glanced at an article about inexplicable cures in a New York City church attributed to what was supposedly the remains of the Virgin Mary.  After reading half of the first paragraph, he turned the page.

Two heartbeats later he flipped back.

A photo was connected to the article, a grainy black-and-white close-up of the face of the miraculous relic in Manhattan.  Something familiar about that face...

And then he recognized it: the sculpture he’d so admired when it had been shipped through Haifa this summer.  When had that been?  July?  He’d jotted down the name of the Tel Aviv gallery that had shipped it, and on his next trip to the city he’d stopped by the Kaplan gallery in the hope of seeing more works by the same artist.  The owner had told him the Old Woman piece was a one of a kind that he’d bought at auction.  He’d had no idea who the sculptor was.

And now Sidel knew why.  There was no sculptor.

No wonder the owner had seemed so brusque and unhelpful.  He’d smuggled out an archeological artifact as a contemporary work of art.

Inspector Sidel dropped the paper, picked up his phone, and dialed his superior at the central Customs Office.

JERUSALEM: THE LADY IS OURS!

JERUSALEM (AP) The Israeli government has announced that the mummified woman on display in St. Joseph’s church in Lower Manhattan, currently the object of hysterical devotion by throngs of Catholics and Christians of all denominations, belongs to them.  Spokesman Yishtak Levin claims his government has “indisputable evidence that the remains were smuggled out of Israel on July 22 of this year.”  Stating that “the remains are an historic national relic and the rightful property of the Israeli people,” he demanded its immediate return.

(The New York Post)

Manhattan

Kesev stood on the front stoop of a crumbling brownstone and watched the roiling mass of people that filled the street in front of the church.

He seemed to be viewing the scene from deep within a long black tunnel.  He had known despair and hopelessness before, but never like this.  Of all the possible outcomes, this had been his worst-case scenario.

His only hope was the Israeli government’s claim to the Mother.  If its demand for her return was honored, he had a chance.  A slim chance, to be sure, but once she was again on Israeli soil, she was in his domain.  As a Shin Bet officer he would be standing by at all times, waiting to leap upon any opportunity to spirit her away.

Certainly he would find no such opportunity here.  There was no way in or out of the street, let alone the church where the Mother was on display.

The vulgarity of it drove Kesev into a near frenzy of grief and guilt and rage.  He fought the urge to turn and ram his fist through the already cracked glass in the door behind him, then rake his wrist across the razor shards.

But what would that do?  What would that prove?  It would only draw unwanted attention to him.  And the wounds...they’d bleed a little, then they would heal.

And if anyone saw it happen they’d call it another of the Lower East Side miracles.  The door might even become a shrine.

He looked over the multitude again, all pressing forward, hoping today would be the day they could get into the church.  Some of them had been here for days.  They stretched the entire length of the street and into the intersections at both ends.  Traffic was snarled throughout the area.

Madness, that was what it was...

‡

Emilio shook his head in disgust as he squeezed between the bumpers of the overheating cars gridlocked on Avenue C.  He had always believed the world was full of fools, but this display of gullibility amazed even him.

He checked his watch.  Noon.  Time for the first of his thrice-daily calls to Paraiso.  He found a booth with a functioning phone and leaned close as he tapped in the secure line, shielding the buttons from prying eyes.

“Yes, Emilio,” said the Senador’s voice as he picked up the line.  “I’m glad you’re a punctual man.  I’ve been anxiously awaiting your call.”

This was not the Senador’s usual opening.  Immediately Emilio was on alert.

“Yes, sir?”

“I know you’ve been following this thing at Saint Joseph’s church.  Do you still think it’s anything but mass hysteria?”

“All I see around the church are masses of hysterical people, so...yes.  I do.”

“All right, it is mass hysteria, but I’m beginning to think it might be something more.”

Emilio leaned back and rolled his eyes.  Here we go.  But he kept his voice neutral.

“Really?”

“Yes.  I’ve been in touch with some of my contacts in Manhattan, and the unofficial word—this is being kept from the press for the time being—is that a number of the healings in that little church are genuine.  We’re not talking psychosomatic reversals here, where someone imagines himself a cripple and can’t walk until some phony-baloney healer—and believe me, I saw plenty of those while I was looking for a cure for Olivia—lays hands on him and tells him to walk.  They’ve got bona-fide cases of far-gone osteoarthritis of the hip who now have normal x-rays.  And Emilio...”  The Senador paused here.  “Some of those healed have been documented cases of AIDS.”

“Do you want me to bring Charlie here?”  Emilio said.  “To the church?  I’ll get him inside for you—one way or another.”

He imagined ramming a truck through the packed throng of Mary-hunters and driving it up the front steps of the church.

“No.  He’s too weak to travel.  He might not survive the trip.  And even if he did...”  The Senador’s voice trailed off.

Emilio knew what he was thinking: St. Joseph’s was ringed with photographers from newspapers all over the world.  If someone recognized a sick and wasted Charles Crenshaw in the throng, the tabloids would have a field day.

“Whatever it is you want, Senador, you simply have to ask and Emilio will see that it is done.”

“Thank you, Emilio.  I knew I could count on you.  But what I’m about to ask will not be easy.  It will be the most difficult task I’ve ever set for you, and most likely ever will.”

Emilio didn’t like the sound of this.  He waited, holding his breath.  What could the Senador possibly—?

“I want you to bring that relic, or mummy, or whatever it is, here, to Paraiso.”

Emilio froze.  For a moment he couldn’t speak.  Then…”Senador, did you say you want me to bring it to Paraiso?”

“You can’t fail me on this, Emilio.  It may be Charlie’s only hope.”

“You want me to steal it?  Right out of that church?”

“Not steal—borrow.  I don’t want to own it, I simply wish to make use of it for a few hours, then you can return it.”

The Manhattan madness must be highly contagious.  The Senador had caught it all the way out in California.

“Sir...how can I steal it when I can’t even get close to it?”

“Yes.  That is the major problem.  I’m working on this end to make that easier for you.  But you must be ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

Emilio’s mind raced.  The Senador was asking the impossible, yet he seemed to take it for granted that Emilio could pull it off.  Normally Emilio would be buoyed by such absolute confidence, but not this time.  He admitted limits to his own abilities, even if the Senador did not.

“I’ll...I’ll need help.”

“Decker and Molinari will be on their way on the jet.  We’ll hangar it at LaGuardia so it will be at your disposal when you secure this relic.  You’ve got the credit card—charge anything you need.  And if you require cash, I can wire that within minutes.  Spare no expense, Emilio.  This is more important to me than anything else in the world.  Remember that.”

“Yes, Senador.”

He hung up.  Madre! How in the world was he ever going to pull this one off?

He shook himself.  Why worry about it?  As long as this thing in the church remained surrounded by a crush of people twenty-four hours a day, there was no possible way the Senador could expect him or anyone else to steal it.

VATICAN: THE LADY IS OURS!

ROME (AP) The Vatican released a statement today claiming the so-called Manhattan Madonna as property of the Catholic Church.

“The object was discovered on Church property and therefore must be considered Church property unless and until other ownership can be established,” contended Cardinal Pasanante, spokesman for the Vatican.

“Too much publicity attends this object already,” the statement reads.  “It has become the focus of devotion of hysterical proportions.  This is of great concern to the Holy Father.  The Church intends to investigate the many claims of miracles associated with the object, and to substantiate the object’s authenticity, if possible.”

When questioned about Israel’s prior claim on the Madonna, Cardinal Pasanante replied, “We are disputing that.”  When asked what the Church would do if the object should be proven to be the remains of the Virgin Mary and if Israel’s claim to ownership is upheld, the enigmatic cardinal replied, “There are too many if’s in that question.”

(The New York Post )

IN THE PACIFIC

15o N, 136o W

Quantas flight 902 out of Sidney encounters a massive storm along its route to Los Angeles.  Faced with a raging front of swirling clouds, the pilot pushes the L-1011 to another 5,000 feet in altitude and angrily radios back to Sydney.  He was told there was no weather on his flight path and here he is facing a monster.

The reply comes that radar shows no sign of the slightest storm activity at flight 902’s location.

The pilot tells Sydney to get its radar fixed because the mother of all supercells is moving northeast along his course.

TEHRAN: IT’S ALL A ZIONIST PLOT!

Ayatollah Seyed Ali Khamenei proclaimed from Tehran in a message to all Islam that the conflict between Israel and the United States over the supposed remains of the Virgin Mary is “a fiction, a plot cooked up between Zionist Israel and its puppets in the United States.”  He further went on to state that the miracles associated with this false relic are as fictitious as the ownership conflict.  “The infidels’ pitiful attempts to confuse the faithful by presenting false miracles that call into question the great Mohammed’s place as Allah’s one true phosphate will fail.  Do not listen.  It is the voice of Satan speaking!”

(The Daily News)

TWENTY

Manhattan

Carrie turned away from the steaming stove and wiped the perspiration from her face.  Hot down here.  She saw Dan sitting in the corner staring at the floor.

“Why so glum, Father Dan?”

He looked up at her.  The usual sparkle was gone from his eyes, replaced by a haunted look.

I don’t know.”  He sighed as he leaned back in the chair.  “Don’t you get the feeling that everything’s spinning out of control?”

“No,” she said, and meant it.  “Just because we can’t see where events are leading doesn’t mean they’re out of control.  We may not be in the driver seat, but that doesn’t mean we’re on a runaway bus.”

“Is anybody in the driver seat?”

“Always.”

He jerked his thumb toward the ceiling.”I’ll tell you something.  No one’s in charge up there in St. Joe’s.  It’s chaos.”

“Confused, maybe, but it’s not anarchy.”

“Talk to Father Brenner about that, why don’t you.  He’s got a slightly different take on the situation.”

They’d both received a dressing down for opening the church to the Mary-hunters.  They’d expected that.  Father Brenner had lost control of his church—he couldn’t close it at night, couldn’t say Mass for his regular parishioners, couldn’t get on with the day-to-day business of the parish.  Every square inch of St. Joseph’s, from the rear of the sanctuary to the vestibule, down the front steps and into the street, was occupied by a restless, weary mass of humanity in every imaginable state of dress and health.

Father Brenner placed the blame on Dan and Carrie.

Carrie’s order had restricted her to the convent until proper disciplinary action could be taken.  Carrie refused to submit to what she saw as house arrest and, much to the dismay of Mother Superior, went about her usual duties at Loaves and Fishes.  She’d broken her vow of obedience so many times already she couldn’t see what difference it made if she kept on breaking it.  Besides, she’d made a vow to the Virgin to protect her and always stay near—that vow superseded all others.

“Father Brenner should be honored this is happening in his church.  So should you.  This is the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to any of us.  Or ever will “

Dan shook his head slowly and smiled.  “I wish I could look at everything like you do.  I wish I could work a room like you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I wish I could get people to respond to me like you do.  You move through those people upstairs like an angel.  They’re hot, tired, sick, irritable, and hurting.  Yet you squeeze by, say a few words as you pass, and suddenly they love you.”

Carrie felt her cheeks reddening.  “Come on...”

“I’m serious.  I watch you, Carrie.  And believe me, you leave a sea of happiness in your wake.  Sounds corny, I know, but I see the smiles that follow you.  I see the love in their eyes, and they don’t even know you.  You have that effect on people.”

Carrie hesitated, trying to frame a reply, and then the phone rang.  Dan picked it up.

“Hello?...Hi, Brad.  Fine.  Yeah, she’s right here.  Hang on.”

He passed the phone over to Carrie, then waved as he took the tunnel back to the rectory.

“Hi, Brad,” Carrie said.  “What’s up?”

“It’s Dad.”

Carrie groaned.  “Now what?”

“He could be on his way out.”

She’d heard that before.

“What is it this time?”

“They were just getting ready to send him back to the nursing home when he had another heart attack.  A bad one.  They’ve moved him into the coronary care unit.”

Carrie said nothing, felt nothing.

“He’s asking for you,” Brad said.

“What else is new?”

“The doctors say he’s not going to make it this time.  He’s on a respirator, Car.  He looks like hell...”

That’s where he’s going.

“...and I just wish, before he dies, you could find some way to forgive—”

“How can I forgive what he did to me?” she said in a fierce whisper.  “How?”

“God forgave—”

“I’m not God!”

“At least give him a chance to say he’s sorry.”

“Nothing he can say—”

Brad’s voice rose.  “You’re better than he is, Carrie!  Act like it!”

And then he hung up.

Carrie stared at the receiver, stunned.  Brad had never yelled at her before.  Never lost his temper.

She replaced the receiver on the cradle and shoved her hands into her pockets.

Poor Brad.  Always the peacemaker—first between that man and Mom, now between that man and her.  But how could he think she could ever...

Carrie’s right hand pressed against the two little Zip-loc bags in her pocket.  The powdered nail clippings and the ground-up hair...

The stuff of miracles.

She decided to make a pilgrimage to the hospital.

‡

Carrie stood outside the door to CCU and trembled like one of her homeless guests in the throes of withdrawal.

How bad could this be?

She didn’t know.  And that was what terrified her.  Fourteen years since she’d last seen that man.  Half her life.  Sixteen years since he’d started sneaking into her bedroom at night...

And Brad...how much had her older brother known?

He’d never said.   They’d never discussed it, never laid it out on the table between them and stared at it.  He always referred to it as “the trouble” between her and that man.  Brad could have been discussing wrecking the family car or getting sick drunk.  “The trouble”...

Some trouble.

At first, as a pre-teen, Carrie had been afraid Brad would hate her if he found out, hate her as much as she hated herself.  And then she’d thought, he has to know.  How can he not know?

And if he knew, why didn’t he say something?  Why didn’t he help her?  Why didn’t he do something to stop that man?

Carrie was pretty sure Brad had spent the years since she ran away asking himself those same questions.  She wondered what answers he came up with.  She wondered if he’d ever really faced what that man he called Dad had done to his little sister.  Probably hadn’t.  Probably had it hidden in some dark corner of his mind, buried under a pile of other childhood and teenage memories where he couldn’t see it.

But he could smell it.  Carrie knew the stink of those two hideous years had affected the rest of Brad’s life.  Incessant work...a life so filled with deadlines and meetings and shuttling between coasts that that it left no room for old memories to surface...a life alone, without a wife or even a steady live-in, because a lasting relationship might lead to children and God knows what he might do if he ever fathered a little girl...

Carrie half turned away from the CCU door, ready to leave, then turned back as Brad’s final words echoed through her brain.

You’re better than he is, Carrie!  Act like it!

She set her jaw, numbed her feelings, and forced herself to push through into the CCU.

White...white walls, white curtains between the white-sheeted beds, white-clad nurses gliding from bed to bed, bright white sunlight streaming through the southern windows...flashing monitors, hissing respirators, murmuring voices...

Carrie turned to flee.  She couldn’t do this.

“Can I help you, Sister?” said a young nurse with a clipboard.

Carrie mechanically handed her the visitor pass.  “W—Walter Ferris?”

A smile.  “Bed Two.”  She pointed to the far end of the unit.  “He’s stable now, but please limit your visit to no more than ten minutes.”

Ten minutes?  Might as well say ten eternities.

The air become gelatinous and Carrie had to force her way through it toward Bed Two.  She couldn’t breathe, her knees wobbled, her hands shook, her intestines knotted, she had to go to the bathroom, but she kept pushing forward.  Finally she was standing at the foot of the bed.  She compelled her eyes to look down at it occupant.

The room spun about her as she stared at a pale, grizzled, wizened old man with thin white hair and sunken features.  His hospital gown seemed to lay flat against the mattress.  Wires and tubes ran under that gown, a clear tube ran into his right nostril, a ribbed plastic hose protruded from his mouth and was connected to a respirator that pumped and hissed as it filled and emptied his lungs.  His eyes were closed.

He looked dead.

She moved to the side of the bed, opposite of where a nurse was swabbing the inside of his mouth with some sort of giant Q-tip.

“What are you doing?” Carrie asked.

The nurse looked up, another young one, blonde.  They all seemed young in here.

“Just running a lemon swab over his oral membranes.  Keeps them moist.  Makes him more comfortable.  You must be his daughter.  Your brother’s mentioned you a lot but he said you couldn’t come.”

Carrie could only nod.

The nurse dropped the swab into a cup of water on the bedside table.  “I’ll leave you two alone.”

Carrie fought the urge to grab her and hold her here.

No!  Please don’t leave me alone with him!

But the nurse hurried off.  Carrie thanked God he was asleep.  She’d do what she came here to do and then leave.

“I forgive you,” she said softly.

Who knew what torment he’d been going through during Mom’s illness?  Perhaps something had snapped within him...temporary insanity.  There was a good chance he’d never done anything like that before or since.  One sick period in an entire life...true, that period had scarred both his children for the rest of their lives, but now, at the end of his days, it was time for forgiveness.  These were words Carrie had thought she’d never say, but her time with the Virgin had brought a change within her, a softening.

Humans are frail, and there is no sin that cannot be forgiven.

“I forgive you,” she repeated.

And his eyes opened.  Watery blue, struggling to focus, they narrowed, then widened.  He saw her, he knew her.  A trembling hand lifted, grasped her fingers where they clung to the side rail.

Touch...he was touching her again!

It took everything Carrie had not to snatch her hand away and run screaming from the CCU.  She hung on, quelling the urge to vomit as he squeezed her fingers in his arthritic grasp.

And then he loosened his grip and his fingers began to caress the back of her hand.  She felt her intestines writhe with revulsion but she kept her hand where it was.

He’s half out of his mind, she told herself.  Disoriented... doesn’t know what he’s doing.

But then she saw the smile twisting his lips, and the look in his eyes.  No repentance there, no guilt...more like fond memories.

Carrie pulled her hand away.  She wanted to run but she stood firm.  Maybe she was projecting.  Wasn’t that what they called it when you saw what you expected to see?  Maybe he was just glad to see her and she was misinterpreting his responses.  After all, she hadn’t laid eyes on him in fourteen years...

She couldn’t run now.  Not after she’d made it this far.  Besides, she’d come here on a mission.

To give him a chance.

She glanced around.  All the nurses were busy.  She pulled out the Zip-loc baggie filled with the filed nails from the Virgin and dipped a finger into the powder.  Originally she’d planned to mix it with a few drops of water and let him drink it, but with all these tubes running in and out of him, she didn’t see how that would be possible.  But that citrus swab looked perfect.

She pulled it from the plastic cup, transferred the powder from her finger to the swab, and then leaned over the bed.

He was still looking at her with that...that expression in his eyes.  She shuddered and concentrated on his mouth, slipping the swab through his open lips and running it across his dry tongue and up and down the insides of his cheeks.

His smile broadened.  His hand reached up to grab her wrist but she pulled back in time to avoid him.

“There,” she said softly.  “I’ve done my part.  The rest is between you and God.”

He continued to stare at her, grinning lasciviously.  She couldn’t stand it anymore.  She’d done her duty.  No use in torturing herself any longer.

“I’m going to go now.  I never—”

Suddenly his smile vanished and he began to writhe in the bed.  Carrie heard the beeps of his cardiac monitor increase their tempo.  She glanced up and saw the blips chasing each other across the screen.  She smelled something burning, and when she looked down, black, oily smoke was seeping out around the edges of his hospital gown.  The skin of his arms began to darken and smoke.

“Nurse!” Carrie cried, not knowing what else to do.  “Nurse, what’s happening?”

By the time the blonde nurse reached the bedside his writhing had progressed to agonized thrashing.  Smoke streamed from his now blackened skin and collected in a dark, roiling cloud above the bed as he tore the respirator tube from his throat and belched a stream of black smoke with a hoarse, breathy scream.

The nurse gasped.  “Oh, my God!”

At that instant he burst into flame.

The nurse screamed and Carrie reeled away, raising her arm to shield her face from the heat.

He was burning!  Dear sweet Jesus, the whole bed was engulfed in a mass of flame!

No...not the bed.  Carrie saw now that the bed wasn’t burning.  Neither was his hospital gown.  Nor the sheets.

Just him.

The CCU dissolved into chaos.  Screams, shouts, white-clad bodies darting here and there, shouting into phones, brandishing fire extinguishers, dousing the bed with foam, with white jets of carbon dioxide, but the flames burned on unabated, crisping his skin, boiling his eyes in their sockets, peeling the blackened flesh from his bones, and still he moved and writhed and kicked and thrashed, still alive within the consuming flames.

Still alive...still burning...

And then when it seemed that there was nothing left of him but his skeleton and a crisp blackened membrane stretched across his bones, he stiffened and arched his body until only his heels and the back of his head touched the mattress.  He remained like that for what seemed an eternity, exhaling his last smoky breath in a prolonged, quavering ululation, then he collapsed.

And with his collapse, the flames snuffed out.

All was quiet except for the long high-pitched squeal of his flat-lined cardiac monitor.  The nurses and orderlies crowded around the bed, covering their mouths and noses as they gaped at the blackened, immolated thing that had once been Walter Ferris, lying stiff and twisted in his unmarred, unscorched hospital gown.

Sick with the horror of it, Carrie staggered back, fighting to maintain her grip on consciousness.  She turned and stumbled toward the swinging doors, the voices of the CCU staff echoing above the howl of the monitor...

“Christ, what happened?”...”An oxygen fire?”...”Naw, look at the bed—not even scorched!”...”What happened to the smoke alarms?  How come they never went off?”...”Damnedest thing I ever seen!”...

Out in the hall Carrie stepped aside to let the hospital’s emergency crew pass.  She leaned against the wall and retched.

She’d come here to forgive him...she had forgiven him.

Apparently someone else had not.

Archdiocese to Close St. Joe’s

The Cardinal has announced that the Archdiocese of New York will temporarily close St. Joseph’s Church until the Diocese and Vatican officials have had time to evaluate the phenomena surrounding the relic displayed on the altar of the Lower Manhattan church.

“Let’s just call it a cooling-off period,” the Cardinal declared at a news conference yesterday.  “In the present climate of crowds, hysteria, and conflicting claims of right of ownership, clear, reasoned, dispassionate judgment is quite nearly impossible.”

St. Joseph’s parishioners will be instructed to attend services at St. Mark’s-in-the-Bowery until their own church is reopened.

The city has announced it will clear the area around St. Joseph’s in order to allow Church investigative teams to do their work without interference.

(The New York Post)

Emilio stood back and watched the police herd the Mary-hunters from the street in front of St. Joseph’s.  The hordes of the faithful were reluctant to go and protested vociferously.  Some protested with more than their voices, crying that they had driven thousands of miles to be healed and weren’t about to be turned away now.

But they were indeed turned away.  And some of those who would not leave voluntarily were either dragged away or driven away in the backs of paddy wagons.

By whatever means necessary, the entire block was cleared by nightfall.  The church doors were locked and a police cordon was set up across each end of the street.

Emilio shook his head in admiration.  He didn’t know how he had done it, but he saw the Senador’s hand in all this.  There were still roadblocks before him, but the Senador had cleared the major obstacle between Emilio and the relic.

The rest was up to him.

Already he had a plan.

IN THE PACIFIC

20o N, 128o W

The storm continues to gain in size and strength as it races along its northeasterly course.  It now stretches one hundred and fifty miles across as its cumulonimbus crown reaches to forty thousand feet.

The spinning core of its heart increases its speed, and the entire storm moves with it.  The swirling mass of violent weather is aimed toward northern Mexico.

TWENTY-ONE

Manhattan

Decker honked and yelled and edged the D’Agostino’s truck through the crowd until it nosed up against one of the light blue “Police Line” horses that blocked access to the street ahead.  Beyond the barrier the pavement stretched dark and empty in front of St. Joseph’s, illuminated in patches by the streetlamps.  An island of calm in a sea of frustrated Mary-hunters.

“You know what to say?” Emilio said.

Decker nodded.  “Got it memorized.”

He jammed some gum into his mouth and slid out from behind the wheel as one of the cops approached.

Emilio watched from his spot in the middle of the front seat.  Molinari slouched to his right, trying to look casual with his elbow protruding from the open passenger window.  Emilio was keeping a decidedly low profile at this point in their little mission.  Decker and Mol sported extra facial hair, glasses, and nostril dilators to distort their appearances, but Emilio had gone to the greatest length to disguise himself.  He’d added a thick black beard to augment his mustache, a shaggy wig, and a Navy blue knitted watch cap pulled low over his forehead, almost to his eyebrows.  He was often caught in the background when the Senador was photographed leaving his office or his car, and he didn’t want the slightest risk of being identified later.

“Street’s closed, buddy,” the cop said.  “You gotta go down to—”

“Gotta delivery here,” Decker said, chewing noisily on the gum as he fished a slip of paper from his pocket.  “The rect’ry.”

“Yeah?  Nobody told me about that.”

“We deliver alla time, man.  Youse guys maya shut down da choich, but dem priests still gotta eat, know’m sayin’?”

As the cop stared at Decker, Emilio winced and closed his eyes.  He heard Mol groan softly.  Decker was laying it on too thick.

The cop pulled a flashlight from his belt.  “Let’s have a look at what you’re deliverin’.  You wouldn’t be the first Mary-hunters tried to sneak by us tonight.”

Emilio nodded as Mol nudged him.  They’d done this right.  This was no fake D’Agostino’s truck.  This was the real thing.  They’d hijacked it just as it left the store.  The driver was bound, gagged and unconscious in the trunk of a car Mol had stolen this afternoon.  The back of the panel truck was loaded with grocery bags, all scheduled for delivery elsewhere, but Emilio had changed the addresses on half a dozen of them to read “St. Joseph’s rectory.”

Emilio heard the rear doors open, heard the rustle of paper as a few of the bags were inspected, then heard the door slam closed.

Seconds later, Decker was slipping back behind the wheel as the cop slid the barrier aside and waved them through.

“‘Choich?’“ Mol said, leaning forward and staring at Decker.  “‘Choich?’“

Decker shrugged, grinning.  “What can I say?  I’m a Method actor.”

Mol laughed and grabbed his crotch.  “Method this!”

Emilio let them blow off a little steam.  They were in—past the guard house, so to speak—but they still had a long way to go.

Decker gave a friendly wave to the cop standing on the sidewalk in front of the church as he drove past, and backed the truck into the alley on the far side of the rectory.  Mol and Emilio got out, opened the rear of the trunk, grabbed some bags, and left the doors open as they approached the rectory’s side door with loaded arms.

A middle-aged woman opened the door.

“A gift for Father Dan from one of his parishioners,” Emilio said.  “Is he in?”

Emilio knew he was in—he’d confirmed that with a phone call.

“Why, yes,” the woman said.  She let them into the foyer, then turned and called up the stairs behind her.  “Father Dan!  Someone here to see you!”

By the time she turned back again, Mol had put his grocery bags down and had a pistol pointing at her face.

“Not a word, or we’ll shoot Father Dan.  Understand?”

Eyes wide, jaw trembling, utterly terrified, she nodded.

“Anyone else in the house besides Father Dan?” Mol said.

She shook her head.

“Good.”  Mol smiled.  “Now, let’s find a nice little closet so we can lock you up where you won’t get hurt.

Emilio had his own automatic—a silenced Llama compact 9mm—ready and waiting for Father Dan when he came down the stairs.

“Hello,” the priest said.  “What—”

And then he saw the pistol.

“Let’s go to church, shall we, Father?” Emilio said.

The young priest looked bewildered.  “But there are police all over—”

“The tunnel, Father Dan.  We’ll use the tunnel.”

The priest shook his head.  “Tunnel?  I don’t know what you’re—”

Emilio jabbed the silencer tip against his ribs.  “I’ll shoot your housekeeper in the face.”

“All right!” Father Dan said, blanching.  “All right.  It’s this way.”

“That’s better.

Mol rejoined them then, and gave Emilio a thumbs-up sign.  The housekeeper was safely locked away.  She’d keep quiet to protect her precious priest from being shot while the priest was leading them to the church in order to keep his housekeeper from being shot.

Wasn’t brotherly love wonderful?

But repeated reminders never hurt.  Emilio had worked this one out and memorized it: “No heroics, please, Father.  We’re not here to hurt anyone, but we’re quite willing to do so without hesitation if the need arises.  Remember that.”

‡

Why are all these things happening, Mother?

Carrie sat in the front pew, staring at the Virgin where she lay upon the altar.

She could not get the sight of her father—now that he was dead, had died so horribly, it seemed all right to call him that—out of her head.  The flames, the oily smoke, the smell, the obscene sizzle of burning human flesh haunted her dreams and her waking hours, stealing her appetite, chasing her sleep.  That had been no ordinary fire.  Only the man had burned, nothing else.

Did I do that, Mother?  Did you?  Or was that the work of Someone Else’s hand?

And now the church was closed, the sick and lame turned away, the building sealed, the street blocked off.  What next?  Tomorrow these aisles would be crowded with investigators from the Archdiocese and the Vatican, trailed by nosy, disrespectful bureaucrats from City Hall and Albany, from Washington and Israel, all poking, prodding, examining.

They’ll be interrogating me about how you got here.  I won’t tell them a thing.  It’s not me I’m worried about, Mother.  It’s you.  They’ll treat you like a thing—an it.  They may even decide you belong back in Israel.  What’ll I do then, Mother?

Carrie felt tears begin to well in her eyes.  She willed them away.

There’s a plan, isn’t there, Mother?  There has to be.  I just have to have faith and—

She heard a noise in the vestibule and turned.  She smiled when she saw Dan leading two other strange-looking men up the aisle, but he did not return her smile.  He looked pale and grim.

And then she saw the pistols.

She shot to her feet.  “Dan?  What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”  His voice was as tight as his features.  “They came into the rectory and—”

“What we want is very simple,” the bigger, bearded one said.  He stopped a dozen feet or so down the aisle from Carrie and let Dan continue toward her.  He gestured toward the altar with his pistol.  “We want that.”

Carrie was stunned for a few seconds, unable, unwilling to believe what she’d just heard.

“Want her for what?” she managed to say.

“No time for chatter, Sister.  Here’s how we’ll do this.  You two will carry her back through the tunnel to the rectory, and we’ll take her from there.  No tricks, no games, no heroics, and no one gets hurt.”  He gestured with his pistol at Dan.  “You take the head and she’ll take the feet.  Let’s move.”

“No!” Carrie said.

The bearded man snapped his head back in surprise.  Obviously he hadn’t expected that.

Neither had Carrie.  The word had erupted from her with little or no forethought, propelled by fear, by anger, by outrage that anyone could even think of stealing the Virgin from the sanctuary of a church.

She faced him defiantly.

“Get out of here.”

He stared at her for a heartbeat or two, then pointed his gun at Dan.

“You cause me any trouble and I’ll shoot your priest friend.”

“No, you won’t.  There’s a cop outside that door.  All I have to do is scream once and he’ll be in here, and that will be the end of you.  Get out now.  I’ll give you a chance to run, then I’m going to open the front doors and call the police inside.”

“I’m not kidding, lady,” the big one said through his teeth.  “Get up there and do what you’re told.”

“Carrie, please,” she heard Dan say from her left.  “It’s okay.  They can’t get past the cops with her anyway.  So just do as he says.”

Dan might be right, but Carrie wasn’t going to let these creeps get their filthy hands on the Virgin for even a few seconds.

“Get out now or I scream.”

The shorter one looked about nervously, as if he wanted to take her up on the offer, but the bearded one stood firm.  His eyes narrowed as he raised his pistol and aimed it at her chest.  His voice was low and menacing.

“No me jodas.”

He wouldn’t dare, she thought.  He’s got to be bluffing.

“All right,” she said.  “I gave you your chance.”

Still they didn’t move, so she filled her lungs and—

She saw the flash at the tip of the silencer, saw the pistol buck, heard a sound like phut!, felt an impact against her chest, tried to start her scream but she was punched backward and didn’t seem to have any air to scream with.  And then she was falling.  Darkness rimmed her vision as a distant roaring surged closer, filling her ears, bringing with it more darkness, an all-encompassing darkness...

‡

Nara, Japan

As the first rays of the sun crest the horizon and light the flared eaves of the Todaiji temple, the largest wood structure in the world, it begins to dissolve, to melt into the air.  And as the sun rises farther, the temple further dissolves.  Finally the sun strikes the bronze surface of the Daibutsu.  The bronze of the Buddha seems to glow for a moment, then it too dissolves.

In a manner of minutes, nothing of the Todaiji or its Buddha remains.

‡

Manhattan

Emilio stood frozen with his automatic still pointed at where she had been standing as he watched her fall and lay twitching on the marble floor, the red of her life soaking through the front of her habit and pooling around her.

“Christ, Emilio!” Mol gasped beside him.

“Carrie!” the priest cried, dropping to his knees beside her and gripping her limp shoulders.  “Oh, God, Carrie!”

I’m sorry, Emilio thought.  I’m so sorry!

And that shocked him.  Because he’d killed before without the slightest shred of guilt.  Anyone who threatened him or stood between him and what he wanted didn’t deserve to live.  It had always been that simple.  But here, now, in this place, before that old woman’s body on the altar, a new emotion, as unpleasant as it was unfamiliar, was seeping through him.

Guilt.

The priest looked up at him, tear-filled eyes wild, rage and grief distorting his features almost beyond recognition.  With a low, animal-like growl he hurtled himself at Emilio.

A bullet in the head would have been the simplest, most efficient response.  But Emilio couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger.  Not again, not here, with...her here.  Instead he dodged aside and slammed the Llama’s butt and trigger guard hard against the priest’s skull, staggering him.  Before the man could shake off the blow, Emilio hit him again, harder this time, knocking him to the floor where he lay still with a trickle of red oozing from his scalp.

Mol had already started back down the center aisle.

“Where are you going?”

He turned and looked at Emilio, fear in his eyes.  “I—”

“Shut up and stand still.  Listen!”

Emilio strained his ears through the silence.  And as he’d hoped, it remained just that: silent.  None of the noise in here had penetrated the heavy oak front doors; the cop outside had no idea anything was going on inside.

“All right,” Emilio said, gesturing toward the altar.  “Let’s get moving.”

Mol hesitated, glanced once more at the front doors, then shrugged and hurried toward the altar.  Emilio directed him toward the head of the body while he took the other end.

But as he reached to take hold of the feet, he hesitated.  He hadn’t believed in this church-priest-God-religion bullshit since he’d been a little boy in Camino Verde and watched his older sister screw the neighborhood men in the back corner of their one-room shack.  Any guilt he’d felt a moment ago had been a leftover from the times his grandmother would drag him off to church before he was big enough to tell her to go to hell.  And yet...a deep part of him was afraid to touch this mummified old woman, afraid a lightning bolt would crash through the ceiling of the church and fry him on the spot.

“Bullshit!” he whispered and gripped the body’s ankles.

Nothing happened.

Angry with himself for feeling relieved, he nodded to Mol who had her by the shoulders, and together they lifted her off the altar.

Surprisingly light.  They each got a comfortable grip on her, then hurried down the center aisle, Emilio leading, carrying her feet first.  Through the vestibule, down the steps into the locked-up soup kitchen in the cellar, through the tunnel, and back up into the rectory.  All still quiet there.  Decker would have been inside if anyone had come in.  They eased the body out the side door, slipped her into the back atop the grocery bags, and locked the doors.

Emilio climbed into the cab next to Decker and slapped the dashboard.  “Let’s go.”

“Any trouble?” Decker said as he nosed the truck into the street.

“Not really,” Emilio said.

Mol snorted.  “Like hell!”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Emilio said.  “Just drive.”

He wanted Decker cool and calm for the drive back past the police and through the crowd, but he needn’t have worried.  The police waved them by, and even made a path for them through the horde of Mary-hunters beyond.

Once they were free of the crowd and rolling toward the FDR Drive, Emilio allowed himself to breathe a little more easily.  And he’d breathe even more easily when they ditched this rig and switched the body to the Avis panel truck he’d rented earlier.  But he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax fully until they had it aboard the Senador’s waiting jet and were airborne over LaGuardia.

‡

Angkor, Cambodia

As the rays of the rising sun touch the five towers of the Temple to Vishnu, the stone begins to dissolve.  By the time the sun is fully above the horizon, the temple is no more.

‡

Manhattan

She is gone!

Kesev violently elbowed his way through the crowd near St. Joseph’s, leaving a trail of sore and angry Mary-hunters in his wake.  Let them shout at him, wave their fists at him, he didn’t care.  He had to reach the church, had to know if his suspicion was true.

During the past hour he had felt a dwindling of the Mother’s presence, and then suddenly it was gone.

He’d sensed something else, felt a change coming over the world.  A wheel had been set in motion.  What would its turning bring?

Finally he reached the front of the crowd, but as he squeezed under the barricade, two blue-uniformed policemen, one white, one black, confronted him.

“Back on the other side, buddy,” the white one said.

“You don’t understand,” Kesev told him.  “She’s gone.  They’ve stolen her.”

He heard the crowd behind him begin to mutter and murmur with concern.

“Now don’t go starting trouble, Mister,” the black one said.  “The lady’s fine.  We’ve been out here all night and nobody’s been in or out of that church.”

“She is gone, I tell you!”  Kesev turned to the crowd and shouted, “They have stolen the Mother right out from under your noses!”

“Shut up!” the white policeman hissed in his ear.

But Kesev wrenched free and began running toward the front of the church.

“Come!” he shouted to the crowd.  “Come see if I am not telling you the truth!”

That was all they needed.  With a roar they knocked over the police line horses and surged onto the street, engulfing any cop who tried to stop them.

The lone policeman stationed in front of the church backed up to the front doors but decided to get out of the way as Kesev charged up the steps with the mob close behind him.  A few good heaves from dozens of shoulders and the doors gave way and they flowed through the vestibule and into the nave.

And stopped with cries of shock that rapidly dwindled, finally fading into horrified silence.

The altar was bare.  And near the end of the center aisle two figures huddled on the floor.  Kesev recognized them immediately—the nun and the priest from the El Al plane back in July.

The priest was kneeling in a pool of red, weeping, his deep, wracking sobs reverberating through the church as blood from a scalp wound trickled down his forehead to mingle with his tears.  In his arms lay the limp, blood-soaked form of the nun.

Kesev, too, wept.  But for another reason.

‡

Mumbai, India

The rosy fingers of dawn grasp the decorative tower of the Mahalakshmi Temple and squeeze it and the rest of the structure from existence.

‡

Manhattan

“Do you remember me?”

Dan forced his eyes open.  He was cold, he was sick, he was emotionally drained and numb; his head was pounding like a cathedral gong, and his scalp throbbed and pulled where it had been stitched up.  But the greatest pain was deep inside where no doctor could see or touch, in the black void left by Carrie’s death and the brutal, awful, finality of her dying.

The four hours he’d spent here seemed like minutes, seemed like ages.  He’d sat in a daze, occasionally staring at the TV screen suspended from the ceiling.  Something was happening in the Far East.  Temples, mosques, churches were disappearing, vanishing as if they’d never been, leaving not a trace even of their foundations.  Only empty holes remained where they’d stood. But all other buildings around them remained intact.  It was happening with the rising of the sun.  Dawn was sweeping across the world like a scythe, leaving not a single place of worship standing. Words and phrases like Antichrist and End Times filled the airwaves.

So what.

Dan looked up from his seat in the Emergency Room of Beekman Downtown Hospital.  For a rage-blinded instant he thought the black-bearded man with the accented voice standing over him was the bastard who’d shot Carrie.  He tensed to launch himself at him, then realized this was someone else.  Just as intense, but much too short.  He’d seen this man before but his grief-fogged brain couldn’t recall where or when.

“No,” he said.

“At Tel Aviv airport last summer...I was questioning your nun friend and you—”

Now Dan recognized him.  “The man from the Shin...”  He fumbled for the word.

“Shin Bet.  The name is Kesev.  But I’m here unofficially now.”

“I wish we’d never gone to Israel,” he said, feeling a sob growing in his chest.

Carrie...dead.  Dan still couldn’t believe it.  This had to be a dream, the worst nightmare imaginable.  A dream.  That was the only logical explanation for all these fantastic, unexplainable events, the most unbelievable of which was Carrie’s death.  Life without Carrie...a Carrie-less world...unthinkable.

But it had seemed so real when he’d held her limp, cold, blood-drenched body in his arms back there in St. Joe’s.

So real!

“I wish you’d arrested us and jailed us.  At least then Carrie would still be alive.”

“So do I,” Kesev said.  “For more than her sake alone.  There are other matters to consider.”

“Yeah?  Like what?”

Dan heard the belligerence creeping into his tone, into his mood.  What right did this Israeli bastard have to come up to him here in the depths of his grief and start bothering him about Carrie?  What did anything matter now that Carrie was dead?

“We must find the Mother.”

“You find her!  She’s brought me nothing but grief.”

He started rise but Kesev restrained him with a surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder.

“If we find the Mother, we find the killers.”

Dan leaned back into the chair.  Find the killers...wouldn’t that be nice?  To wrap his fingers around that big bearded bastard’s throat and squeeze and squeeze, and keep on squeezing until—

“Father Fitzpatrick?”

Dan looked up.  One of the homicide detectives who’d questioned him before was approaching—Sergeant Gardner.  He carried a black plastic bag in his hand.  What did he want now?  He’d told him everything, given descriptions of the killers, the sound of their voices, anything he could think of.  He was tapped out.

He noticed Kesev slipping away as the detective neared.

“They’re shipping her remains uptown,” Gardner said.

Dan lurched to his feet.  “Why?  Where?”

“S-O-P.  To the morgue.  They’re going to autopsy her right away.”

“So soon?”  Hadn’t Carrie been through enough?  “I’d’ve thought—”

“The pressure’s on, Father.  We’ve got a big, mean, unruly crowd outside your church, and from what I hear, the commish has already heard from the cardinal, the mayor, Albany, even the Israeli embassy.  Everybody but everybody wants these guys caught and that relic returned.  The commish wants a full forensic report on his desk by six a.m., so they’re going to do her right away.”

“Can I see her before—?”

Gardner shook his head.  “Sorry.  She’s gone.  Saw her off myself.”  He held out the black plastic bag.  “But here’s her personal effects.  You want to return them to the convent?  If not...”

“No, that’s all right.  I’ll take them.”

Detective Gardner handed the bag over and stood before him, awkward, silent.  Finally he said, “We’ll get them, Father.”

Dan could only nod.

As the detective hurried away, Dan sat and opened the bag.  Not much there: a wallet, a rosary, and Carrie’s Zip-loc bags of the Virgin’s clippings and nail filings.

For an insane moment Dan thought of cabbing up to the morgue—it was up in the Bellevue complex, wasn’t it?...First Avenue and 30th...he could be there in a couple of minutes.  He’d sneak into the autopsy room.  He’d sprinkle the entire contents of both bags over Carrie’s body and...

And what?  Bring her back to life?

Who am I kidding? he thought.  That’s Stephen King stuff.  Carrie’s gone...forever.

Without warning, he broke into deep, wracking sobs.  He hadn’t even felt them coming.  Suddenly they were there, convulsing his chest as they ripped free.

A hand touched his shoulder.  He fought for control and looked up.  The man called Kesev had returned.

“Come, Father Fitzpatrick.  I’ll take you home.  There are things we must discuss.”

Dan nodded absently.  Home...where was that?  The rectory?  That wasn’t home.  Where was home now that Carrie was dead?  He didn’t care where he went now, he just knew he didn’t want to stay in this hospital.

He bunched up the neck of the plastic bag and followed Kesev toward the exit.

‡

Manhattan

Dr. Darryl Chin, Second Assistant Medical Examiner for New York City yawned as he pulled on a pair of examination gloves.  This is what you get, he supposed, when you’re downline in the pecking order and you live in the East Village: They need somebody quick, they call you.

“Could be a lot worse,” he muttered.

He looked down at the naked female cadaver supine before him on the stainless steel autopsy table, dead-pale skin, breasts caked with blood, dark hair tangled in disarray, jaw slack, dull blue eyes staring lifelessly at the overhead fluorescents.  The murdered nun he’d heard about on the news tonight.  Young, pretty, and fresh.  The fresh part was important.  Only a few hours cold.  He might get some useful information out of her.  Better than some stinking, macerated, crab-nibbled corpse they’d dragged out of the Hudson.  And this was a neat chest wound, not some messy gut shot.  He’d be through with this one in no time.

If he ever got started.

Where the hell was Lou Ann?  She was supposed to assist him tonight.  She lived in Queens and had a longer ride, but she should have been here by now.  Probably had to put on her face before she came in.  Darryl had never seen her without two tons of eye liner and mascara.

Vanity, woman be thy name.

No use in wasting time.  He could get started without her.  Open and drain the thorax at least.  These chest wounds always left the cavity filled with blood.

He probed the entry wound with his little finger.  Looked like the work of a 9mm slug.  Good shot.  Right into the heart.  Poor girl probably never knew what hit her.

He reached up and adjusted the voice-activated mike that hung over the table.  He gave the date and read off the name of the subject and presumed cause of death from the ID card, then reached for his scalpel.

Time to open her up.  Get the major incisions out of the way, drain and measure the volume of blood in the thoracic cavity, and by then Lou Ann would be here and they could start in on the individual organs.

He poked his index finger into the suprasternal notch atop the breast bone, laid the point of the blade against the skin just below the notch, and leaned over the table to make the first long incision down the center of the sternum.

“Please don’t do that.”

A woman’s voice.  He looked around.  Who—?

Then he looked down.  The cadaver’s blue eyes were no longer dull and unfocused.  They were bright and moving, looking at him.  They blinked.

The scalpel clattered on the metal table as he jumped back.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Please don’t take His name in vain,” the nun said, staring at him as she levered up to a sitting position on the table.

Darryl felt his heart hammering in his chest, heard a roaring in his ears as he backed away.

She’s dead!  She’s dead but she’s talking, moving!

She swung her legs over the side of the table and slipped to the floor.  Still backing away, Darryl dumbly watched her naked form cross the room like a sleepwalker and pull a white lab coat from a hook on the wall.

Darryl’s heel caught against something on the floor and he fell backward, his arms pinwheeling for balance.  He grabbed the edge of a table but his fingers slipped off the shiny surface and he landed on his buttocks.  His head snapped back and struck the painted concrete block of the wall.

Darryl tried to call out but found he had no voice.  He tried to hold onto consciousness but found it a losing battle.

The last thing he saw before darkness closed in was the dead woman slipping into the lab coat and walking out the door, leaving it open behind her.

‡

Mecca, Saudi Arabia

The sun rises over the Arabian sea and strikes the minarets and domes of Masjid al Haram.  The mosque and every open spot around it as well as its central courtyard, home to the Kaaba, are packed with the faithful who have rushed here from all directions.  More are on the way, careening from all over the world to protect the holiest place in all of Islam.  They have brought their prayer rugs and are on their knees, their foreheads pressed to the ground as they face the Kaaba and pray to Allah to save the Masjid al Haram.

But the minarets and domes and walls dissolve, and the Kaaba too fades away, leaving only the participants in the last Hadj.

IN THE PACIFIC

24o N, 120o W

Reconnaissance flight 705 out of San Diego is buffeted by tornadic winds and blinding torrents as it fights its way toward the center of the huge, mysterious Pacific storm that shows up on satellite photos but not radar.  An unclassifiable, logic-defying storm with the combined properties of an Atlantic hurricane, a Pacific typhoon, and a Midwestern supercell.  All that can be said of it from orbit photos and fly-by observation is that a towering colossus of violent weather topping out at fifty-thousand feet is crossing the Pacific in the general direction of northern Mexico.

Reconnaissance 705’s mission is to classify it, but right now, hemmed in by roiling clouds and radar that shows clear, calm, open sea ahead of them, they are truly flying blind.  The pilot, Captain Harry Densmore, has never experienced anything like this.  The barometric readings are in the mid-twenties as he approaches what should be the center of the storm.  He wants to turn back but needs to know what’s at the heart of this monstrosity.  There’s no eye visible from orbit, but all indications point to an organized center.  One look, one reading, and he’ll turn tail and run.  This monster hasn’t killed anybody yet but he’s afraid he and his crew might change all that.  He’ll count himself lucky if he sees San Diego again.

Just a little farther...

Suddenly the plane is buffeted by a gust that knocks it 45 degrees off line.  Metal shrieks in Densmore’s ears and he’s sure she’s going to come apart when suddenly they’re in still air.

“It’s got an eye!” he shouts.  “We’re through the eye wall!”

But an eye should be clear.  And in an eye this size, blue sky should be visible above.  Not here.  It’s dark in this eye.  Very dark.  And raining.

Maybe it’ll clear up ahead.

The copilot calls out the barometric reading: Twenty-three.

“Twenty-three?  Check that again.  That’s got to be wrong!”

Then lightning flashes and Densmore sees something through the rain ahead.  Something huge.  Something dark.  The far side of the eye wall?  Maybe this eye isn’t as big as he thought.  Maybe—

“Oh, Christ!”

He turns the wheel and kicks the rudder hard, all but standing the plane on its wing-tip as he banks sharply to the left.  The shouts of alarm and surprise from his copilot and navigator choke off as they see it too.

He finishes the turn and levels off on a circular course around the center of the eye, catching lightning-strobed glimpses of the cyclopean thing in the heart of the storm.  His copilot’s and navigator’s hushed, awed voices fill the cabin.

“What in God’s name is that?”

“I don’t know.”

They are at 20,000 feet and whatever it is reaches from the ocean below and disappears into the clouds miles above them.

Densmore realizes that what he sees before him is impossible.  He knows his physics, and something that big breaks all natural laws.  Just like the storm itself.

Which means something else is driving this storm that breaks all the rules and defies the world’s most sophisticated radar tracking system.

And God help whoever is in its way when it makes landfall.

Suddenly he wants to be as far away as possible from this unnatural phenomenon.

“Take some pictures so people won’t think we’re all crazy, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Moments later, reconnaissance flight 705 re-enters the eye wall but instead of flying through, it is tossed back by the hellish fury of the tornadic winds.  Densmore tries again and again to pierce the wall but each time his craft is rejected like an unwanted toy.

The storm won’t let them leave.  They’re trapped...in the eye...with that thing...

Densmore resumes a circular path along the wall, staying as far as possible from its center.  They’re safe here in the relative calm of the eye—safe at least from the winds—as long as their fuel holds out.

But they’ve got only a few hours’ worth left.

TWENTY-TWO

HURRICANE WATCH

THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE HAS ISSUED A HURRICANE WATCH FOR SANTA BARBARA, VENTURA, LOS ANGELES, ORANGE AND SAN DIEGO COUNTIES.  BRING IN LOOSE OUTDOOR OBJECTS, FILL UP YOUR CAR WITH GAS AND STAY TUNED FOR FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS.

(The Weather Channel)

‡

Manhattan

They sat in the front room of the rectory.  Neither Father Brenner nor Mr. Kesev of the Shin Bet wanted a drink, but Dan didn’t let that stop him.  Monsignor Riccio had come by to offer his condolences.  He seemed to know Kesev—apparently they’d met on the street a while back.

The Monsignor didn’t say, “This is what you get for recklessly going public with the Virgin,” but Dan guessed he was thinking it.  He was gracious, however, and wished sincerely for the speedy capture of the killers, then he left.  Father Brenner had sat up with him awhile, then he went back to his room to watch TV.

TV…all the world was watching TV.  The streets, even the ones outside the church—relocked until the blood could be cleaned from the floor—were empty.  Everyone was inside watching the wave of destruction as it wiped out of places worship across the globe.  If there was panic, it wasn’t in the street, it was quiet and private.  Dan figured more prayers were being said across the globe right now than at any other time in history.  And no doubt fewer atheists and agnostics now than at any other time in history a well.

Yet he felt strangely aloof from it all.

“What do you think it means?” he asked Kesev.  “The destruction of all these churches and temples, I mean.”

“He is coming.”

“Who?  The Antichrist?”

Kesev looked at him.  “There is no such person.  It is a fiction concocted by crazy men.  The Master is coming.”

“You mean Jesus?”

Kesev nodded.

“But why now?”

Kesev shrugged.  “Because He has decided it is time.”

No straight answers from this one.  If Kesev was right, it was the End of Days.  Dan found he didn’t care.  He did care that his glass was empty.  He rose to pour himself a third Dewar’s.

“Sure you won’t have one?”

“No, and I do wish you would not drink too much.”

Dan stopped in mid-pour.  Kesev was right.  This wouldn’t do him any good.  Wouldn’t ease the pain, even a little.  The wound was too wide, too deep, too fresh.

“This is my last.  But what’s it to you?  What do you care about me or how much I drink?”

“I’m sorry for you and for that poor dead woman.  But I’m concerned for my own sake as well.  You see...for many years I have been the Mother’s guardian.”

“ ‘The Mother,’ “ Dan said softly.  “The Virgin.  How Carrie loved her.”  Then the rest of Kesev’s words sank in.  “Guardian?  We had a fake scroll supposedly written by the Virgin’s guardian back in the first century.”

The memory of Carrie’s girlish excitement over that scroll punched a new ache through his chest.

Carrie, Carrie...why couldn’t you have just let them take her?

“Yours was a forgery, a copy of another, but the words were true, as you discovered.”

“Any idea who wrote it?”

“I did.”

Dan stared at him.  “You must know your first century, Mr. Kesev.  That was a pretty convincing scroll.  Where’d you learn all that?”

Kesev shrugged.  “From life.”

“You mean from the guardians before you, passing it down.  Who are these guardians anyway?  Members of some sect?”

“No.  Only one guardian.”

This conversation was getting strange.

“You mean just one at a time...one guardian from each successive generation, right?”

Kesev shook his head.  “No.  Just one guardian.  Ever.  From the beginning.  Me.”

“But that would make you a couple of thousand...”

Kesev nodded slowly, but he wasn’t smiling.

“No...no, that would be—”

“Impossible?”

Dan was about to say yes when it occurred to him: Was anything impossible anymore?

And then he heard the rectory’s side door open.  He stood and started across the room.  Now who was it?

‡

Paraiso

“So this is what all the excitement is about.”

Arthur Crenshaw stared down at the mummified body where it rested before him on the glass coffee table.

Paraiso was empty except for him and Charlie and Emilio.  Decker and Molinari had returned to their respective homes directly from the airport.  Arthur had sent all the help—domestic as well as nursing—home for the night.  The fewer who knew about his “borrowing” of the relic, the better.  Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of the great room lay the unrelieved gloom of the night and the ocean.  No starlight broke through the restless mantle of cloud that stretched above the Pacific like a shroud.  The only sounds were Charlie’s labored breathing and the swoosh of the wind against the glass.

He walked around the table, examining the body from all sides.  Not very impressive.  Hardly lifelike at all.  You could tell it was someone old and female, but that was about all.  Could this be the actual remains of the Virgin Mary?  Didn’t seem possible.  All right, possible, yes, but highly improbable.  You’d think there’d be some sort of glow or aura about it if it was really Mary.  So maybe it was just the nicely preserved remains of an early saint.

Whatever it was, could it save Charlie?

Arthur sighed.  Apparently it had healed others—many others—back in New York.  No reason why it shouldn’t do the same here.

But whatever it did, it had better do it quickly.  Charlie was fading away before his eyes.  The latest try at a new experimental therapy had failed.  Charlie’s CD-4 count was lower than ever.  He didn’t have much time.  This relic was his last chance at a cure.

But how to go about it?

Charlie was running one of his fevers again, semi-comatose most of the time, and when he was responsive he was delirious—no idea of who he was or where he was or even that he was sick.  He couldn’t pray to this object, couldn’t ask it or anyone else for help.

So that left it up to Arthur to do the praying.

Maybe Charlie and the object should be closer.  And since it was such a major task to move Charlie’s set-up with its IVs and oxygen tank, Arthur figured the easiest way to get the two together was to move the body.

If Mohammed can’t come to the mountain...

He turned to Emilio.  “Let’s move her over by Charlie, table and all.”

Emilio held back a moment.  He’d seemed to be keeping his distance from the body.  Strange...Arthur had always thought of Emilio as the least superstitious man he’d ever met.  When he finally approached, they each took an end of the coffee table and, carrying it like a stretcher, moved the table and its burden around the couch and set it down next to Charlie’s hospital bed.

Arthur then said a prayer, asking the Lord to forgive Charlie for his past and to allow the healing powers in this relic—be it the remains of His earthly mother or some other holy person—to drive the infection from his son’s wasted body so that he might continue his life and have an opportunity to make up for the evil ways of his past.

As he finished the prayer with a heartfelt recital of the “Our Father,” Arthur slipped Charlie’s painfully thin, limp, clammy arm through the guard rail and guided it toward the body on the table.  He pressed the back of Charlie’s hand against its dry cheek and held it there.

Arthur wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but he was hoping for more than what he got, which was nothing.

He swallowed his disappointment.  He had to keep in mind that there’d been no pyrotechnics associated with the Manhattan healings, so the lack of them here didn’t mean that nothing had happened.

He held Charlie’s hand against the skin for a good fifteen minutes, all the while praying for mercy for his son, then he replaced the arm under the bedsheet.

He noticed Emilio standing off to the side, staring out at the darkness.  He seemed preoccupied.

“Well,” Arthur said, “all we can do now is watch and wait.”

Emilio nodded but said nothing.

Arthur shrugged and turned on the TV.  He felt as if he were in a vise. The destruction of the churches in the Far East, moving west, the storm in the Pacific, moving east.  The Weather Channel said it was still headed for the southern part of the state.  Paraiso would get only the fringe winds.

Good.  In the morning he’d have some blood drawn on Charlie for a stat CD-4 count.  If this relic had done its work, the count would be up and Charlie’s fever would break.

Please, God.  Not for me...for Charlie.

He switched to CNN for the latest on the churches and wound up in the middle of a story about the theft of a religious object from a Manhattan church.  Film showed close-ups of enraged faces and crowds tipping over police cars and smashing store windows.

Arthur’s stomach lurched and he glanced back at the body on the table next to Charlie’s bed.  That was the only object they could be talking about.  But why such coverage—on CNN of all places?  He hadn’t expected this kind of commotion.  He’d have to have Emilio drop it off someplace where it could be “discovered” tomorrow.

And then the screen showed the newswoman at a desk with the face of a young nun superimposed over her shoulder.  Arthur leaned forward, straining his ears because what she was saying could not be true.  The young nun had been murdered during the theft of the object.

Murdered!

Arthur swiveled in his seat and tried to rise to his feet but his legs wouldn’t support him.

“Emilio?” he gasped.  “You didn’t...you couldn’t have...”  But the look in Emilio’s eyes told him more than any words could say.  “Dear God, Emilio!  Dear God!”

‡

Manhattan

As Dan watched, a pale, dark-haired young woman in a long white coat stepped inside the rectory side door.

Dan dropped his drink.  His knees buckled and he clutched the back of a chair to keep from falling.  He opened his mouth to speak but his voice wasn’t there.

Carrie!

“I have to go to California, Dan,” she said evenly as she entered the front room.

He stumbled forward and threw his arms around her.

“Carrie!” he croaked.  “You’re alive!  Thank God, you’re—”

She stood stiff and unresponsive in his embrace; her skin was cold against his cheek.  Her chill transmitted to him.  Spicules of ice formed in his blood as she spoke again.

“No, Dan.  I’m not.”

Dan released her and backed away.  She was staring at him with her bright blue eyes, but they were her only lively feature; the rest of her face was slack, and her voice...hollow.  Not movie-zombie dead and robotic.  It had timbre and tone, but something was missing.  Emotion.  She was like some of the guests at Loaves and Fishes who came in stoned on downers.

An inane question popped out of his reeling mind: “How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

He noticed Kesev had risen and was standing beside him.

“Carrie...”  Dan’s mind whirled, refusing to accept what he was seeing.  “I...you...the doctors said you were dead.”

She reached forward and took his hand—her touch was so cold.  She freed his index finger from the others and pulled the front of her lab coat open.  She pressed the tip of Dan’s finger into the small round hole along the inner border of her left breast.

“He killed me, Dan.”

Dan cried out in anguish and revulsion as he tore his hand free.  The room dipped and veered to the left, then the right.  The Scotch, the concussion, seeing Carrie murdered, getting her back but not getting her back because she wasn’t really back...it was all too much.  Unable to stand any longer, he sank to his knees before her.

“Oh, God, Carrie!  What is this?  What does it mean?”

“I have to go to California, Dan.  Please help me get there.”

“Calif—?”

Kesev stepped forward.  “Why California?  Is that where the Mother is?”

Carrie turned and stared at Kesev as if seeing him for the first time.  She took a step backward and something twitched in her expression.  Dan tried to decipher it: Surprise?  Wonder?  Fear?

“You...I know who you are now.”

“The Mother?” Kesev said quickly.  “She’s in California now?”

“Yes.  I have to be with her.”

“Can you take us to her?”

“I need help.  We have to hurry.  We have to fly.”

“Yes, yes!” Kesev said excitedly.  “We will leave immediately!”

Dan struggled back to his feet.  “Now just a damn minute!  We’re not going anywhere until I know—”

“The Mother is there!” Kesev’s eyes were bright as he leaned into Dan’s face.  “The sister will lead us to her.”

“No!  This is crazy!  I’ll call the police.  Detective Garner—”

As Dan turned to reach for the phone, Kesev grabbed his arm.  His fingers cut into him like steel cables.

“She came to us, Father Fitzpatrick.  Was sent to us.  Not to the police.  Us!  That means that we are meant to go with her.  It is not our place to involve the police.  Do you understand what I am saying?”

Dan nodded.  He was beginning to understand—at least as much as someone could understand something like this.  He realized Kesev had his own agenda here.  He wanted the Virgin back.  If what he’d said was true, he’d been guarding the Virgin for two thousand years and wasn’t about to quit now.  In the presence of Carrie’s reanimated corpse, Dan found that relatively easy to accept.

But who was Kesev?

Carrie was the other mystery.  Had she been brought back from death for a purpose, or had her desire to be with the Virgin overcome death itself?

Dan could find little comfort in either alternative.

But it didn’t matter.  Carrie was here, asking for his help.  Dan would do everything in his power to give her that help.

“All right,” he said.  “Let’s call the airlines.”

‡

Jerusalem

A deafening cry goes up as dawnlight strikes first the Dome of the Rock.  Jew and Muslim, Israeli and Palestinian rally here for a common purpose: To prevent the destruction of this place so holy to both religions.  Prayer rugs among the davening Orthodox, imams among rabbis . . .

And yet the light is unfazed, the process inexorable.  After slowly dissolving the Dome, it moves on to the Western Wall, truly a wailing wall now as thousands of voices scream as they watch it melt into the air.

‡

Athens, Greece

The pillars of the Parthenon stand unattended as they disappear at first light . . .

‡

The Vatican, Italy

. . . but not so Saint Peter’s Basilica.  The Catholic faithful jam every inch of the square as the Pope leads them in prayer from his window.  But to no avail . . . the Basilica dissolves along with every other church in Rome . . .

‡

Paris, France

. . . and then Notre Dame Cathedral and La Sainte-Chapelle which share Île de la Cité . . . gone.

And the blade of dawn moves on . . .

IN THE PACIFIC

30o N, 122o W

As its fringe winds begin to brush the coast of southern California, the storm veers sharply north.

Captain Harry Densmore stares bleary eyed through the windshield and adjusts 705’s circular course along the eye wall.  They should have been out of fuel long ago, but the needle on the gauge hasn’t budged since they entered the eye.  So they keep on flying.  They’ve got to keep on flying.

But what are the engines running on?

TWENTY-THREE

HURRICANE WARNING

THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE HAS ISSUED A HURRICANE WARNING FOR SANTA CRUZ, MONTEREY AND SAN LUIS OBISPO COUNTIES.  HURRICANE LANDFALL IS EXPECTED BY 9:00 A.M.  EVACUATION OF OCEANFRONT AND LOW-LYING AREAS SHOULD BEGIN IMMEDIATELY.

(The Weather Channel)

‡

Paraiso

Emilio fought through the horizontal sheets of rain assaulting the ambulance as he wound up the road through the woods to Paraiso.  Bolts of lightning lanced the sky, clearing the way for the ground-shaking thunder, but the heavy vehicle hugged the road.

When the storm had changed course in the early hours and it became clear that it would strike Monterey County, the Senador had sent him to find an ambulance for Charlie, to take him inland out of harm’s way.

But there were none to be had.  The city had placed every available ambulance, public and private, on standby alert.  Emilio had stopped by a few services personally, contacted many more by phone.  No matter how much he offered, they would not risk their licenses by hiring out for a private run during the emergency.

Call the county Civil Defense, they said.  All you’ve got to do is tell them it’s an emergency, that you need an ambulance immediately to remove an invalid from an evacuation area, and they’ll okay it.  No problem.

No problem?  Not quite.  Emilio could hardly get Monterey County officialdom involved in moving an AIDS patient who happened to be Senator Arthur Crenshaw’s son.  The word would spread like the wind from this storm.  He couldn’t even allow a private ambulance company to know who it was transporting.  He wanted to rent a fully-equipped rig and drive it himself.  The answer everywhere was the same: Nothing doing.

Emilio had wanted to scream.  He could not let the Senador down on this.  He’d already suffered the withering fury of his anger after he’d learned about the nun.  The Senador had been quiet at first, then he’d exploded, calling Emilio a murderous fool, a ham-handed incompetent, a dolt who had jeopardized a lifetime of effort.  The Senator had turned away in disgust, telling him to see if he could do something as simple a hiring an ambulance without screwing that up.

Hurt, humiliated, Emilio had vowed never to fail the Senador again, but events continued to conspire against him.  He had to get an ambulance.  To return to Paraiso without one was unthinkable.

So Emilio stole one.

Quite easy, actually.  The whole world was in panicked turmoil over the systematic destruction of temples and mosques across the globe.  California had not been spared.  Dawn had left not one church or synagogue standing.  This area of the state was in double disorder because of the added threat of the storm.

Emilio had taken advantage of that.  He’d parked his own car at an indoor garage, then walked two blocks to the lot of one of the ambulance services.  Amid the tumult of the storm, they never heard him jump start the engine and drive away.

A particularly violent blast of wind buffeted the ambulance as it crossed the one-car bridge over the ravine.  The top-heavy vehicle lurched and for an instant—just an instant—Emilio lost control as it seemed to roll along on only two wheels.  It slewed and skidded and veered toward the guardrail, but before he could panic it rocked back onto all four wheels again.

And then a deafening pop and a sizzle as a blinding bolt of lightning wide as a man arced into the base of a huge ponderosa pine on the far side of the ravine.  There was no pause between the flash and the thunder.  The ambulance, the bridge, the entire ravine shook with the deafening crash.

Emilio slowed as he blinked away the purple after-image of the flash.  Through the blur he saw flames licking at the blackened trunk of the pine.  The whole tree was swaying wildly in the wind...seemed to be moving his way.

He blinked again and cried out in terror as he saw the huge pine toppling toward him.  He floored the accelerator, swerving the ambulance ahead on the bridge.  The right rear fender screeched against the metal side rail.  Emilio bared his clenched teeth and let loose a long, low howl as he kept the pedal welded to the floor.  Had to move, had to get this huge, filthy puerco going and keep it going, couldn’t go back, couldn’t even look back, straight ahead was the only way, even if it looked like he was driving into the face of certain death, his only hope was to get off this bridge and onto the solid ground straight ahead on the far side of the ravine.  Because this bridge was a goner.

Branches slashed, crashed, smashed against the roof and windshield, spiderwebbing the glass in half a dozen places.  It held though, and Emilio kept accelerating.  He heard the flashers and sirens tear off the roof as he slipped the ambulance under the falling trunk with only inches to spare.  But he wasn’t home yet.  He heard and felt the huge pine’s impact directly behind him.   The ambulance lurched sideways as the planked surface of the span canted right and tilted upward ahead of him.  He fought to keep control, keep moving, keep accelerating, because he knew without looking that the bridge was going down behind him.  The wet tires spun and slipped on the rapidly increasing incline and Emilio filled the cabin with an open-throated scream of mortal fear and defiant rage.

Emilio Sanchez refused to die here, smashed on the rocks a hundred feet below.  His destiny was not to meet his end as a storm victim, a mere statistic.

The tires caught again, the ambulance lunged forward, its big V-8 Cadillac engine roaring, pushing the vehicle up the tilting incline and onto the glistening asphalt and solid ground.

He slammed on the brakes and sagged against the steering wheel, panting.  When he’d caught his breath, he held his hands before his face and watched them shake like a palsied old man’s.  Then he stepped out into the wind and rain and looked back.

The bridge was down.  The giant pine had broken its back, crashing through the center of its span and dragging the rest of it to the floor of the ravine.

Emilio began to laugh.  He’d stolen an ambulance and now he couldn’t use it.  No one could use it.  And no one would be leaving Paraiso, not Emilio, not the Senador, and certainly not Charlie.

Prisoners in Paradise.

His laughter died away as he remembered the fourth occupant of Paraiso.  That ancient body.  He’d have to do something about that.  It was evidence against him.  He had to find a way to dispose of it.  Permanently.

‡

“Turn here.”

Dan sat behind the wheel of their rented Taurus and stared at the electric security gate that stood open before them.  Through the wind-whipped downpour he made out identical red-and-white signs on the each of the stone gateposts:

PRIVATE PROPERTY

NO TRESPASSING

VIOLATORS WILL BE

PROSECUTED

“Are you sure?” Dan said.  “This is a private road.”

“Turn here,” the voice from the rear repeated.

Dan glanced at Kesev in the front passenger seat.

The bearded man nodded agreement that they should proceed through the gate.

“Yes.  The feeling is strong.  The Mother is near.”

Dan then turned to look at Carrie where she sat in the back seat, staring up the private road.

She wore one of Dan’s faded plaid flannel shirts over his oldest pair of jeans, and a pair of dirty white sneakers they’d found in the housekeeper’s closet.  She looked like a refugee from a grunge band.

Once again Brad’s AmEx card had come in handy for the tickets and the rental car agency.  They’d driven south from San Francisco, following Carrie’s directions as she took them deeper and deeper into increasingly severe weather.  Now they were on the coast of Monterey County.

Dan faced front and did as he was told.

He was on autopilot now.  His head throbbed continually, but it had been aching so long now he barely noticed.  The post-concussion dizziness and nausea were what plagued him physically.  Emotionally and intellectually...he was numb.

With no sleep for thirty-six hours, with the woman he loved murdered but sitting in the back seat giving him directions toward the corporal remains of the Virgin Mary, what else was there to do but shut down his emotions, turn off his rational faculties, and become some sort of servomechanism?

Go through the motions, follow instructions to get to where you’re going, do, do, do, but don’t think, don’t question, and for God’s sake, don’t feel.

Because mixed with the guilty joy of having Carrie back was the horrific realization that she wasn’t really back...not really back at all.  And Dan knew if he unlocked his emotions he’d go mad, leap from the car, and run screaming through the trees.

So he kept everything under lock and key, turned the car onto the narrow asphalt path, and kept his eyes on the road.

Water sluiced down the incline toward the Taurus but the front-wheel drive kept them moving steadily.  Pine needles, pine cones, leaves, and fallen branches littered the roadway.  Dan drove over them, letting them snap and thud against the underbelly of the car.  He didn’t care.  Didn’t care if they punctured the oil pan or the gas tank.  All he wanted was to get where he was going.  Somewhere ahead was the Virgin, and with her maybe the man who shot Carrie.

And then what will I do?

Whatever he did or didn’t do, Dan sensed that he was on his way toward a rendezvous with destiny...or something very much like it.  Whatever it was that lay ahead, he wanted to confront it and have done with it.  Things had to change.  Something had to give.

Because he couldn’t go on like this much longer.

The trees thinned as they came to the top of a rise.  It looked open ahead.  And then Dan saw why: A deep ravine lay before them.

“Keep going?”

“Straight ahead,” Carrie said.

Kesev pointed.  “I see a bridge.”

Dan gunned the engine.  The car accelerated.

‡

“And so, Senador,” Emilio said, spreading his hands expressively, “I’m afraid we are stuck here.”

Arthur Crenshaw nodded slowly, amazed at his own serenity.  Here he was, trapped in a house that was little more than a giant bay window set in a cliff overhanging the ocean, looking down the barrel at the most powerful Pacific storm on record.  He’d watched the front steamroll in, the lightning-slashed clouds sweep past, blotting out the rest of the world as the storm launched its assault on the coast—his coast.  And every time he’d thought he’d seen the peak of the storm, it grew worse.  The ocean below churned and frothed like an enormous Jacuzzi; thirty-foot waves lashed at the rocks, hurling foam a hundred feet in the air; wind and rain battered the huge windows, warping and rattling the glass.  And yet he was not afraid.

Something—who else could it be but Satan—had destroyed every place of worship in the world.  Saint Patrick’s in New York, every synagogue in Brooklyn, the National Cathedral in DC, all the small-town Baptist churches in the rural South, the Mormon Cathedrals in Bethesda and throughout Utah.  And yet he was not afraid.

That amazed him.

Perhaps he was too drained to be afraid.  Or perhaps all his fear was centered on Charlie.

His son was worse.

Arthur didn’t need a CD-4 count to know that.  Instead of falling, Charlie’s fever had risen through the night.  He was now in a coma.

His son was dying.

Arthur moved to Charlie’s side, passing the so-called miraculous relic as he did.  He was tempted to boot the piece of junk off the table, even drew his foot back to do so, but for some reason changed his mind at the last moment.  Why bother?  Just another in a long line of fakes.  And to think a young woman had been killed in order to bring it here.

And then it occurred to Arthur that perhaps that was why Charlie had not been healed.  An innocent life had been snuffed out in order to save Charlie’s, and so Charlie could not be saved.  Because a life had been taken on one end of the country, another life would be allowed to burn out on the other.  A balancing of the scales.

Rage flared.  Damn Emilio!

But he’d only been following orders.  Arthur remembered his own words: Bring me that body—no matter what the cost.

But he’d meant money and effort and expense—not life.

Hadn’t he?

Not that it mattered now.  The inescapable reality of Charlie’s impending death blotted out all other considerations.

“He’s going to die, Emilio,” he said, staring at Charlie’s slack features.  “Charlie...my son...flesh of my flesh and Olivia’s...the last surviving part of Olivia...is going to be gone.  Why didn’t I appreciate him while he was here, Emilio?  When did I stop thinking of him of a son and start seeing him as a liability?  That never would have happened if Olivia were still here.  She was my heart, Emilio.  My soul.  When I lost her, something went out of me...something good.  Charlie was harmless but I came to loathe him.  My own son!  And that loathing infected Charlie, causing him to loathe himself.  That’s when he stopped being harmless, Emilio.  That’s when he started becoming harmful to himself.  His self-loathing made him sick so he’d end up here in this pathetic miniature intensive care unit in the big gaudy showplace of a home where he was never really welcome when he was well.”

Arthur bit back a sob.

“I’ve got so much to answer for!”

Unbidden, unwelcome, another thought slithered out of the darkest corner of his mind, whispering how if Paraiso were damaged by the storm...if, say, some of the windows were smashed and Charlie’s terminally ill body were washed out into the Pacific, he’d be listed as a storm victim instead of an AIDS victim, wouldn’t he?

Arthur shook off the thought—though, despairingly, not without effort—and shoved it back down the dank hole it had crawled out of.

Is this what I’ve come to?

He backed away from the windows as the wind doubled its fury, battering those floor-to-ceiling panes until he was certain one of them was going to give.

‡

Emilio watched the Senador retreat from the storm, but he stood firm.  He felt no fear of wind and rain.  What were they but air and water?  And even if he were afraid, he would not show it.  He feared nothing...except perhaps that body he’d brought back from New York.  He had to get rid of it.

An idea formed...put the body in the back of the ambulance...send them both over the edge of the cliffs into the wild, pounding surf far below...

And as the plan took shape...

The storm stopped.

The thunder faded, the wind died, the rain ebbed to a drizzle.  Suddenly only swirling fog danced beyond the windows.

“Senador?” Emilio said.  He rested his hands against the now still glass and stared out at the featureless gray.  “It is over?”

“Not yet,” the Senador said, his voice hushed.  “I’ve read about this type of thing.  I believe this is what they call the eye of the storm, the calm at its center.  It won’t last long.  But why don’t you hurry up topside and take a look around, see how much damage we’ve got up there.  Don’t get too far from the door.  As soon as the wind starts to blow again, get back inside, because the back end is going to be just as bad as the front, maybe worse.”

Emilio nodded.  “Of course.”

He hurried up the stairs and stepped outside into a dead calm.

The still, warm air hung heavy with moisture.  Fog drifted lazily around him, insinuating through his clothes, clinging to his skin.  So strange to have no wind.  Emilio could not remember a time when a breeze wasn’t blowing across the cliff tops.

And silent...so eerily silent.   Like cotton wadding, the fog muffled everything, even the sound of the surf below.  No birds, no insects, no rustling grass...silence.

No, wait.  Emilio’s ears picked up a hum, somewhere down the driveway, growing louder.  It sounded almost like...

A car.

Emilio gasped and took a hesitant step toward the noise.  He glanced at the carport.  The Senador’s limousine and the ambulance were where he’d left them.  And still the sound grew louder.

No!  This is not possible!

Instinctively he reached for his pistol before he remembered that he’d left it downstairs in the great room when he went into town.  He hadn’t retrieved it because what need for a pistol with the bridge out and Paraiso isolated from the outside world?

The bridge was out!  He’d seen it fall.  He’d almost gone down with it.  How could—?

Emilio stood frozen as a Ford sedan rounded the final curve in the rain-soaked, debris-littered approach road and pulled to a stop not a hundred feet in front of him.  Normally Emilio would have rushed forward to confront any trespassers, but this was different.  Something was wrong about this car.

A short, bearded man stepped out of the passenger side and glanced around before staring at Emilio.

“The Mother,” he said in an unfamiliar accent.  “She is here.  She has to be here.  Where is the Mother?”

The Mother? Emilio wondered.  What is he—?  He was jolted by a sudden thought: Can he be talking about the ancient body below in the house?

But Emilio had questions of his own.

“How did you get here?”

“In the car,” the man said with ill-concealed impatience.  “We drove up the road.”

“But the bridge—!”

“Yes, we came over the bridge.”

“The bridge is out!  Down!”

The bearded man looked at him as if he were crazy.  “The bridge is intact.  We just drove over it.”

No!  This couldn’t be!  This—

The driver door opened then and out stepped a familiar figure.  Emilio steeled himself not to react, to hide the sudden mad thumping of his heart against the inner walls of his chest.

The priest!  Father Daniel Fitzpatrick!

The priest looked Emilio square in the face but gave no sign of recognition.  Without the hat, the mirrored glasses, and the phony beard he’d worn that night in the church, Emilio was a different person.

But if he hadn’t come looking for Emilio, if he hadn’t brought the police to arrest him for the murder of the nun, why was he here?

“Where are we?” the priest asked.

Emilio was about to answer, to tell them both to get back into their car and get off the Senador’s private property, when the rear door opened and out stepped a dead woman.  He knew she was dead because he’d killed her himself.

“You,” she said softly, staring at him levelly.  “I know you.  You murdered me.  Why?  You didn’t have to kill me.  Why did you do that?”

Something snapped within Emilio.  He could stand no more.  He turned and fled back inside, slamming the door behind him.  As he turned the deadbolt, he leaned against the door, panting and sweating.

This was loco!  A car carrying a walking, talking dead woman drives across a bridge that is no longer there.  He was going loco.

He turned and shut off the power to the elevator.

Good.  If they were real, they now were locked outside and would be at the mercy of the second half of the storm.  If they were not real, what did it matter?

Emilio pulled himself together, took a deep breath, and descended to the great room.

“All is well topside, Senador.”

But the Senador did not seem to hear.  He stood by Charlie’s bed, staring out through the windows, a mix of awe and terror distorting his features.

Emilio followed his gaze and cringed against the stairway when he saw what was taking shape out over the Pacific and racing toward them.

“Madre!”

‡

Everything had happened so fast.

You murdered me.

Dan had been momentarily stunned by Carrie’s words.  His mind whirled, adding a beard, hat, and glasses to the mustachioed face staring at Carrie in horrified disbelief, comparing this voice to the one he’d heard in the church, and then he was sure: Here was the motherless scum who had put a bullet in her heart.

Before he’d been able to react, the man had turned and dashed back to the hemi-dome behind him and vanished through a doorway.  And then a Navy reconnaissance plane had swooshed overhead.  He’d just started wondering what sort of idiot would be flying in this hellish storm when another sound captured his attention.

A dull roaring filled Dan’s ears.  At first he assumed it was enraged blood shooting through his battered brain, then he glanced beyond the hemi-dome and saw something impossibly tall, incalculably huge looming out of the foggy distance and hurtling toward them.

“Oh, my God!”

Nearly half a mile wide and God knew how tall, it stretched—swirling, twisting, writhing—from the dim, misty heights to the sea where it terminated in an eruption of foam on the wave-wracked surface of the Pacific.  Water...an angry towering column of spinning water...all water...yet bright lights flashed within it.

To call this thing a waterspout was to call Mount Rushmore a piece of sculpture.  And it was coming here, zeroed in on this spot.

Dan spun around, looking for a place to hide, but saw none.  The car—no...too vulnerable.  The door in the hemi-dome—it had to lead below, to safety.

Pulling Carrie with him, he ran to it and tugged on the handle.  The handle wouldn’t turn, the door wouldn’t budge.  Kesev stood back, strangely detached as he watched death’s irresistible approach.

“Locked!” Dan shouted, and began pounding and kicking at the unyielding surface.  “Let us in, damn you!  Open up!”

And all around him the roaring of the approaching waterspout grew to a deafening crescendo.

This is it, he thought.  We’re going to die right here.  In a few minutes it’ll all be over.  But God, I’m not ready to go yet!

And then Carrie laid a hand on his shoulder, reached past him and turned the knob.

The door swung open.

Dan swallowed his shock—no time to wonder how the door had become unlocked—and propelled Carrie through ahead of him.  Kesev followed at a more leisurely pace, closing the door behind him.

Stairs ahead, leading downward toward light.  Dan went to squeeze past Carrie but she’d already begun her descent.  He followed her down the curved stairway into a huge, luxuriously furnished room.  His hope of surviving this storm rose as he saw that it was carved out of the living rock of the cliff itself, and then that hope was dashed when he saw the huge glass front overhanging the ocean.  The monstrous waterspout was out there, still headed directly for them, and no glass on earth would stop that thing.

He noticed two—no, three—other people in the room: a new face, unconscious in a hospital bed, the man who had shot Carrie, and...Senator Arthur Crenshaw.  The killer and the senator stood transfixed before the onrushing doom.

And supine beside the bed...the Virgin.

Carrie must have spotted her, too, for she began moving toward the body—

—just as the windows exploded.

With a deafening crash every pane shattered into countless tiny daggers.  Dan leaped upon Carrie to shield her—she was already dead, he remembered as he pushed her to the floor and covered her, yet his protective instincts prevailed.  Instead of slashing everyone and everything in the room to ribbons, the glass shards blew outward, sucked into the swirl of the storm outside.

A thundering roar filled the room as warm seawater splashed against his back, soaking him.  Dan squeezed his eyes shut, encircled Carrie with his arms, and held her cold body tight against him...one last embrace...

Any second now...

But nothing happened.  The water continued to splatter him but the roar of the waterspout remained level.  Dan lifted his head and risked a peek.

It had backed off to a quarter mile or so, but remained out there in the mist, dominating the panoramic view, lit by flashes within and around it, swirling, twisting, a thousand yards wide, snaking from the sea to the sky, but moving no closer.

Dan rose and studied it.  For no reason he could explain, it occurred to Dan that it seemed to be...waiting.

Ahead of him, the senator and the murderer were struggling to their feet and staring at it through the empty window frames.

“What is that?” Senator Crenshaw cried.

“Not ‘what,’“ Carrie said as she rose to her feet behind Dan.  “Who.”

The senator turned and stared at her a moment.  He seemed about to ask her who she was, then decided that wasn’t important now.

“ ‘Who?’ “  He glanced back at the looming tower.  “All right, then...who is it?”

“It’s Him,” Carrie said, beaming.  She pointed to the Virgin.  “He’s come for His mother.”

The senator glanced at the Virgin, gasped, and gripped the edge of the hospital bed for support.  Dan looked to see what was wrong.

The Virgin was changing.

The seawater from the spout that had soaked into her robes, into her skin and hair was having a rejuvenating effect.  The blue of the fabric deepened, her hair darkened and thickened, and her face...the cheeks were filling out, the wrinkles fading as color surged into her skin.

The murderer cringed back and murmured something in Spanish as the senator leaned more heavily against the bed.  Carrie moved closer and dropped to her knees.  Dan glanced to his right and saw that Kesev, even the imperturbable Kesev, was gaping in awe.

And then the Virgin moved.

In a single smooth motion she sat up, then stood and faced them.

Dan saw Kesev drop to his knees not far from Carrie, but Dan remained standing, too overwhelmed to move.

She was small framed, almost petite.  Olive skin, deep, dark hair, Semitic features, not attractive by Dan’s tastes, but he sensed an inner beauty, and an undeniable strength radiating from her sharp brown eyes.

Those eyes were moving, finally fixing on Carrie, kneeling before her.  Smiling like a mother gazing upon a beloved child, she reached out and touched Carrie’s head.  “Dear one,” the Virgin said softly, her voice gentle, soothing.  “Rise, both of you. I am not to be worshipped.  We are almost through here.”

Kesev rose but Carrie remained on her knees.

The Virgin’s smile faded as she turned to Senator Crenshaw.

“Arthur,” she said.  “The prayermaker.”

Crenshaw held her gaze, but with obvious difficulty

“Emilio,” she said, frowning at the murderer.  “The killer.”

He turned away.

Then it was Dan’s turn.

A tiny smile curved her lips as she trapped his eyes with her own.

“Daniel.  The hunger-feeder.”

Dan felt lifted, exalted.  He sensed her approval and basked in it.

Finally she turned away and Dan felt the breath rush out of him.  He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it.  She could have called him vow-breaker, fornicator, doubter...so many things.  But hunger-feeder...he’d take that any day.

Her expression was neutral as she faced Kesev.

“So, Iscariot...you broke another trust.”

Iscariot!  Dan’s mind reeled.  No...it couldn’t be!

“Mother, events conspired against me.  I beg your forgiveness.”

“It is not my place to forgive.”

“Perhaps it is I who should forgive!” Iscariot cried.  “Once again I have been used!  Used!”

“You are not alone in that,” the Virgin said pointedly.

Iscariot’s head snapped back, as if he been struck, but he recovered quickly.

“Perhaps not.  But it is I who have been reviled throughout the Christian Era.  And yet without me, there would be no Christian Era—no crucifixion, no resurrection.”

“You wish to be celebrated for betraying Him?”

“No.  Simply understood.  I believed in Him more than the others—I was led to believe He was divine.  I thought He would destroy the Romans—all of them—as soon as they dared to lay a hand on Him.  But he didn’t!  He allowed them to torture and kill him!  I was the one who was betrayed!  And I’ve spent nearly two thousand years paying for it, most of them alone, all of them miserable.  Haven’t I suffered enough?”

Her expression softened into sympathy.  “I decide nothing, Judas.  You know that.”

Judas Iscariot!  Of course!  It all fit.

They’d been reading the real Gospel of Judas.  The scroll’s author had mentioned being educated as a Pharisee, and of being an anti-Roman assassin, using a knife—they were called iscarii.  Judas Iscariot had been all those things.  And Kesev was Hebrew for...silver!

“But you hung yourself!” Dan blurted.

The man he’d known as Kesev looked at him and nodded slowly.  “Yes.  Many times.  But I am not allowed to die.”

“W-why are you here?” Crenshaw said.

The Virgin turned to him and pointed to Emilio.

“Because you told him to bring me here.”

“Yes-yes,” Crenshaw said quickly, “and I’m terribly sorry about that.  Grievously sorry.”  He pointed at the waterspout still roaring outside the empty window frames.  “But why is He here?”

Again the Virgin pointed to Emilio.

“Because you told him to bring me here.”

“No!” Emilio screamed.

He had a pistol—no silencer this time—and was holding it in a two-handed grip.  The wavering barrel was pointed at the Virgin.  A wild look filled his eyes; he crouched like a cornered animal as he let loose a rapid-fire stream of Spanish that Dan had difficulty following.  Something about all this being a treta, a trick, and he’d show them all.

Then he began pulling the trigger and firing at the Virgin.

The reports sounded sharp and rather pitiful against the towering roar from outside.  Dan didn’t know where the bullets went.  Emilio was firing madly, the empty brass casings flying through the air and bouncing along the floor, but the Virgin didn’t even flinch.  No holes appeared in her robes, and Dan saw no breakage in the area behind her.  The bullets just seemed to disappear after they left the muzzle.

Finally the hammer clinked on an empty chamber.  Emilio lowered the pistol stood staring at his untouched target.  With a feral whine he cocked his arm to throw it at her.

That was when the light went out.

Not the electricity—the light.  An instant blackness, darker than a tomb, darker than the back end of a cave in the deepest crevasse of the Marianas Trench.  Such an absolute absence of light that for an instant Dan panicked, unsure of up or down.

And then a scream—Emilio’s voice, filled with unbearable agony as it rose to a soul-tearing crescendo, and then faded slowly, as if he were falling away through space.

The blackness, too, faded, allowing meager cloud-filtered daylight to reenter the room.  And when Dan could once again make out details, he saw that Emilio was gone.  His pistol lay on the rug, but no trace of the man who owned it.

Dan staggered back and slumped against a support column.  He leaned there, feeling weak.  So fast...one moment a man in frenzied motion, the next he was gone, swallowed screaming by impenetrable blackness.

But gone where?

“Oh, please!” the senator cried, dropping to his knees and thrusting his clasped hands toward the Virgin.  “Please!  I meant you no harm, I meant no one any harm in bringing you here.  I only wanted to help my son.  You can understand that, can’t you?  You had a son yourself.  I’d give anything to make mine well again.”

“Anything?”

“Absolutely anything.”

“Then you must give up everything,” she told him.  “All your possessions—money, property—and all your power and ambitions.  Give everything away to whomever you wish, but give it up, all of it, get it out of your life, out of your control, and your son will live.”

“Charlie will live?” he said in a hushed voice as he struggled to his feet.

“Only if you do what I have said.”

“I will.  I swear I will!”

“We shall see,” the Virgin said.

Dan had gathered enough of his wits and strength to dare to address her.

“Why are you here?” he said, then glanced at Carrie.  “Is it our fault?  Did we cause all this?”

“It is time,” the Virgin said.  “A war of faiths threatens to devastate the world.  It is time for Him to return and speak to His children.  And what I say now shall be heard by all His children.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Kiryat Bialik, Israel

Customs Inspector Dov Sidel sat before the TV in his apartment with his wife Chaya, transfixed by the images of destruction from Jerusalem.  He hadn’t been able to eat or take even a sip of tea since word had come.  The Western Wall . . . gone as if it had never been.

Suddenly the picture dissolved into the face of a woman.

Dov stared at her and she stared back.  Something familiar about her face.  He felt he knew her, and yet he couldn’t quite place her.

Oh, well...

He pressed the channel button on the remote.  The same face.  He pressed again and again and it was the same on every channel, even the unused frequencies.  This woman’s face, in perfect reception.

And then it struck him.  That relic, that body that had been slipped past him as a sculpture, the one he’d reported as being on display in New York.  This woman resembled a younger version of that mummified body.  In fact, the longer he stared at her the more convinced he became.

He was reaching for the phone when Chaya screamed from the kitchen.

‡

Manhattan

Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio sat in his quarters at the Vatican Mission, talking on the phone with the Vatican.  The Holy See was in a state of paralyzed shock, and he was discussing with his superiors the Church’s response after the catastrophes of the last eighteen hours.  He heard a sudden scream from the kitchen, followed by the crash of breaking china.  Then another scream.  He excused himself from the conference call and hurried along the hall to see what was wrong.

The cook was standing by the sink, her hands pressed against her tear-streaked cheeks as she stared at the soapy water.  She was praying in her native Italian.

“Gina?” Vincenzo said, approaching.  “What’s wrong?”

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with fear and wonder, and pointed to the water.

“Maria!”

Vincenzo stepped closer and saw a woman’s face reflected in the surface of the water.  Not Gina’s face.  Another’s.  And immediately he knew who she was.  He felt lightheaded, giddy.  He swung around, looking for someone, anyone to tell, to call over and share this wondrous moment.  But then he saw the same face in the gleaming surface of Gina’s stainless steel mixing bowl, in the shiny side of the pots stacked next to the sink.

She was everywhere, in every reflective surface in the kitchen.

He ran back to the dining room and there was her face again, this time in the mirror over the hutch, and in the silver side of the coffee service.

He ran into the next room where two of his fellow priests crouched before the television, pressing the remote, but on every channel, broadcast and cable, was the same face.

Vincenzo shakily lowered himself to the edge of a chair to sit and wait.

‡

Cashelbanagh , Ireland

Seamus O’Halloran paused on his front stoop and sniffed the clean coolness of the early evening air.  He looked about his empty yard.  After word spread that the monsignor from the Vatican had found a perfectly natural explanation for the tears, the crowds of faithful no longer flocked to Cashelbanagh to see the Weeping Virgin.  In some ways he missed the throngs on his side lawn waiting breathlessly for the next tear, and in other ways he did not.  It was nice to be able to work around the yard without clusters of strangers watching over your shoulder.  And he no longer had those reporter folks asking him the same questions over and over again.

A shame about the Church.  Father Sullivan and most of the women had been in a panic when it dissolved before their eyes this morning.  They’d all waited around, huddled in the bare spot of earth where the nave used to be, but nothing else happened—no thunder, no lightning, no openings in the earth spewing forth demons.  So they’d all gone home.

He wondered if life would ever get back to normal again—whatever normal was.  But at least one thing was sure: Blaney’s still stood.  Sure now if the pub ever vanished into thin air, there would be a tragedy.  Time for him to head down there for a pint.  But first he decided he’d take a look at the side lawn and see how it was coming along.  He strolled around the corner of the house and admired  the grass.  Without the constant trampling of the crowds, it was filling in smooth and green again.  As he turned to go, he glanced up at his grandfather Danny’s painting of the Blessed Mother and froze.

The painting was changing.  He watched, rooted to the ground by terror, as her skin tones darkened while her features ran and rearranged themselves into a different face.

When she smiled at him, Seamus uprooted himself and ran shouting for his wife.

‡

Everywhere...

Gridlock on the streets of Manhattan.  The ever-swirling schools of cars, trucks, taxies, and buses screech to a halt as a face appears in their side- and rearview mirrors.  It is seen dimly on the surface of every windowpane and brightly in every puddle.  It is the same across the country, in the towns, in the cities, in the fields, in schools, barrooms, and on the computer screens of corporate offices.

And across the world, in Sydney, Nara, Beijing, Angkor, Luzon, New Delhi, Mumbai, Baghdad, Tunis, Mecca, Johannesburg, Jerusalem, Bosnia, Quito, Paris, London, and Rome, it is the same.  Every surface capable of reflecting an image is filled with the same face.

For a moment a fascinated world stops, gathers together, and watches.

As she begins to speak, the billions of watchers, even the deaf, even the comatose hear her words and understand.

‡

“I bring you word from our Creator.  The words I say are His, not mine, and He wishes all of you to listen.  I shall call Him ‘He’ simply because that is how we traditionally think of the Creator, but He is neither ‘He’ nor ‘She.’  What can those words mean when there is only one?  And He is the One.  Whether you call him Yahweh or Allah or Vishnu, He cares not, for He has no name.  Whether you visualize him as a man, or a woman, or a feathered serpent, He cares not, for he is pure Being, without shape.

“I was one of you, and for a short time, He was part of me.  We have touched, and for that reason I am allowed to be His voice.  Listen well:

“More than two thousand years ago the Creator allowed an infinitesimal fragment of Himself to gestate in my womb and become human.  He dwelt among a subjugated people who believed in a single God and He planted there his message of kinship between all humans.

“He said He would return and now He has, but He is not pleased with the way His message has been distorted and manipulated and prostituted and profiteered during the intervening millennia.  You all have the same Parent, therefore you are all kin.  He did not create you so that you would divide into warring factions.  Yet you have done just that.

“You, His children, have warred incessantly, with one part or another of your world engaging in slaughter, blind to the glorious future that is yours if you can but learn to see past the walls that divide you.  There is no peace between nations, but a nation is a fabrication.  There must be peace between people.  One to one.  You must learn to recognize the walls that divide you and break them down.  One by one.

“Tear down your walls, children, and find Harmony.

“You have become masters of your world.  You have struggled to the apex of your corner of Creation.  You rule it now.  But with mastery comes obligation.  The rulers of Creation are also responsible for it.

“Remember this: Every living thing, animal, reptile, vegetable, contains a spark of the Creator.  You hold within yourselves the brightest spark, but not the only spark.  It is arrogant of you to think that all other living things were put here merely to be disposed of at your whim.  They were not.  A balance must be struck.  It is a law of Creation that one thing must die that another may live, a law that holds true for all things, for the plants as well as the animals.  But you fail in your responsibility when you wantonly lay waste to the land.  You dim the spark within when you kill for sport and not for sustenance, when you kill for mere vanity to steal another creature’s beauty to wear as your own, or cause a creature pain to test the paints and scents you daub on your bodies.  All life has value.  Yes, there is a hierarchy in that value, but nothing that lives is without it.

“And if you must respect the place of the lower life forms in the world around you, certainly you must cherish the life-right of your fellow humans a thousand-fold more.  You must not diminish, must not damage, must not shorten the lives around you, for in doing so you also smother His spark within yourself.  And nothing dims that spark, nothing hardens the human heart to the value of human life more than the ghastly slaughter of war.  You must halt all war, children, including the unseen war: Never shall there be true peace around you while you wage war on the unborn lives within you.

“Respect all life, children, and find Harmony.

“Abolish your ceremonies, your communions, your sacrifices, real and symbolic; discard your dietary laws, cast off your clerical vestments, disband your sects, cease calling yourselves Catholic or Christian or Jew or Muslim or Hindu or Buddhist, for these customs, these identifications, these sects, these labels serve only to set you apart from your kin.

“Stop your worship. Cease your kneeling, your bowing, your prostrating, your fasts, self-denials, and self-inflicted injuries.  You demean not only yourselves but your Creator when you believe that such obeisance pleases Him.  He did not create you for that.  You insult Him by thinking that He requires worship.  What worship could the Creator of all that is possibly need or take pleasure in?

“Put down your weapons, you murderous, wild-eyed defenders of faith and God.  What sort of God would need defenders, especially such puny and misguided warriors as you?  He is quite capable of defending Himself.

“Silence your prayers.  He will not answer because He will not listen while you call out from within walls that separate you from your kin. Harmony is the only prayer He heeds.

“Abandon your rituals, children, and find Harmony.

“Do not look to Him for guidance or relief; look instead to each other.

“Your churches, your temples, your mosques have been removed, for these are the most tangible and obvious walls between you.  Gather now instead in the streets and parks and squares where there are no walls.  Try to reach Him by reaching each other.

“Discard your Bible, your Koran, your Torah, for each is only partly true, and al lead you into the belief that you have found the One True Path to God, or the One True Voice that will catch His ear.  You have not.  And that delusion raises another wall, a wall of exclusivity.  He did not create you to be divided.

“Forsake your dogma children, and find Harmony.

“I say again, use your own lives well, and respect each life around you.  You are all kin.  Touch one another.  You are all living this life together.  And so you must all work together toward creating Heaven.  It is possible.  You have the power.  You need only use it.

“If you do not, if you continue along the same path you have trod these thousands of years, you will create a Hell for yourselves and your children.

“Look not for a Third Coming.  And act not in fear of eternal reward or punishment.  Your reward or punishment is here.  This is your world, these are your lives.  He has given them to you.  Use them well, make the most of them, make them mean something, make them count.  For this is your Heaven or Hell.  You have the power to make it either.  The choice is yours.

“Do not wait for the Rapture of the faithful, or for the Tribulation of the unbeliever.  They will not come from on high.  Your rapture arises from each other, as do all your tribulations.  Heaven or Hell will be of your own making.  You have but to choose.

“Here, now, today marks the end of the age of faith and belief, and the beginning of a new age: the Age of Knowledge.  For everything I say here is being recorded a million times, and thus you will have no further need for faith.  You will know there is a God and that He is watching.  Act accordingly, children.

“Let this then be the whole of the law:

“Find Harmony, children, and you will find Heaven.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Paraiso

Dan had listened raptly.  She’d been speaking to the world, he knew, to all of humankind, but he’d felt as if she were speaking only to him.  For what she’d said reflected exactly his innermost thoughts and feelings.  Because of his vows, his membership in the priesthood, he’d been afraid to vocalize them, even to himself.  But now that she had said them, he could acknowledge what he’d sensed, known all along.

He wondered if that was why he was here, in this house, in her presence—in His presence—why he’d been with her all along.

As the Virgin finished speaking she touched Carrie’s bowed head and said, “Come, my devoted one.”

Carrie rose to her feet.  The Virgin held out her hand and Carrie took it.

The Virgin said,  “Our time here is done.”

Our time is done.  What did she mean by that?

Dan swallowed and addressed her again.

“Wait...please.  Can’t you...bring her back?  Make her live again?  You can do that, can’t you?”

The Virgin shook her head.  “Her time here is through.  She is coming with me.”

“With you?  You’re taking her away?  Where?”  Dan felt a sob building in his chest.  He still hadn’t come to terms with Carrie’s death.  “Oh, please.  I’ve only just begun to know her.  You can’t take her away from me now.”

“I haven’t taken her away.  One of your brothers did that.”

And then Carrie and the Virgin began to rise.

When they were floating half a dozen feet above the floor, they began to drift toward the ruined windows, toward the sea, toward the towering column of water that waited for them.

“Wait!” cried another voice—the man who called himself Kesev, whom the Mother called Iscariot.  “Mother, please wait!”

Their seaward drift slowed.

“Yes, Judas?”

“What of me?”

“What of you, Judas?”

“Am I to be left here alone?  Haven’t I suffered enough?  Two thousand years, Mother!  Haven’t I earned forgiveness?”

“Forgiveness does not come from me, Judas.  You know that.”

“Then intercede for me, Mother.  Don’t leave me here alone.  Everyone I’ve ever known has left me.  Please...I do not deserve this anymore.”

The Virgin paused, as if listening, then extended her free hand toward Judas.

“Come.”

Judas rushed forward, leaped to catch her hand, and when their fingers touched, he floated up to join her, clutching her hand in both of his.

Dan saw tears in Judas’s eyes, and felt them well up in his own.  Carrie...Carrie was leaving.

He fought the urge to call her back, knowing she wouldn’t, couldn’t respond.  He’d lost her—not now, not today, but yesterday, when Emilio had put a 9mm hole in her heart.

The three of them drifted through the ruined window frames, out into the storm, toward the gargantuan swirling, roaring column of water that loomed outside.

Dan ran to the frames, clung to one, leaning over the precipice that fell away to the pounding surf below.  He sobbed unashamedly and let the tears flow down his cheeks.  He watched longingly as their progress accelerated and their retreating forms shrank.

Soon they were lost in the mist.

Moments later, the cyclopean waterspout began to retreat, shrinking as it moved off into the Pacific.  Gradually it thinned from a thousand yards across to a slender tornado-like funnel, and then it was gone.

The storm, too, was gone.  Magically, the encircling winds died, the fog melted away, the clouds dispersed.  Midday sunlight burst free and flooded the sky, warming Dan’s face and spirit.

He clung there a few moments longer, wiping his eyes, gathering his wits, girding himself to face a world without Carrie.  Finally, when he turned away, he saw Senator Crenshaw leaning over the hospital bed, whispering to his unconscious son.

“Did you hear that, Charlie?  You’re going to be well again.  All I’ve got to do is give away everything I own.  But that’s no problem, Charlie.  I’ll set up trusts for everything, even for Paraiso.  That way all my assets will be out of my control, but we can still live here.  And I’ll put my nomination bid on hold.  I won’t do anything until you’re better, Charlie.  After that, you’ll see the goddamndest campaign you ever saw in your life.  You just wait and see, Charlie.”

As Dan walked past he couldn’t resist saying, “You just don’t get it, do you.”

“What?” Crenshaw said, straightening.  “What do you mean?”

“Weren’t you listening?”

“Of course, I—”

“Then think about what you heard, fool.”

Dan could not spare any more time here.  A new world waited outside.  He could feel it.

He hurried up the stairs and burst out into the new fresh air.  He had no idea what he’d find when he got back to civilization, but he knew the events of the past few moments would change it forever.

For better or for worse?  And for how long?  He would see.

He dearly wished Carrie were here to explore it with him.  And maybe she was.  She’d touched his life so deeply, he knew he’d always carry a part of her with him.

He thrust his hands into his pockets and realized that Carrie was still with him in a more tangible way.  He pulled out her baggies of powder and clippings and stared at them.  Whatever he found out there in the new world, he was sure now that the new age of miracles was not over yet.

Perhaps it had just begun.

Find Harmony, children

And you will find Heaven

~~~

THE END

F. PAUL WILSON is an award-winning, NY Times bestselling novelist whose work spans horror, adventure, medical thrillers, science fiction, young adult, and virtually everything between.  His novels have been translated into twenty-four languages. Currently he is best known as creator of the urban mercenary Repairman Jack. (http://www.repairmanjack.com)

Also by F. Paul Wilson

The Adversary Cycle

The Keep

The Tomb

The Touch

Reborn

Reprisal

Nightworld

Repairman Jack

The Tomb

Legacies

Conspiracies

All the Rage

Hosts

The Haunted Air

Gateways

Crisscross

Infernal

Harbingers

Bloodline

By the Sword

Ground Zero

Fatal Error

The Dark at the End

Nightworld

Quick Fixes – Tales of Repairman Jack

The Teen Trilogy

Jack: Secret Histories

Jack: Secret Circles

Jack: Secret Vengeance

The Early Years Trilogy

Cold City

Dark City

Fear City

The LaNague Federation Series

Healer

Wheels Within Wheels

An Enemy of the State

Dydeetown World

The Tery

Other Novels

Black Wind

Sibs

The Select

Virgin

Implant

Deep as the Marrow

Mirage (with Matthew J. Costello)

Nightkill (with Steven Spruill)

Masque (with Matthew J. Costello)

Sims

The Fifth Harmonic

Midnight Mass

The Proteus Cure (with Tracy L. Carbone)

A Necessary End (with Sarah Pinborough)

Short Fiction

Soft & Others

The Barrens & Others

The Christmas Thingy

Aftershock & Others

The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium

Quick Fixes – Tales of Repairman Jack

Sex Slaves of the Dragon Tong

Editor

Freak Show

Diagnosis: Terminal

The Hogben Chronicles (with Pierce Watters)

Omnibus Editions

The Complete LaNague

Calling Dr. Death (3 medical thrillers)

HAUNTED HOUSE

A novel of terror

Jack Kilborn & J.A. Konrath

Are You Brave Enough?

BEYOND AFRAID…

It was an experiment in fear.

Eight people, each chosen because they lived through a terrifying experience. Survivors. They don’t scare easily. They know how to fight back.

BEYOND TRAPPED…

Each is paid a million dollars to spend one night in a house. The old Butler House, where those grisly murders occurred so many years ago. A house that is supposedly haunted.

BEYOND ENDURANCE…

They can take whatever they want with them. Religious items. Survival gear. Weapons. All they need to do is last the night.

But there is something evil in this house. Something very evil, and very real. And when the dying starts, it comes with horrifying violence and brutal finality.

There are scarier things than ghosts.

Things that torment you slowly and delight in your screams.

Things that won’t let you get out alive.

HAUNTED HOUSE

People are just dying to leave.

Jack Kilborn, author of AFRAID, TRAPPED, and ENDURANCE, brings back some favorite characters from those earlier novels and puts them through his own unique brand of hell. One that hurts real bad. One that will scare you to death.

Are you brave enough?

HAUNTED HOUSE

Copyright © 2013 by Joe Konrath

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the authors.

May 2013

This novel is for Maria

Prologue

Roy Lewis cleared the doorway, then spun as something in the darkness lunged at him.

He fired, a double-tap at the approaching center mass, but it kept coming. Before he could flinch away the thing hit him in his outstretched Glock.

It took Roy milliseconds to process what it was, and then revulsion coursed through him.

A body bag.

Black plastic with a silver zipper. Hanging from a chain.

But something was wrong with it. The weight was… off.

Roy aimed his flashlight up at the ceiling, the tactical beam cutting through the ever-present dark of the house, and saw the rail system that had swung the bag into him. Pulleys and springs and a steel track, all automatic. Probably triggered by a motion sensor.

He reached out and gave the bag a tentative squeeze.

Foam rubber.

Not a real body. Just a goddamn Halloween prop.

Roy chewed his inner cheek, heart hammering, realizing he’d wasted two valuable bullets on a dime store scare.

Only one bullet left. Then he was out of ammo.

Roy checked his watch. Not even 4am yet. Hours to go before dawn. Might as well be days.

Breathe. Remember to breathe.

He took in air through his nostrils, tried to let it out slowly. His hands were shaking, and sweat was stinging his eyes despite the cool temperature. Roy holstered his sidearm, and drew his KA-BAR knife from his belt sheath, clutching it to his chest.

Okay, stay calm. Find a place to hole up. Someplace you can defend. Where they can’t sneak up behind you.

A snort escaped his nose before Roy could stop it. All damn night he’d been searching for a safe place in this hell-on-earth. But there were no safe places. Every room, every corridor, in this damned house was lethal. Maybe, if the others were still alive, they could have protected each other. But that hadn’t worked out, and Roy was pretty sure he was the only one left.

He thought back to his military days, before he became a cop. The Q course for Special Forces, the hardest training in the world. Desert Storm in Iraq. Then over a decade on the street, working his way up from beat cop to homicide detective. He was good, and his past had prepared him for a lot.

But not for this.

Nothing could have prepared him for this.

Roy sucked in another breath through clenched teeth. The air was musty, foul, like old running shoes mixed with…

Body odor.

Strong, noxious body odor that wasn’t coming from Roy.

He flinched.

Roy knew that smell. Knew where it came from.

That’s when he heard it.

Giggling.

High-pitched. Almost childlike.

But that’s not a child.

“Oh, no,” Roy whispered. “Not this again.”

Roy waited, hoping, praying, it had been his imagination.

The darkness remained silent.

You’re freaking out, man. Imagining shit. You need to keep it together if you want to—

“Hee hee hee hee.”

Not imagination. This was real.

Real, and coming somewhere in the unlit room.

Somewhere close.

Roy stumbled backward, his bladder constricting, and then fell as his foot stepped into a hole in the floor.

He landed on his ass, strained to get his foot free, and the pain came hard and fast.

Sharp points. Stabbing through his pants, into the flesh of his calf.

A punji trap.

The hole contained spikes, pointed at a downward angle, trapping his foot there. The harder he tried to pull away, the deeper the spikes dug into his leg.

“Hee hee hee.”

Roy swung his flashlight beam, locking onto the sound.

The giggling man who had been stalking Roy through the house for the last two hours was standing only a few meters away. Roy could see him clearly now, for the first time. He was tall, over six feet, wearing a black rubber gas mask that obscured his face. His chest was bare, covered in dried blood. All he wore was stained white underwear, and combat boots, their laces untied.

In the man’s hand was a meat cleaver.

Roy reacted viscerally, immediately trying to scramble away, the spikes digging further into his calf. He cried out in pain, then stared at his stalker.

“Hee hee hee.”

The Giggler didn’t move closer. He simply stood there, swaying slowly from side to side. The BO coming off him coated Roy’s tongue.

Roy pawed for his sidearm, drawing it and pointing the weapon at the man.

“Get the fuck away from me! I swear I’ll kill you!”

The man stared.

“I said get away!”

He continued swaying. Staring.

“Hee hee hee.”

Roy hadn’t signed on for this. It was supposed to be simple. A way to get ahead, provide for his daughter. But the nightmare of the last few hours, the horrors he’d been through, was almost beyond comprehension.

“Someone help me!” he shouted to the house.

The house didn’t answer. But the Giggler did.

“Hee hee.”

Roy reached up, grabbed the sticky electrode on his temple, and tore it off out of defiance. Did the same with the one on his chest.

The giggling man watched, his expression hidden behind his gas mask.

“What the hell do you want?” Roy pleaded.

The man raised the cleaver—

—and placed it against his own chest.

What the hell is this guy going to…?

He drew the cleaver downward, splitting his skin open. The blood flowed, fast and red, soon drenching the man’s soiled underwear.

“Hee hee hee.”

Roy watched, slack-jawed, as the man continued to cut himself, making Xs on his abdomen. Over his nipples. Across his belly button. It wasn’t long before his upper body looked like a dropped plate of spaghetti.

Pain be damned, Roy pulled his attention away from the freak and began to tug on his trapped leg, trying to free himself. His heart was beating so quickly it felt like it was going to break his ribs, and the man’s giggling got louder the more he mutilated himself. But try as he might, Roy couldn’t get his leg out of the hole.

Then the giggling stopped. Replaced by wheezing.

Fast, wet wheezing.

Not wanting to look, but unable to stop himself, Roy once again directed his flashlight at the man.

He’d stopped cutting. And instead, the giggling man had a hand inside his underwear, using the blood as a lubricant while he stroked himself.

Roy shook his head, like a dog after a walk in the rain.

No. Oh no no no no. This is not happening. This is NOT happening.

But it was happening. This wasn’t some elaborate prank. Some gag where a TV crew was going to jump out and shake his hand for being a trooper. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a hallucination.

He’d watched people die tonight. Die horribly. And he was going to be next.

Roy adjusted his flashlight, staring into the hole that refused to release him. He saw five metal rods, digging into his leg from various angles. With a trembling hand, he lowered the KA-BAR knife and tried to cut the first rod free.

The steel was too thick.

Roy took a breath and held it.

Then he gouged the knife into his leg, trying to pry out the bar.

Soon Roy’s screams drowned out the moans coming from his stalker, but even after slicing his calf almost to the bone, the rod continued to hold him.

“Hee hee hee.”

Roy looked up at the Giggler, who had moved several steps closer. He’d apparently finished playing with himself, and was now rubbing his hand across his chest, digging his finger into the cuts and following their lengths, over and over. Like a child finger painting.

Roy aimed the Glock at him, trying to steady his shaking hand.

One bullet. Make it count…

He squeezed the trigger, deadeye on the man’s center mass—

Felt the gun kick—

Got him! I got him! I—

But the giggling man didn’t even flinch. It was as if the bullet passed right through him.

Like he’s a ghost.

He giggled again, “hee hee hee”, and Roy giggled as well. He thought of all the other rounds he’d fired that night, sure he’d hit targets, and now finally understood what had happened.

Bullets can’t kill ghosts.

He raised the KA-BAR like it was a crucifix warding off vampires.

“You want me! Come get me!”

But the giggling man—or whatever it was—just stood there. Watching.

“You gonna just stand there?”

“Hee hee hee hee hee.”

“DO SOMETHING!”

It stopped swaying, and through the damper of its gas mask said, in a deep, wet voice,

“Iiiiiiiiii wiiiilllll.”

The throb in Roy’s leg began to abide, replaced by a tingling numbness. His head began to cloud.

Blood loss? Exhaustion?

Roy closed his eyes. He knew if he passed out, things would only get worse. Being at the mercy of that thing was unthinkable, and there were others in the house even worse.

Roy closed his eyes.

He thought about his ex-wife. Their daughter. She only saw her daddy twice a month, due to his wife’s overzealous lawyer.

Now she’d never see him again.

The image in Roy’s head was fuzzy, growing fuzzier.

“I’m sorry,” he told his child, his eyes brimming with tears.

Then the Giggler pounced.

FOUR DAYS LATER

Cleveland , Ohio

Mal

Mallory Dieter knew by his wife’s breathing that she was also awake.

He thought about reaching for her, holding her close, but she didn’t like being touched while trying to sleep. It startled her, even made her yell sometimes. At three in the morning, even a whisper from Mal could make Deb jump.

Mal understood this. Intimately.

Because he felt exactly the same way.

The bed was the best money could buy. The kind where each side could be adjusted for maximum comfort. No bedframe, so nothing could hide under it. Expensive pillows, some with goose down, some with memory foam. Sheets with a 400 thread count. A ceiling fan that provided a gentle breeze, and calming white noise.

But all that wasn’t nearly enough.

Mal shifted, slowly so he didn’t scare her, letting Deb know they were both in the same boat.

“Need another Xanax?” Deb whispered. “I’ll be up. I can watch you.”

Often the only way either got to sleep was when one offered to watch over the other.

“Gotta work early. But you can take one, and I’ll watch you.”

Deb turned, rolling against him, the weight of her body both reassuring and confining. She trusted him enough to hook her thigh over him—a thigh missing the calf below the knee. Years ago, a fall while mountain climbing had taken Deb’s legs.

But that wasn’t the fear that kept her awake.

Mal knew it was something far worse.

A fear he also shared.

The Rushmore Inn.

He resisted her touch, wanting to push her away, hating himself for the feeling. During the daytime, he couldn’t get enough of touching her, holding her, caressing her.

But nights were different. At night he didn’t want to be touched, held, or otherwise confined. He couldn’t even use heavy blankets. It made him feel trapped, helpless. As if he were still tied to that table and…

Mal shuddered.

Nights were a bitch.

“You up for something else?” Deb asked, trailing her fingernails down his belly, to his boxer shorts. Mal closed his eyes, tried to live in the moment, tried to push away the past. But the only part of him the alprazolam seemed to relax was the part Deb was rubbing.

“Sorry, hon. The pill.”

Deb pulled her hand back.

“I could do you,” he said, reaching for her. “Maybe my body will get the hint.”

Mal moved his left hand down, stroked her. Deb didn’t respond.

“Damn Xanax,” Deb breathed. “Turns us into a couple of eunuchs.”

Mal stopped his efforts. Stared at the ceiling fan.

He sighed. “Our lives would be perfect if we didn’t have to sleep.”

“I hear someone is working on a pill for that.”

“I’m sick of pills, but sign me up for that one.”

He thought about having the nightlight discussion again. Mal found it damn near impossible to fall asleep with the four nightlights Deb had in the bedroom. There were practically bright enough to read a book by.

The problem was Deb had panic attacks in the dark.

Or maybe that was just a way to blame Deb for his insomnia, because Mal hated the dark, too.

“We can get up,” Deb said. “Play some rummy.”

They’d done that the previous two nights. But Mal knew Deb was as exhausted as he was. And with exhaustion came crankiness, frustration, misery. Yesterday, they’d both gone to separate parts of the house because of some stupid fight over how to best shuffle cards.

“We need sleep, hon. You take another pill. At least one of us should get some rest.”

“It’s not rest with the pills. It’s more like a coma. I hate them.”

“So do I. But…”

Mal didn’t need to finish the sentence. They both knew how it ended.

But I hate the nightmares more.

They’d been to doctors. Specialists. Shrinks. Mal knew his wife shared his condition.

PTSD. Posttraumatic stress disorder.

The newest research revealed brain chemistry actually changed in response to traumatic experience. And at the Rushmore Inn, Deb and Mal survived the most traumatic experience imaginable.

“We got a little sleep on Saturday,” Deb said.

Mal grunted mmm-hmm. He didn’t mention that during one of her night terrors, Deb’s moans and cries kept waking him up, even though he’d taken several pills because of the weekend off.

“Maybe we’re doing this wrong,” Mal said. “Maybe we need to take speed instead.”

His wife laughed, breaking some of the tension. “Speed?”

“Or some coke. Instead of sleeping, we party all night.”

“I tried speed once when I was training, to boost endurance. I finished a marathon, then cleaned the house top to bottom. It was awful.”

Mal smiled. “Awful? We should both take some, clean out that basement.”

“Do you even know where to get amphetamines?”

“I work for a newspaper. We newsies know all the lowlifes.”

“So we should embrace our insomnia. That’s your solution.”

“It isn’t a solution, hon. Just a silly idea.”

Deb didn’t respond right away. And when she did, her voice was so sad it made Mal ache.

“There are no solutions.”

They laid there, in silence, Mal unable to come up with a solution. Deb was correct. They were broken, both their bodies and their minds, and there didn’t seem any way to fix them.

That’s when someone pounded on the door.

The sound paralyzed Mal, adrenaline ripping through his body making his heart seem ready to pop. But his arms and legs locked as surely as if they’d been bound there.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

After the initial startle, his mind went haywire with possibilities. Who would be at the door at 3am? Had those terrible people from the Rushmore Inn finally found him? Had they come to finish the job?

Unable to suck in any air, unable to turn his head, Mal’s eyes flicked over to Deb and saw she was similarly frightened stiff.

A second ticked by.

Another.

I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to—

The pounding sound came again, even louder, a white hot spike of adrenaline snapping Mal out of his catatonia. He immediately jerked upright in bed, reaching for his nightstand, for the 9mm inside the drawer. But in his fear and haste he reached with the wrong hand, the one missing above the wrist. He quickly switched, pulling out the gun, as Deb clambered for her artificial legs, propped next to the wall.

She squeaked out, “Do you think it’s—”

“Shh.”

Holding his breath, Mal strained to hear more sounds. He wondered, fleetingly, if this was one of his frequent nightmares. But they always revolved around him being strapped to the table, watching those horrid videos. He was always at the Rushmore in his bad dreams. He’d never had a nightmare that took place in his house.

This wasn’t a dream.

This was really happening.

He quickly switched his thoughts to other, safer possibilities. A drunk neighbor, mistaking their house for his. Local teenagers, pranking people by knocking on the door then running away. A relative, maybe his brother from Florida, dropping by unannounced. Police, coming over to tell Mal he’d left the headlights on in the car parked in the driveway.

Anything other than them…

Deb was trembling so badly she couldn’t get her legs on.

“Mal… help me…”

But for Mal to help, he had to drop the 9mm—he only had one hand. And he didn’t think he’d be able to let go of it, even if he tried.

“Mal…”

“Deb, I…”

Then the phone rang.

Deb screamed at the sound, and Mal felt his bladder clench. He looked at the gun, clutched in his trembling fist.

If it is them, I know what to do.

Deb first. One in the temple while she’s looking away.

Then me.

Because there is no way in hell they’re taking us back there.

Grand Haven, Michigan

Sara

Something awoke Sara Randhurst from deep, intoxicated sleep.

She peeked an eye open, confused, her bleary eyes focusing on the clock radio next to the bed.

3:15am.

Without thinking, she grabbed the glass next to it, raising her head and gulping down the melted ice, savoring the faint flavor of Southern Comfort.

Okay. Focus, Sara. Why am I awake?

She had no idea. In fact, she had no memory of how she’d gotten into bed. The very last thing she remembered was…

Was what?

FedEx. The damned letter from the bank. Then opening up the bottle and crawling inside.

She snorted.

Sure. Blame the bank. As if I need another excuse to drink.

A banging sound startled Sara, making her yelp.

The door.

Who could be at the door?

She thought, fleetingly, about the letter. Could they be kicking her out now? In the middle of the night? Weren’t there laws against that?

Sara immediately dismissed the idea. Tipsy as she still was, she knew banks didn’t foreclose at three in the morning.

That left… who?

Sara had no family that would be visiting. The only people who still cared about her, Tyrone and Cindy, had moved to LA years ago. The last contact she’d had with them had been a Christmas card this past year. Or maybe the year before. The holidays all blended together.

Another knock. Loud and urgent.

Sara flipped on the bedroom light. Her eyes were automatically drawn to Jack’s empty crib in the corner of the bedroom, a blanket draped over the top because she couldn’t bear to look at it. At the same time couldn’t bear to throw it away. The blanket looked like a shroud.

Then she searched around for the bottle of SoCo, hoping she’d brought it into the bedroom with her. Sara found it, on the floor.

Empty.

Shit. That was the last one.

One more bang on the door. The big bad wolf, trying to blow the house down. Or in this case, the trailer.

Fuck him. There were scarier things than wolves.

Much scarier things.

Sara pawed at the nightstand drawer, pulling it open, digging through magazines for the snub nosed .38 she kept there. A gift from Tyrone. Not registered, but it wasn’t like she could get into any more trouble than she already was in.

But the gun wasn’t there. Sara had a fleeting recollection of being at the kitchen table, crying and drunk, the gun in her mouth.

Shit. I left it in the kitchenette.

Funny, how she routinely contemplated suicide, yet now that her life might actually be threatened she wanted the gun for protection.

Maybe she had some fight in her after all.

Sara gripped the bottle by the neck, holding it like a club, and eased her feet out of bed. She stood up, wobbly, but a pro at walking under the influence. Two steps and she was to the bedroom door. Two more and she was next to the bathroom.

Movement, to her right, and Sara screamed and swung, the bottle connecting with the mirror hanging on the bathroom door.

It spiderwebbed with a tinkling crunch, and Sara saw herself in a dozen different triangles, hair wild, eyes red, wearing a dirty sweatshirt crusted with old shrimp chow mien that she’s apparently eaten while drunk. Once upon a time, she’d been clean and pretty. Looking at herself now, Sara guessed homeless shelters would turn her away for being too gross.

Another knock, so close it felt like a full-body blow. The SoCo bottle had survived the impact with the mirror, and she clutched the neck even tighter as she made her decision.

There is no way in hell I’m answering that door.

Instead she backed away, turning in the other direction, heading for the phone on the wall. Right before she snatched up the receiver, it rang.

Sara stared, the lump in her throat making it impossible to draw a breath. She remembered the fear she’d felt on the island, and the same sick, familiar feeling spread over her.

Terror.

Pure, paralyzing terror.

Hand shaking so badly it looked like a palsy, Sara’s finger hovered over the speakerphone button.

The phone rang again, making her whimper.

Do I press it?

Do I?

She jabbed at it, hitting the wrong key. Then she tried again.

The speakerphone hissed at her, and a deep male voice barked, “Open the door, Sara.”

Sara wet her sweatpants.

Mililani, Hawaii

Josh

Josh VanCamp gasped, drawing air through his mouth because a tiny hand was pinching his nose closed.

He opened his eyes, staring at the capuchin monkey sitting on his chest. Josh brushed the primate’s paw away from his face.

“Mathison, what are—”

The monkey put a finger over Josh’s mouth, telling him to be quiet. A moment later, Woof began to bark.

His warning bark. Strangers were near.

“Someone’s here,” Josh said.

The monkey nodded. Josh glanced at his wife, lying next to him. “Fran?”

“I’m up.”

She was already swinging her legs out of the bed, pressing the intercom button on the wall.

“Duncan,” she said, “panic room. Grab Woof.”

Her son responded instantly. “Meet you there.”

Josh placed Mathison on his shoulder, and the monkey pulled Josh’s hoodie around him. He was frightened.

Josh wasn’t. He had too much to do.

He slipped on the boat shoes he kept next to the bed—thick leather and tough rubber soles—and reached for the closet door.

“Hon?” he asked.

“Ready.”

Josh reached inside, grabbing one of the Browning Maxus autoloader shotguns, tossing it over his shoulder like they’d practiced so many times, not bothering to see if his wife caught it as he reached for its companion.

They walked the hallway in standard two-by-two cover formation, Josh favoring the left, Fran the right. The air conditioning kicked on, normal for nighttime in Hawaii. Other than that the house was quiet. Still.

Josh passed one of the burglar alarm panels, not bothering to punch in and access surveillance, confident the animals’ senses were good reason enough to get into the panic room. Since they’d moved here five years previous, the monkey and dog had had far fewer false alarms than the ten thousand dollar system they’d installed. If this turned out to be another, no harm in it. They were due for a late night drill later in the week anyway.

Depending on your past, one man’s paranoia was another man’s common sense. And after what the trio had lived through in Safe Haven, Wisconsin, Josh couldn’t think of a single thing they’d done to keep themselves safe that qualified as paranoia.

They reached the door, and Josh stared at the fake light switch. In the up position, meaning Duncan was already inside. He swiveled the switch to the right and punched in the numeric code on the revealed keypad. The door latch snicked opened, and Fran went down the stairs first, Josh locking and sealing the door behind him, tight as a bank vault.

Basements were rare on the Big Island. Blasting through the solid rock was difficult, and deemed foolhardy in light of the constant threat of storms. But Josh’s basement had its own industrial sump pump that protected against flooding, run by its own generator that worked separate from the main grid.

Josh followed Fran into the equipment room. Duncan was standing at the ready, a Glock 13 in his hand and pointed downward. He had the same angular features as Fran, same eyes, but he was growing into his masculinity and had been letting the peach fuzz on his upper lip accumulate even though they’d given him a Norelco for Christmas. Like his mother, his expression was hard, but without fear. Even though Josh was only a father by marriage, he beamed with pride at Duncan’s resolve. The kid had gone through hell, and had come out the other side stronger.

Woof, their fat beagle, looked up at them, tongue out, tail wagging. Mathison hopped off of Josh’s shoulder and sprang onto the dog’s back, like a miniature jockey.

Duncan already had the monitors live, and the perimeter sensors had switched on Camera 2. The front porch. They watched as two men in suits knocked on the door. Caucasian, mid-thirties, ties and sport coats too formal for the humidity.

“They’re holding,” Fran said, touching the screen, tapping the weapon bulges in their jackets.

Josh studied their footwear. Combat boots, incongruous to the tailored suits.

“Military?” Duncan asked.

The haircuts certainly were, which wasn’t a good omen.

“Smart guess. Or maybe they’re private. Or…”

Josh almost added, “something else” but he knew there was no need. His family was already thinking it.

He hit the camera’s microphone switch. The equipment room filled with the loud mating call of the coqui tree frog, which sounded a lot like digital beeping. Beneath that cacophony, katydids and crickets, and the far off screech and hoot of a barn owl.

“What next?” Duncan asked.

A fair question. In all their drills, they’d never prepared for someone knocking at the door at 3am.

“Now I press a button,” Josh said, “open up the trap door that sends them into the alligator pit.”

Duncan stared at Josh, his teenaged face confused. He rolled his eyes when he realized his stepfather was kidding. Again, Josh felt a stab of pride. Duncan could have been freaking out, but he understood how safe they were in the panic room. If needed, they could stay down there for a week. They had food and water, bunk beds, a toilet, a TV, and a computer. When they’d first built the room they’d slept down there as a family for several nights, making a party out of it so Duncan got used to the space. Popcorn and staying up late, watching movies and playing videogames. A safe area, not a scary one.

But his son’s question was on the money. If they’d been under attack—a highly conceivable possibility considering their past—the next step would be to call the police, followed by the Feds. If that didn’t produce the desired results, the media was next.

So far, the VanCamps had lived up to their part of the deal and kept silent. If threatened, Josh had memorized all the numbers for all the major news outlets on the Big Island. He could burn several key people if forced to.

Josh didn’t want it to come to that. He and Fran had talked long and hard about bringing down those responsible for the genocide at Safe Haven, but in the end they opted to stay quiet for Duncan’s sake. If they told the press what they knew, there would be reprisals.

He stared at the two men on the monitor. Is that what this was? A team sent to silence them? If so, why were they knocking on the front door? Why not an entire commando team? Or an airstrike to take out the whole house?

None of the other monitors were live, meaning the proximity cameras hadn’t been tripped. Josh fired them up anyway to take a look.

No armed killers on the property.

No one at all.

Just the two guys on the front porch.

“I guess we ask them what they want,” Fran said.

Josh looked at his wife, saw that strength in her eyes he admired so much. Someone else might have been hysterical at this point. Crying or catatonic or ranting in fear. And he wouldn’t have blamed her if she reacted that way. But Fran was a rock, in many ways stronger than he was, and the love he felt for her right then gave him strength as well.

Josh hit the intercom button.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Frank

Dr. Frank Belgium yawned, needing sleep. He was grading an assignment, trying to figure out how this student had gotten into advanced biology. The paper had something to do with the ozone layer and photosynthesis. But the experiment made no sense, and the conclusions were unfounded and in several cases outright fabrication.

Belgium took one of the student’s paragraphs and typed it verbatim into Google. After checking the results, he tried several more times with other sections.

“Dumb dumb dumb.”

The student had plagiarized published experiments. And to disguise his cheating, he’d mixed and matched several different papers, without any apparent logic or reason.

Belgium printed the Google file, stapled the pages to the paper, and wrote F on the top, along with, Scientists cite their sources. They also try to make sense.

He was about to move onto the next paper, but stopped himself and added, How did you get into advanced biology?

It was a fair question. But as he stared at his handwritten words, Belgium wondered, And how did I wind up teaching advanced biology?

A combination of bad decisions and bad luck. But it was better than many alternatives—
something Frank knew all about. And being a biology professor at a state college still allowed him to do some genetic research. Not nearly on the same level as he used to, but enough to keep his mind active and hands nimble.

He frowned at the title of the next paper, Plants’ Reactions to Household Chemicals, and was ready to delve in when someone knocked at the door.

Oh, Jesus. He’s found me.

Belgium thought about the gun he’d always meant to buy, the one he’d use to shoot himself if the past ever came calling. But he’d been afraid to buy the gun. Just as well, because as frightened as he was right now, he’d be just as afraid to use it on himself.

It had been a while since he’d had to confront this particular fear. There had been nightmares, of course. Plenty of them since leaving Samhain. He hadn’t spoken with his friends, Sun and Andy, since their wedding last March, and those were the only people he could talk to about their shared, terrifying experience. Because if he did mention it to anyone else, he’d be shot for treason.

Maybe that was the solution. If evil was at the door, Belgium could call the newspapers, spill everything, and then the US government would kill him. But the government was inefficient, bordering on inept, and would probably take days or weeks to get the job done. In the meantime, he’d be going through all sorts of unimaginable hell. Which made Belgium wonder, for the umpteenth time, why he hadn’t ever manned up and just bought a damned gun.

“Dr. Belgium! Dr. Frank Belgium! It’s the Secret Service.”

Belgium’s fear of demons vanished. But another fear climbed into its place. If this was the Secret Service, there could be only one reason they would call on him.

“The doctor isn’t here,” he called, trying to disguise his voice and make it sound lower. Which, in hindsight, was silly, because they didn’t know what he sounded like in the first place. “I am his his his… lover.” Belgium’s eyes cast around his desk, looking for a suitable name. He found it on his computer monitor, the logo. “His lover, Vizio. Why are you bothering me at such an hour?”

“If you don’t open the door, Doctor, we will break in.”

Belgium shuddered. He didn’t want to go anywhere with the Secret Service, because it wouldn’t be anywhere pleasant. And how could he be sure it was the Secret Service at all? The evil that Belgium had confronted in the past was wily.

“I am Vizio,” he said, lamely. “The Doctor is out of the country at a biology symposium. I I I am staying here to water his plants.”

The door busted inward.

Belgium gasped.

He was right.

It wasn’t the Secret Service.

Chicago, Illinois

Tom

Tom Mankowski squinted at his Kindle Fire, determined to read the screen without making the font size larger. The author, some guy with a bunch of letters after his name who supposedly was on Dr. Phil a few times, was writing about the importance of intimacy in a romantic relationship.

No shit. I didn’t need to spend $14.99 to figure that out.

The ebook was called Twenty Tips For Keeping Long Distance Relationships Fresh, and was the first self-help book Tom had ever bought. The price surprised him—he thought ebooks should be much cheaper than that—but the topic was important enough to warrant the purchase.

Unfortunately, the content so far had been less than revelatory.

Call and text often? Check.

Send gifts? Check.

Phone sex? They’d actually taken it once step further, and used video chat on Skype.

Visit when possible?

Tom looked to the right, to the empty side of the bed. Joan hadn’t been over in two weeks. And it had been two months since he’s visited her in LA. In the past hundred days he’d seen her only eight.

Tom smiled every time he got a text from her. It warmed his heart when Joan FedExed a screener DVD of some film she’d produced. And the site of her in a skimpy negligee, doing her best to talk dirty to him on his computer screen but constantly breaking character and giggling—well, it beat the hell out of Internet porn.

But it didn’t beat being with her. Nothing beat being with her.

Tom was lonely. And the loneliness was made worse because he had someone who could fill that void. But she wouldn’t quit her job to move to Chicago, and he wouldn’t quit his to move to L.A.

He flipped the electronic page and read, Plan a surprise visit.

Tom had some vacation days he needed to burn or else he’d lose them. But Joan was in the middle of a shoot, and that meant 80 hour work weeks for her. Still, he could fly to California and be there for her at the end of her day, if only to sleep next to her for a few nights. It was better than lying in bed alone, reading an overpriced book by some PhD with a startling grasp of the obvious.

He blinked, yawned, and damned his pride, pressing the Aa setting on the screen to enlarge the font to a size 8. It beat getting eyeglasses. Then he adjusted his pillow and settled in to read about playing online games together.

Yeah. That’s what Joan would be into. Us fragging each other in an Xbox Halo death match. How the hell did this guy get on Dr. Phil?

But curiosity got the best of Tom, and he exited the book and began to surf the net, seeing if there were any online games about fifteenth century France, which Joan did have an interest in. He was flipping through Google pages when there was a knock at his door.

Tom’s first thought was the gun on his nightstand. As a Homicide cop, Tom had made enemies. And some of them were real doozies.

His second thought was, Maybe Joan is reading this same stupid book and is surprising me with a visit.

She’d called earlier that day, but it had been hours ago. Had she phoned from the airport, just before hopping on the red-eye?

Tom swung his legs out of bed, grabbed the terrycloth bathrobe on the floor (a gift from Joan) and stuck the Sig Saur in his pocket, first making sure there was one in the chamber. He walked out of the bedroom softly, on the balls of his feet, and traversed the short hallway to his apartment door. After an altercation with a very bad and very powerful man several years ago, Tom had improved his home security. The door was bulletproof, with a reinforced security bar. It was the same setup he’d installed at Joan’s house, and nothing short of a charging rhino could get through it.

Tom took a peek through the peephole, and saw two men in dark suits standing in the hallway. Caucasian, thirties, blank expressions. He noted how their jackets bulged, indicating they were carrying.

He palmed his Sig and said, “Yeah?”

The man on the right said, “FBI.”

They both held up badges and ID cards. Tom had seen a few in his day, and they looked legitimate enough. But you could buy anything online these days.

“What do you want?”

“It’s about your partner. Roy Lewis.”

Tom hadn’t expected that.

“What about him?”

“We believe he’s in trouble, Detective Mankowski. Can we come in?”

Tom didn’t like it. It was 2am, a highly abnormal time for the Feebies to drop in. But they both shared the classic, bored expression of government drones, and Roy was like a brother to Tom. Keeping his gun at his side, he went through the complicated process of unlatching the door and letting them in.

“The gun is hardly necessary, Detective,” said the same one, eying Tom’s piece.

“I’m a nervous type.”

They didn’t reply. Tom stepped aside and allowed them into his apartment. He noticed two things immediately.

First was their footwear. Rather than the expected Florsheims or equivalent, these men had heavy boots on, with thick rubber soles, suitable for combat. The second was their scent. It was odd, sort of a musk combined with something medicinal. Nothing that came from a bottle, and unlike any body odor Tom had ever smelled. Neither offensive or appealing, but certainly unusual.

He followed the men into the living room, where they turned to face him. No one made any move to sit on the sofa or easy chair, and Tom didn’t offer them any of the cold coffee still in the pot on the kitchen counter. He waited for them to speak first, an old cop trick. After a few seconds of silence, they did.

“We understand you and Detective Lewis were invited to an unusual gathering last weekend.”

Tom remembered the invitation, which had arrived via FedEx at work.

“Some sort of gameshow thing,” Tom said. “Win a million dollars or something like that.”

“Did you discuss it with your partner?”

Tom hadn’t. At least, not in depth. He and Roy had each gotten identical invitations, but they’d been working a gang hit, interrogating seven members of the Latin Kings over a period of four days, and he’d forgotten about the FedEx ten seconds after it arrived. After making the arrest, Roy had taken leave, mentioning he might check the invite out.

As far as Tom could recall, it was for some stupid reality show contest. Tom didn’t need the money, and he certainly didn’t want the fame. He preferred to keep to himself. One of the things he hated most about Joan’s work was the parties he was forced to attend when he visited her. All those Hollywood phonies, each trying to shine brighter than the next. Joan never acted that way, but it seemed almost every single one of her friends did.

“We spoke about it for less than a minute. Roy wondered if it was a scam. I had no interest. Didn’t even read the whole thing.”

“Do you have the invitation here?”

Tom had it on the desk in his bedroom, but something made him withhold that info.

“Not sure where it is.”

“Can you find it?”

“Why?”

The Feebies exchanged a glance, then focused back on Tom. “Because it’s evidence in a possible homicide investigation.”

Tom gripped the butt of his Sig tighter. “What are you saying?”

“We have reason to believe that Roy Lewis, your partner, has been murdered.”

It had been a long time since anyone had punched Tom in the face.

This was a whole lot worse.

Cleveland , Ohio

Deb

Deb Dieter stared at the ringing phone.

Her mouth was dry, and she could feel her heart fluttering in her chest like a hummingbird was trapped in her ribcage. She began reaching for her husband to grip his arm, and then hesitated. Her walking legs—made of carbon and fitted with a microprocessor—were harder to get on than her other prosthetics, and she was torn between the need to be comforted by Mal and the need to get dressed and flee.

Flee from what? The phone? The door?

Is this what my life has come to? Letting fear dictate my every move?

Deb forced herself to look at the phone. She flinched when it rang again.

Just answer it.

Do it.

Now.

But Deb couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even reach for it. She’d run marathons, fought mountain lions, and survived the Rushmore Inn. She’d even been taking a karate course, and had just advanced to 3rd Mon Kyu; Purple Belt with Red Stripe. But she couldn’t get herself to answer a telephone.

Mal seemed equally paralyzed. In many ways, his ordeal had been even worse than hers. On the rare nights she was able to fall asleep, Mal often woke her up, in the throes of a night terror, whimpering in a way that never failed to raise the hair on her arms.

The phone rang again.

And again.

Then the answering machine picked up.

“You’ve reached the Dieters, please leave a message.”

“It’s the FBI. Open the door.”

Deb managed to look over at Mal, whose expression was somewhere between terrified and confused.

“This is about West Virginia.”

The Rushmore. Most of those responsible for the atrocities committed there had died.

But there was one man, who was currently in prison.

Could he have escaped?

Deb couldn’t imagine anything worse. Her mind went into overdrive, conjuring scenarios so fast they became one big blur in her head. He got out… he’s coming for her and Mal… he’s been seen in the vicinity… he’s…

He’s the one on the phone right now, impersonating the FBI.

More pounding on the door. Deb didn’t know what to do. She felt glued to the bed. Mal was shaking so badly he wouldn’t be able to hit anything with the gun he held.

“This is extremely important,” said the voice on the answering machine. “open the door. We know you’re in there. We can see you.”

Deb jerked her head from left to right, searching the bedroom, not understanding how someone could be watching her. There was no one there, nothing at all but—

The window.

The window, over the headboard of the bed.

Mal and Deb looked up, at the small, rectangular window directly above them. The venetian blinds were closed, but there were gaps and cracks. And they were on the first floor.

Someone could be standing right there.

“Open the blinds,” the voice said. “I’m holding up my badge.”

But what if he wasn’t holding a badge? What if it was the escaped psycho, and he was holding a brick, or a crowbar, or a—

Someone rapped lightly on the window.

Deb screamed.

A flashlight appeared behind the blinds.

“Put down the gun, Mr. Dieter. We’re not going to harm you or your wife.”

Sweat had broken out over Mal’s forehead, dripping down the sides of his face. He stared at his wife, and she sensed him fighting to be brave. Gun still in his hand, Mal slowly reached for the cord to the blinds—

—and yanked them open.

Standing there was a man. Not the psycho they remembered. But a tall man in a suit, holding a cell phone in one hand, the flashlight in the other, pointing at his own face.

“I’m going to take out my badge,” he said, and his words on the machine weren’t quite synced to his lips, due to the satellite delay. “We’re here to help you.”

Deb watched, transfixed, as he slowly reached into his pocket and took out an official-looking FBI badge and ID.

Trembling, she reached for the phone and picked it up.

“Help us wi…wi… with what?” she managed, teeth chattering.

The man smiled, but it was hollow and emotionless.

“Open the door and let us in. And we’ll tell you.”

Grand Haven, Michigan

Sara

“What do you want?” she said into the phone, her voice so soft she could barely hear it.

“It’s the FBI. We’re here to help you get your son back.”

Sara blinked, then shook the cobwebs from her head. The fear she’d been feeling was replaced with something else. Something she hadn’t experienced in so long she’d forgotten what it felt like.

Hope.

“Jack?” she croaked.

“Yes, Jack. Open the door, and we can talk about it.”

“I… uh… gimme a minute.”

The fear came back, and her mind twisted in two. To have her child again would be a miracle. It would, quite literally, save her life.

But there was also a chance this was a trick. Sara knew there were bad people in the world. She’d had to endure some of the worst that humanity had to offer. This call could be connected to all the bad things from her past. Or it could be some new predator, looking for an opportunity.

As she considered her options, Sara quickly changed out of her soiled sweatpants, tossing them into the shower and shimmying into some jeans. Then she went into her kitchenette, seeking the gun. She found it on the floor, next to an old pizza box, and peeked through the curtains at the entrance to her trailer.

Two men in suits. They stared right at Sara, as if they’d anticipated her looking at them. Both held gold badges. Sara wondered if the shields were real or not, then realized it didn’t matter. They could kick in her flimsy trailer door with less energy than it took to sneeze. If these men wanted to get in, they easily could. But so far, they’d opted for the polite approach.

So maybe they were FBI and telling the truth. Or maybe they’d try to kill her. In either case, there wasn’t anything she could do to stop them. The gun she held only had one bullet in it. Sara hadn’t ever expected to use it for self-defense.

She placed her hand on the front door knob, feeling as if she were inviting trouble inside. But the reality was, no matter what they could do to her, it couldn’t be worse than what had already been done.

Sara unlocked it and opened the door.

“Can we come in?”

Sara nodded, stepping aside. She gestured to her cheap dinette set, one of the chairs wobbly. The cool, fresh air from outside made her realize how sour the smell was in her trailer, and she caught an acrid stench similar to spoiled milk. The men came in and stood there, seemingly oblivious to the mess around them. And a mess it was. Dishes piled high in the sink. Fast food wrappers strewn about. A garbage can filled to overflowing. A single strip of fly paper hanging from the overhead light, speckled with dozens of the dead.

But Sara didn’t care what they thought of the mess, or if they judged her. She just wanted to know if they were speaking the truth about Jack.

Neither man made a move to sit down. They were taller than they seemed to be when standing outside. Beefier, too. More like pro wrestlers than FBI guys.

“So, you’re in,” she forced herself to talk slowly, deliberately. “What do you want?”

“We know what happened on Rock Island.”

Sara may have flinched at that, but she still had enough liquor in her system to mask her reaction. Rock Island—which she thought of as Plincer’s Island—was the cause for her current situation.

“You went through a lot,” he continued. His eyes, and expression were blank. “But you survived. It must have been quite an ordeal.”

Sara wasn’t going to get into a conversation about the past, especially about what happened on that island. “What about Jack?”

“The government has a proposition for you. We want to help.”

The sneer formed on her lips before she could stop it. “The government? They’re the ones who took my baby.”

The agent continued. So far his partner hadn’t spoken. “Child Protective Services took Jack. You were caught doing sixty miles an hour in a thirty mile zone, and he wasn’t in a car seat.”

“I… I’d left the car seat in the house.”

“You blew a one point eight.”

Sara considered responding, but the fight had long been beaten out of her.

Yes, she was a drunk. After Plincer’s Island, alcohol was the only thing that drowned out the nightmares. She came away from it scared and broke, and the DUI had been the final nail in her coffin of failure. Sara had to sell the house to pay for her legal fees, and still spent six months in jail for wreckless endangerment. When she got out, and was unable to get Jack back from the foster home the state had stuck him in. She was a single parent with a criminal record, no means of employment, and many—including the judge—were dubious of her role in the Rock Island Massacre. Without money for a good lawyer, Sara went back to drinking, winding up in this shit hole trailer park, trying to find the guts to eat that single bullet.

“How can you help?” she whispered.

“There’s an experimental program, going on this weekend. If you volunteer for it, you’ll be given one million dollars, and we’ll work with CPS to get your son back.”

Sara snorted. “A million bucks, and Jack? This is a joke, right?”

“It’s for real, Sara.” He reached into his jacket, took out some folded papers. “The details are in here.”

“What’s the program? Some sort of rehab?” As she said it Sara found herself looking around the kitchenette for any alcohol that might be left over.

The silent one finally spoke. “It’s about fear.”

Sara stared at him, and his smile was chilling.

“Fear?”

The other one continued. “You understand fear better than most people. The government wants to study how you react to fear.”

“Why?”

“Understanding fear can lead to controlling it. Certainly you can see the advantages to that.”

Sara’s brow crinkled. “So this is a fear study? Do they hook me up to some machine, then make me watch scary movies?”

The quiet one let out a chuckle. “Oh, it’s a bit more complicated than that…”

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Frank

“You’re not the Secret Service,” Dr. Frank Belgium said, scrutinizing the proffered badges that quite distinctly spelled out FBI.

“Our friends in the Secret Service told us where to find you,” said the agent on the right. His breath smelled medicinal. “We’re all Feds, so does it really matter?”

“Yes yes yes, in fact it does.”

Belgium inadvertently flashed back to the last time the Secret Service came calling, which is how he wound up at Samhain. Two men in black suits, with the proposition of a lifetime.

“We have a proposition for you,” the same agent said.

“No, thank you. I’m quite done done done with government work. Have a good night.”

Belgium moved to close the door, but the Fed stuck his foot in it.

“We’re well aware of your role in Project Samhain, Doctor. And how it turned out.”

Belgium again thought back to how that particular part of his life came to a close. About the evil loose in the world, which was partly his fault. He braced himself for the bad news.

Instead, he was surprised by bad news of a completely different kind.

“Instead of being a researcher, your government would like you to volunteer to be a test subject,” the agent said. “On a topic you know intimately well.”

“Molecular biology?”

“Fear,” said the other one.

Belgium wasn’t sure, but when the man spoke he flashed teeth that looked…

Well, they looked pointy.

“You’re invited to spend the weekend taking part in a unique experiment. You’ll be closely monitored to see how you react to fear. As you might guess, you have more experience in this area than most.”

That’s the understatement of the century, Belgium thought.

“For one day of your time, you’ll be given one million dollars. Plus your old job back at Biologen.”

Belgium raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

He’d been justifiably fired from Biologen years ago, due to negligence. Since then, they’d merged with the pharmaceutical company DruTech and had become the premiere biotech firm in the world.

“A million, and a job as head of the molecular biology department.”

Head of the department? That meant pure research, the thing in life Frank loved more than anything else.

He allowed himself a few seconds of fantasy. His own lab. Access to the best equipment. The most competent staff in the world. And no more grading ridiculous papers about plants’ reactions to household chemicals.

Then reality kicked in again, reinforced with some well-earned skepticism.

“So this has nothing to do do do with Samhain?”

“No.”

“Have you,” he chose his words carefully, “spoken with anyone else?”

“Several people. But no one you know.”

Which meant his friends from Samhain, Sun and Andy, hadn’t been approached.

But working for the government again? Could he possibly trust that?

The answer came swiftly and with finality.

Absolutely fucking not.

“It’s a tempting offer, gentlemen, but but but I’m going to decline.”

The lead agent stared deep into Belgium, his eyes emotionless. “If you don’t accept this offer, you’ll be executed for treason.”

“Treason?” Belgium squeaked. “I’ve never breathed a word of what happened, to anyone.”

“You know exactly what you did,” the agent said. “You know what you’re responsible for.”

The Fed spoke the truth. And Belgium had waited years for the evil he’d unleashed upon the world to appear again. He spent hours every week monitoring the world news, looking for evidence.

But so far, the evil had remained dormant. Belgium had even begun to hope it had disappeared completely.

“Your choice is to submit to the experiment and get a large cash settlement, along with your dream job. Or be taken to a secret prison and executed without a trial. And that threat extends to your associates.”

“Andrew and Sunshine Dennison,” the other said, giving Belgium another quick glimpse of his sharp teeth.

“I understand they’re expecting a child. Do you want to be responsible for destroying their family?”

Belgium did not want them to die. Nor did he want to die. Death was one of many, many things Frank feared.

“Then apparently I don’t don’t don’t have a choice. Where is this experiment supposed to take place?”

“Have you heard of Butler House?”

Belgium had. And as the blood drained from his face, he seriously wondered if being executed for treason was the better option.

Chicago, Illinois

Tom

“You think my partner was murdered, and it is somehow connected with this game show thing?”

The Feebies looked at each other.

“We’ve been investigating a man named Dr. Emil Forenzi. He may be involved in the disappearance of over a dozen ex-military personnel. From what we’ve been able to find out, he’s doing some sort of scientific research on the physical characteristics of fear.”

“He’s the one who sent the invitations?”

“We believe so.”

“And you think he may have killed Roy?”

“We’re not sure.”

“You guys don’t know much, do you?”

“Detective Mankowski, we believe Dr. Forenzi may in fact be funded by the US military. So certain avenues have been closed to us.”

Tom could understand that. The army, much like the government, tended to keep hush-hush about things above your pay grade. “Do you have any actual evidence?”

“Just circumstantial. We’ve been trying to get a man on the inside of Forenzi’s operation, but security is tight. However, we do know he has been inviting people to participate in his experiments. People who have undergone a particularly frightening experiences. We’ve done a background check on you and your partner, and you both certainly qualify.”

No shit, Tom thought.

“We’d really like to know what’s going on, Detective.”

“And you want me to find out.”

“We’ve gotten permission from your boss, Captain Bains, to work with you on this.”

That seemed odd to Tom, as Bains didn’t like working with the Feebies. And justifiably so. They were territorial, smug, and often looked down on city cops. But Bains also had an almost paternal sense of responsibility toward his men. If Roy was missing, the captain would want him found.

“And you can’t do this yourselves because…?” Tom asked.

“We weren’t invited. You were. You could poke around, talk to Forenzi, try to get some evidence. We’ve tried to interview him, but he lawyered up. And we’ve found obtaining a warrant to be challenging. He apparently has friends in high places.”

“Where is Forenzi?”

They exchanged another glance. “He’s set up his laboratory in the Butler House.”

“The Butler House?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

Next to the house made famous in the Amityville Horror, Butler House was probably the most famous paranormal site in America. Tom even remembered streaming a low budget Netflix movie about it. Located in South Carolina, an insane doctor—the brother of a plantation owner—built a laboratory-slash-dungeon underneath the estate, where he performed horrible experiments on the slaves they owned. Tom watched ten minutes before turning it off. Even though it was poorly acted, and the special effects were shoddy, the ghosts in the movie were hideously deformed and reminded Tom of a real night he spent in the real basement of a real mansion, and he didn’t need to be reminded of that.

“Supposed to be haunted,” Tom said.

“Forenzi is apparently convinced it actually is haunted. And he believes the fear of the supernatural induces the purest terror response in his volunteers.”

“Have you talked to any of these volunteers?”

“No. We’ve tried to track down those we know of, but they’ve… disappeared.”

Tom almost laughed at that. Almost. It was ridiculous enough to be the punchline for a campfire ghost story. But neither Feebie looked amused.

“How many people are we talking about here?” he asked.

“Two or three dozen.”

“Including the missing military men?”

“In addition to them.”

“So you’re saying there have been… how many?… maybe fifty people who have disappeared in Butler House since Forenzi moved in?”

“That number might be low.”

“And no one has done anything?”

“We’re trying to do something, Detective. Which is why we’re at your apartment at three in the morning.”

Tom rubbed his eyes. “I need to think about this. Do you have a number I can reach you at?”

One of the agents produced a card and held it out.

“We really would like to see that invitation,” he said, pinching the card so Tom couldn’t take it.

“When I find it, I’ll show it to you.”

The Fed released the card. Special Agent John Smith. Go figure.

“We’ve heard that Forenzi is conducting another experiment this weekend. Our informant says guests are being picked right now.”

“Who is this informant?”

Neither agent answered. Obviously the Bureau had their need-to-know info just like the military did.

“Goodnight, gentlemen,” Tom said. “You can find your way out.”

They left without so much as a nod. As soon as the door closed, Tom went to his cell phone and called Roy.

It went straight to voice mail.

“Roy, it’s Tom. Call me back as soon as you get this.”

It was too early in the morning to call Gladys, Roy’s ex-wife, so instead Tom went into the bedroom and found the FedExed invitation. He snapped on a pair of vinyl gloves he kept in his drawer, and pulled the invite out of the blue and orange cardboard mailer. It was a standard 8.5” x 11” sheet of paper, off white and a heavy stock. The writing on it appeared to be calligraphy.

Survive the night in a haunted house and receive $1,000,000. Call 843-555-2918 to confirm.

Invitation 3345

Tom turned the paper over, finding nothing, then looked for a nonexistent water mark. Next, he sniffed it, and it smelled like paper. Finally he took out a magnifying glass and studied the script. It was inkjet, not handwritten.

It said nothing about this being a gameshow or a reality show, but those were the possibilities he and Roy had brought up during the fifteen seconds they’d discussed it. But this seemed more likely to be a joke, hoax, or scam.

And yet the Feebies were extremely interested in this invitation, and they didn’t think this was a put on.

Tom switched on his computer monitor, saw he was still on the Skype program he used to talk to Joan. She was offline. He frowned, then Googled Dr. Emil Forenzi, spelling it like it sounded.

He found him on the Linkedin social network. Born in Brazil fifty-six years ago, his father Italian and mother a native. Moved to the US when he was a child. Full scholarship to Brown. Doctorate at MIT. Then he went to work for the DoD, and apparently still did. Specialties included a bunch of technical and science skills that Tom had to scroll down to read completely.

So why does a genius scientist believe in something as ridiculous as the supernatural?

Tom squelched the thought. If he described some of the very real things that had happened to him, the majority of the world would think they were ridiculous as well. Trying to keep his mind open, he searched for Butler House on Google and found a website dedicated to it.

Tom settled back in his desk chair and began to read.

Building History

Butler House was built in 1837 by wealthy landowner Jebediah James Butler on a cotton plantation in Solidarity, South Carolina, fifty miles outside of Charleston. Boasting more than one hundred and fifty rooms in the neoclassical antebellum style, it was home to Jebediah, his wife Annabelle, and his younger brother, Colton, until their deaths in 1851.

Construction began in 1835 and faced many setbacks, including a severe storm, a fire, and the deaths of three workers. One died when a pallet of bricks crushed him. Another was scalded to death by hot tar. A third fell into the concrete foundation when it was being poured, and drown there. A generally accepted rumor is his body wasn’t discovered until the concrete had cured, and it was unable to be removed, so Butler indicated more concrete be poured on top of him.

Many point to this lack of a proper burial as the beginning of the rumors that the property was haunted. Others contend that the source of the problems was the land itself. In the late 1700s it was a thriving village of Cusabo Native Americans numbering over two hundred. The village was burned, its people massacred, by white settlers desiring the fertile land.

During the lengthy and troublesome construction, Annabelle had been heard to say, “Maybe the Lord doesn’t want us building this house.”

The slow completion time is also attributed to the architectural demands Butler made. He hired three different architects, each to design a different part of the building, so no one but Butler knew the exact layout. This was especially important because the manor was outfitted with many secret rooms and passageways, false walls, staircases that lead nowhere, a labyrinthine basement with several kilometers worth of tunnels, and a torture chamber.

Slavery

At its peak in 1841, the plantation boasted dozens of slaves, the majority working several hundred acres of cotton and tobacco. Butler was known to openly boast that he was breeding his own workforce, and many of the slaves born on the property were fathered by Butler or his brother. On several recorded occasions, if a child born on the property was too light skinned, Butler would feed it alive to the passel of hogs he kept on the property.

Butler soon became one of the largest slave buyers in the South, which caused one of his contemporaries to remark, “[Butler] has purchased so damned many he could farm the entire state.” But at any given time, Butler never seemed to have more than fifty slaves working for him, even though records have shown he had bought more than four hundred.

Known to be unusually cruel masters, the Butler brothers seemed to have delighted in inflicting punishment on their slaves, for slights real or imagined. They made full use of the house’s torture chamber, where slaves were skinned, boiled, crucified, scourged, whipped, mutilated, and burned.

Colton Butler, a self-professed physician who demanded to be addressed as “Doctor” even though he held no known medical degree, conducted many surgical experiments on slaves, without anesthesia, with the apparent goal of joining them together.

“I believe I have the ability and necessary determination,” Butler wrote, “to fuse the parts of two Negroes together into a single being. Consider a slave with four strong arms, which would double his work output, or with six breasts to suckle young…”

Rebellion

The Butlers hired ten armed men to guard them and their property, and they were known to be as cruel as their employers. Daily beatings, corporal punishments, and public executions (even though the killing of slaves was against the slave code) were commonplace. A one-eyed man named Jonathan “Blackjack” Reedy, worked as taskmaster in the fields, and once said, “Spilled blood is good for the soil, makes the cotton stronger.”

On October 31, 1847, near the end of the annual cotton harvest, Blackjack was whipping a young boy whose only infraction was said to have been stopping for a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow. This appeared to have been the final straw for the mistreated slaves, and they revolted, beating Blackjack so severely the only way the authorities could identify his corpse was by his black leather eyepatch.

The rebellion spread throughout the fields, the guards either being surprised or running out of ammunition, and after the last was killed the angry slaves converged on Butler House.

Jebediah Butler, and his wife Annabelle, were hung naked by their ankles from the rafters in Butler House’s great room and beaten to death with whips and scourges. Colton was chased into the bowels of the basement, and dragged to the torture chamber where he was placed upon the rack and stretched until his arms and legs were broken in several places each. Then he was set ablaze.

The majority of the slaves escaped to nearby states, some making their way to the North and freedom.

Aftermath

The deaths of the Butlers was headline news for weeks after the incident, and bounties were put on the runaway slaves’ heads. But there weren’t many takers. There were rumors of a “slave curse” which claimed any who tried to capture the Butler slaves would meet the same fate as the Butler family.

The house, and plantation, went unoccupied for five years, until a man claiming to be a distant cousin of the Butlers, Sturgis Butler, petitioned the court for ownership and moved in during the summer of 1852.

Sturgis tried, unsuccessfully, to hire workers to fix up the house, which had fallen into disrepair and still bore the damage incurred during the rebellion. But laborers always quit in terror after a few days, claiming to have witnessed strange ghostly figures, or disembodied screams.

Sturgis resorted to repairing the house on his own, but he didn’t try to recapture the farm, and the land soon became a dense marsh.

Though Sturgis never married, he entertained a wide variety of women at Butler House, many of them prostitutes. At least a dozen were never heard of again.

Civil War Years

When the War Between the States broke out in 1861, Butler House was commandeered by the Confederate Army as a garrison. Between 1861 and 1865, at least six soldiers committed suicide on the grounds, and sixteen more were remanded to a local insane asylum, ranting about supernatural phenomenon. While under psychiatric care, four killed themselves, eight died of unexplained causes, and one man plucked out his own eyes with a fork.

Sturgis, exempt from the draft because he worked as a druggist, remained at the house during its occupation by troops, though he kept to himself in a closed off wing of the basement. Rumors abounded of him being “in league with the devil” and a proponent of “black magick.” Milledge Luke Bonham, governor of South Carolina and Brigadier General in the army, said of Sturgis, “There is something dark and twisted about that man. He is certainly no Christian.”

Reconstruction Years

During the four decades after the war ended, little was heard from Sturgis Butler. Prostitutes from the county continued to disappear, and the locals paid little mind to it. But in in 1902, Mia Lockwood, the only child of Southern poultry magnate Earl Lockwood, vanished the night before her debutante ball in Charleston.

Gossip and rumor led to the formation of a posse/lynch mob who raided the Butler House on May 1, the pagan holiday known as Walpurgis Night. Upon breaking into the house, the group discovered Sturgis presiding over a Black Mass replete with occult paraphernalia including black candles, severed animal heads, sacrilegious objects, and a seventeenth century binding of the Compendium Maleficarum, a notorious text on witches. Sturgis had hung a naked and violated Mia upside-down on a cross, and was lapping at the blood streaming from her slashed throat when the mob arrived.

Sturgis was immediately dragged outside, lashed to a black oak tree, and set ablaze. He allegedly laughed as he burned.

Inspection of the property over the succeeding weeks discovered three mass graves, some going back over seventy years (determined to be the bones of slaves) and some more recent (the corpses of missing prostitutes) making Sturgis one of America’s first, and most prolific, serial killers.

1910-1945

Butler House remained unoccupied for a few years after Sturgis Butler’s death, until the county acquired it, making the mansion a home for the blind, and for invalid veterans of the First World War . At the height of its use, it housed over a hundred. During its thirty-five years of operation, there were many fatal illnesses that infected patients.

1911 – Tuberculosis killed 35.

1918 – The Spanish Flu killed 63.

1920 – Diphtheria killed 9.

1924 – Botulism killed 40.

1931 – Cholera killed 5.

1940 – Measles killed 5.

In 1945, a fire broke out in the great room, and all of the 86 residents died of smoke inhalation or third degree burns. It is unknown why they were unable to escape, as the doors were all in working order.

After WWII

Butler House remained abandoned until 1956, when it was acquired by a land development company intent on tearing it down and building a housing development. The day before demolition occurred, the owner of the company, J.J. Hossenport, was struck by lightning and killed while getting into his car.

During his funeral, lightning struck and killed his widow, Myrtle Hossenport.

Their heirs, believing the property to be cursed, put it up for sale. It remained on the market and vacant for twenty-nine years, though six different realtors showed the house dozens of times.

It was finally acquired by eccentric millionaire Augustus Torble, the lone heir of a restaurant mogul, who spent over a million dollars restoring the house to its former shape. In 1985, he moved into Butler House with his young bride, Maria.

In 1992, Maria was discovered by hunters, wandering naked in the woods six miles from Butler House. She was malnourished and incoherent, scars covering eighty percent of her body.

In the hospital, she told the police a tale of captivity and severe abuse by her husband, who kept her locked in Butler House’s torture chamber and committed unspeakable acts upon her for several years. She also told of being forced to participate in the torture and murder of eleven women, whose remains were found in one of the underground tunnels.

Torble was arrested, tried, and sentenced to life in prison. Shortly after the trial, Maria committed suicide. To this day, the women Torble killed remain unidentified. Torble refused to cooperate with authorities, and it is unknown where he found them or how he lured them to the house. He remains incarcerated at the Fetzer Correctional Institution in Charleston, SC.

Current Owner

The house remained vacant until 2002, when it was purchased by Unified Systems Association, which built an electrified perimeter fence around Butler House. Since then it has been off limits to ghost hunters, thrill seekers, and the curious. Those caught trespassing on private property are promptly arrested.

Hauntings

During its 176 year history, dozens of strange happenings and unexplainable phenomenon have been linked to Butler House. Some highlights include:

1848 – A string of arsons in Charleston, including six churches that burned to the ground, were attributed to a shadowy figure with an eye patch. Several witnesses swore it was the ghost of slave driver Blackjack Reedy.

1863 – Eight Confederate soldiers staying at Butler House reported a floating ball of light that roamed the lower tunnels at night. It had the ability to go through walls and locked doors, and if it touched a person, that person died of fright.

1908 – There were seven verified attacks and sexual assaults on women in the Charleston area, by an assailant whom they claimed to be Sturgis Butler… six years after his death.

1915 – Returning WWI veterans, many of whom were victims of chlorine, phosgene, and mustard chemical weapons, claim to have been tormented by a giggling spirit in a gas mask.

1918 – During the Spanish Flu epidemic, over a dozen patients reported being assaulted, molested, and in some cases raped, by an unknown entity. The spirit supposedly smelled like burned flesh, and paralyzed its victims so they couldn’t move or cry out while the attacks were taking place.

1958 – Since the deaths of J.J. and Myrtle Hossenport, descendants have suffered a streak of bad luck many attribute to supernatural phenomenon. Six car accidents, two fires, a drowning, a stroke, and a dog attack, have killed sixteen Hossenport family members. The last remaining Hossenport in the lineage, Mary Kate, was murdered by serial killer Charles Kork in 1993.

1965 – Reknowned psychic medium Mdme. Francesca Sillero gathered with a group of wealthy benefactors at Butler House to hold a séance on Halloween night. During the proceedings, she claimed to have channeled the spirit of Colton Butler. While Butler’s spirit was inside her, he allegedly forced her to pluck out both of her eyes and chew off her tongue.

1982 – A group of Charleston teenagers broke into Butler House to have a late-night party. Shortly after arriving, one of teen’s gums began to bleed for no explainable reason. By the time her friends got her to the hospital, every one of her teeth had fallen out. No medical explanation has ever been given.

1998 – A TV crew from the paranormal investigation show Ghost Smashers spent Halloween night in Butler House. Unconfirmed reports indicate a tragedy occurred. No one knows what happened, but the host, Richard Reiser, immediately retired from television without the program ever airing.

Tom clicked on the PHOTOS section of the website. The first picture looked a lot like the White House, but no columns and a darker color. The second was of three people, the Butler brothers and Annabelle.

Jebediah Butler was a bespectacled man with white hair and a Van Dyke beard. He looked a lot like a fatter Col. Sanders, minus the mirth. His wife was also plump, and either there was a spot on the photo or her left eye was severely crossed. Colton was the tallest, and rail thin. He leaned on his cane, hunched over as if his back was hurting him, and had one of those walrus mustaches with the ends curled up and waxed.

The next photo looked like a hole in the dirt filled with rocks, and Tom had to read the inscription to understand what he was seeing.

Over four thousand human bones found buried on the property.

Creeped out, he made the mistake of clicking on the next photo, which was a shirtless African American man who had so many scars on his body he no longer looked human. As Tom hurried to hit the ESC button, something in the image stopped him.

Something hanging on the man’s mangled shoulder.

A third arm.

It was small, withered, hanging over his chest like a wrinkled leather belt. But there were clearly five fingers on the end of it, and they were—

Holy shit. The fingers are holding a tin drinking cup .

Tom zoomed in, trying to spot if the photo had been altered, but it looked real enough.

What the hell was wrong with some people? Assuming even some of the facts on the website were true, what could make someone treat his fellow man like that?

Tom went to the next picture, partly out of morbid curiosity, partly because he wanted to see the Butlers get what was coming to them. He was rewarded by a photo that looked like two bloody, skinned deer carcasses.

Wrong again. The caption read The bodies of Jebediah and Annabelle Butler. They’d had every inch of skin on their body whipped off.

Thankfully, there were no pictures of the tortured Colton. But there was a portrait of Sturgis Butler, and Tom was shocked at how much he looked like Vlad the Impaler. Same dark, bulging eyes. Same pointy black beard. Tom found himself staring into those eyes, revulsion wiggling in his stomach.

Next came a picture of the house after the fire in ‘45. The structure remained intact, but there was telltale soot and fire damage surrounding the windows and front doors. Tom was going to move onto the next page, but something in the photo caught his eye.

He made the jpg the size of his monitor. In one of the blackened windows was a speck of white.

Tom zoomed in further.

The white speck looked like the ghostly face of a man screaming.

There was a sound and movement to Tom’s right, and he immediately glanced over his shoulder, adrenaline kicking in, and watched as his bedroom door—

—closed by itself.

As his fight-or-flight response kicked in, Tom remembered his window was open a crack. The draft sometimes blew the door open and closed; something that happened often enough that Tom actually looked it up and discovered it had to do with air pressure in the room.

Still, it was disconcerting after reading the history of Butler House. Tom’s mouth was dry. His heart was doing a fox trot. And he both felt, and saw, all the tiny hairs on the backs of his hands stick straight up.

He was afraid.

And the Feebies were right. Tom knew, more than most, what it was like to be afraid.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Tom stared at the phone, wanting to call Joan. Hearing her voice would reassure him, calm him down.

Instead he visited YouTube and played an upbeat rock performance by Bob Walkenhorst.

He also turned on the bedroom light.

In the bright room, with the music playing, Tom felt less frightened.

But he couldn’t relax enough to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that poor, scarred, three-armed slave. And thought of his partner, Roy.

Mililani, Hawaii

Fran

Fran stood in the safe room with her family, watching the porch monitor. The two men who stood at their front door looked around when Josh hit the intercom button and spoke.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“Mr. VanCamp?” They still couldn’t find the camera. “We’re from the FBI. We want to talk to you and your wife.”

Josh glanced at her, and Fran gave her head a small shake.

“We’re not interested,” Josh answered. “Go away.”

“It’s an opportunity for you to each earn a million dollars.”

“Two million bucks?” Duncan said. “Mom, that’s a crapload of money.”

“And probably a crapload of trouble,” Josh added. “Hon?”

“No way,” Fran said.

“If you’d let us in,” the man on the porch continued, “we could explain in detail. It will only require a day of your time. It’s a government-sponsored experiment.”

Josh snorted. Fran saw the incredulity in his eyes. She felt exactly the same way. She’d jump off a cliff onto a bed of nails before trusting the government.

“You have ten seconds to get off of our property,” she said into the intercom. “Or we’re going to shoot you.”

One of the men on the monitor reached into his pocket, and produced some folded papers. “We have all the information right here.”

“Five seconds,” Josh said.

“We’ll, um, leave it here for you.”

Fran watched the man stick the papers in the door jamb, and then they left. She followed them, monitor to monitor, until they walked off the grounds.

Duncan stared over at her, his eyes wide. “Would you really have shot them, Mom?”

Fran didn’t answer. But her thoughts went back to Safe Haven. To all the friends she’d lost. To all the horror she and her family had endured.

Would she have shot them? Hell yeah.

No one will ever have a chance to harm her, or her family, again.

Not as long as Fran still had the strength to rack a shotgun and pull a trigger.

Cleveland , Ohio

Mal

“It’s just for twenty-four hours,” said the FBI agent in the doorway. “You’ll arrive, have a meal, get examined by a doctor, then be locked in the Butler House overnight, and closely monitored to study how you react to fear.”

“So they’ll be purposely trying to frighten us?” Deb asked.

Mal had tucked the gun into his bathrobe pocket, and his wife was holding his hand so hard she was cutting off his circulation.

“It’s a fear study,” the agent said. “You both have had unique experiences that make you ideal candidates.”

“And we live with those experiences, every day,” Mal said. His apprehension had been fading since they answered the door, and was slowly being replaced by anger. “You have no right to come here and make this offer.”

After all he and Deb had survived, why would they willingly expose themselves to even more horrors, real or convoluted? To even ask that of his wife made Mal’s blood pressure skyrocket, and there was no way in hell he’d ever allow—

“Can we think it over?” Deb said.

Mal stared at her, unable to hide his surprise.

“Deb?”

“I didn’t say we’ll do it, hon. But I think we should talk about it.”

Mal didn’t understand. Sure, two million dollars was a lot, but they were doing fine financially. Why would Deb even consider this?

The agent who’d done all the talking reached into his jacket and handed Deb some folded papers. Mal detected the tiniest smirk in the corner of the man’s mouth.

“The experiment begins this weekend. Good evening to you both.”

The Feds left, and his wife closed the door, locking the various latches and deadbolts.

“Debbie, you’re not serious.” He searched her pretty face. “Are you?”

“I think we should at least discuss it, before you make a decision for the both of us.”

“I don’t understand.” Which was as true a statement he’d ever made. “I thought—”

“That’s the problem, Mal,” she snapped. “You thought, but didn’t ask me.”

“Is it the money?”

“I wasn’t even thinking about the money.”

“So what’s there to discuss? We can’t sleep as it is. You want to go someplace where they’re purposely trying to terrify you?”

“It’s a fear study, Mal. Something you and I suffer from, every single day.”

“Exactly, so—”

“So maybe a doctor who studies fear could somehow teach us how to deal with ours.”

Mal was about to object, but caught himself. They’d both had psychiatric treatment since the Rushmore Inn. Hypnotherapy. Exposure Therapy. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. Interpersonal. Group. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. And a pharmacy’s worth of drugs, from sleep agents to SSRIs to beta-blockers to anti-psychotics.

Nothing seemed to work. In fact, some of the treatments worsened their condition.

“You remember exposure therapy,” Mal said.

“Of course.”

They’d been subjected to shocking images of mutilations and congenital malformations in order to desensitize them. Deb had freaked out during a session, crying so uncontrollably they’d had to quit, and later that night Mal had gone to the ER, unable to stop hyperventilating, convinced he was having a heart attack.

“This seems even worse, Deb. They’re not just going to show us pictures. They’re going to try to scare us.”

“We’ll get through it,” Deb said, reaching for him again. “Just like we got through the Rushmore. But maybe we’ll learn something this time.”

Mal chewed his lower lip. The worst part about fear wasn’t the dread, it was the helplessness. The FBI agents said they’d be able to bring any items they wanted to with them for the weekend, including weapons. But the gun in Mal’s robe didn’t make him feel any safer. Quite the opposite. The very fact he owned a gun was a constant reminder of what he was so afraid of.

“I don’t know, Deb…”

“Can we discuss it, at least?” She moved a step closer to him, the hydraulic cylinders in her prosthetics whirring softly.

Mal didn’t want to discuss it. He wanted to run away, someplace where it never got dark. Where nightmares didn’t exist, both the ones in his head and the real ones.

But the longing in his wife’s eyes made his heart hurt.

“Of course, Deb. If this is something you want.”

“It is.”

Deb moved in for the hug, and he reluctantly embraced her, a thought bouncing through his mind and forcing out all others.

Be careful what you wish for, because it may come true.

Solidarity, South Carolina

Forenzi

Dr. Emil Forenzi could barely hear the phone ring above all the screaming.

“It’s okay,” Forenzi told his patient, giving him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “It’s all going to be okay.”

The screaming didn’t abate. Forenzi gave him a dose of traumesterone and the noise went down to a hoarse wheeze.

Forenzi answered the phone, located on the wall next to the EKG machine.

“I’m with a patient,” he said into the receiver. Which was unnecessary, because he was always with a patient. Even at ungodly hours like this. Who could sleep when there was so much to do?

“We have a head count for this weekend.”

“Go on.”

“Three confirmed.”

“And the others?”

“Still deciding.”

Forenzi frowned. He’d been hoping for better results.

“Which three?”

“Sara Randhurst. Moni Draper. Frank Belgium.”

Forenzi rubbed the stubble on his chin, and his eyes drifted across his laboratory. Besides his patient, and the various pieces of equipment, there was a large, glass apparatus on a stainless steel table, which looked like something out of a mad scientist movie. It was currently distilling a batch of Serum 3.

That serum, Forenzi knew, was going to win him a Nobel Prize.

Some believed that most of humanity’s conflicts, be it person-to-person or country-to-country, were based upon one possessing something the other one wanted. Land. Oil. Water. Food. Religious and political differences were used as excuses to dehumanize the enemy and grab their resources.

But Forenzi knew that this greed was bolstered by another, even more base and powerful emotion.

Fear.

Mankind reeked of fear.

This fear led to distrust, and ultimately to hate.

Being able to conquer fear meant a fresh start for the world.

“Let me know if the situation changes,” he said, then hung up.

Of the three who signed on, Dr. Belgium interested him most. A molecular biologist, he would recognize what Forenzi was doing here. It would be refreshing to talk to someone who could grasp the magnitude of this invention. Who would understand it.

He turned back to his patient, whose eyelids had drooped in sleep. Forenzi yawned sympathetically.

“You’re exhausted, my friend. So am I. We can continue the therapy tomorrow. Sleep well.”

Forenzi left the lab, walking into a hallway that looked more like a tunnel in a coal mine than the basement of a mansion. The floors were crumbling concrete, the walls lined with stacked railroad ties. There were wood ceiling braces every five meters, and Forenzi wouldn’t have doubted the bare 60w bulbs hanging from them were older than he was. As he passed beneath one, it buzzed and flickered.

One of the many ghosts of Butler House, demanding attention.

Forenzi paid it no mind. Instead, he took the hall to a fork, went right, and headed for the veterinary clinic. As he approached, he heard some lone trilling, and recognized it as Gunter’s.

Forenzi’s spirits dipped, and his pace quickened. He entered the clinic through the metal push door and beelined for Gunter’s habitat, which was situated to the right. It was several cubic meters in size, with a window of clear, unbreakable Plexiglas, the interior foliage meant to mimic a Columbian forest, with twisted, dead tree branches and fake plants.

The Panamanian Night Monkey watched his approach while upside down, hanging from a limb. Gunter was large for an A. zolalis, nearly three pounds in weight. His bushy brown fur was mottled with blood, and his enormous red eyes stared at Forenzi dispassionately.

“Gunter… Gunter… what have you done?”

Of course, Forenzi already had the answer to that. Gunter’s two cagemates, capuchins named Laurel and Hardy, were dead on the fake grass in the habitat. They’d been dismembered and eviscerated, their insides strewn across the bathing pond and staining the water pink.

“You just can’t play well with others, can you?” Forenzi shook his head and tsked.

Gunter stared, unmoving.

Aphobic.

Forenzi picked up the clipboard next to the habitat, recorded the event, and then flipped through the previous five months to get an accurate count.

“This makes twenty-eight,” he said. “You’re a regular little monkey serial killer.”

Gunter grunted, as if agreeing.

Forenzi left a note for the morning help to clean the cage, and order more monkeys. Serum 3, for all of its potential, still had some kinks to work out. There was undoubtedly a broad line between fearless and homicidal, but Forenzi hadn’t found it yet.

“I think we’ll lower your dosage,” Gunter said. “Maybe then you’ll be able to make friends.”

Gunter continued to stare, and Forenzi wondered how much the night monkey actually understood. Besides the expected changes to Gunter’s amygdala, the primate’s frontal lobe had also enlarged, increasing his intelligence. Forenzi wondered, half-joking, if one day Gunter would become so smart he’d solve the dosage problem himself.

Gunter dropped from his upside-down perch, startling Forenzi with the sudden movement. Without taking his big eyes off the doctor, he reached for a dismembered capuchin leg and began to gnaw on it.

“Apparently I don’t need to feed you, either,” Forenzi said.

Gunter grunted.

There was a great crash from above, and a small plume of dust drifted downward. Both Gunter and Forenzi stared at the ceiling.

Directly above them was Butler House. At this time of night, it should have been quiet.

But it rarely was.

“I wonder if monkeys have ghosts,” Forenzi mused. “Perhaps your friends Laurel and Hardy will visit you tonight, Gunter. And they probably won’t be pleased with the whole murder-dismemberment-cannibalism debacle. But then, that wouldn’t scare you, would it, Gunter? Nothing scares you at all.”

Forenzi wondered if he should mention Gunter during his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, since the animal had been essential to his research.

If so, perhaps the multiple killings should be downplayed. Or left unsaid.

“Goodnight, my friend. And don’t eat so quickly. You’ll choke.”

Forenzi left the lab, turning off the overhead florescent lights so his experiment could dine in the dark.

Chicago, Illinois

Tom

After four hours of troubled sleep, Tom reached for his cell phone next to the bed and hit redial.

It went straight to Roy’s voicemail.

Peering at the nightstand clock, he judged 8am to be late enough to call Roy’s ex-wife. Tom located the number in his address book, and she picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, Gladys. It’s Tom Mankowski.”

“Is Roy with y’all? Fool missed his visitation time with his daughter.”

Hell. Tom went into cop mode. “Does he do that often?”

“Not without calling he don’t. And he didn’t call. She was really upset, Tom. I was, too. I had plans. Tell him we’re both extremely disappointed in him. He hook up with some hoochie mama and lose track of time? Now he’s playing you to smooth things over?”

Hoochie mama? “I don’t know where he is, Gladys.”

“Really? This isn’t a game?” Glady’s voice had shed its ghetto attitude, and Tom sensed the concern.

“Apparently he’s been missing since last week.”

“A week? Oh, Jesus, Tom. I… what do we do?”

“I’m going to look for him, Gladys.”

“Thank you. Please keep me posted, okay?”

“Sure thing. And if you hear from him, please call.”

“I will. What should I tell Rhonda?”

Double hell. Rhonda just turned five. Old enough to wonder where her daddy was.

“I don’t know, Gladys.”

“You think it’s one of his old cases? Or a new one?”

“I don’t know. Did he mention going anywhere to you?”

“No. Nothing. He usually calls the day before he picks up Rhonda, which was supposed to be Wednesday. But he didn’t. His phone goes straight to voicemail.”

“Did he say anything about a haunted house? Or a reality show? Or getting some money?”

“I haven’t heard from him since he took Rhonda to a Cubs game, over two weeks ago. Do you think… do you think he might be…”

Then he heard it. A sniffle.

Gladys was crying.

“You know, Tom, that son of a bitch makes me angrier than anyone I’ve ever met. But if anything has happened to him…”

“I’ll find him, Gladys.”

“Rhonda needs her father.”

“I’ll find him. My love to Rhonda.”

Tom hung up. Listening to women cry was almost as bad as informing next of kin that someone close to them had died. And Tom had to wonder if that’s what he just did with Gladys.

He found the FedEx invitation and dialed the number, using his land line. A machine picked up, the voice synthetic. One of those text-to-speech generators that just missed sounding human. Futurists called it the uncanny valley. A sense of revulsion that people felt when they experienced something that was almost human, but not quite. It was thought of as a survival mechanism, to help people avoid those who looked or sounded strange. Tom could understand how that worked, on a genetics level, because procreating with those who had some sort of defect meant potentially defective children, and avoiding someone who was odd decreased the chance of getting whatever disease they had. At least that’s how the futurists explained it.

But listening to the voice, Tom realized it could help humans survive in another kind of way. By helping them avoid things that almost looked human, but weren’t.

Things like ghosts.

“Please say or punch in your reservation number, followed by the pound sign.”

Tom used his phone keypad.

“Hello, Tom Mankowski,” the creepy robotic voice said. “You are invited to spend the night at the haunted Butler House in Solidarity, South Carolina, where you will participate in a fear experiment. The house is located on 683 Auburn Road. You are expected to arrive on Saturday, before noon. You can bring whatever items you’d like, including weapons, religious paraphernalia, and ghost detecting equipment. If you take any prescription medication, please bring it along. The experiment will end Sunday at 4pm. Informing others about this experiment will disqualify you from your million dollar participation fee. Polygraphs will be administered to ensure compliance. Have a nice day. We’ll see you soon.”

Tom held the phone, trying to understand the weird feeling that had come over him. The instructions were straightforward and polite, but the call hadn’t left him with warm, fuzzy feelings.

Quite the opposite, he was experiencing something that only happened rarely. like when a perp ducked down an alley, and Tom had to follow. Or the second just before he had to kick in a suspect’s door.

Fear of the unexpected. Also known as dread.

He shook his head, trying to brush off the feeling. But the dread clung there like cobwebs.

Tom startled when the off-hook tone began to beep from the handset.

“If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again. If you need help—”

He hung up.

Tom considered calling Joan, but the two hour time zone difference would have meant waking her up. Instead, he padded over to the shower and turned it on, hot as he could stand it. Then he stared into his bathroom mirror and began to scrape the stubble off his face. His beard, like the hair on his head, was turning prematurely gray. He also needed a haircut.

The mirror began to steam up, and Tom raised his hand to wipe it off, but stopped before his fingers touched the glass.

The fogging had revealed words, handwritten on the mirror.

I’M WATCHING YOU

THE NEXT DAY

Mililani, Hawaii

Josh

Fran was in a bikini, sitting on their porch, stripping and cleaning one of their AR-15 semi-automatic rifles. She had a look of intense concentration on her face as she ran a cleaning rod through the bore. If there was anything sexier than a woman in a bathing suit with a firearm, Josh didn’t know what it was.

He set the lemonade he’d brought for her down on the table, and took a sip of the one he’d kept for himself. It was a perfect Hawaiian day, sunny and hot and smelling like paradise, and the lemonade was cold and sweetened just enough to take the edge off the pucker.

Mathison was perched on the seatback of Fran’s chair watching damselflies. Though Josh had never seen him do it, he had a suspicion that the monkey liked to catch the bugs and eat them.

Mathison chittered when he saw Josh. He hopped down, ran into the house through the dog door, and returned a moment later with his plastic infant cup. He held it out to Josh, who poured in some lemonade. Mathison chirped a thank you, took a drink, then made a face and stuck out his tongue.

“I like it tart,” Josh said.

Mathison set down his cup, ran inside again, and came out with a packet of sugar and a spoon. As the monkey mixed his drink to taste, Fran spoke.

“Are you sure about this?”

“Didn’t we discuss it? I thought we agreed.”

“Can it hurt to discuss it some more?”

“No,” he admitted.

“So are you sure?”

Josh took another sip of lemonade. Mathison did as well, then made a sound like he was throwing up. He put his tiny hands on his own throat to emphasize his displeasure.

“So get more sugar,” Josh told him.

The monkey ran off. He came back a moment later with five more packets.

“You’re going to get diabetes,” Josh said.

Mathison gave him the finger.

“Did Duncan teach him that?” Josh asked his wife.

“What?” She was absorbed in her cleaning.

“Mathison flipped me the bird.”

“No. I think it was South Park.”

“The TV show?”

“Yeah. He has a few DVD box sets.” Fran squirted more solvent on the patch holder.

“You bought South Park DVDs?”

“No. He grabbed them in the store while I was shopping, put them in the cart, and paid me. He also bought The Untouchables. He’s watched it seven times. I think he wants to be Sean Connery.”

Mathison nodded at Josh, then added more sugar.

“And how did the monkey get money?”

“He was doing tricks in front of Walmart with his cup.”

“Huh.” Maybe the monkey had an organ grinder heritage. “How much did you make?”

The capuchin held up three fingers on his right hand, five on his left.

“Thirty-five dollars? Seriously? How long did it take?”

One finger, and five fingers.

“Only fifteen minutes? Fran, that’s a hundred and forty bucks an hour.”

“Josh, can you get back on topic? I asked you if you’re sure.”

Josh sipped more lemonade, then thought about the invitation to Butler House. The whole concept of it, from the way they were approached in the wee morning hours, to the dial-in number with the weird voice, failed to pass the sniff test.

“It’s bullshit,” Josh said. “The military is trying to hoodwink us. Those weren’t feds.”

“I agree.”

Josh settled back in his chair, putting a foot up on the table. Mathison added a fifth sugar packet, took a sip, and gave Josh a thumbs up.

“Brush your teeth when you finish,” Josh said.

The monkey replied in sign language. “Woof ate my toothbrush.”

“The dog ate it? When?”

“A week ago.”

“I watched you brush your teeth last night.”

“That was Fran’s toothbrush.”

Josh frowned. He’d just kissed Fran less than an hour ago.

“What did he say?” Fran asked, looking up from her bore cleaning.

“We need to buy everyone in the house a new toothbrush. Maybe I’ll let Duncan drive. He’s getting his permit next week.”

“And Butler House?”

Josh swirled some tart lemonade around his tongue, then swallowed.

“Fuck Butler House.”

Chicago, IL

Tom

There weren’t any homicides in Tom’s jurisdiction in the last few days—unusual for Chicago—so it gave him time to work on Roy’s disappearance. After arriving at the office and getting his cup of burned coffee, Tom went to his partner’s desk and fired up his computer. While it booted he snooped around, finding nothing of interest.

As expected, Roy didn’t have a computer password. Detectives preferred that, so if anything happened to them in the line of duty, their last actions could be easily traced.

Tom checked Roy’s email, finding a confirmation for a rental car at the Charleston airport dated last week. He dialed the number and pretended to be Roy, reading off the confirmation number.

“What can we help you with, Mr. Lewis?”

An odd thing to say if the car hadn’t been returned.

“Can you email me all the details from my rental, for tax purposes?”

“Certainly.” The woman repeated Roy’s email addy.

“Also, can you remind me when I returned the car?”

“You returned it last Sunday, at 11:35am. Anything else I can help you with?”

Tom declined and disconnected. Next he called the airline Roy used and said he lost his return flight ticket. Did someone else possibly use it?

“No, Mr. Lewis. That ticket hasn’t been used. Would you like us to book a return flight?”

Again Tom declined, and hung up.

Either Roy had returned the car at the airport, and something happened to him to prevent him from boarding his flight. Or something happened to him earlier, and someone returned his rental car for him to tie up a loose end.

Tom got on the Internet and began calling hospitals in the Charleston area, asking if Roy or any African American John Does fitting his description had been admitted. He also checked the morgues, and Charleston PD.

No luck.

Next he checked Roy’s browsing history, and saw he’d been on the same Butler House site Tom had been on. Roy also had been on the Ghost Smashers website. Tom recalled reading that they’d shot an episode of their TV show at Butler House, but it never aired and the host quit TV immediately afterward. Tom went back to Roy’s email, checking the Sent folder.

Roy had several exchanges with Richard Reiser, the host of the show. The last one ended with Roy asking if they could Skype. Skype was a VoiP—a voice over internet protocol. It allowed two people to talk to one another using computer webcams and headsets. Tom accessed Roy’s Skype account, and sure enough Richard Reiser was listed as a contact. Tom found Roy’s headphones in his top drawer and plugged them into a USB port. Then he video called Reiser.

As it rang, Tom accessed the National Crime Information Center and searched for Dr. Emil Forenzi. He didn’t find any info. Apparently Forenzi didn’t have a criminal record.

“You’re not Roy.”

Tom looked at the Skype window. He saw the profile of a man’s head, obscured by shadows. Richard Reiser was Skyping without any lights on.

“I’m Roy’s partner, Detective Tom Mankowski.” Tom raised up his badge, holding it to the webcam embedded in the monitor. “When was the last time you spoke with Roy?”

“Is Roy missing?

“Do you know something about that, Mr. Reiser?”

“Rich. Call me Rich. I told him not to go to the Butler House. But he went, didn’t he?”

Rich’s voice was slurred, and Tom wondered if the man was drunk.

“No one has heard from him in seven days,” Tom said.

“I warned him. I practically begged him not to go.”

“When did you last speak with Roy?”

“Eight days ago. It was Thursday. He said he got some sort of invitation to Butler House.”

“Why did he get in touch with you?”

“He wanted to know what happened on my show, Ghost Smashers. Why I quit show business.”

“Did you tell him?”

Rich paused for a moment before continuing. “The network did a good job of covering it up. They paid me off not to talk about it. I signed some non-disclosure agreements.”

“So you didn’t tell Roy?”

“No. I did. I did so he wouldn’t go. But I guess he went anyway.”

“Can you tell me as well?”

“He didn’t listen to me.”

Tom lowered his voice. “Mr. Reiser, please tell me what you told my partner.”

Another pause, and Tom began to wonder if Rich was going to balk. But then he began.

“It was nearing midnight. I was doing my intro in Butler House’s great room—this huge space in the front of the house when you walk in. Two story roof, curved staircase, weird tapestries on the walls. It looked like the set of a Roger Corman Poe flick from the sixties. We’d gotten there in the daytime, did some establishing shots, set up our equipment. EMF, IR, EVP, full spectrum motion cameras.”

Tom didn’t know what any of those abbreviations were, but he didn’t want to interrupt the story to ask.

“During set-up, one of the camera guys caught an RSPK on tape. That’s recurrent spontaneous psychokinesis. Poltergeist activity. A painting fell off the wall, right in front of us. Portrait of that serial killer, Augustus Torble. We checked the nail it was hanging on—a big, thick, six inch nail. Bent right in half. We’d never gotten footage like that before. In hindsight, we should have left right then.”

Rich grabbed something and lifted it to his face. A bottle. Beer? Whiskey? He tilted it and swallowed, and then began to gag and cough. More evidence of being drunk.

“At midnight, I’m set to do my first piece of the night. Explore the basement of Butler House. We were using the dual head cam. Have you seen the show?”

“No.”

“It’s a two way camera, mounted on my head. One lens is pointed ahead of me, where I’m looking. One is pointing at my face, so the viewers can see my reactions. It’s mounted on a helmet, and with the batteries… it’s pretty heavy. So… we had a… a… thick strap around… my chin… to keep the rig steady. Right after I started my segment… the batteries…”

Rich’s voice trailed off.

“What happened to the batteries, Rich?”

He didn’t answer.

“Rich?”

“They… exploded.”

He reached off to the side, and then the lights in his room came on.

Rich’s face looked like it had strips of half-cooked bacon glued to it. Eyebrows burned off. No nostrils, just a gaping hole for his nose. Part of his upper lip missing, showing his teeth, which explained his slurring. He wasn’t drunk. He was Frankenstein’s goddamn monster.

“Lead batteries contain sulfuric acid. So my helmet was both on fire, and leaking acid down my face. And because of the chin strap, I couldn’t… I couldn’t get it off. I couldn’t get it off…”

“I’m sorry,” Tom said. It took everything he had in him to not turn away from the screen.

Rich lifted the bottle—a water bottle—to his face and took a sip, gagging again, some of the water running down his ruined chin.

“The network sued the company that made the camera. But when they took the rig in for testing, no one could find anything wrong with it. No faulty wiring. No bad parts. It’s like it exploded for no reason at all.”

Tom felt terrible for the guy, and he didn’t like making him talk about it. But for Roy’s sake, he had to ask. “But you think there was a reason.”

“Something in Butler House did this to me. I’m sure of it. Something evil. That’s why I begged Roy to stay away. And you should stay away, too.”

Tom pursed his lips.

“Look, your partner, your friend, Roy. He’s dead, man. Butler House got him. And if you go looking for him, you’re going to die.”

“Thanks for your time and insights, Rich. I’ve got to get going.”

Tom disconnected, guilty about his lie. He didn’t have to leave. He just couldn’t stand looking at Rich’s disfigured face anymore, and the conversation had greatly disturbed him.

Tom’s hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood at attention, and he had a very strong feeling he was being watched. By who? Eavesdropping co-workers?

Or was someone else watching? Someone, or…

Some thing.

Tom swiveled around, seeking the staring eyes he knew were on him.

But no one was there.

At least, no one he could see.

Realizing he was letting his imagination mess with him, Tom called Joan’s cell phone. Thankfully, his girlfriend picked up on the third ring.

“Tom? I’m in the middle of something. Director wants a rewrite on set, writer is throwing a hissy fit. Is this important?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice, babe.”

“That’s sweet. Can I call you back?”

“Yeah, sure. And hey, wait… Joan… you still there?

“Yes?”

“Did you write anything on my mirror?”

“What?”

“My bathroom mirror. Someone wrote I’m watching you on it.”

“Wasn’t me. Gotta go, lover. Call you soon.”

His long distance romance hung up, and Tom’s creepy feeling got a whole lot creepier.

THE NEXT DAY

Charleston International Airport

Frank

Dr. Frank Belgium walked out of the baggage claim area and onto the sidewalk, the warm blast of summer air welcome against his overly air-conditioned body. The plane had been chilled to meat-locker temperature, so cold he’d had to ask an attendant for a blanket. The airport had been similarly refrigerated.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting the temperate heat warm him. But he couldn’t feel the sun’s rays.

Belgium squinted up at the overcast sky. The clouds were an ugly swirl of gray and black, but the air didn’t feel humid or sticky. It didn’t look like rain. It just looked ominous.

A man of science, Belgium publicly scoffed at the paranormal. Omens. Superstition. The afterlife. These didn’t hold up to the scientific method, and had no empirical evidence to support them.

But privately, he feared the supernatural. Because he had, in a way, experienced it. To Belgium, the sky looked like a warning meant specifically for him. Like a big sign that said GO BACK WHILE YOU STILL CAN.

Something reddish brown darted toward Belgium, swooping into his peripheral vision, and he dropped his carryon bag and ducked down, emitting a less-than-masculine yelp as he did. Covering his head with his hands, he prepared himself for another attack.

“It’s a finch,” a female voice said from behind him.

Belgium turned, squinting through his fingers. “What?”

“A house finch. They won’t hurt you.”

Belgium stared at the woman. She was maybe in her late thirties, short hair, baggy sweater, no make-up. He could guess, on a good day, she’d be cute. But it didn’t look to Belgium if she’d had any good days in a while.

He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.

“Oh. Thanks. I I I thought it was a…” he let his voice drift off, and then picked up his bag and stood up, warily searching the area for more dive-bombing finches.

“You thought it was what?” the woman asked.

“Hmm? Oh. A bat.”

“A red bat?”

Belgium frowned. “You’d be surprised.”

The woman shrugged. Belgium glanced around, trying to get his heart rate under control, wondering why there weren’t any cabs. Shouldn’t an airport have cabs?

He watched a traveler cross the street, where he was met by a blue Honda. A woman got out, they had a quick but poignant hug, and then he loaded his suitcase and got into the car and they drove off.

“Where are the taxis?” the finch lady asked.

“I don’t know. I’m waiting for one one one myself.”

Another minute passed. Belgium considered renting a car. But he didn’t want to go back into that freezer of an airport. In fact, he didn’t want to be in South Carolina at all. The thought of being arrested for treason began to hold some appeal. At least, in that case, he knew what to expect. Knew who his enemy was.

There was security in knowing. But the unknown, however…

“Do you have a cell phone?” the finch lady asked him.

“Hmm?”

“To call a taxi.”

“No. Don’t carry one. You?”

“Me neither. We’re probably the last two people in the world who don’t.”

Finally, a lone yellow cab pulled onto the throughway. Belgium held up his hand and at the same time noticed his companion did as well. He’d gotten there first. And at the rate cabs arrived at this airport, this could be the last one of the day. But even though Belgium was rattled, and hadn’t been with a woman for a very long time, he still had a streak of chivalry in him.

“You can take it,” he summoned the courage to say.

“Are you sure? You were here first.”

The cab pulled up. Belgium took a quick look at the sky again, which was getting even uglier.

“It’s okay. I’m sure sure sure another one will come along.”

The lady smiled, and it took ten years off her face. “I didn’t know there were any gentlemen left. We could share it.”

“I’m heading west. Solidarity.”

Her brow crinkled. “Really? So am I.”

Belgium did a quick mental calculation on how coincidental that was, and considering Solidarity had a population of less than a thousand, he found the odds to be extremely high. Unless…

“The Butler House?” he asked.

The woman nodded, eyes wide.

He remembered his manners and offered his hand. “Frank Belgium.”

“Sara Randhurst,” she said. Her touch was soft and warm, her grip strong.

Belgium opened the door for her, then helped the cabbie put their bags in the trunk. When everyone was seated, he gave the driver the address.

“I don’t go there,” was the gruff reply.

“Pardon me?”

“The Butler House. No hacks go there. Bad news, that place.”

Belgium considered asking how close he’d take them, but then realized they’d have the same problem once they got there. Renting a car was still an option, but that would be a hassle.

Plus, he had the paranoid delusion that if he left the cab, the sky would open up and lightning would fry him.

“I’ll double your fare,” Belgium said.

“No way.”

“Triple it.”

The cabbie turned around in the driver’s seat to face him. “You serious?”

Belgium nodded.

The cabbie let out a noise that was part sigh, part shrug, and said, “It’s your funeral buddy.”

They pulled out of the airport parking lot and headed west, into the woods. Belgium kept his eyes out the window, trying to look casual instead of nervous. He was aware that the side of Sara’s foot touched his, and he was hoping she’d keep it there. That small measure of human contact was keeping him grounded.

“So,” she said, “you’re doing this to win a million dollars?”

“Hmm? Me? No. I’m… well, being coerced into this.”

“By whom?”

“I’m not not not at liberty to say. Sorry.”

Sara nudged him with her thigh, and when he looked she was smiling again.

It dazzled him. She looked so pretty, so real, so near. Like a safe port in a terrible storm.

“Real secret stuff, huh?” she asked.

He smelled something on her breath. Whiskey. Belgium rarely drank these days, but he really wished he had something to take the edge off.

“I was involved in a government project that I’m not allowed to talk about.”

“What do you do, Frank?”

“I’m a a a molecular biologist.”

She seemed to appraise him, and Belgium lapsed into self-consciousness. Had he combed his hair? Were there crumbs on his face from breakfast? Did he have any stains on his shirt?

“This is a fear study,” she said. “I take it something bad happened with that government project.”

“Yes. That’s… well, it’s actually understating it a bit.”

The horrors of Samhain all came rushing back at him like they were still happening. The deaths. The blood. The certainty he was going to die. Frank could feel his larynx tightening, and he put a hand on his throat to massage it. The sides of the cab seemed to be closing in, making it hard to breath. He stared outside, saw something fly past, and flinched like he had at the airport.

“You look freaked out, Frank. I didn’t mean to—”

“Would you mind if we stopped somewhere for a drink? I mean, I I I don’t want to be forward, or for you to think I’m trying anything with you. But I could really really really use one.” He winced. “The past… it… hurts.”

Sara opened her purse and took out a tiny, plastic airline bottle of Southern Comfort. She passed it to Frank, who was shaking so badly he couldn’t get the small top off. Sara put her hands over his, helped him to remove the cap, and he downed it in one gulp. Almost immediately, he felt better. But he didn’t know whether to attribute that to the booze, or Sara’s touch.

“That’s… that was… thank you.”

She patted his shoulder. “No problem. I get panic attacks too.”

Sara turned away, looking out the window. Almost immediately he missed her looking at him. Belgium felt the liquor burn into his belly and wondered how he could draw her attention again. He figured maybe the truth would do it.

“I was locked underground with a…” Belgium chose his next word carefully. “Maniac. I barely got out alive. A lot of people died. Badly.”

Without facing him, Sara said, “I was trapped on an island with dozens of cannibals, and several serial killers.”

“You were… seriously?”

Sara nodded into the window. “A lot of people died. Badly. I guess that’s why we’re both here.”

Belgium had a sudden, overpowering, completely inappropriate surge of affection toward this woman. He wanted to hug her. For her sake, and for his. If she was a kindred spirit, as he suspected, it would do both of them a world of good.

Instead he sat rigidly in his chair, trying to will his heart to slow down.

“I read up on Butler House,” Sara said, still not looking at him. “Lots of tragedy there.”

Belgium had begun doing some research on the house—the devil you know and all that—but it had scared him too badly to continue.

Sara seemed to be expecting some response, so he grunted noncommittally.

“If any house in the world could be haunted,” she continued, “this would be the one.” Sara turned, and touched his arm. “Do you believe in ghosts, Frank?”

Belgium didn’t believe in ghosts. But there used to be lots of things he didn’t believe in.

“I can’t rule out that they might exist,” Belgium said.

“I think the supernatural is bullshit. I don’t believe in any sort of afterlife. But…”

Sara opened her purse. Besides a wallet and a few more SoCo bottles, there was a bible, a rosary, and a vial of clear liquid.

“Holy water,” Sara said, snapping her purse closed. “Does that make me a hypocrite?”

Belgium shook his head. “No. It makes you prepared.”

“No atheists in foxholes, I guess. Did you bring anything?”

Belgium hadn’t. For the same reason he’d never bought a gun.

“Um… no. I guess—this might sound silly—but I sort of feel like I’m living on borrowed time. Ever since… well, let’s just say I’m lucky to be alive, and these last few years I’ve been waiting for my past to to to catch up with me. Whatever happens, happens.”

“Kind of fatalistic, don’t you think?”

He was surprised by the frankness of her words, and wondered how much she’d had to drink. But perhaps it wasn’t the liquor. Maybe Sara was always this straightforward.

He liked that. A lot. And it had been a long time since he could admit to liking anything.

“I don’t don’t don’t think it’s fatalistic. More like realistic. When you see dark things—”

“You can’t unsee them,” Sara said, finishing his thought.

They looked at each other, and Belgium saw understanding in her eyes. This woman was just as wounded as he was. He’d heard about the concept of kindred spirits, but hadn’t experienced it before.

“I have a very bad feeling about this trip, Sara,” he said in hushed tones.

Then the front windshield burst inward and the car spun out of control.

Pittsburgh International Airport

Mal

Growing more and more uncomfortable as they inched their way through the security line, Mal let his wife go through the metal detector first.

She beeped, as expected, and then got into a conversation with the bored-looking TSA guard. He waved his wand over Deb. That led to her pulling off her jogging pants—which had snaps on the sides instead of seams.

Mal’s prosthetic hand always got a few raised eyebrows, but Deb’s artificial legs drew attention like a marching band down Main Street. Though Deb was always offered the option of a private search, away from gawkers, she never accepted, preferring to strip down to her shorts and show everyone on the planet her high tech artificial limbs.

Mal knew Deb did it because she didn’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else. But they did treat her differently, and Mal watched the crowd finger pointing and murmuring, some assholes actually snapping pictures.

It was made even worse by the fact that Deb was an athlete, and very fit, so standing there in her running shorts like a sexy female Robocop getting ready to pose for Playboy 2054 made him feel jealous as well as overprotective. As expected, after her scan and pat-down, Deb was immediately approached by a smiling Lothario who was better looking, a better dresser, and no doubt younger and richer than Mal was.

So I get to endure her humiliation of stripping down to her stumps, and then nurse my own humiliation because I don’t feel I’m man enough for her.

Mal was expertly in tune with his own feelings, thanks to the unrelenting therapy. Besides lacking a hand to touch his wife with, he also felt powerless to protect her. That led to feelings of inadequacy which normally didn’t reveal themselves during daylight hours. But as he watched CEO Joe chat up his wife while TSA played stupid with his mechanical hand, Mal felt himself getting angrier and angrier. When they finally let him through, he stormed over to Deb as she was re-snapping her running pants.

“Picked up an admirer, I see,” Mal said, sizing up the man. He looked fit, and could probably kick Mal’s ass all day long and not break a sweat.

“Just paying the lady a compliment,” the guy replied. He looked confident, which Mal hated. Especially because Mal remembered being that confident once.

“I’m the lady’s husband,” Mal said. “Now go run off to your board meeting.”

The guy puffed his chest out. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll beat the shit out of you, then make you lick it up.”

Doubt flashed across the man’s face. He muttered, “Asshole,” then turned and walked off.

Deb looked irritated. “Where did all that testosterone come from?”

“The guy was hitting on you, Deb.”

“He said it was really brave of me to take my jogging pants off like I did.”

Mal rolled his eyes. “He said that because you have a nice ass. Think he would have said that to some fat guy with artificial legs?”

“Can’t I be brave and have a nice ass? You know, Mal, I feel like a freak often enough. Some guy innocently flirting makes me feel normal. He wasn’t a threat to you.”

Mal wanted to turn away. But if he did, it would prove she won and he was wrong. So he forced himself to maintain eye contact. “He saw you as an easy target, Deb.”

“I’m not easy. And I’m not a target.”

Mal switched tactics. “Deb, there are… guys… who have fetishes about…”

Deb’s eyes darkened. “So now he didn’t approach me because I had a nice ass. He came over because he’s an amputee pervert.”

“I’m just saying—”

“You’re acting like an asshole.”

Mal studied his shoes. He wanted to kneel down, help her put her snap-away pants back on, but he couldn’t align the snaps with one hand.

“Look,” he said, letting out a long breath. “I didn’t like that guy swaggering up to you.”

“Him? You swagger more than any guy I ever met.”

Maybe, once upon a time. But not lately.

He changed subjects. “Do you have the Xanax?”

“My purse.”

He sat next to her on the bench and pawed through her handbag. The medicine bottle had a child-proof cab on it, and after trying to pry it off with his teeth, he simply cradled it in his lap until Deb finished dressing. She reached over, held his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I used to be fine flying. But now…”

“It’s okay to be afraid.”

He wanted to scream, to smash the pill bottle against the floor and stomp it to bits. Instead he clenched his teeth and whispered, “But I’m afraid of everything.”

“I know.”

“Including losing you.”

“I know.” Deb patted his hand. “And that’s not going to happen.”

“I’m sorry, Deb. You deserve better.”

“You’re all I need, Mal.”

She kissed his cheek. A kiss of pity, not love.

Mal felt his ears get hot. He endured the kiss without flinching away.

“Take a few, Mal. Zonk out on the plane.”

Mal nodded. But he wouldn’t. Deb couldn’t drive the rental car, which meant he had to, and alprazolam abuse and driving didn’t mix. So when Deb opened the bottle for him, Mal swallowed one, just to take the edge off, and then they shuffled into the terminal.

With an hour before boarding time, they stopped at the Burgh Sportz Bar in the Airmall. Deb had a chicken salad. Mal had a burger. When the food arrived it looked decent enough, but Mal’s stomach was sour and he picked at his French fries while watching Deb inhale her food. She’d talked him into coming to this stupid experiment, and even seemed optimistic about it. Bless her little heart, Deb considered this trip a hybrid of vacation and adventure.

Mal felt differently. He didn’t like confronting his fears in therapy, and he knew he’d abhor being purposely frightened. But the thing that bothered him most was being allowed to bring weapons.

What kind of government experiment allows the participants to be armed? What safeguards were in place to prevent someone from getting seriously hurt?

Mal had packed the gun in their check-in luggage, and both he and Deb had taken shooting lessons. But in fright’s grasp, Mal wouldn’t trust himself to hit a bus from a meter away. What if he fired wildly and hurt someone? What if he shot Deb? What kind of insane tests were going to be conducted on them that required firearms?

“Aren’t you hungry?”

He shook his head. Deb took that as an invitation to tear his burger in half and start munching. Mal stared at her, marveling at her resiliency. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her. How proud he was of her. She was two levels away from becoming a black belt. A double amputee, slowly becoming a karate master. Who could have ever guessed all she could accomplish? But instead of gushing his admiration, he thought of that CEO jerk hitting on her, and how she seemed to eat it up.

She’s going to figure out I’m a coward, and leave me.

Mal didn’t think he’d be able to handle that. But he was sure it was coming.

Someone bumped the back of Mal’s chair, and he turned to see a teenager standing next to the table. Chubby, almond-eyed, protruding tongue. Down Syndrome.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” the teen said, pointing at Mal’s prosthesis.

“I lost it. This one is made of rubber.”

“How did you lose it?”

A madman strapped me to a table and cut it off with a scalpel while I begged for him to stop.

“An accident,” Mal said. He looked at Deb, who was staring at the boy with wide eyes. While the teen was probably harmless, he was bringing up old memories. Bad memories.

“Where are your parents?” Mal asked, searching around for the child’s caretaker.

“You’re a freak,” the boy said.

Mal blinked. “What?”

“You’re a freak and you’re going to die.” He looked at Deb. “And so are you, lady.”

Mal began to stand up. “Look, kid—”

But the teenager stepped back and pointed, then began to yell, “FREAKS GONNA DIE! FREAKS GONNA DIE!”

Mal turned to his wife. Her face had lost all color, and she looked ready to throw up.

“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”

Again Mal looked for the boy’s father or mother, but instead he only saw people staring. Not only those in the restaurant, but passersby had also stopped to watch.

“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”

Finally an older woman came rushing over, tugging at the boy’s arm, saying “Calm down, Petey, calm down.” She offered Mal and Deb a quick, soulless I’m sorry, and then managed to pull her son away from their table as he continued to shout.

“FREAKS GONNA DIE!”

The woman tugged the child further into the terminal, until his voice melded in with the rest of the airport noise. In the restaurant, the clinking of silverware on plates resumed, and conversations picked up to levels prior to the interruption.

Mal, his whole body flushed and twitching, turned to his wife.

“You okay, babe?”

Deb’s face pinched, and then she vomited all over the table.

Solidarity, South Carolina

Forenzi

Dr. Emil Forenzi sat on the mattress—the one piece of furniture in his bedroom that wasn’t an antique—and squinted at the Bruno Magli loafers he’d just put on. There was a stain on the toe. He pulled it off and licked his thumb, rubbing off a reddish-brown streak.

Blood.

Forenzi couldn’t remember wearing the shoes in the lab area, and his mind wandered as to elsewhere he might have trod in bodily fluids. His revere was interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door.

“Enter,” he said, dropping the shoe next to the bed.

Sykes came in, holding a sheaf of papers. He silently presented them to Forenzi. It was reports on their guests.

Tom Mankowski, the cop, had just arrived at the airport. Excellent. He would make a sturdy test subject.

The amputees, Mallory and Deborah Dieter, had boarded their plane in Pittsburg. Forenzi had high hopes for them.

Dr. Frank Belgium and Sara Randhurst were due at Butler House any minute. Forenzi’s intel provided an interesting tidbit.

“They’re sharing a cab?” he said to Sykes. “Do they know each other?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

Forenzi glanced at him, caught a glimpse of the man’s sharp dentata.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Sykes?”

“Nothing is personal to me, sir.”

“Do you ever bite your tongue while eating?”

“As much as anyone else.”

Sykes didn’t elaborate. Forenzi flipped through more pages, seeing who else was attending, and frowned at the lack of a dossier on the VanCamps.

“Josh and Fran VanCamp didn’t confirm?”

“No, sir.”

Forenzi clucked his tongue. That was a shame. They would have been ideal.

No matter. This weekend would proceed without them, and it would be a success nonetheless.

“Have you spoken to your team?” he asked Sykes.

“Yes, sir. We’re ready.”

“My team?”

“I checked on them half an hour ago. Proceeding as scheduled.”

“Dinner?”

“Planned for seven, as requested.”

“Will we have those little Swedish meatballs? Those are wonderful.”

“Those are listed on the menu, sir.”

Forenzi nodded. In the hallway, floorboards creaked.

Both Forenzi and Sykes turned to look. No one was there.

“The ghosts are getting anxious,” Forenzi mused.

The paranormal history of Butler House was well-documented, and Forenzi had lost count of the strange phenomenon he’d encountered since coming here. Doors closing by themselves. Sharp drops in temperature. Strange odors. Creepy sounds. Last week, he was awoken from deep sleep, absolutely positive someone had been at the foot of his bed, watching him

“Do you believe in ghosts, Sykes?”

The man shrugged.

“So you aren’t afraid of the supernatural?”

“I’m not afraid of anything, sir.”

“Of course you’re not. Dismissed.”

The man left, closing the door behind him. Not much of a conversationalist, Sykes. But he had other areas of expertise.

Forenzi stood up and looked into the ornate, full-body mirror hanging above the bureau. He laced a tie through his collar and fussed with a half Windsor knot, trying to get it even. As he fought the fabric, he noticed something moving in the lower corner of the mirror.

The dust ruffle of the bed.

Forenzi looked down, behind him, and the rustling stopped.

Mice? Rats?

Something else?

And what happened to my shoe?

Forenzi searched the floor, turning in a full circle, looking for the loafer with the blood stain. He could have sworn he’d dropped it on the floor before Sykes came in.

Under the bed?

The doctor got on his hands and knees, ready to lift up the dust ruffle. But something gave him pause.

Behind the dust ruffle, something was making a sound. A distinct, recognizable sound.

Chewing.

I hear chewing.

A streak of panic flashed through Forenzi, and he crabbed backward, away from the bed. Then he quickly scanned the room for some sort of weapon. His eyes settled on an old, cast iron stove. Atop the bundle of kindling next to it was a fireplace poker.

Forenzi got to his feet and snatched the poker, turning back to the bed. Then he held his breath, listening.

The chewing was now accompanied by a slurping noise.

What the hell is that?

He knelt next to the bed, firmly gripping the poker with his right hand, reaching toward the dust ruffle with his left—

—and hesitated.

Do I really want to know what’s under there?

The chewing and slurping sounds stopped.

Forenzi continued to hold his breath, focusing on the silence.

After ten seconds, he let out a sigh, already starting to convince himself he’d imagined the whole thing.

Then he heard something else.

Scratching.

From under the bed. As if something was raking its nails on the floorboards.

Acting fast, before he lost his nerve, Forenzi lifted up the dust ruffle and jammed the poker underneath, flailing it around.

He didn’t hit anything. And the scratching sound stopped.

Forenzi leaned down, squinting under the bed. But it was too dark to see anything.

Moving the poker slowly, he swept it across the floor, kicking up vast colonies of dust clods. When his poker touched something solid, he retracted quickly—

—pulling out his missing loafer.

He stared at it, trying to make sense of what he saw. The shoe was damp with a viscous goo, and the toe had a large hole in it, surrounded by what appeared to be…

Bite marks.

Charleston, South Carolina

Tom

Fetzer Correctional Institution was known as a Level 3 prison. It housed the worst of the worst. Violent offenders and lifers did their time here, as did the death row inmates, up until their appeals ran out. In order to arrange a last-minute visit with one of its prisoners, Tom had to call in a big favor with his old boss, a retired Chicago Homicide Lieutenant named Daniels. She’d pulled a few strings and gotten him an audience with possibly the most depraved and sadistic murderer in this nation’s history, Augustus Torble. The millionaire heir who bought Butler House then tortured several women to death.

Tom drove the rental SUV to the perimeter fence, and an armed guard looked at Tom’s badge and checked his name on the visitor roster. Tom was allowed through the double fence, electrified and topped with razor wire, and he drove past one of the prison’s five gun towers. The main building was a red brick monstrosity that was among the drabbest, ugliest buildings Tom had ever seen. It had a flat façade devoid of any embellishments, save for barred windows and an arched entryway with ugly steel doors.

He parked in the visitor lot, and walked down a cracked, sun-baked sidewalk to the entrance. It was overcast and hot, the gray sky looking like it was ready to rain, but the humidity seemed strangely absent. Tom was buzzed in after being directed via intercom to look up into the security camera, providing them with video footage of his face.

Inside, he was met by two more armed guards, who led him without fanfare down a harshly lit hallway to a waiting room, where he was told to have a seat. Tom parked his butt on a steel bench bolted to the floor, and watched the clock on the wall—a clock housed in wire mesh. It was much more humid in the prison than outside. In fact, Tom almost immediately began to perspire, and wished he’d had a handkerchief to blot his forehead.

When two minutes passed, a dour woman in a frumpy pantsuit entered and frowned at him. She was accompanied by a guard.

“I’m the assistant warden, Miss Potter. You couldn’t have come at a worse time.” Her southern lilt making the last word sound like tahm. “The prisoner is being readied for transport.”

“Where is he going?” Tom asked.

“Out of my hair. Prisoner transfers are common, and I’m not always told the particulars.”

“Do you know the reason?”

“I wasn’t informed.” The way her mouth pursed told Tom that this annoyed her. “What is it you want with the prisoner?”

“I have some questions to ask him. About Butler House.”

Potter snorted. She removed a handkerchief from her jacket pocket and blotted the sweat on her neck. “That house is a blight on the beautiful state of South Carolina. Needs to be razed flat, if you ask me.”

“What have you heard about the house, Ma’am?”

“You mean, is it haunted? I deal in the real world, Detective. I see enough hatred and evil in men’s souls without having to blame the supernatural for it. But I’ll tell you something. I’ve had several interactions with Mr. Augustus Torble. And if there was ever a man possessed by demons, it’s him. Just last week he had an altercation with another prisoner over the last bag of potato chips. Mr. Torble bit the other prisoner’s finger off. When questioned about the incident he had to be restrained, because…”

Her voice drifted off, and Tom could detect a bit of flush in her cheeks.

“Ma’am?” he asked.

She blew out a stiff breath. “Because Mr. Torble was noticeably aroused by the incident, and kept playing with himself while being questioned.”

Tom kept his face neutral, professional.

“Has Torble had a lot of incidents like that?”

“More than his share. The other prisoners are afraid of him. Are you armed?”

Tom had left his gun in his luggage. “No, Ma’am.”

“Regulations insist on a pat down, to prevent weapons or other contraband from being passed to the prisoner. Would you mind standing up and raising your arms, Detective?”

Tom did as instructed, and the guard did a thorough frisking, going so far as to check each of Tom’s pockets.

“I’m to understand you’ve dealt with murderers before,” Potter said. “Your boss, Lieutenant Daniels, spoke highly of you. She apparently knows some very important people. Normally a spur of the moment visitation request from an out of town police officer would be denied. Especially during the time-sensitive and delicate procedure of transfer.”

“I’ll be sure to let Lt. Daniels know how hospitable and accommodating you and you staff have been.”

He didn’t bother to tell her Jack was retired, and the assistant warden’s efforts to get a pat on the head were likely for nothing.

“You have ten minutes,” Potter said.

“Has anyone told him I’m coming?”

“No. Only that someone wants to speak to him. But Torble is used to that. People are always coming by to pick his brain about something. Cops, psychiatrists, reporters. He gets so many visitors he could use a secretary. Or a press agent.” She turned to leave. “Don’t touch the prisoner, don’t pass anything to the prisoner. Your entire visit will be monitored and recorded. And Detective…”

“Ma’am?”

“Watch yourself. This one is as bad as they come.”

Potter nodded a goodbye, and the guard led Tom down another corridor and into a room with a reinforced door. Inside, an older man was sitting at a steel table attached to the floor like the one Tom had recently used. He wore an orange prison jumpsuit, and leg shackles, locked to a steel U bolt in the floor. His hands were also shackled to a thin chain encircling his waist, preventing him from raising his arms.

His gray hair was wild, uncombed, his face sporting three days of stubble. He was thin to the point of gaunt, and though his records stated he was sixty-two years old, he didn’t look much older than fifty. The killer’s eyes were deep set, dark, and had a glint to them. Intelligence, insanity, mirth, or maybe a combination of all three.

“Mr. Torble, my name is Detective Mankowski. Thank you for your time.”

“Call me Gus,” he said. His voice was unusually deep, and decidedly less southern than Miss Potter’s. “What’s your name?”

“I prefer to go by Detective. Or Mr. Mankowksi.”

“Have a seat, Detective. We have lots to talk about.”

Tom sat across the steel table from him. The killer crouched down a little, like a coil ready to spring. It was just as humid as the waiting room, and Tom continued to sweat. Torble, on the other hand, appeared cool and comfortable.

“I’d like to talk about Butler House.”

Torble smiled. “Good times. It has a torture chamber, you know. I called it the Happy Room. I had a hooker down there once, tied to a rack. Used boiling lard on her. Poured it all over her body, inch by inch. Did it every day for weeks. Put an IV in her to keep her hydrated. You know the smell of breakfast sausage, frying up in the pan? That’s what she smelled like. I swear, as often as not I’d be drooling after a session with her.”

Tom had prepared himself for this. Sadists like Torble got off on their ability to manipulate, to shock. So Tom forced his facial muscles to remain lax, and made sure his breathing was slow and steady. Reacting to psychopaths only egged them on.

“Did you ever do anything like that before buying Butler House?” he asked.

“You mean, did I skin kitty cats when I was a toddler? Or rough up whores?”

“Anything of that nature,” Tom said blandly.

Torble’s lips pressed crookedly together, and he looked off to the right, a poker tell that someone is searching for a truthful memory. “Nope. Can’t say that I had.”

“Did you ever notice anything odd about the house while you lived there?”

Torble studied him. “This is about the house? Not about trying to pin some old, unsolved crime on me?”

“I’m curious about the house.”

“You mean you’re curious if it’s haunted.”

Tom stayed silent.

Torble leaned back as far as his shackles allowed him. Tom couldn’t understand how the man wasn’t sweating. Tom himself felt like he’d dressed quickly after a particularly hot shower.

“My lawyer pressed for the insanity defense. Said we might persuade the jury that Butler House drove me crazy, based on its notorious reputation. That the devil was perched on my shoulder, whispering things in my ear. Tell me, is it insane to give your wife boiling water enemas? That was one way I punished her if she didn’t help with the whores. Also, I have to tell you, as far as gaining spousal compliance goes, nothing beats a sturdy pair of pliers.”

Breathe in, breathe out. Remain calm.

“Did Butler House drive you crazy, Gus?”

“Do you know how certain places have an energy to them, Detective? A vibe? Take this shithole, for instance. I bet, when you were driving up to the prison, you could feel the despair. The hopelessness. The desperation. I bet, if you closed your eyes and tried to tune into your senses, you could tell you were in a prison, even if you didn’t know. Care to try it?”

Tom wasn’t going to close his eyes in front of this loon. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“You want my opinions, but you don’t offer yours. That’s not very sociable.”

Tom breathed out. “Yeah, this feels like a prison.”

“Well, Butler House also has an energy. And I’m betting you haven’t been there, because you’d immediately know what energy I’m talking about.”

“What kind of energy, Gus?”

“That house feels evil. It exudes it, like a bog steams on cool nights. Terrible things have happened there, going back almost two hundred years. And terrible things will continue to happen there, as long as it stands.”

“Did you ever see anything supernatural while you were living there?”

“Do you mean ghosts, Detective?”

“I mean anything at all.”

“Have you ever seen anything supernatural?”

Tom has seen plenty of strange things, some practically impossible to comprehend. But the closest he’d gotten to anything supernatural was the writing on his bathroom mirror.

“Maybe,” Tom said.

“I had this one hooker, name was Amy. Sixteen years old, sweetest little smile on her. I started on her legs, using a branding iron, working my way up. I came back down to the chamber the next day, her chest is all branded. Someone wrote the word BITCH on it. But here’s the stinger. It wasn’t me. I didn’t brand that word on her. It wasn’t my wife, either, because she was in the punishment box. And I don’t think sweet little Amy did that to herself. That’s just one of many unexplainable things that happened at Butler House.”

“Is Butler House haunted, Gus?”

Augustus Torble smiled, and it was an ugly, twisted thing. “If ghosts and demons really do exist, Butler House is where you’ll find them.”

Despite the heat, Tom shivered.

“Do you know anything about experiments being done at Butler House?” he asked. “Tests?”

“What sort of tests?”

Tom didn’t answer, instead waiting for Gus to fill in the silence. The seconds ticked past.

“In prison, you hear things,” Gus finally said. “Things about the government, trying to cure soldiers of their fear. Let me tell you something, Detective. I know fear. I’ve seen it, up close. When you come at someone with a scalpel, and look them right in the eyes as you slip it into their thigh, you can witness fear in its purest, freshest form. And if they could come up with a cure for that, it would be quite a trick indeed.” Gus winked. “But it would also ruin a lot of fun.”

“So you’ve heard about a program like that?”

Torble shrugged. “I’ve heard lots of things.”

“Have you heard about any connection between government experiments and the Butler House.”

“I’ll answer that, but first I want you to answer something for me, Detective. What do you know about fear?”

Without being able to prevent it, Tom thought back to when he had first met Joan. What they’d gone through together in Springfield. The maniacs that tried to kill him. The horrors in the basement.

“Yes,” Torble said, studying him. “You know fear. But unfortunately for you, I cannot confirm nor deny any connection between government experiments and Butler House. But I can show you something that might surprise you. Interested?”

Tom offered a slight nod.

Torble grunted, then began to shake all over. His face turned deep red, the veins in his neck bulging out. Tom was wondering if the guy was having a stroke, or a heart attack. He was about to call for the guard when, quite suddenly, Torble’s hand slapped onto the metal table between them with a BAM! His bleeding wrist still had the cuff on it, but the chain that had wound around his waist was broken.

“I SEE YOUR FEAR!” Torble thundered as the guards rushed in and pounced on him. “YOUR FEAR WILL BE THE DEATH OF YOU, TOM!”

Torble was tackled, pinned to the table while screaming incoherently, and Tom stood up and moved back, too surprised to speak. Another guard escorted him out into the hall, leading him to the exit.

Tom wasn’t sure what he’d actually come here to learn, and wasn’t sure he’d learned anything. Maybe Torble knew something. Maybe he was just a nut who got his jollies trying to scare cops.

If that was the case, it worked. Tom was thoroughly mortified. Not because of his crazy admissions to atrocious deeds. Tom had met plenty of terrible specimens of humanity. Not because he broke his shackles. That was surprising, but not unprecedented. It was well known that people on drugs, or just insane in general, could snap handcuffs.

No, what bothered him most was what Torble had said. Potter had stated Torble hadn’t known Tom was coming.

Yet, somehow, without being told, Torble had called Tom by his first name.

Outside of Charleston, South Carolina

Sara

“Do something, Frank,” Sara said. “It’s suffering.”

They were staring at the side of the road. On the asphalt, in the middle of a small spattering of blood, a cardinal was twitching its broken wing.

“It’s dead, Sara. That’s just a reflex. It hit our windshield going over seventy miles an hour.”

“Are you sure.”

“Yes yes yes. But if this makes you feel better…”

Sara looked away as Frank stomped hard on the cardinal with a sickening crack.

She immediately dug her hand into her purse, locking her fingers around one of the miniature bottles of Southern Comfort. Her buzz was wearing off, and the situation wasn’t improving. They’d tried calling for another cab, but none would take them to the Butler House. Frank was in favor of going back to the airport and renting a car, but their bags were in the cab’s trunk, which wouldn’t open. After hitting the bird, the car swerved off the road and the tail end smacked into a tree. They had to wait for the tow truck driver to arrive with tools to open the back.

Just one sip. To make the fear go away.

She released the bottle. Sara knew she used alcohol to cope. But she refused to believe she was dependent on it. Also, she was starting to like the odd, soft-spoken Dr. Belgium, and wanted to stay relatively clear-headed because she enjoyed his company.

It had been a long time since she enjoyed anyone’s company. After what happened on Plincer’s Island, Sara was certain she’d never trust a man again. But there was something about Frank that was, well… frank. He seemed kind, sincere, and even kind of cute. She didn’t even mind the odd way he spoke, repeating words.

But most important of all, he made Sara feel safe. If she’d been alone in the cab when they hit the cardinal, she would have been hysterical and drinking SoCo like water. But Frank’s presence soothed her. Maybe because he lived through a hellish experience, like she had. Or maybe it was just chemistry.

Sara took her hand out of her purse, and tried to seem nonchalant about it when she placed it in Frank’s. He glanced at her, his eyes widening. But his fingers clasped softly around hers, and all thoughts of drinking slipped from Sara’s mind.

“Thanks for doing that,” she said.

“I could, um, step on it a few more times, if you want.”

“That’s okay. This is really forward of me, Frank, but are you seeing anyone?”

“No. I haven’t… I… it’s been a very long time, Sara.”

“For me, too.”

As Sara stared at him, it occurred to her she’d forgotten how to flirt. She wondered how she looked, no make-up, hair probably a fright. She also wondered how Frank would react to the fact she had a child. Sara hadn’t tried to date anyone recently, but she guessed most men wouldn’t be interested in a pre-made family.

“I have a son,” she blurted out. “Jack. Would you like to see a picture?”

She watched his eyes, searching for any hint of rejection.

“Of course,” he said.

Sara reached into her purse with her free hand, took out her wallet. The only picture in it was of Jack, in his high chair, smiling and eating strained peaches.

“He’s adorable. And his father?”

Sara shook her head.

“I don’t mean to pry, but that painting on the wall behind him,” Frank said. “Is that Van Gogh’s Portrait of a Woman in Blue?”

“It’s a fake. Long story. I thought it was real. But the real one is in a museum in Amsterdam.”

“I’d like to hear that story someday.”

“I’d like to tell it someday. Maybe when we’re done with the weekend. Where do you live, Frank?”

“Pittsburgh. You?”

“Michigan. Near the coast.”

“Which coast?” Frank asked, holding up his left hand with his fingers together and his thumb slightly out.

Sara smiled. Because Michigan looked like a mitten, that was how residents showed where they lived. She touched the base of his index finger.

“So who is taking care of Jack while Mom is off visiting haunted houses?”

“After… what happened to me, I was having some trouble coping. Jack was taken by social services. I haven’t seen him in six months.”

“I’m sorry.” Frank gave her hand a squeeze. “I can’t even imagine what that must be like.”

“That’s why I’m here. If I get the money, I can hire a lawyer, get my son back.”

“Are you well enough to care for him?”

The question pinned Sara there as surely as if she’d been staked to the ground. Was she well enough? Her recent behavior didn’t indicate she was. If anything, she’d gotten worse since they took Jack away.

So how do I respond? Bravado? Lie so I don’t look like a bad person?

Or the truth?

Frank seemed patient. Understanding. Sara didn’t know if anything would become of this chance meeting, but she didn’t want to start their relationship with lies. Even if it made her look weak.

“I don’t think I am well enough, Frank. But right now, my hope is gone, because it isn’t possible to get him back. If I had some hope again, I think I could pull myself together.”

Frank nodded, slowly. “I don’t know you at all. But—and this is odd—I I I feel I do. You remind me of a woman I know named Sunshine Jones.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Former girlfriend?”

“No. I worked with her, every day, and never had a chance to tell her how much I thought of her. Bright. Tough. Pretty. She had this indefatigable spirit. I think you do, too.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”

“What happened to Ms. Jones?”

“She married someone else. It was best. He’s a good man. But I always wonder what might have happened if I just just just… tried.”

“Sometimes trying is the hardest thing in the world.”

“I know a little something about hope, Sara. But I don’t think you’ve given up yet. I think you’ve just been kicked really hard.”

Sara really wished that was true. “Why do you think that, Frank?”

“Because I’ve been kicked pretty hard, too.”

She moved a little closer to him, trying to read his eyes. Frank Belgium had the kindest eyes Sara had ever seen.

Then a car pulled up next to them, and a guy yelled through the window.

“Everyone okay?”

“Yeah,” the cabbie said. He was leaning up against the crumpled trunk of the car, smoking a cheap stogie.

“Does anyone need any help?”

“No no no,” Frank said, smiling at Sara. “We’re doing fine.”

The man began to pull away when Sara yelled, “Wait!”

The car stopped, then backed up.

“Do you have a crowbar?” Sara asked.

“It’s a rental. There’s probably one.”

“Our luggage is stuck in the trunk. Can you give us a hand?”

He continued backing up until he was behind them, then pulled over to the side of the road. When he exited the vehicle, Sara saw he was tall, over six feet, moderate build with longish light brown hair streaked with gray. He opened his trunk, poked around for a bit, and found a crowbar.

The taxi driver spat on the street. “Hey buddy, you touch my cab with that, I’ll call the police.”

“I am the police,” the man said, producing a badge.

The cabbie shrugged.

“Thanks so much,” Frank said. “Several cars have passed, but you’re the first one to stop.”

“What happened?”

“Bird flew into the windshield.”

The cop eyed the dented trunk. “Must have been one helluva bird.”

“I’m Frank,” he offered his hand, which the cop shook. “This is Sara.”

“Tom. Nice to meet you both.”

Tom pressed the flat end of the crowbar between the trunk lid and the fender, and gave it a fierce twist. It instantly popped open.

“Thanks, Tom.” Sara reached into the grab her bag, grateful it was dry. She had two more bottles of Southern Comfort in it, and a leak would have been both embarrassing, and worrying. If she was going to be involved with a fear experiment, she wanted to have liquor nearby.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Frank said. “But would you mind taking us back to the airport to rent a car? I’ll pay you for your time.”

“I’m kind of running late,” Tom said. “Can’t you call a cab?”

“We’re going to a place cabs are afraid to go,” Sara chimed in. “It’s called Butler House.”

“In Solidarity?”

“You know it?” Frank asked.

“No. But that’s where I’m headed. Some kind of fear study.”

“So are we,” Frank said. “Would you mind if we tagged along?”

“Not at all.”

“Sara?” Frank turned to her.

She really liked that he asked her opinion. “Can I see your badge again?”

Tom offered his star.

“Chicago,” she said.

“The Windy City. I’m a detective.”

Frank appraised him. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Thomas Jefferson?”

“I may have heard that once or twice. You guys coming along?”

Sara handed his badge back. “Thanks, Tom. I think we will.”

Tom held out his hand to take Sara’s bag, and he placed it and Frank’s in his trunk along with the crowbar.

“Would you like the front front front seat, Sara?” Frank asked.

He was doing the nice thing by offering, but still looked slightly disappointed. Sara thought it was adorable.

“Thank you, Frank. But would it be okay if I sat in the back with you?”

Frank nodded several times in rapid succession. “Of course.”

Sara looked at Tom’s rental car. It was a compact. Which meant it would be cramped in the back.

She was looking forward to it.

Deb

“You gotta be fucking me with a wet noodle.”

The woman in the rental car line ahead of Deb and Mal had pink and green hair, a mouth that would make a trucker blush, and an apparent problem with her credit card.

“I ran the card twice, Ms. Draper. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to get out of line.”

“I’ve got a five hundred dollar limit on that goddamn card, pencil dick. And a zero fucking balance. The car is only fifty bucks a day, and I’m returning it tomorrow.”

“The deposit is five hundred dollars, Ms. Draper. Unfortunately, that maxes out your credit card and leaves you nothing to pay for the rental.”

Deb felt bad for the woman. She’d been in a situation like that before.

“I’ve only got thirty bucks on me. I’m running cash poor today. Can’t you help a fucking lady out?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Draper.”

“I’ll blow you.”

The clerk did a double-take. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll take you in the guy’s shitter and suck your Slim Jim if you get me this car.”

“Uh… as romantic as that sounds, I’m married.”

“Which probably means you need head more than most.”

Mal, who had been sullen and inconsolable on the airplane, actually snickered at that and gave Deb a nudge.

She whispered to Mal, smiling. “What? I give you head all the time.”

“Once a week is not all the time, Deb,” he whispered back.

“If it were up to you, it would be every two hours.”

The rental car clerk raised his voice. “If you don’t leave the line right now, Ms. Draper, I’m calling airport security.”

Ms. Draper was seemingly unperturbed. “If you’re shy because you have a micropenis, don’t be. I’ve seen all types. It actually makes it easier for me to deep throat. And if you got a problem getting it up, I can stick my finger up your ass, work that prostate.”

The rental car guy reached for the phone on the counter.

“You know what, assbag?” Ms. Draper said. “Tomorrow I’m going to be a million dollars richer. And I’m going to buy your goddamn little car rental business here, and make you clean toilets with your tongue for six bucks an hour.”

She threw up her hands in a dismissive matter and spun around, facing Mal and Deb.

Several things flashed through Deb’s mind at once. The first was Draper’s million dollar comment. Obviously she had been invited to Butler House as well. The second was that this green and pink haired woman had pocked scars covering her face, as if she’d had a severe case of acne as a teen. But these also covered her neck, and as Deb’s eyes travelled down her low-cut blouse, her cleavage as well.

Those weren’t acne scars. They were man-made.

“Enjoy the show?” she asked Deb, a sneer on her face.

“Very much so,” Deb replied. “You want to ride with us? We’re heading to Butler House.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “No shit. Really?”

“Sure,” Mal said. “And you don’t have to suck my Slim Jim.”

“But if you want to stick your finger up his ass,” Deb said, “be my guest.”

“Please don’t stick your finger up my ass,” her husband said. “I’m cool.”

Ms. Draper eyed each of them up and down, apparently taking notice of Deb’s prosthetic legs and Mal’s rubber hand. Then she smiled.

“I’m Moni Draper. Pleased ta meetcha both.”

There was a round of hand shaking, and Mal approached the clerk at the desk.

“Would you really have blown the rental car guy?” Deb asked.

“Girlfriend, I’ve done a lot more for a lot less, back when I was strung out.” She dug into her shoulder bag and took out a pack of cigarettes, even though there were No Smoking signs posted everywhere throughout the airport. She lit up with one of those jet lighters, where the flame was blue-green and hissed. Deb noticed her hands were also covered with pock marks.

“So what do you do?” Moni asked.

“I’m an athlete.”

“With no legs? No shit. Good for you, babe. What sport?”

“Marathons. Triathlons.”

“You can make money like that?”

“I’ve got sponsors,” Deb answered.

“Wait a sec. Were you that bitch in that energy drink commercial?”

Moni used the word bitch like she used the word babe, with obvious affection.

“That was a while ago.”

“I used to drink that stuff all the time. I remember you, on that bicycle and shit. In those cute little biking pants.”

Deb still had those biking pants, and they were, indeed, cute.

“What do you do?” Deb asked.

“Model.”

Deb wasn’t sure what to say to that, then Moni winked.

“Kidding, of course. I’m actually an escort. Topping. Domme stuff.”

“Like a prostitute?”

“Back in the day I was. Streetwalker. But I had a close encounter with a maniac who cut me up pretty good, as you can plainly see. So now I only do in house calls to select clients. The scars are actually a plus, because they make me look scarier.”

“So a domme is a dominatrix?”

“You betcha. Money is better, and I don’t have to fuck them.”

Deb was curious. “So what do you actually do to guys if you aren’t sleeping with them?

“All kinds of crazy shit. Tie ‘em up. Slap them around. Spank them. Make them lick my boots. Pee on them. Figging.”

“Figging?”

“You don’t want to know. Point is, I’m in control, the bottoms love it, and the money is good. At least, it used to be good. I’ve been semi-retired for a while.” Moni took a big draw on her cigarette, then blew the smoke out of her nostrils. “Went back to school. But I’m almost out of money, and I figured I’d have to start scheduling clients again. Then I got the invite to this fear thing, and I was like, holy shit, I finally got a lucky break. Hopefully I’ll never have to fig a guy again.”

“You have to tell me what figging is.”

Moni grinned and winked. “Trust me. You’re better off not knowing.”

Mal motioned for them to follow him, and they were led to the parking garage and a mid-size sedan. The clerk made a concentrated effort to ignore Moni. Deb, however, was really starting to like the woman. The incident at the restaurant back in Pittsburgh had really rattled her. But Moni was getting Deb’s mind off of that, and also helping break the tension between her and Mal. Deb knew her husband was going on this trip for her, and didn’t think any good could come from it. What Mal didn’t understand was that Deb needed to do something, anything, because it beat doing nothing. Even if it didn’t work, it was worth a try.

“So you can run with those fake legs on?” Moni asked.

“Not well. These are my walking legs. I’ve got a different pair for running.”

“Cool. And your husband, does he have different hands too?”

“Mal just has the cosmetic hand. It isn’t functional. It’s just for show.”

“But they have functional ones. I’ve got a client, a real live private eye, he’s missing a hand. He can break a beer bottle with his fake one. Also, it vibrates.”

Deb shot Moni a that’s bullshit look. “Seriously?”

“Variable speeds and everything. The guy is a bit of a nut, but that fake hand is something every man should have. Make your hubby buy one.”

Mal never bought a mechanical prosthesis. He felt it would be a constant reminder of what he no longer had. Instead, he tried to pretend that his entire left arm no longer existed.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Deiter,” the clerk said after having Mal walk around the car and signing the agreement stating it had no damage. “Enjoy your stay in Charleston.”

“Oh, we’re not staying in Charleston. We’re going to Solidarity.”

“Not… Butler House?” The clerk’s voice had gone up an octave.

Mal didn’t answer, and Deb knew why. When they’d called to confirm their attendance, the recording said informing others about the experiment would disqualify them.

“What’s Butler House?” Mal asked, obviously playing dumb.

“It’s… it’s the most evil place on earth. Whatever you do, stay away from that house, Mr. Deiter. And may God go with you.”

The clerk did a quick about-face and rushed past Deb and Moni, in a sudden and unwarranted hurry. Deb watched the man as he passed, and the expression on his face was pure fear.

He looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

Tom

The private driveway leading up to Butler House wasn’t paved, and Tom almost missed the turn because the entrance was overgrown with brush. Only a sign reading 683 AUBURN ROAD, hanging on a wooden post mostly obscured by vines, gave any indication there was a road there.

“We’re about to get bumpy,” he told Frank and Sara as he pulled the car off the paved street and onto a dirt trail.

Bumpy was an understatement. Ten yards into the woods, Tom realized he should have rented something with all-wheel drive. First they hit a ditch that made their undercarriage scrape against the ground, then the car almost got stuck on a mound of dirt, Tom having to gun the engine before the tires gained traction.

The pair in the back seemed to be enjoying themselves, the rough terrain giving them an excuse to bump into each other. During the car ride, Tom had ascertained they’d just met, but they seemed to be hitting it off very well. The Dutch courage he smelled on their breath might have been one of the reasons for that, but Tom also felt strangely comfortable with the duo. Tom remembered meeting Joan, and at the same time he’d also met two guys named Abe and Bert. Tom still spoke with Bert regularly, and he and Bert visited Abe in the hospital six months ago. Abe, a used car salesmen, had sold a clunker to a man who was unhappy with his purchase, and even unhappier with Abe’s refund policy. The guy had expressed his displeasure by chasing Abe around the car lot with a baseball bat and ultimately breaking his leg.

When he’d met Bert, Abe, and to some extent, Joan, there had been a familiarity there that was unusual. Akin to going to a high school reunion and seeing people you hadn’t seen in twenty years. But he hadn’t met Abe, Bert, or Joan before, just like he hadn’t met Frank and Sara. Yet Tom felt immediately comfortable around them. Like they were destined to be friends.

It might have had to do with shared experiences. Like Tom, both Frank and Sara had apparently lived through something awful. So even though they each came from different walks of life—a homicide cop, a counselor for wayward teens, and a molecular biologist—they were still birds of a feather.

Tom drove through the thicket, which then opened up into marshland, acres of cattails in all directions. The mild wind blowing made them sway, like waves rolling across a brown and green sea. The effect was weirdly hypnotic, made even more so because some of the cattail spikes—thick tubes on the top of each stalk that resembled cigars—had begun to seed, turning them into white tufts. Like dandelions, the white seeds floated on the breeze, giving the appearance of a snow flurry. It made Tom feel eerie, and somehow alone. Even the duo in back, who’d spent a majority of the car ride gabbing, went silent at the spectacle.

“This is… creepy,” Sara finally said.

“I don’t believe in a netherworld,” Belgium said. “But if one exists, this is how I picture it.”

They drove more than a kilometer through the undulating plants, and then things got creepier when Butler House came into view.

It seemed to rise up out of the cattails, looking both incongruous to its surroundings, and also as if it had been there since time began. Gray, sprawling, and decrepit, it might have once been regal, but now appeared way past its prime. Even from the distance, Tom could sense its decay. The roof seemed to slump in the center. The walls looked slightly crooked. The entire house appeared to lean to the left, ready to collapse during the next big storm. Which, judging by the ominous gray clouds overhead, could be any minute.

When they got within a hundred meters of the house, Tom saw a small guard station, no bigger than a porta-potty, and a steel gate barring the path. As Tom approached, a man in a suit and tie came out of the tiny building and held up his hand to stop them. He wore sunglasses, even though it was overcast, and Tom saw a glimpse of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

Tom stopped next to him and rolled down the window. He immediately wrinkled his nose. The air stank of sour, like carnations going bad.

“IDs,” the guard said.

Everyone fished out their driver’s licenses, and when Tom collected all three he passed them over. The guard gave each a cursory glance, and handed them back. Then he returned to his little booth and the gate swung open.

“Talkative fellow,” Belgium said.

“Even money he’s former military,” Tom told him.

“How do you know?” Sara asked.

“He had a bearing about him. A stillness, but alert at the same time. A lot of cops have that, too.”

“How do you know he wasn’t a cop?”

“Cops ask questions. Soldiers follow orders.”

Tom continued on to the house, which seemed to grow in size faster than they approached. By the time they parked on the grass near the front door, Butler House blocked more than half the sky. It wasn’t particularly bright out to begin with, but in the house’s shadow it felt dark as night.

“Well well well,” Belgium said. “It’s even uglier up close.”

Tom agreed. They could now see the broken shutters, the peeling paint, the cracked masonry. Thorny weeds jutted out of the ground next to the crumbling foundation. One of the chimneys had several bricks missing.

“Looks like someone picked up the house and dropped it,” Sara said after they exited the vehicle.

Tom couldn’t help but remember the Butler House website, and all of the atrocities committed here. Augustus Torble’s words popped into his mind.

That house feels evil. It exudes it, like a bog steams on cool nights.

Tom had dismissed the words as lunacy. But standing in front of the house, it didn’t feel a part of his world. Almost as if, at any moment, it would sprout hundreds of black, oily tentacles and devour them all.

He did not want to go inside.

“You look like I feel, Tom,” Belgium said. “I don’t see how any good can come from us going in in in there.”

The front double doors, arched and barred with wrought iron fleur de lis, opened outward. The trio immediately took a step backward, and Tom’s hand went to his chest, seeking the shoulder holster and gun that weren’t there, still packed in his bag.

Standing in the doorway, flanked by two military men in gray suits, was Dr. Emil Forenzi. Tom recognized him from online pictures. He was a wisp of a man, tufts of white hair over his ears that looked a lot like cattail seeds, back beginning to bend with age. His suit was blue poplin, tailored, his necktie tan. His smile was broad and looked genuine.

“Welcome to Butler House. I’m so pleased to see you all. Three of our guests have already arrived, and we’re expecting three more. Detective Mankowski, if you’d be so kind as to give my men your keys, they’ll park the car and take your bags to your rooms.

Tom handed over the rental car automatic starter, then took Forenzi’s outstretched hand. It was delicate and boney, like a fledgling bird.

“I am Dr. Forenzi. It’s a pleasure, Detective. I’ve followed your exploits closely. You’re a remarkable man, on so many levels.”

Then the doctor turned to Sara. “Greetings, Ms. Randhurst.” He clasped her hand in both of his. “I’ve read about your extraordinary bravery. It is an honor to meet you in person. And Dr. Belgium…” Another handshake with Frank. “I’m so eager to talk to you. Apologies for the… crude… way you were beckoned here. Come in, come in, meet the others.”

Forenzi led them through the doors, and when Tom crossed the threshold he heard a strange humming sound. It disappeared immediately, and before he could think about it Tom was facing Butler House’s great room.

The website pictures didn’t do it justice. The space was massive, a two story cavernous area that was big enough to comfortably seat King Kong. The light came from three gigantic deer antler chandeliers, hanging from the rafters on thick chains. Each contained at least a hundred antlers, and they were asymmetrical and seemed thrown together. Like big heaps of bones.

The centerpiece of the great room, a ceiling high stone fireplace, easily utilized several tons of granite. Impressive as it was, it wasn’t lit, and Tom felt a chill when he stared at it.

Various chairs and tables were scattered around the room, some obviously new, others outdated and in need of repair. Though the chandeliers were big, they weren’t enough to adequately light the space. Plus they threw strange shadows across the walls and floor.

Seated near each other were two men and a woman. Forenzi led them across a frayed, drab Persian rug and stood in the middle of everyone.

“Might I introduce our new arrivals. Chicago cop Tom Mankowski, who has worked several serial killer cases, but his claim to fame has to be the part he played in the tragedy at the late Senator Philip Stang’s mansion.”

Tom remained calm, even though those words hit like a blow. He had no idea how Forenzi found out about that. But he intended to ask him as soon as they were alone. That, and questions about Roy. But for the time being, he needed to just watch and listen.

“Sara Randhurst survived a terrifying ordeal on Rock Island in Michigan, including several encounters with feral cannibals, and a well-known serial killer named Lester Paks. A sadist who filed his teeth down to points and chewed his victims to death.”

Tom glanced at Sara, and even in the dim light he could see her face had gone white.

“And Dr. Frank Belgium, a molecular biologist who actually encountered Satan himself.”

Sara’s head jerked in his direction. “Frank? Really?”

“I really can’t talk about that that that, Dr. Forenzi. It’s highly classified. And how did you happen to hear about…”

“Dr. Belgium, meet Aabir Gartzke, psychic medium, sensitive, and clairvoyant extraordinaire.”

Aabir stood and gave a theatrical bow. She was a tall woman with dark, Slavic features, her long black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her dozens of silver and gold bracelets jangled as she moved, and the loose blouse she wore wouldn’t have been out of place on an eighteenth century gypsy.

“I have met you all already, in my dreams and visions. Detective Mankowski, how is Joan’s latest movie coming along?”

Tom played coy. “If you’re clairvoyant, shouldn’t you already know that?”

Aabir smiled. “Indeed. The writer acquiesced, changed the scene as instructed. Right now, your girlfriend is in the star’s trailer, discussing wardrobe. And Sara, no need to worry, my dear. Jack will be returned to you soon.”

“It doesn’t take a psychic to know that,” Sara said.

“Of course not. I could have easily gotten that through the court records. But you will be pleased to know that Jack is walking now. He’s doing well with his foster family, but he still has memories of you and misses how you used to sing to him.”

“I… I need to use the bathroom,” Sara’s voice cracked, and she began to walk off.

“Down that hallway,” Forenzi pointed, “third door on the right.”

“Sara?” Belgium began to go after her. But she stopped him by saying, “I’m fine, Frank, I just need a minute.”

“Dr. Belgium,” Aabir continued, “have your friends Sun and Andy told you yet they’re pregnant?”

He looked at his shoes. “No, they haven’t.”

“If it’s a boy, his middle name will be Frank. And it will be a boy.”

“Impressive, Ms. Gartzke,” Forenzi said. “Aabir’s skills have helped police find four missing children, and two murderers. But, like each of you, she is here at Butler House to face one of her greatest fears.”

“There are many kinds of spirits,” Aabir said. “Ghosts are the residual energy of human beings after they have died. Poltergeists are attached to particular locations. They reenact the same scene, again and again. Usually scenes of violence or death. But the last type of spirit is the dangerous one. The kind that has no earthly counterpart.”

“Demons,” Dr. Forenzi said, nodding.

“Demons are malevolent entities that feed on the energy of the living. I have encountered demons in the past. They are extremely dangerous. In some cases, they can even kill. Demons frighten me deeply.”

“You don’t seem frightened right now,” Tom stated.

Aabir put her hands on her hips and stuck out her chin. “I performed a cleansing ritual on this room, so they can’t enter. But there are many demons in this house. I can feel them, like eyes on the back of my neck.”

Tom recalled how he was sure someone had been watching him while he was sitting at Roy’s desk, but no one had been there.

“Have you ever encountered a demon, Mr. Pang?”

“No, I haven’t,” said the Asian man sitting next to Aabir. He had broad shoulders and a compact frame, and a pencil mustache on his upper lip. “That’s because demons, like ghosts and poltergeists, don’t exist.”

“Woo-jin Pang runs a company that specializes in debunking paranormal activity.”

“Science has been unable to prove the existence of a spirit world.”

“Science also hasn’t been able to prove it doesn’t exist,” Aabir countered.

“It isn’t up to science to disprove a wild claim, bro. It is up to the person making the wild claim to show scientific evidence of it. If I say I have a leprechaun in my backpack, the burden of proof is on me.”

“And you’ve never encountered anything you can’t explain?”

“Of course I have. But not being able to explain a phenomenon doesn’t mean it should be automatically attributed to the spirit world. I was using my EMF meter at a client’s home two weeks ago—”

“Excuse me,” Tom said. “That’s the second time I’ve heard those initials. What’s an EMF meter?”

The ghost hunter rolled his eyes. “It tests for electromagnetic fields. Supposedly EMFs are disrupted by supernatural activity. It’s one of many tools used to measure conditions we can’t see, bro. So I was using the meter, and it kept spiking. We ruled out appliances, cell phones, fuse boxes, the air conditioning. We even killed the main power at the breaker. It still kept spiking.”

“And you’re saying that wasn’t a spirit?” Aabir asked.

“It wasn’t a spirit. There was a storm ten miles away. My equipment is so sensitive it was picking up lightning strikes.”

“Mr. Pang claims he’s never been frightened while doing paranormal research,” Forenzi said, smiling politely. “We’ll see if Butler House changes his mind.”

Pang crossed his arms over his chest. “If ghosts do exist and they’re here, I’ll find them.”

“And last,” Forenzi said, “but certainly not least, is perhaps the only person in the world more skeptical than Mr. Pang, bestselling author Cornelius Wellington.”

Cornelius Wellington was in his fifties, wearing a sweater vest, glasses, and a graying Van Dyke beard.

“Pleased to meet you all,” Wellington boomed. He pronounced all as awl, and sounded a lot like John Lennon. “I’m very much looking forward to the proceedings, Dr. Forenzi. I’m sure you have quite the little show concocted for us.”

Forenzi chuckled. “Mr. Wellington is known for his books that debunk the supernatural. Due to his certainty that spirits do not exist, he’s convinced I have turned Butler House into something akin to the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. Animatronic specters and people in masks jumping out to yell ‘Boo!’”

“I certainly hope so, Doctor. That will be exceedingly more exciting than sitting around waiting for ghosts to make contact.”

There was a booming knock on the front doors, and everyone turned to watch as one of the guards opened them up, revealing three people, two women and a man.

“Ah, the rest of our party has arrived.” Dr. Forenzi smiled so broadly Tom could see his molars. “And so it begins.”

Mal

Mal winced at the steak on the plate in front of him. It looked, and smelled, divine.

But try cutting filet mignon with only one hand.

The enormous banquet table everyone sat at was one of the original furnishings, according to Dr. Forenzi, who held court at the head of it. He’d been telling stories about the various ghosts said to haunt Butler House. They included:

Blackjack Reedy, a one-eyed slave master who roamed the hallways with a whip.

Sturgis Butler, who was charred to the bone and smelled like burnt pork.

Jebediah Butler, who floated from room to room on a puddle of his own blood, which constantly leaked from his flayed skin.

Ol’ Jasper, a slave with four arms who dragged a machete around. You knew he was close when you could hear the sound of him dragging his long blade across the floor.

The Giggler, a masked demon who would mutilate himself in order to instill fear.

Colton Butler, carrying his bag of ghastly surgical instruments, still trying to conduct his insane experiments upon the living.

Mal was only half-paying attention. His mood had brightened a little since the awful airport experience, mostly due to Moni Draper’s irrepressible personality. She talked nonstop about unrelated topics—what Mal referred to as diarrhea of the mouth—but was so upbeat and foul-mouthed that it was like watching a stand-up comic.

But Moni’s energy evaporated once they entered Butler House. As pleasant a host as Dr. Forenzi attempted to be, there was a very real and very bad feeling that hung in the air, like a blanket pressing down upon them all. Mal was nervous, boarding on paranoid. He was also hungry, and staring at the slab of meat before him made him depressed as well.

A moment later, his plate was switched with a steak already cut into pieces. He glanced at Deb, sitting next to him, and she was now busily cutting her new steak, not even acknowledging what she’d done.

“A wonderful set-up, Doctor,” Wellington said after patting his lips with a linen napkin. “So now, when we see one of your actors limping through the hallways with a satchel of scalpels, we’re supposed to be terrified. The power of suggestion leaves us more receptive to strange phenomenon, and more susceptible to accepting them.”

“Indeed, that would be the proper way to conduct a fear study,” Forenzi admitted. “But all I can offer you is my word that I haven’t hired any actors to try to scare you people.”

“What exactly are we supposed to do to get our million bucks?” Moni asked, her mouth full of baked potato.

“It is simple. After dinner, my associate Dr. Madison will take a small sample of your blood and conduct a brief physical to ascertain your general health. Then, tomorrow, another sample of your blood shall be taken.” Forenzi winked. “Should you survive, of course. Which is why I’ve had all of you sign waivers.”

“You’ve conducted this experiment before?” Tom, the cop, asked.

“Not quite in this way. But we have had guests before.”

“And what happened to them?” Tom continued.

The doctor laughed. “Naturally, they all died of fright.”

There were a few nervous titters around the table, but the cop didn’t join them.

“Allow me a self-indulgent moment to explain my research, and why each of you are so important.” Forenzi pushed back his chair and stood up, spreading his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re all here today as self-aware, sentient beings. Perhaps some of you believe in the afterlife, spirits, souls, God and the devil. Perhaps some of you find all of it, to use one of Mr. Wellington’s words, poppycock.”

Mal hadn’t heard the writer use that word yet, but he could imagine it easily enough.

“But what makes us believe what we believe? Our differences really are tiny compared to our similarities. We’re all made of the same stuff. We’re all 99.9% identical, genetically. Am I correct, Dr. Belgium?”

“Yes yes yes, you are so far.”

“Doctor, if you wouldn’t mind, can you provide the group with your learned definition of life?”

“Life? Well, all living things, in order to to to be considered alive, have to meet certain criteria. These criteria vary, depending on the scientist. But I’d define life as a structure that can reproduce, respire, create energy for itself, and respond to environmental changes. Also, life can cease.”

“By that definition, fire is alive,” Forenzi said.

“Fire is a chemical process known as combustion.”

“But isn’t life also a chemical process?”

“Well, yes.” Belgium nodded several times. “It certainly certainly certainly is.”

“We are all made of chemicals.” Forenzi swept his hands across the table, grandiosely indicating all seated there. “Chemical reactions allow us to metabolize food and oxygen, and excrete waste. They are responsible for cell division. Aging. The very thoughts we have in our heads. Emotions. Dr. Belgium, can you elucidate the chemistry of emotion?”

“Well, in response to a stimulus, or in some cases due to a problem with the limbic system, our body releases neurotransmitters and hormones, which dictate how we feel feel feel about certain things. Watch a sad movie, we cry. When we meet someone we like, we bond. These are chemicals we manufacture ourselves, which we’ve evolved to help us adapt to various situations.”

“A mother’s instant affection for her child when it is born isn’t due to love,” Forenzi said, focusing on Sara. “At least, not love alone. It is because, during childbirth, the mother’s body floods with oxytocin. Not only does that jump start lactation, but it also forces the incredibly strong emotion of maternal love. Which brings us to fear.”

Forenzi spread out his palms, like a preacher orating to his congregation.

“My friends, I have isolated the neurotransmitter that activates the fear response. Which means, very soon, I’ll discover a way to control fear.”

Mal, who’d been greedily devouring the steak his wife had cut for him, suddenly gave Dr. Forenzi 100% of his attention.

“You can cure fear?” he said.

“I’m very close, Mr. Deiter. Fear begins in the amygdala, which is located in the medial temporal lobes of the brain. When you are frightened, it releases hormones and neurotransmitters that stimulate the fear response. You are aware of the symptoms. Paranoia. Increased heartbeat. Dry mouth. Sweating. Shortness of breath. Lightheadedness. The feeling of hopelessness. Because many of you survived some horrific events, your brain chemistry has physically become altered. Which is why you continue to be afraid all of the time. Your mind still believes it is in danger, and it keeps pumping chemicals into your body. “

“So you’re going to test our blood for these these these chemicals,” Dr. Belgium said, “then scare us, and test our blood again. And then am I to assume you’ll then try to block the fear somehow?”

“All in good time, Doctor. All in good time.”

“So why are Mr. Wellington and I here?” Pang asked.

“Every good experiment needs controls,” Forenzi said. “Your skepticism will provide a baseline metusamine level.”

“Metusamine?” Belgium said. “Metus is latin for fear. So metusamine—”

“Metusamine is the neurotransmitter I isolated that is responsible for the fear response. Correct, Dr. Belgium. And I’m synthesizing the transporter protein—”

“Which will terminate effects of of of metusamine!” Belgium yelled, obviously excited. “How close are you to synthesis?”

“I’ve been able to induce fearlessness in a primate, a Panamanian night monkey.”

“I’d be honored and excited to go over your data.”

“In time, Doctor.”

“And will we be able to try this for ourselves?” Mal asked. A fear-free life was a gift almost too valuable to fathom. To be able to sleep well again, to live without the constant paranoia. A drug like that would be a miracle.

“Very soon. And your presence here, Mr. Dieter, will help speed the process.”

Deb reached over, touched Mal on the arm. He looked at his wife and saw she was teary eyed. He realized he was as well.

“So let us finish our meals,” Dr. Forenzi said, raising his wine glass, “and then begin the process of scaring the hell out of you fine people.”

Everyone toasted. Everyone seemed excited, except for the cop, whose face remained neutral. Mal said to his wife, “Maybe you were right, honey. Maybe this trip was the answer to our prayers.”

“I love you, Mal.”

“I love you, too.”

They shared a quick kiss, and Mal went back to his steak. The cop, Tom, looked over at him, and his calm expression was replaced by something else.

Concern.

Did Tom know something the rest of them didn’t?

Mal’s relief evaporated, and the uneasiness returned.

After dinner, he’d confront the Detective, pick his brain.

Maybe this really was as it seemed, a million bucks and a cure.

But maybe, just maybe, Forenzi was playing them all.

Like fattening up the turkeys before Thanksgiving dinner.

Frank

Dr. Frank Belgium walked up to the second floor with Sara and marveled at the curve balls life threw.

A few days ago he’d been hating his job, and his life. He’d been lonely, depressed, and living in constant fear.

Now he was next to a wonderful woman and actually daring to think about the future for the first time.

Belgium wasn’t prone to daydreaming. Others would consider him a fatalist, but to Belgium that meant a realist who truly knew how bad things were. But there, in Butler House, Belgium indulged in a mini-fantasy where he and Sara and Jack had a house somewhere. They were playing a game of Monopoly, which he used to love as a kid. He saw himself land on Boardwalk with a hotel and start laughing, and his new family laughed along with him, and there was the scent of baked apples coming from the pie cooling on the windowsill. He and Sara took Forenzi’s metusamine pills, and neither were afraid anymore. Life wasn’t something you endured. It was something you appreciated.

A ridiculous notion, of course. But the idea of it pleased him, and he clutched it to his being like a life line.

“Here’s your room.”

Belgium snapped out of his reverie and saw one of the men in suits had opened a door for him.

“You’re the next door over,” the man told Sara. She smiled shyly at Frank, and followed him a few meters down the hall.

“See you in a bit, Frank,” Sara said.

Frank nodded, and watched her disappear through the door. Frank went inside his, closed the door behind him, and took a look around.

A bed, some old furniture, and some drapes replete with cobwebs, none of which would have been out of place in Dracula’s castle. No bathroom.

Belgium found his suitcase next to the dresser. He considered changing into a fresh shirt, but figured it would be wrinkled, and he hadn’t packed a travel iron.

Maybe he could ask Sara if she had one. Maybe that would be a good excuse to go to her room, because even though they’d only been apart for less than a minute, he missed her already.

Frank went back to the door and opened it—

—Sara was already standing there.

“I wanted to do this in case we don’t have a chance later,” she said.

And then Sara’s arms were around Frank’s neck and her lips were against his.

Belgium was so surprised he couldn’t move. He just stood there, not knowing where to put his hands, or how to move his mouth. He hadn’t kissed a woman in so long he’d forgotten how.

Would she figure out how bad he was at this?

Did his breath stink?

What if he used too much saliva? Or if they bumped their teeth together?

What was he supposed to say when the kiss ended?

But Frank’s doubts quickly began to vanish as he lost himself in the sensation. Sara was tender, persistent, and she pressed her body closer to his, and when he touched her waist she sighed, and when his tongue touched hers it felt like an electric shock, making Frank moan in his throat.

She finally broke the kiss and looked at him, her pupils so big, a slight blush in her cheeks, and Belgium had to reach out and run a finger along her neck, just to prove she was real.

“I like you, Frank.”

“I like you, too.”

She gave him another kiss—just a peck on the cheek—and walked off, back to her room, leaving Frank to wonder that maybe his ridiculous little daydream wasn’t that ridiculous after all.

Sara

Sara chewed her lower lip as she pulled a sweater on over her head.

She could still taste Frank.

In the past, Sara never would have been so brazen. Kissing was an intimate act, and all she had been intimate with lately was a bottle of booze. But she’d never felt such an immediate chemistry before. Part of it was the obvious fact that he was such a nice guy. But it went deeper. Something about being with Frank gave her hope.

And she needed some hope in her life.

Living without Jack was a constant reminder what a failure she was. As a mother. As a human being. The alcohol amplified this feeling, but without the liquor the horrors of Rock Island kept haunting her.

While it would be amazing to take a pill and not have nightmares, or panic attacks, Sara was a lot more skeptical about it than the others seemed to be. She didn’t like Dr. Forenzi. His constant mentions of babies and children seemed less like reassurances, and more like attacks. Sara didn’t like this house, either. Even though the location was vastly different, it gave off the same vibe as Rock Island. There was something bad happening here, and she couldn’t wait to leave.

That was another reason she went to Frank’s room. Yes, she found him attractive, and yes, he gave her hope. But the most important thing of all was how she felt when she was with him. When Sara was around Frank, she no longer felt afraid.

So she threw herself at him, the desire for him to kiss her back stronger than her fear of rejection.

And he had kissed her back.

And he was pretty good at it.

She shivered, thinking about his hands on the small of her back, and then turned to the dresser mirror to fuss with her hair again.

That’s when she noticed something in the mirror. Something behind her.

The rocking chair in the corner of the room.

A brittle-looking thing, made of old wood, so dark it was almost black.

Had it just moved?

Sara stared at its reflection.

The chair remained still.

I’m seeing things.

Sara went back to finger-combing her bangs, wishing she’d packed some gel. Hindsight being 20/20, she should have also packed some make-up. A little lip gloss, and a little eyeliner would—

The rocking chair moved.

Sara watched, her breath caught in her throat, as it rocked all the way forward, held it there for a moment, and then rocked back.

Just as if someone was sitting in it.

Sara knew she needed to turn around, to look directly at it. But every muscle in her body had locked.

What was the monster that didn’t cast a reflection? A vampire? Were there others that didn’t show up in mirrors?

If I turn around and check, will I see some hideous creature in the chair, grinning at me?

A ghost?

A poltergeist?

A demon?

The chair rocked again, creaking as it did.

Turn around and look.

Just do it.

Sara closed her eyes, and through brute force of will turned on her heels to face the chair.

Now open your eyes.

But she was too afraid.

Do it!

Open your eyes!

Sara peeked.

The chair was empty.

Tom

One of the suited guards showed Tom to his room after dinner, and it was both as opulent and as creepy as Tom expected.

The bed was a large four-poster, with a crushed velvet bedcover. The dresser was heavy, Renaissance Revival, with a matching bureau. There was an iron, woodburning stove, an Oriental carpet on the wood floors, a rolltop desk, and portraits on the walls Tom recognized as Colton and Jebediah Butler. The light was dim, due to an antique lamp with a low wattage bulb and a very large tasseled shade. There were candles throughout the room, all unlit.

The room’s sole window faced west, and Tom looked out into the waving fields of cattails. The sky had gotten darker, and had taken on a reddish tinge. He checked the window clasp, but it, like the sash, had been thickly painted over.

Tom put his suitcase onto the bed and opened it up. First he checked his gun, a Sig Saur 9mm, and put in a fresh magazine. He holstered it, put on his holster, and then checked his fanny pack. Inside were three more mags, fifteen rounds each, twenty glow sticks, a tactical flashlight, a Zippo lighter, a Swiss Army Champion Plus knife, some handcuffs, and a Benchmade Mangus butterfly knife with sheath.

He strapped the Mangus sheath to his ankle, and was inventorying the first aid kit he’d packed when someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” Tom said, facing the doorway.

It was Moni Draper. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.”

She strutted in, and Tom admired her moxie. Especially after what she’d gone through. Tom knew Moni from her association with a serial killer named Luther Kite. He’d tied her up and tortured her using an antique medical device called an artificial leech. It was used by doctors in the 1800s for bloodletting, back when it was thought that bad blood caused ailments and bleeding cured people.

Tom had encountered Kite in the past, and had done a lot of research on him. Moni has over two hundred scars on her body, where Kite had used the device on her. She’d been found nearly dead, but somehow had rebounded. And, judging by her general attitude, she’d moved on with her life.

Tom had his share of nightmares, mostly due to what had happened at Senator Stang’s mansion in Springfield. But he’d never been at the total mercy of a maniac who was excited by causing pain. He didn’t know if he’d be able to adjust like Moni seemed to. And he hoped he’d never have to find out.

“You smell bullshit,” Moni said.

“If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.”

“Stay with me.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re going to try to scare us. Maybe the threat won’t be real. Maybe it will. Either way, I want to be with the strongest guy in the room, and that’s you.”

Tom nodded.

“We can…” Moni smiled slyly, “seal the deal if you like. I’ve done lots of cops.”

Back when Kite had done that to her, Moni was a prostitute. Apparently the attack hadn’t scared her out of the profession.

“Kind of you to offer, but I’m okay.”

“Is it because of the scars?”

“It’s because I’m in a committed relationship.”

Moni pulled her shirt down, revealing her pock-marked cleavage. “So this doesn’t disgust you?”

She jiggled a bit. Tom didn’t reply. Moni continued to pose for another five seconds before saying, “So are you disgusted or not?”

“I’m still deciding,” Tom said. “Give me a minute.”

Moni giggled, walked over, and gave Tom a friendly punch on the shoulder. “You’re okay for a pig, you know that?”

Tom wasn’t offended by her use of the word pig. If anything, it amused him. “Thanks. And I promise I’ll do my best to protect you if things get crazy.”

“I believe you. Who’s the special lady?”

“Her name is Joan. She’s a Hollywood producer.”

“She have any interest in the story of a plucky whore who survived multiple attacks by maniacs and then went on to become a millionaire?”

“I’ll ask her.”

“What’s that?” Moni pointed at a wrapped plastic disk in Tom’s kit.

“A Bolin chest seal. For sucking chest wounds.”

“Like getting stabbed in the lungs?”

“Or shot.”

She continued to point. “I know that’s a tourniquet, and that’s one of those airway breathers. What’s in that package? Celox?”

“Clotting powder. Stops bleeding quickly.”

“You came prepared. But I bet you don’t have one of these.”

Moni reached for her purse, then stopped. “Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

“A Chicago pig has no jurisdiction in South Carolina.”

“True.”

Moni pulled out a large syringe and held it up, triumphantly.

“What is that?” Tom asked, feeling like he already knew.

“Heroin. Enough to make a charging bull OD. I didn’t think I could get a gun through TSA because I’d get into trouble, so I brought this to protect myself.”

“Instead of a gun you brought a lethal dose of heroin,” Tom said. “You don’t think if you got caught with that, you’d be in more trouble?”

Moni’s eyebrows crinkled and her lips pursed. “When you say it like that, it sounds like a bad idea.”

“Am I interrupting?”

They looked at the open door and saw Mal, the sports reporter missing a hand.

“The more the merrier,” Moni said, waving him in.

“Forenzi wants us to line up for our physicals, but I just wanted a moment of your time, Detective. Are you both… busy?”

“I’m just showing the pig my heroin,” Moni said.

Mal frowned. “I could come back…”

“How can I help you, Mr. Deiter?” Tom asked.

“At dinner. You didn’t seem excited about Forenzi’s experiment. You seemed like you knew something no one else did.”

Both Mal and Moni stared at Tom. He wondered what to do, but strangely he felt comfortable around them, in the same way he felt comfortable around Frank and Sara.

In that moment, he decided the benefits of telling them outweighed keeping it a secret.

“My partner, Roy Lewis, came to this house last week, supposedly doing the same thing we’re doing tonight. He never came back.”

Tom watched Mal’s frown deepen. “Shit.”

“You look so sad,” Moni told him. She offered the syringe. “Need a little pick me up?”

“Moni,” Tom kept his voice even, “can you please put away the heroin? And Mal, I don’t know what happened to Roy, so I can’t cry foul play yet. Maybe Forenzi is legit, and this will all be smooth sailing.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

“No. I don’t.” Tom felt like he was telling a child there was no Santa Claus.

Moni put her hand on Mal’s neck. “Buck up, little soldier. Would a little three-way action with me and your wife make you feel better?”

Mal choked out a laugh. “You know, it probably would.”

“Is she into chicks?”

He lost his mirth again. “No.”

“Too bad. Well, maybe some figging will take your mind off things.”

“What’s figging?” Mal asked.

“It’s when you take a—”

“Mal?” His wife, Deb, stuck her head into the room. “Everything okay?”

“He’s moody,” Moni explained, “so I offered him smack and a three way.”

Tom decided it was time to take some control of the situation. “I don’t know how this is all going to play out tonight, but I think we all need to stick together, and watch out for each other. Did anyone bring weapons?” He looked pointedly at Moni, who was waving her hand. “Weapons other than narcotics?”

“I packed a .38 in our suitcase,” Mal said.

“Extra rounds?”

Mal shook his head. “Just the five in the cylinder.”

“Are you a good shot?”

“I’m so-so. Deb is better.”

Tom took out his Sig, removed the magazine, and pulled back the slide to make sure the barrel was clear. Then he did a quick explanation of how to load, how to use the decocker, and what double action meant. As he was passing his gun around, one of the suited guards knocked on the door frame.

“We’re ready for you.”

Tom took his Sig back, tucked it into the holster, and followed the others into the hallway. They’d been given rooms on the second floor, all in a row, and there was an ornate wooden railing that overlooked the great room. As they headed for the stairs, they passed a marble statue of a cupid on a pedestal. Tom did a double-take, then went back for a closer look.

In the baby’s mouth were sharp fangs.

Moni, who was behind him, said, “Wouldn’t want to breastfeed that little bastard. And look at the wings.”

At first glance, they seemed like typical, feathered cherub wings. But the individual feathers weren’t feathers—they were tiny daggers.

“Dr. Madison is waiting.”

Tom turned, startled, and was surprised to see yet another guard in a gray suit standing next to him. That made five he’d seen so far. Why did Forenzi need so many guards? To protect him from ghosts? And how had he managed to sneak up on Tom? Like the others, this guard was tall, muscular, and wearing military boots. But he hadn’t made a sound during his approach.

“What branch of the military were you in?” Tom asked.

The man’s face remained blank, and he didn’t answer.

“Do you work for the government, or for Forenzi directly?”

“Please move along,” the guard said.

Tom shrugged, and he followed Moni and the others down the stairs, across the great room, and to a hallway lined with drab paintings depicting plantation life. They looked old, paint peeling and a decade’s worth of grime on them. Slaves in the field, picking tobacco. Blackjack Reedy astride a horse, whip in hand. An endless field of cattails, stretching off into the horizon. Everyone had stopped next to a closed door, and Tom assumed it was the queue for the examination room. But he quickly figured out the group had huddled around another painting, this one of Butler House.

It was massive, perhaps a meter tall and twice as wide, in an ornate frame and protected behind some non-reflective glass. The picture depicted the house in the 1800s, when it was still new, and the fields were filled with cotton. Tom didn’t understand the interest until Frank pointed to a figure in one of the windows.

It was a woman, her hair tied back, a pensive look on her face. Tom squinted at it, then turned to Sara, who had gone ashen.

The woman in the painting was a dead-ringer for her.

Tom moved in closer, checking the figures in the other windows.

He saw Frank’s face peering out between half-closed shutters on the second floor.

Deb, opening the front door to the house. Mal in the shadows behind her.

Moni’s face, complete with her pock marks.

Wellington, in the cotton field with a scythe.

Two people in a horse-drawn buggy, approaching the house. Pang and Aabir.

Tom looked for himself, dreading the search, holding his breath.

“You’re here,” Belgium said, pointing to the side of the house.

Tom didn’t understand what he was seeing. It was definitely his face, lying sideways on the ground, but his body was obscured by scrub brush.

“And over here,” Belgium continued, moving his finger.

Then Tom understood.

His body wasn’t in the bushes. His body was sitting against the house, holding a knife, his shirt drenched with blood.

Tom had apparently cut off his own head, and it had rolled away.

Deb

Mal was in much better spirits since Dr. Forenzi’s talk at supper, which was just in time for Deb’s mood to take a nose dive.

They passed co-dependency back and forth like two hobos sharing a cigar. So it was Deb’s turn to feel awful, and Mal’s to buoy her up.

But he’d gone out to ask the cop some questions, leaving Deb alone in her room.

Which was when a painting in the bedroom fell off the wall.

It scared the shit out of her, and when she went to look for him she found a convention of sorts in Tom’s room.

Now, first in line to be examined, she still hadn’t had the chance to tell Mal what had happened. The painting—a ghastly picture of a brooding southern gentlemen standing calmly in the middle of a storm—had dropped off the wall just as she was wiping the sweat off her stumps.

It could have been a coincidence. Or it could have been supernatural.

What was behind it didn’t matter. What mattered was Mal hadn’t been there for her, when she’d been there for him since the airport in Pittsburgh.

It wasn’t fair. So now she was coping with resentment as well as fear, and having to go in first made Deb even more on edge. Add in seeing herself on the hallway painting, and Deb wanted to either cry, rip all her hair out, or both.

“Tom’s partner disappeared here last week,” Mal said, whispering over Deb’s shoulder.

Deb sensed the worry in her husband’s voice. But she was worried, too. She needed him to be strong for a while. The fact that he wasn’t made her angry as well as scared.

“Deb, did you hear me?”

She turned around so fast that she lost her balance, which for Deb was about the most humiliating thing she could do. That Mal had to quickly reach out and steady her made it even worse.

“Leave me alone,” she said, teeth clenched and trying to pull away.

He recoiled like he’d just seen a snake. “Deb? What’s wrong?”

“It isn’t all about you, Mal. I’m hurting, too. I need support just like you do.”

“Deb, I—”

“I don’t need this right now.”

The door to the examination room opened, and a male voice from inside said, “Come in.”

Deb began to enter, but Mal held her back.

“Let go, Mal.”

“Let’s talk about this. We can let someone else cut ahead.”

“Let. Go.”

“At least let me go first so I can tell you what to expect. I know you hate doctors. Let me—”

Deb pulled away, wobbled into the room, and slammed the door behind her.

She immediately regretted her decision.

The exam room looked like it jumped off a postcard from the 1800s. The examination table was made of wood, with a cracked leather cushion, and metal arm rests with buckled straps. A dusty apothecary shelf, filled with old glass bottles, took up most of the left wall. Along the right wall were a desk, a water basin, and a shelf of moldering, leather-bound books. On the desk was some sort kind of organ—a human lung maybe—floating in a specimen jar of gray liquid.

“Take a seat.”

The doctor still hadn’t turned around. Her husband had been right; she was afraid of going to the doctor. She’d seen too many in her lifetime, and they always hurt her in some way.

Deb considered walking back out, letting Mal go first. But stubbornness won out over nerves and she went to the antique examination table and sat down.

“Name?” the doctor asked. He was filling out something on a clip board.

“Deborah Dieter.”

Deb looked at the old medical cart next to the table. On it were filthy old medical tools. A bone saw with crusted brown flecks. Pointy forceps. A large, curved scalpel. A jagged pair of oversized snippers. A hand drill that seemed more suited to a woodworker than a doctor. Rusty trocars. A rough-edged metal speculum that was open wider that a human being could accommodate.

Deb could feel her mouth go dry and her heart rate kick up. Getting an exam was bad enough. Getting an exam from some quack stuck in the nineteenth century was much worse.

Of course it’s much worse.

That’s the point.

Deb closed her eyes and slowed down her breathing, controlling her fear. This had to be part of Forenzi’s experiment. To try and scare her. What could be scarier than a collection of barbaric surgical implements from the past?

After ten seconds or so, Deb was able to reign in her panic. Then she opened her eyes and found herself face-to-face with—

Oh my god.

She recognized this so-called doctor. He was the hotel clerk who sent her to the Rushmore Inn. The same pale, pasty face. The same crooked toupee.

But he’s still in prison!

Isn’t he?

“I’m going to take some of your blood, Mrs. Dieter.” His breath smelled like sour milk.

“I need to…” Deb said weakly. “Are… are you…?”

“I’m Dr. Madison. I assist Dr. Forenzi.”

He was tugging on some rubber gloves, and gave Deb a crooked smile.

Is this the guy? Or does he just look like the guy, and my imagination is doing the rest?

Deb sometimes thought she saw people she knew in crowds, only to look closer and realize they just resembled the people she knew. Her mind filled in the blanks, jumped to conclusions. It happened to everyone.

Is it happening to me now?

“Why, Mrs. Dieter. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He opened up a plastic package, taking out a long needle attached to a clear tube.

Maybe this isn’t the guy. Maybe Forenzi hired him because he looked like the man Deb knew.

To scare her.

After all, this is a fear study.

“You… remind me of someone.”

“I get that a lot. George Clooney, right?”

More like Boris Karloff.

“Please put your arm on the armrest, Mrs. Dieter. I’m going to strap it down so you keep still.”

He buckled a strap around her wrist.

“So, are you from around here, Doctor?”

“Oh, no. I’m from West Virginia.”

Where the Rushmore was.

“Been here a while?”

“Only recently. For the past few years I’ve been… busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

He smiled again. “Just hold still, Mrs. Dieter. This will only pinch for a moment.”

The needle was jammed into her forearm. The agony was immediate.

Then he began to move it from side to side.

“Where is that vein? I can never find it.”

Deb ground her teeth, locking her jaw. The doctor wiggled it, going deeper, so deep Deb was sure he’d hit bone.

The pain was bad. But the anxiety was nuclear.

Deb shut her eyes again, begging the universe for it to stop.

“You have such tiny veins. I may have to get a smaller needle.”

Yes! Please please please do that!

Her whole world had been reduced to that needle in her flesh, probing, twisting, poking left and right like she was being tenderized instead of giving blood.

“Maybe I should try the other arm.”

No!

“Yes, I think that’ll I have to… ahh, there it is.”

Deb chanced a look and saw him attach a vacuum vial to the end of the tube, and it began to fill with blood.

“Was that so awful, Mrs. Dieter?”

Deb’s hair was stuck to her head from sweating. She blew out a deep breath, and pumped her fist to make the blood go faster.

“Looking good, Mrs. Dieter. Looking… oh, wait. We’re slowing down.”

He flicked the vial with a fingernail, which tugged on the needle and caused Deb a spike of pain.

“I believe your vein has collapsed.” He roughly grabbed the needle, then pulled it out.

“Do we have enough blood?” Deb whispered.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“So…?”

“So I guess we’ll have to try that other arm after all.”

Before Deb could object, the doctor was pinning down her other wrist and buckling it to the armrest.

She was trapped.

“What are you doing?”

“You recognized me. From the hotel. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t you lie to me, girl.”

Deb immediately began to thrash and yell, but the moment she opened her mouth, the man waved his hand over her face and Deb could no longer make a sound. It felt like something foul had crawled inside her throat and was choking her from the inside out, even though she was still able to breathe. Deb screamed, loud as she could, but it only came out as a hiss of air. She tried to kick him, but he caught her left prosthetic and pressed the vacuum release, letting it drop to the floor. He did the same with the left one.

“Ya know my name is Franklin.” His voice was getting deeper, the southern accent more pronounced. “Ya know I’m very angry about what y’all did at the Rushmore.”

Deb pulled on her arms as hard as she could, until her elbows felt like they were going to pop. But old as the examination table was, it was built solid.

She was trapped.

Franklin strolled over to the equipment cart. He ran his hand over the antique medical tools, his fingers caressing the rusty speculum.

“Ya know I’m angry about going to prison. I’m really, really angry about that, girl. Do ya know why?”

He picked up the hand drill.

“I’ll tell ya why.”

Deb was growing light headed from her attempts at screaming. She tried to push Franklin away with her stumps, but he simply moved to the side of the table.

Then he placed the drill bit on Deb’s thigh, pressing down hard.

“Because,” he whispered to her, “one year ago today, I died in prison.”

He reached his hand down the front of his pants—

—and pulled out a handful of something, throwing it in Deb’s face.

At first, she thought it was rice.

Then the rice began to wiggle.

Maggots.

Franklin put both hands on the drill.

“I don’t like being dead, girl. The spirit world is all fucked up. So I’m going to hurt ya. I’m going to hurt ya so bad. And then I’m going to hurt that husband of yours even worse.”

Just as he began to turn, the back door to the examination room began to slowly open.

Then the lights flickered and went out.

Deb screamed in the blackness, making no more noise than a leaky tire.

A moment later, the lights came back on, just as the drill clattered to the floor.

Deb saw a man in a lab coat standing in front of her.

“I’m Dr. Madison,” he said. “What in God’s name has happened to you?”

Deb tried to talk, but she had no voice. she tried to point with her chin where Franklin was standing.

But Franklin wasn’t there.

Franklin had disappeared.

Mal

When the door opened, and he saw Deb crying and hysterical, something in Mal snapped. He stormed into the exam room, demanding answers from the doctor, listening to his wife try to talk but unable to.

Someone—Tom—finally figured out that she couldn’t speak, and Dr. Madison gave Deb a pen and some paper to relate her story.

Deb’s handwriting was erratic, and didn’t make much sense, but the part that stuck out the most was the word she wrote and circled several times.

GHOST

“So he bound your arms, tried to take blood, then threatened you with the drill?” Tom asked.

Deb nodded. Mal felt sick.

“And you say it was a man named Franklin? Someone you’d met before?”

Another nod.

“He’s in prison,” Mal said. “But he could have gotten out.”

Deb beckoned for the paper and wrote “Franklin said he died in prison.”

“That’s easy enough to check,” Tom said. Then he pointed to the floor. “So is this drill. My guess is that ghosts don’t leave fingerprints.”

Deb shook her head and wrote “gloves”.

“Careful ghost.” Tom looked at Madison. “And you’re sure no one went past you, Doctor?”

“Positive. I was standing in the doorway the whole time. And…”

The doctor’s face pinched.

“And?”

“When I came in here, before the lights went out, I saw Mrs. Dieter. But… I didn’t see anyone else.” He turned to Deb, looking pained. “I’m sorry, but you were alone in here, dear.”

Mal wanted to hit somebody. “This qualifies as assault, right Detective?”

“Absolutely.”

Mal pulled a cell phone from his pocket. “I’m calling the police.”

By now, everyone was in the exam room, huddling around Deb. Moni was helping her put her legs back on, and Dr. Madison was peering down his wife’s throat with a lighted opthalmoscope.

“Your vocal chords are swollen, but I don’t see any damage. How did you lose your voice?”

Deb shook her head and mouthed “I don’t know.”

Mal was walking around the office, waving his cell phone around like it was a talisman to ward off evil spirits. “Goddammit, no signal. Anyone else have a cell phone?”

Tom checked his. “No bars.”

“Doctor, where’s the phone in this place?”

Dr. Madison shrugged. “There aren’t any phones at Butler House. No electricity either, except what’s powered by the gas generators. No Internet. We’re completely cut off from the grid here.”

“This is insane,” Mal said. He turned to his wife, who was still shaking from her ordeal. “We’re leaving, Deb. Right now.”

But rather than get the expected nod, Mal watched in amazement as Deb shook her head.

“Honey, you were attacked!”

“If it was a ghost,” Deb said, her hoarse voice barely a whisper, “he went away. If it was a trick to scare me, that’s the point of this experiment.”

She reached out, held Mal’s hand. He gripped it tight.

“Let’s stay,” she said.

Moni grinned. “I’m with you, girlfriend. And if the ghost comes back, we kick his Casper ass.”

Mr. Wellington was feeling the walls. “I can’t find any secret passages or trap doors or mirrors. But any magician worth his salt can do a disappearing act. This didn’t have to be a ghost. There could be a rational explanation for all of this.”

Pang was setting up his spirit hunting equipment. Frank and Sara were holding hands in the corner of the room. Aabir had her eyes closed and was swaying where she stood.

“So much sorrow in the room,” the medium said. “So much misery. And something else. A strong presence. An evil presence. Hatred. Toward you, Deb. Toward your husband. Something to do with West Virginia. Many people died there.” She opened her eyes. “Deborah, can I touch your hand?”

Deb let go of Mal and reached for the psychic. When Aabir touched her, she gasped.

“So much pain in your past, Deborah. So many scars. Much tragedy. But much bravery, too.” Aabir’s eyelids fluttered. “A bed and breakfast. The Rushmore Inn. I see misshapen, deformed people. They’re after you. They want something from you. You’re in a room. In bed. Someone is under the bed.”

Deb’s eyes got wide, and she tried to pull her hand back. But Aabir didn’t let go.

“I see a mountain lion.”

“Enough.” Mal pulled the medium away, but then Aabir clasped his arm.

“The ghost who did this to your wife. He has a brother named Jimmy. Jimmy is the one who cut off your hand.”

Mal tried to shake her off, but the woman’s grip was like iron.

“Jimmy is here, in this house. He’s followed you here.”

Mal’s sphincter clenched. She was relating the worst thing that ever happened to him. The cause of his nightmares.

Aabir’s voice got low, so she sounded like a man.

“Maaaaaal…. I waaaaant your other hand…”

Mal was rooted there, terrified.

“Holy shit, bro!” Pang had some electronic gizmo pointed at Aabir. “The EMF is off the scale! I’ve never seen anything like this!”

“I WAAAANT YOOOOUUUUR HAAAAAAND!”

Mal shoved her away, and Aabir collapsed to the floor. Dr. Madison and Moni knelt next to her, and Pang was wide-eyed, snapping pictures with a digital camera.

“Will you fucking look at this!” Pan declared. He held out the viewfinder for Mal to see.

In the picture, Aabir was glowing like she was on fire.

Tom

Tom was on edge.

He still hadn’t talked to Forenzi about Roy, and the whole examination room incident with Deb left a bad taste. Tom had interviewed enough victims to know Deb was one.

But what was she a victim of?

Everyone had moved into the great room. Aabir slumped in her lounge chair, looking like an inflatable float with half the air leaked out. Pang was hunched over a coffee table and typing something in his laptop, his face beaming. Mal and Deb were sitting on a sofa. Deb looked like a zombie, zoned out and slack. Mal was tapping his foot rapidly. Moni was near the front doors, whispering something to Wellington. Frank and Sara were on a loveseat, Frank’s arm around her.

Despite Mal objecting, Dr. Madison had begun taking blood samples from everyone, going person to person, putting the vials into a metal case. He was also fitting everyone with a battery powered monitor, which recorded, among other things, electrical activity in the brain, heart activity, pulse, blood pressure, and calories burned. The device clipped to the belt, and worked wirelessly with ten electrode pads stuck to the skin in various locations, including the chest, wrists, neck, and temples.

“I’m scared, Frank,” Sara said to him.

“I’m scared, too.” Frank patted Sara’s leg. “But keep remembering that we’re supposed to be scared. That’s the point of the experiment. All of this could be intentional, set up by Dr. Forenzi.”

“Where is Dr. Forenzi?” Tom asked Dr. Madison as he was labeling a vial with marker.

“Hmm? In his lab, I suppose.” The doctor seemed preoccupied with his task and didn’t bother to face the cop.

“I need to talk to him.”

“I’ll tell him as soon as I finish up here.”

“Now.”

“I understand your urgency, Detective. Especially after what we all saw. But you have to understand, things like that happen in Butler House all the time. Dr. Forenzi has strict instructions not to be disturbed while he’s in his laboratory. And even if I wanted to disturb him, the doors are steel and locked all the time. I’ve never even been in there. If he doesn’t want to come out, no one can make him.”

Tom wondered if he should push, but he still had all night to force the issue. Moni was right—he had no jurisdiction here. But he did have a gun, and a lot of questions, and by tomorrow he would be damn sure he got the answers he sought.

“These readings are mind-blowing.” Pang was still staring at his laptop screen. “The electromagnetic field around Aabir surged like I was scanning a high tension power line. I wish I’d had my remote thermometer on. Did anyone notice a temperature change?”

No one answered.

“Okay okay okay.” Belgium cleared his throat. “Besides the painting in the hallway with all of us in it, and what happened in the examination room, has anyone else witnessed anything unusual since arriving at Butler House?”

Sara spoke up. “In my room. A rocking chair. It was rocking by itself.”

“Was there any explanation for it?” Belgium asked, obviously concerned.

“No. No window open. I wasn’t anywhere near it. And when I say it was rocking, I don’t mean a little bit. It seemed like someone was in it.”

Belgium shivered. “Anyone else?”

“There was a cold spot in my room,” Pang said. “Ten degrees cooler. Celsius, bro. But it went away before I could record it, so I don’t have any proof.”

“Tom?”

Tom shook his head.

“Mal?”

“What? No.”

Deb mouthed something.

“What, hon?” Mal asked, putting his arm around her.

“Painting in our room.” Deb’s voice was scratchy, but audible. “Fell off the wall.”

“Aabir,” Belgium pressed, “have you noticed anything?”

Aabir remained quiet.

“Cornelius? Moni? Have you had had had any… um… encounters, since you’re arrival?”

“Naw,” Moni said.

“Neither have I,” said the Brit.

“You told me you saw an orb,” Pang countered.

Wellington shrugged. “I saw a flash of light in the hallway, while I was walking to the loo. You called it an orb, Mr. Pang, not I.”

“What’s an orb?” Belgium asked.

“Ghost lights,” Pang said. “Also known as orbs, ignis fatuus, will-o’-the-wisp. One pervading theory is that hauntings are residual energy that lingers after a traumatic event. Another is that the energy leaks into our dimension from another one. Like in quantum theory, where a particle can be in more than one place at the same time. In this case, our world, and the afterlife.”

“I thought you were a skeptic, Mr. Pang.”

“I am, Mr. Wellington. But skepticism requires me to be aware of the hypothesis I try to debunk.”

“There are reasonable, scientific explanations for everything that has happened so far,” Wellington said.

“A ghost assaulted my wife, Mr. Wellington,” Mal said, his chin out and his voice clipped.

“It could have been a man who said he was a ghost,” Wellington said. “Or, perhaps, Mrs. Dieter might be mistaken in her account.”

Mal stood up, his fist clenched. “Are you saying she’s lying?”

“I’m not saying anything, Mr. Dieter. Only that I don’t know. I haven’t met anyone here before today, so I can’t voice for anyone’s honesty. But even if I trusted your wife was speaking what she believes to be the truth, couldn’t her account of the events be colored by her past traumas?”

“So now she’s not a liar. Now she’s insane.”

“I’m simply calling attention to the obvious. We have ample proof of liars in our society, as well as ample proof of mental dysfunction. But we don’t have any proof of spirits. So if I’m being asked to dwell on what is more likely—either supernatural activity, or lies, hoaxes, and hallucinations—I think Occam’s Razor bears me out. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”

“Let’s all of us take it down a notch,” Tom said. Dr. Madison was attaching a sticky pad to his neck, and the conducting gel was cold. “But I think that anyone who wants to leave Butler House, should do so.”

Moni snorted. “And give up a million bucks? You’re on crack.”

“Dr. Belgium?” Tom met his eyes. “Do you and Sara want to leave?”

They exchanged a look. “I believe we’re staying.”

“Mal and Deb?”

Mal faced his wife. “We should go, hon. We don’t need this.”

Deb shook her head.

“Deb…”

“I’m done running away,” she rasped. “Go if you want. I’m staying.”

Deb crossed her arms. Mal pursed his lips, and then he walked away, to the other side of the great room.

“Cornelius?” Tom asked.

He folded his arms across his vest. “Naturally, I’m staying. I don’t believe we have anything to fear here, except our own overactive imaginations.”

“That leaves you, Aabir. Do you want to stay, or go?”

The psychic’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Can you speak up?”

“Paper,” she whispered.

“Paper? Dr. Madison, can you give Aabir your clip board?”

“Certainly.” The doctor placed it in front of the psychic, and put a black marker on top.

Her face still devoid of expression, Aabir began to write. Frank moved in for a closer look.

I IS JASPER

The words were in block letters, almost childish in their scrawl. They also took up most of the page, so Dr. Madison flipped to the next one.

I WORKS THE FIELDS AT BUTLER HOUSE

“What’s she doing?” Moni asked.

“Psychography,” Pang said. “Also known as automatic writing. She’s channeling a spirit and writing what it’s telling her. Sounds like it’s the ghost of Ol’ Jasper, the slave that Colton Butler sewed two extra arms on. Shit, my EMF meter is going berserk!”

Tom remembered the Butler House website. The picture of the scarred, old slave with the extra arm.

THEY HURTS JASPER BAD

Dr. Madison flipped to a fresh page.

NOW JASPER GON’ HURT DEM BACK

Frank realized he was holding the armchair of the loveseat so tightly his knuckles were white.

I... IS...

Aabir’s eyes rolled up into the back of her head.

HERE

Aabir screamed, and collapsed onto the floor.

Then the lights went out.

The great room was very dark with the chandeliers out, but enough dusk was peeking in through the cracks in the shudders that Tom could still make out some shadows. A moment later, Pang’s camcorder light went on. Tom followed suit, digging his tactical flashlight out of his pack.

“Cornelius, you’re near the front doors.” Tom pointed the beam in his direction. “Try the light switch there.”

Wellington found the wall panel and flipped the switch, to no effect.

“Nothing. Might be the circuit breaker. Or the generator.”

Tom waved the light across the group, taking a head count. He saw Deb and Mal, Moni, Frank and Sara, Pang, Aabir—”

“What’s that sound?” Frank asked.

Everyone went quiet. Tom was acutely aware of how silent true silence actually was. Living in Chicago, silence was an anomaly. There were always sounds. Traffic, heat or air conditioning, birds, constant human noise from talking, yelling, playing music.

But this house was completely devoid of noise. The only thing Tom could liken it to was when he put on his ear muffs on the shooting range. Silence had its own sound; the steady, inaudible hum of consciousness, which made you realize how alone you really were in the universe.

And then, like a slap to the face, he heard it.

Something dragging across the wooden floor.

Like a claw. Or a—

“Machete,” Tom whispered.

A machete like Ol’ Jasper was supposed to carry.

Tom twisted his flashlight to widen the beam, and then did a slow pan across the great room, trying to locate the sound.

He saw empty chairs, the fireplace, an old piano, a wall, a hallway, a table, another hallway, another wall…

“I think it’s near me,” Wellington said in a metered tone.

Tom turned the beam on the author.

A few meters away from him was—

“Sweet Jesus Christ,” Moni whispered.

It was a black man, muscular, shirtless, shuffling across the floor in a slow, steady gate, dragging a rusty-looking machete behind him.

At first, Tom thought it was Roy.

But Roy doesn’t have four arms.

The two extra appendages sprouted from his back like angel wings, and hung, limply, over his shoulders.

“Well,” Cornelius Wellington said, “I certainly do commend the make-up artist. That’s quite a special effect. And the pure black eyes are a nice touch.”

Ol’ Jasper kept walking toward him.

Tom drew his Sig. “I’m a police officer. Drop your weapon and put your hands up.”

“All four of his hands?” Wellington asked. Tom detected the bravado, but it seemed forced.

Ol’ Jasper didn’t stop.

“Halt right now, or I will shoot.” Tom aimed his 9mm at the man’s center mass, supporting his gun hand with the flashlight.

Wellington tried to smile, but it looked more like a wince. “Oh, let him come, Detective. I’ll pull off one of those phony arms, and we’ll expose this for the farce it is.”

Ol’ Jasper got within two meters.

“Last warning.” Tom placed his finger in the trigger guard, and cocked the Sig with his thumb. “I will shoot you.”

Ol’ Jasper stopped an arm’s length away from Wellington.

Then he slowly raised the machete.

“Oh my.” Wellington giggled, but it sounded forced. “I’m so scared.”

“Get away from him, Wellington.”

“This is only a joke, Detective. I refuse to play along.”

“Drop the weapon, now!” Tom ordered.

Ol’ Jasper didn’t drop it.

Time seemed to slow down. Tom had enough time to think it through, make a gut decision, reverse the decision, then go with what his gut told him to do.

He squeezed the trigger twice, a double tap to the black man’s chest.

He felt the gun buck in his hands.

He heard the shots.

He smelled the gunpowder.

He knew he’d hit the target, dead on.

But Ol’ Jasper didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he swung the machete with vicious force, connecting with the side of Wellington’s neck.

Wellington went down like one of those buildings being demoed, collapsing in a heap right where he stood, his head flopping to the side as if on a hinge, a bright spray of arterial blood painting the front doors.

Chaos ensued.

Tom tuned out all the screaming from the others, tuned out the spectacle of Wellington’s dying body flopping and twitching on the floor like a landed fish, and emptied his magazine into Ol’ Jasper.

At least ten shots hit home.

Ol’ Jasper stood there, unaffected.

Then he looked at Tom—

—smiled wide—

—and roaches came out of his mouth.

It was the scariest thing Tom had ever seen in his life.

He ejected the empty magazine, fished out a new one, and loaded it as he backed away. Tom’s hands had begun to shake, and the beam flitted over Ol’ Jasper, catching him sporadically, until Tom somehow lost him in the darkness.

“Everyone!” Tom yelled. “Follow me! Let’s go!”

Tom hurried to the nearest hallway, alternating between lighting the way for people and trying to find Ol’ Jasper. Pang with his camcorder brought up the rear.

“Keep moving!” Tom said, covering the rear and walking sideways. He followed the group down a left turn, and into a large room.

“Dr. Belgium?” he called, keeping his gun on the doorway. Not that shooting had helped, but Tom didn’t have a better plan.

“Yes yes yes!”

“My fanny pack. I have some glow sticks. Pass them around.”

He pointed the flashlight at his pack, and Belgium fished out a handful. Tom listened for the sound of a machete scraping the floor, but all he heard was cellophane wrappers being opened. Soon the room was bathed in soft, multicolored neon light. Greens and blues and pinks.

Tom took a quick look around, discovered they were in a massive library.

“Pang, Frank, get that desk, move it over here to block the door. Mal, you got your gun?”

“Left it in my room.”

Shit. “Okay, do a head count.”

Tom peeked his head down the hall. Still no Jasper.

“Everyone say your name,” Mal said.

A bunch of people began talking at once.

“Okay, everyone shut up. Let’s try this again. I’m here, Deb is here, Tom, Frank, and Pang are here. Moni?”

“Yeah. Here. I’m here.”

“Sara?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Madison?”

No one answered.

“Dr. Madison, are you here?”

No answer.

“Did anyone see where he went?”

Sara, bathed in pink light, said, “I think he ran down the other hallway.”

“How about Aabir?” Mal asked. “Aabir, are you here?”

“She was passed out on the table,” Pang said.

Tom ground his teeth.

Shit. One dead, and two missing.

How quickly things all went to hell.

“Tom, move over.”

Tom stepped aside, then helped Frank and Pang slide the heavy desk in front of the door.

“Are there any other doors in this room?”

General murmuring, and lights crisscrossing the space.

“I think that’s the only one,” Mal said.

Having only one entry point was a good thing. Easier to guard.

Having only one escape route was bad.

“Are there windows in this room?” Tom asked. “We need to find one, get out of here, and find the cars.”

More scrambling around.

“Got a window!” Deb croaked. Her voice was getting stronger.

People rushed over.

“Bars,” Moni said. “Thick ass metal bars.”

Mal grunted. “They’re set in concrete.”

“Okay.” Tom wasn’t sure on what to do next. He knew the right thing to do was go and look for Dr. Madison and Aabir. But he didn’t want to leave everyone alone.

Bullshit. Be honest. It isn’t about them. It’s about you. You’re afraid to go back out there.

“Everyone look around. Find something you can use as a weapon.”

“A weapon?” Pang giggled. “Why? Your gun didn’t do much good with Ol’ Jasper.”

“Did you miss, Tom?” Sara asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“You shot a whole shitload of times,” Moni said. “You sure you didn’t panic and miss?”

“I’m sure,” Tom said, but as soon as the words passed his lips he questioned them. He’d been less than five meters away, and had emptied an entire fourteen round magazine. He should have been able to hit that target with his eyes closed.

But could he have been so afraid he missed?

“Did you see those extra arms?” Pang’s voice had an edge to it.

Tom ignored him. “Does everyone have something to defend themselves with?”

Grunts and grumbling.

“If not, find something fast. I’m…” Tom swallowed. “I’m going to go look for Madison and Aabir.”

“Bad idea, Tommy boy,” Moni said. “I saw that movie. As soon as the people split up, they start dying.”

“They’ve already started dying,” Pang said. “Did you see what happened to Wellington? His head was practically cut off!”

Tom swallowed again. “I have to go check. When I come back, I’ll knock three times. Frank? Pang? Move the desk and put it back when I leave.”

“I’m going with you,” Moni said, stepping up next to him.

Tom shook his head. “You’re staying here.”

“I’m staying with the guy holding the gun. And you promised you wouldn’t leave me.”

Shit.

“Okay. You stay close, move when I tell you to. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Pang, Frank, move the desk.”

They shoved it back, Tom took a deep breath, held it, and opened the door, expecting Ol’ Jasper to be standing right there.

But the doorway, and the hall, were clear.

Tom stepped out, Moni close enough to be his shadow. Behind them the door slammed shut, and Tom heard the scraping of the desk along the floor.

They began to make their way back toward the great room. Slowly. Cautiously. Tom waving the gun and flashlight in front of him in a steady, sweeping motion. Left to right to left to right.

“My nana believed in spirits,” Moni whispered. “She told me some people were so wicked, the devil kicked them out of hell because he was afraid of them.”

“Shh.”

“I thought ghosts went through walls and shit. How could one hold a machete?”

“Be quiet.”

The floorboards creaked under Tom’s foot, and he winced at the sound.

“Why should I be quiet? Can ghosts hear us? Do they even have senses like we do? Maybe they can zone in on our life force or something like that.”

Tom stopped. “And maybe,” he whispered, “there are no such things as ghosts, and you’re going to give away our position.”

“Doesn’t your flashlight and my pink glow stick give away our position, too?”

She had a point. Tom resumed creeping down the hall. He was coming to the left turn, a right angle corner he couldn’t see around. He paused again, unsure of how to proceed.

“I wish I had a cross or a rosary or something,” Moni said.

“That’s for vampires.”

“Did you hear about that vampire outbreak in Colorado? At some hospital? I read it in a tabloid. They said crosses didn’t work.”

“Can you please stop talking?”

“Do you believe in bigfoot?”

“Christ, Moni, can you please—”

That’s when Tom smelled something.

BBQ?

He sniffed the air, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from.

Moni grabbed Tom’s shoulder, startling him.

“Didn’t that doctor guy talk about a ghost that smelled like burnt meat?”

Tom remembered. Sturgis Butler. A serial killer from the 1800s who killed prostitutes in satanic rituals. According to that website, he was caught and burned alive, laughing as he died.

Was the odor coming from around the corner?

Tom’s heart rate, already above normal, got even faster. Against his better judgment he began to imagine Sturgis, his flesh burned black, his charred bones poking out through his crispy skin.

“Moni, let go of me,” he said softly.

She did.

“I hear something, Tom.”

Tom listened. He heard it, too. A shuffling sound. Not a scraping, like a machete being dragged. More like someone scuffing their shoes across the floor.

Tom flashed the light into the hallway behind him.

Empty.

The shuffling drew closer.

Tom gritted his teeth and did a quick peek around the corner.

Clear.

“Okay, we’re going to run down the hallway. Keep up with me. And no matter what happens, keep silent. On three. One… two… three!”

Tom sprinted around the corner, barreling down the hallway as fast as he could, gun pointed ahead, flashlight bobbing and throwing crazy shadows. Right before he got to the great room he stopped, putting his back against the wall, sweeping his light ahead of him.

Moni stopped right behind him, again clutching his shoulder.

Tom didn’t see anyone in the great room. But the charred pork smell had become overpowering. Like he’d stuck his nose over a meat smoker.

“Aabir,” he said in a stage whisper. “Dr. Madison. Are you here?”

He focused the beam on the table where Aabir had been sitting. She was gone.

“I’m going to check the front door,” Tom said. He was close to gagging from the stench. “If it’s open, we’ll go back and get the others, find the cars. Do you want to stay here?”

Moni squeezed him.

“Is that a yes?”

Moni squeezed again, so hard it hurt.

Tom laughed softly. “I’m glad you’re finally taking this silence thing to heart.”

He turned to look at her, and his smile froze when he saw it wasn’t Moni grabbing him.

It was a man with a charred black face who smelled like burnt meat.

Frank

As a scientist, everything that had happened in the last half an hour ate away at Frank’s rational side.

As a man who once lived through unimaginable horrors, it all seemed uncomfortably familiar.

Belgium locked eyes with Sara. He saw fear there. But determination, too. Frank couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have a child taken away, especially after going through whatever hell she’d endured on Rock Island. This house had offered some hope to get Jack back, but after watching Wellington die, Frank reasoned it had been a false hope. Sara must have realized it as well.

They weren’t brought here to be part of some fear experiment.

They were brought here to be slaughtered.

But why?

Frank knew national secrets, and could be considered a security leak. Perhaps the same could be said of the others. But the FBI could have shot Frank when he answered the door back at his apartment. Why all of this preparation if the goal was just to kill them all?

Unless…

“Maybe this is all a hoax,” he said, trying the idea on for size.

“What do you mean?” Sara asked.

“Well, if this really is an experiment to study fear, we’re behaving exactly as they they they want us to.”

Mal came over, shaking his head in the pale green light of the glow stick he held. “That Cornelius Wellington was practically decapitated. And Tom shot Ol’ Jasper at least ten times.”

Belgium tapped his chin. “Are we sure?”

“That’s what we saw,” Pang chimed in.

“And we see magic all the time. Chris Angel levitating on the street. David Copperfield making the Statue of Liberty disappear.”

“How about all the blood?” Mal asked.

Belgium shrugged. “Special effects. Movie props. Maybe Wellington is even in on it. It happened after the lights were out. How can we be sure what we saw?”

“That man, in the exam room.” Deb’s voice was still raspy and faint. “Franklin. He was real.”

“Could he have been someone made up to look like Franklin? With make up? A good make-up artist can make Dustin Hoffman look a hundred years old, and Eddie Murphy look like a five hundred pound woman.”

Deb seemed unconvinced. “He was going to drill my leg.”

“But he stopped before he could. He scared you. And hurt hurt hurt you while drawing some blood. But what if all of that was scripted out? What if he wasn’t a real threat?”

“So Tom is in on it too?” Sara asked.

Frank turned up his palms. “He certainly could could could be. I suppose any of us could be. We all just met today.”

Mal rubbed his chin. “So this could still all be part of the experiment. They’re just trying to scare us, but it’s all a hoax.”

“Shouldn’t we consider that it’s at least a possibility?”

“So Ol’ Jasper was fake as well?” Sara asked. She looked so hopeful, Frank’s heart fluttered.

“Dr. Forenzi said that Colton Butler was trying to sew extra limbs on slaves. Even with today’s advancements in medical technology, that’s impossible. Isn’t it a more reasonable explanation to believe it’s fake?”

Pang shook his head. “What about Aabir? She spiked on my EMF meter. And with my full spectrum camera, she looked like she was on fire.”

Frank brushed away a drop of sweat from his forehead. “When you arrived, did you have your equipment with you the whole time?”

“Yes.”

“How about when we were eating? Did you have it with you then?”

Another drip of sweat, and Frank wiped it off and looked at his hand.

It wasn’t sweat. The smear was blackish in the glow lights.

Blood?

Was something above him dripping blood?

Frank looked up, but couldn’t see the high ceiling. He raised his glow stick up over his head—

—and saw a man staring down at him, his back pressed to the ceiling.

A smiling man, his clothing soaked with blood.

Frank yelped, and jumped to the side just as the man dropped down, landing on the floor in a crouch, then rising to his full height. He shook like a dog, spraying blood everywhere.

“An… interesting… theory… Dr… Belgium…” the man said. There was something messed up about his voice. It sounded like two or three people talking in unison. The sclera—the whites of his eyes—were black.

“It’s Jebediah Butler,” Pang squeaked, pointing his camcorder at him. “Floating on a pool of his own blood.”

Frank didn’t know what to do. He wasn’t a fighter. And even if he was, would fighting work against a supernatural being?

“Tell… me… something…” Jebediah said with his freaky voice. His hand shot out, grabbing Frank by the wrist. Frank tried to pull away, but the grip was unbelievable. “Am… I… a… hoax… or… a… real… threat?”

Then he twisted.

Frank heard his own elbow snap, and stared in disbelief as his arm was suddenly bending the wrong way.

The pain hit a moment later, and it was unreal. Frank dropped to his knees, not sure if he should vomit or faint or both. He stared up into the grinning, bloody face of Jebediah, and realized he’d been horribly wrong.

This wasn’t a trick.

They were all going to die here.

A chair splintered over Jebediah’s shoulders, courtesy of Pang. The ghost backhanded the Asian man across the room. Then he turned his attention back to Frank.

“I… shall… keep… twisting… that… arm… until… it… comes… off… like… a… turkey… leg…”

And then a hand was in Jebediah’s face.

A female hand, clutching a rosary.

Sara!

“Get away from him, you son of a bitch,” she snarled.

Jebediah’s eyes went wide. “A… crucifix…”

The ghost stuck out a black tongue—

—and began to lick it.

Long, wet, obscene strokes of the tongue, followed by quick ones. He moaned while doing so, as if in ecstasy, and then slurped the whole cross in his mouth and began to chew.

Then someone was pulling on Frank’s good arm—Mal, dragging him to the door—a mad scramble to move the desk—and Frank was in the hallway being half-carried and half-yanked—and then through another door and stairs going down—down—down—and there was actual electric light there, dim but on just the same, then Frank was laid down on the ground and unable to think about anything other than the unrelenting, throbbing, unbearable pain before unconsciousness finally took him.

Forenzi

His patient was struggling to breath. Vitals were weak. The will to live gone.

“Fight, damn you,” Forenzi said, shaking him. “You still have more to give.”

The man stared blankly at him, then his puffy eyes closed.

Forenzi made a notation on the chart, then checked the monitors for the vital signs of his volunteers. They were elevated, as expected. Heart rate, blood pressure, brain activity. Every one of them was scared.

Which, of course, was the point. And the longer they remained scared, the better the results would be.

He once again lost himself in a familiar daydream. A world without fear. Which would ultimately lead to universal peace.

The ringing phone interrupted his thoughts.

“I’m working,” he answered.

“There’s been a death.” It was Sykes.

Forenzi put his hand to his face and said, “What? A death? Who?”

“The skeptic. Wellington.”

“How did this happen?” This was the worst possible thing that could have happened.

“There have been some complications,” Sykes said.

Dear Lord, Forenzi thought. What have I done?

Tom

The thing’s face was blackened, skin peeling off in strips, glistening with grease like a broiled pork chop.

Tom’s mind flashed to the Butler House web site. Sturgis Butler, a serial killer from the 1800s who slayed prostitutes in satanic rituals. When he was caught by a mob they tied him to a tree and torched him, Sturgis supposedly laughing as he burned.

Deep set eyes bored into Tom, intelligent, malevolent, and he immediately spun away from the ghoul’s grasp and fell backward, shooting as fast as he could pull the trigger.

Five shots fired.

Five shots hit.

But his attacker didn’t even flinch.

Tom fell onto his ass, a shock of agony rippling up from his coccyx to the base of his skull. Ignoring the pain, Tom crab-walked backward, fast as he could, trying to get as much distance from the thing as possible.

Then he turned onto all fours, pressing the flashlight’s off button as his fingers clenched it, and then scrambled onto his feet and sprinted for all he was worth toward the great room.

Eight strides later he ran into something—a chair—Tom hitting hard as a football tackle. He flipped, ass over elbows, and sprawled forward, his shoulder smacking into the wood floor.

Tom somehow managed to hold onto his Sig, but the flashlight bounced out of his grasp and went skittering off into the darkness.

He paused for a moment, trying to catch his breath, trying to hear any sounds of pursuit.

There was only silence.

Tom sniffed the air, but the scorched meat smell was gone.

“Aabir?” he called in a stage whisper. “Dr. Madison?”

No one responded.

Tom holstered his gun and began to crawl, sweeping his hands out in front of him, seeking the dropped flashlight. Remembering the light sticks in his pack, he fished one out, opened the package, and gave it a quick snap and shake. He was immediately bathed in a faint blue chemiluminescence. Tom spotted the flashlight, under the grand piano, and scurried over on his hands and knees, getting beneath the instrument’s legs and snatching it up.

From the darkness, a scraping sound.

Ol’ Jasper.

Tom shoved the light stick into his pants so it couldn’t be seen, and then held his breath.

The scraping got closer.

Had he seen me? Does he know I’m hiding under the—

PLINK!

Something hit a key on the piano above him.

Tom’s bladder clenched, and he fought not to wet himself.

As a Homicide cop, Tom was familiar with fear. Every time he served a warrant, kicked in a door, made an arrest, or pursued a suspect, he relied on his training and a shitload of good fortune to make sure he didn’t get hurt.

But there wasn’t any precedent for this. Ghosts? Demons? Undead zombies?

Whatever these things were, one of them killed Wellington, and bullets didn’t do a damn thing to stop them.

All of Tom’s experience, all of his training, was worthless when a hostile hundred and fifty year old slave with four arms wanted to hack your head off.

Tom waited.

He listened.

He sweated.

Every second that passed felt like a minute.

PLINK PLINK PLINK!

Tom shuddered, holding his knees so he didn’t make noise.

Does it know I’m under here?

Is it playing with me?

Was Wellington unlucky to die so quickly?

Or was he the luckiest one here?

Tom realized, with chilling certainty, that if Roy had come to Butler House, he was dead.

And I’ll be joining him soon.

Tom slowly removed the Mangus knife from his ankle sheath. He opened it with both hands, silently, grateful he kept the hinges oiled.

Whatever these things were, they had weight and mass. They were solid.

Bullets might not work.

But that didn’t rule out stabbing it in the eyes.

Tom remained crouched. His muscles had begun to ache, to cramp. But he didn’t adjust his position. If his legs fell asleep, he’d be compromised. But that was preferable to making a sound and giving away his position.

Time ticked by.

Tom heard a scraping sound, wondered if he was imagining it, but was able to confirm that it was real, and it was getting fainter as it moved away.

Tom stayed put.

He counted to a hundred.

Then two hundred.

Rubbing the on button of his flashlight, he knew he needed to take a look around.

After another count of two hundred.

A slow count.

Several minutes passed without any strange sounds, or weird smells. Tom flicked on his beam.

He didn’t see some horrible disfigured face staring at him.

He didn’t see any threat at all.

Tom made a slow sweep with the light, and the room appeared empty.

Wellington’s body was gone.

Aabir was gone.

Dr. Madison was gone.

Fishing out his cell phone, he again searched for a signal that wasn’t there. Then he unfolded his six-foot frame from underneath the piano, and practically cried in relief as his cramped muscles stretched and circulation returned.

Now I need to find the front door. If it’s unlocked, I can grab the others and—

Then the edge of his light beam caught something. Movement, behind a love seat ten meters away. Tom turned the focus on the flashlight, amplifying it, and seeing—

Wellington?

The man was behind the loveseat, his head peeking out over the backrest, the rest of his body hidden. He looked pale and in shock. Eyes wide and vacant. Mouth hanging open. Jaw opening and closing, as if trying to speak.

“Cornelius!” Tom spoke as loudly as the conditions warranted. “I’m over here!”

Wellington’s head turned toward Tom. The guy looked positively devastated. Tom had no idea how he was even alive, let alone still able to move. But the guy needed medical attention. Fast.

“I’m coming to you,” Tom said.

Wellington nodded robotically, and then stuck out his tongue.

No—

That’s not a tongue.

It’s…

Two fingers.

Wellington has two fingers in his mouth.

As Tom was trying to comprehend why the man was eating human fingers, another possibility sprang, fully formed, into Tom’s head.

Oh my god.

Wellington isn’t chewing on fingers.

He’s…

That’s when the burned ghost of Sturgis Butler stood up from behind the love seat—

—wearing Wellington’s severed head on his hand like a puppet.

Tom’s muscles locked. His mind couldn’t comprehend the horror of what he was seeing.

Sturgis continued to manipulate Wellington’s skull as if it was a ventriloquist’s dummy, making the jaw move.

And then he made it talk.

“Hello… Tom…”

The ghost’s voice sounded like he was gargling motor oil.

“I’ve… got… my… eyes… on… you…”

Incredibly, Wellington’s eyes began to bulge. Tom didn’t understand how that could be possible—then they popped out and two black fingers wiggled through the empty sockets.

That was enough to get Tom to move. He sprinted across the great room, heading down a hallway, and then he slowed when he smelled something.

Smoke.

A cigarette? Moni?

He swept the hallway with his flashlight, finding a half-open door with a wisp of fumes coming out of it. Knife in hand, Tom cautiously approached the room.

“Moni? Is that you?”

Tom stopped before entering. He listened, and was answered with silence. Sniffing again, he realized it wasn’t a cigarette. It was more like burning hair.

Tom gave the door a small push, and it squealed on its hinges, causing hackles to rise on his forearms. The room was brighter than the hallway, an orange glow from several candles.

Black candles. On a black stone slab, which was atop an old mortician’s gurney. Next to the candles was a tarnished silver chalice with a lid on it.

It was a portable satanic altar.

Behind them, on the wall, an ornate wooden cross, over a meter tall. It had been turned upside-down. A naked figure of Jesus hung on the cross, painted in exquisite detail. His face was contorted in pain, and rivulets of blood ran from his crown of thorns and the spikes in his hands and feet. A bloody pentagram had been carved into his chest. Despite the obvious agony, the Christ figure had an obscene, blasphemous erection.

Tom wasn’t religious, but he guessed he’d walked in on the unholy ritual of the black mass. Which wasn’t something he wanted to take part in.

He was about to get the hell out of there when he noticed movement next to the altar.

Something under a black sheet.

Something human-shaped. Just sitting there.

Tom continued to stare. Maybe it hadn’t moved. Maybe the shadows from the flickering candles just made it look like—

It moved again. A shudder.

Followed by a low moan.

Tom knew how important it was to act on instinct, and every fiber of his being told him to run away. His neck was gooseflesh. His hands were shaking. His tongue was so dry that it stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Tom did not want to see what was under that sheet.

But he had to.

It could be Moni. Or someone else who needed help.

So Tom took a slow step toward it, on the balls of his feet. Quietly, as if not to wake a sleeping baby. When he got within an arm’s length, the thing under the sheet twitched.

What are you doing, Tom? Are you insane? Get out of here.

But he didn’t get out of there. Instead, he pinched the sheet with the hand that held the knife.

Okay. Here we go…

He pulled, hard.

The sheet came off.

Aabir was kneeling there, staring up at him.

Her eyes were completely black.

It scared him so badly, he fell backward, onto his ass.

She smiled. Her teeth were black as well.

“Aabir, are you… are you okay?”

It was a ludicrous thing to say. The whites of her eyes were gone, and her teeth the color of coal. She was obviously in very deep shit.

So what should he do? Try to get her out of there?

“Aabir, can you hear me? Do you understand?”

Then Tom smelled it.

Burnt meat. Getting stronger. And footsteps, from the hall outside.

Tom quickly put Aabir’s sheet back over her head, and then crawled beneath the stone altar, hiding behind the coverlet and killing his flashlight just as Sturgis walked in. Tom could see him through a break in the fabric.

The ghost approached the altar, and stopped there. Then he yanked off Aabir’s sheet.

“Ready… for… the… sacraments…”

Aabir stared up at Sturgis and nodded. Then she turned her head and stared at Tom. Her eyes were so black they resembled holes in her head.

Don’t look at me, Tom willed. You’ll give away where I am. Stop it. Please stop it.

Then Sturgis placed his hand on her head, and she stared up at him again. He had a steak knife in his hand.

“Sanguis… satanas…”

Aabir opened her mouth and stuck out her black tongue. Sturgis jammed the knife into his palm and twisted it. Blood dribbled out, into Aabir’s mouth.

Sturgis took his hands away, and Aabir once again stared at Tom. She licked her red lips.

“Corpus… satanas…”

Sturgis now had the silver chalice. Tom knew what it was. A ciborium. Used in Catholic Mass to hold Communion wafers. The priest carried it to share the Body of Christ to his Parrish.

But when Sturgis opened the ciborium, it wasn’t filled with unleavened bread.

It was filled with cockroaches.

Sturgis snatched one, and held it in two fingers as it wiggled.

Aabir stuck out her tongue.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut. He could still hear the crunching. He felt his stomach flip-flop. Between the smell of burned meat, and the sound of eating bugs, he was very close to throwing up.

Then he felt a slight tickle on his nose.

His eyes sprang open and he saw Aabir holding the cup of roaches right in front of his face.

Tom knocked it away, then rolled backward, out from under the altar. His head hit the head of the upside-down Christ, and for a moment the world went wobbly. Then he slapped at a roach crawling on his cheek—

—and dropped his flashlight.

“I… took… good… care… of… your… partner… Roy…” Sturgis croaked in that otherworldly voice as he leaned over the altar. “I… will… take… care… of… you… as… well…”

Tom slashed out with his knife, cutting Sturgis across the chest. Then he got to his feet and ran.

Out of the room.

Down the hall.

Digging the light stick out of his pants just in time to see Ol’ Jasper blocking his path.

Mal

Mal was having a hard time believing he was trapped in another psychotic nightmare fearing for his life.

Even more incredible was the sad fact that he’d volunteered for it.

After fleeing from the library, they’d somehow wound up underneath the house, in a labyrinthine maze of dirt floors and wooden support beams and low lighting supplied by old, bare, dim bulbs. Mal hadn’t ever been in an underground mine, but he assumed this was what one looked like.

Frank Belgium was on the ground, unconscious, his arm bent in such a funky angle that it hurt Mal to look at it. Sara was kneeling next to him, an expression of shock on her face. The same look graced Deb, and Mal bet his face was damn near the same.

The only one who seemed to be handling this well was Pang, who was sitting on the stairs, digging through his bag of equipment, humming something softly to himself.

“We need to fix his arm,” Sara said. She first looked at Deb, who didn’t respond, and then to Mal.

“Sara…” He tried to keep his voice from cracking. “It will take a whole team of orthopedic surgeons hours on an operating table to fix that arm.”

“It’s bent the wrong way. We need to bend it back and put it in a sling before he wakes up.”

“If we touch it, we could make it worse.”

Sara barked out a semi-hysterical laugh. “Worse? Look at it, Mal!” She pointed at Belgium’s arm, which looked like a swollen letter N. “How can that get any worse?”

Mal chewed the inside of his cheek. He wanted to run. Grab Deb, run up the stairs, make a dash for the front door, and get the fuck out of there. They’d just met Sara and Frank a few hours ago. They didn’t owe them anything.

But that was the coward in Mal talking. The part he hated. The part that had taken over his life to the point where life wasn’t good anymore. Maybe they could escape, but to what? More insomnia? More sleepless nights? More fighting with Deb because they were both so goddamn terrified all the time?

Why couldn’t he just be brave?

That was the irony, wasn’t it? The only time it was possible to be brave was when you were scared out of your mind.

“Please help him!” Sara cried.

Mal took a big breath. Blew it out. He took a last lingering look up the stairs, to potential freedom, and made his decision.

I’m done being this guy.

Time to be the man I want to be.

“Deb.”

His wife didn’t reply.

“Deb, can you help Sara hold Frank down?”

She used the wall to get down on all fours, then crawled to Frank.

“Both of you, put your bodies on top of his. Pang, can you come here?”

“Hmm?” he looked up from his tech stuff.

“They’re going to hold Frank down. We’re going to yank on his arm, try to get the bones aligned.”

“Bro, if we pull on that arm, we might pull it right off.”

“We have to try.”

Pang shrugged, set down his bag, and came over.

Mal got on his butt and placed his feet against Belgium’s ribcage. Pang sat behind Mal, straddling him like they were on a log flume ride. Mal grabbed Frank’s misshapen wrist, and Pang grabbed Mal’s arm with both hands.

“Now!”

Mal and Pang pulled, hard as they could, straightening out Frank’s wrist.

There were popping and snapping sounds, followed by Frank waking up and screaming so loud it hurt Mal’s ears.

When Mal released him, the screaming continued.

“It’s okay, Frank. It’s okay,” Sara stroked his cheeks, trying to sooth him, but Frank was lost in a world of pain.

Worse, if he kept howling like that, he was going to attract some unwanted attention.

“Try to keep him quiet, Sara.”

“Shhh, Frank. We have to keep it down.”

“Anyone have a wallet? Give him something to bite on.”

Deb patted down Frank’s pants, found a leather billfold, and crammed it in his mouth. Frank clenched down on it, still screaming in his throat. Mal didn’t know what to do. Knock him out? If only they could give him something.

Moni. She had that syringe filled with heroin.

“Did Moni have her purse when Deb was in the exam room?”

He tried to picture her when they were all in the hallway.

“No,” Sara said. “She didn’t have one.”

“She’s got some heroin in her room. And I’ve got a gun in my room.”

Deb met his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“I guess I’m saying I’m going to go get some drugs and a gun.”

“I’m going with you,” his wife said.

“No.”

“Mal—”

“It’s stairs Deb.”

Deb could do triathlons, but stairs were her nemesis.

“I got down here fine.”

“Down isn’t the same as up. You don’t do well going up.”

“I’m still coming.”

There was no way in hell he was going to let Deb go back into the godforsaken house.

“You’ll slow me down, Deb.”

Mal saw a flash of anger.

“I’m coming, Mal.”

“No, you’re not. And if I have to wrestle your legs away from you and take them with me, I’ll do it.”

“You’re being an asshole.”

“I’m being the man you deserve, Deb. Because I don’t deserve to have such a wonderful, strong, loving woman in my life.” He smiled. “But that changes right now. I’m going to do this, and when I come back we’re all going to get out of here. I love you, Deb. And I’ll die before I let you go back up there with those… those things.”

Deb’s eyes got glassy. “Mal… we’re a team.”

“Always and forever, babe. But you have to let me swagger a little.”

She nodded, tears on her cheeks, and Mal kissed her. Softly. Tenderly. With his heart as well as his lips.

Then he turned to the ghost hunter. “Pang!”

“I’m not going back into that house, bro.”

“Stay here, make sure no one comes downstairs.”

“I’m your man, bro.”

“You got an extra flashlight?”

Pang reached into his front pocket and took out his keys. There was a tiny LED flashlight on the ring, which he took off and gave to Mal.

Mal took it, then looked at his wife. A terrible, powerful thought popped into his head.

Could this be the last time I ever see her?

He rushed to her once more, taking her in his arms, and kissed her again. But this time it wasn’t soft or gentle. It was with all the passion, all the strength, of a man who loved a woman so much it practically consumed him.

When Mal broke this kiss he stared deep into her eyes and said with all the feeling he could muster. “I. Love. You.”

“Then you’d better come back to me.”

He winked. “You couldn’t keep me away.”

Then Mal headed up the stairs before he lost his resolve.

When he reached the top Mal put his ear to the door, listening for sounds from the hall. After twenty seconds of not hearing anything, he jammed the glow stick Tom had given him into the waist of his jeans, then snuck through the door. A quick press of the keychain light proved it was about as illuminating as a firefly, but the hallway seemed empty.

Mal moved quickly but carefully, heading for the great room. His original plan was to sprint up to the second floor and grab the drugs and gun. But when he saw the front doors, he realized he should check them to make sure they were open. His experience at the Rushmore Inn informed him that once the bad things started happening, it became increasingly difficult to leave. Though Mal readily admitted he suffered from paranoia—a paranoia he felt he’d earned—Butler House was beginning to feel more and more like the Rushmore. So it was with a sick, sinking feeling that he approached the exit, willing to bet everything he had that it would be locked.

Wellington’s body had been moved, but the doors and floor were still splashed with his blood. Mal did a quick look around, making sure he was alone. Then—

—he stuck the key light in his teeth—

—put his hand on the door knob—

—turned and pulled—

—and it opened easily—

—revealing a shirtless man wearing a gas mask, holding a meat cleaver.

“Hee hee hee,” the man giggled.

Mal backed away so quickly he slipped and fell. He tried to get up, but his feet couldn’t get any traction on the bloody floor. At the same time, he couldn’t look away from the Giggler, as Forenzi had called him during dinner.

A masked demon who would mutilate himself…

Which was when the Giggler raised his cleaver, and sliced a line down his scarred chest.

Mal stared, the fear so absolute he ceased to be a human being. Exactly like when he was strapped to the table at the Rushmore Inn. Mal lost his personality, his identity, and was reduced to an animal state. The evolutionary fear response, a chemical cocktail millions of years in the making, took over his body until every cell screamed fight or flight.

Acting on pure instinct, Mal chose flight, flopping onto his belly, getting his one hand underneath him, and then bicycling his feet until his toes found purchase on the hardwood floor.

And then he was off and running, beelining for the group of chairs and sofas in the middle of the great room.

Which was where he found Wellington’s body.

The dead author had been stripped naked and was sitting in a chair, his severed head placed between his legs so he was giving himself oral sex. Stuck in his neck stump were a cluster of cattails, jutting out as if in a vase.

Mal kept running, trying to remember where the stairs were. He headed for the hall to the dining room and saw it had been blocked with a sofa. So he detoured and took another corridor.

He heard a high-pitched whining sound and realized he was the one making it. So ensnared in the throes of terror, he didn’t even know where he was until the hallway he’d sprinted down abruptly ended at a closed door.

Confused, out of breath, panicked and sickened, Mal turned in a circle, trying to get his bearings. He began to backtrack, to get out of this dead-end, when he heard a CRACK! from the darkness ahead. Like someone slapping their hands together. Or…

Or a whip.

The ghost of the one-eyed slave master, Blackjack Reedy.

Mal spun back around, reaching for the doorknob, opening it and easing himself inside, then closing it behind him.

The room smelled of stale mildew. Mal used his tiny flashlight to look around, and even though the beam didn’t penetrate very far, he realized he was in the laundry room.

He saw a large sink. Some rusty, metal wash basins. Clotheslines hanging on the walls. An old fashioned washing machine with rollers. A large pile of dirty clothes. Several washboards. A shelf full of antique detergent boxes.

But something about the room was… off. Though it didn’t look like anyone had been in there in decades, Mal had the uneasy feeling he was being watched.

He got his breathing under control and listened.

The room was silent.

Mal took a few steps into the room, noticing a door on the other side. Maybe it was a closet. Or maybe it was an exit. Old houses often had a laundry room next to an outside door, to make it easier to haul wet clothing outside to dry in the sun.

Halfway into the room, Mal heard something.

A moan.

He stopped, mid-step.

Had it been a voice? The wind? Some other, harmless sound? His imagination?

Once again he played the flashlight beam around the room.

The sink, old and filthy.

Rusty basins.

The washing machine, its pulleys misaligned.

A pile of clothing with an old coat on top, its buttons glinting in the light.

The stack of washboards.

Shelves.

“Hello?” he whispered.

Immediately after speaking, Mal regretted it. Who was he talking to? And did he really want someone to answer?

Thankfully, no one replied.

Mal wasted no more time getting to the door at the end of the room. He grasped the ancient, metal door knob and turned.

Locked. He gave the door a sharp tug. It peppered him with dust, but held firm.

Squinting at the bronze doorplate, Mal saw an old-time keyhole.

Could there be a key around here?

He looked behind him, back at the shelves. If there was a key, that seemed like the place for it. Mal crept over, scanning row by row with the flashlight. On the third shelf, next to a disintegrating box of Borax soap chips, was a tarnished skeleton key.

Mal reached for it—

—and heard another moan.

He spun, again taking in the room.

But no one was there.

Basins, washboards, sink, washing machine, clothes. There wasn’t anything else.

Then the pile of clothing blinked.

Mal was so shocked he jumped backward, into the shelves, old detergent snowing on him as the pile of clothing stood up—not a pile at all, but a figure in a dirty lab coat, what Mal assumed were glinting buttons had actually been its staring eyes.

Colton Butler.

Colton moaned again. He was clutching a leather medical bag in one hand, a curved surgical saw in the other, and he advanced toward Mal.

The fear was so absolute, it paralyzed Mal, pinning him to the spot. Colton raised the saw up.

“Time… to… operate…”

His voice was all messed up, like Jebediah’s in the library, and so shocking it snapped Mal out of his catatonia and he lurched toward the locked door. Key and flashlight in the same hand, he was trembling too madly to fit it into the keyhole.

“Maaaaaaal…”

The voice was so close Mal didn’t want to turn around, fearing that Colton was right behind him. He focused on opening the door, trying to block out everything else, putting 100% of his concentration into fitting the damn key into—

Colton hit Mal in the side of the neck with something, so hard Mal saw motes of light. Then there was a ripping sound, and a spike of pain like lemon juice on a paper cut, right across Mal’s right shoulder blade.

The saw.

Mal pushed himself backward, knocking Colton away, reaching up and feeling the jagged cut in his neck.

He tried to saw my head off.

His hand now slick with blood, Mal jammed the keychain light in his teeth and went back to playing bullseye with the key.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal…”

By some miracle, Mal got it in the keyhole. He twisted it, first one way, then the other, and when the bolt snicked free Mal yanked open the door and saw…

Stairs. Leading up.

He took them two at a time, breathing through his teeth as they clamped down on the flashlight, going up sixteen steps and then reaching…

A dead end.

There was no door. No room. No hallway. Just a wooden barricade.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaal…”

Below him, Mal heard feet begin to clomp up the steps.

Why have a stairway leading nowhere? What was the point? It made no sense.

He put his shoulder into it, pressing hard. Felt a slight bit of give.

Could this be some secret passage?

Mal held the keylight, looking for seams along the wall. On the right side, he found some old, rusty hinges.

Mal pushed again. No go.

“Maaaaaaaaaal…..”

Colton was closer, already halfway up the stairs.

Mal ran his hands along the seam, looking for a switch, a release, a button. Anything that would open this sucker up.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal…”

Colton was practically on top of him. Mal’s heart was hammering so hard he could hear the lub-dub in his eardrum. A wooden splinter jammed under his fingernail, and he dropped the flashlight. Mal opened his mouth to scream in pain and frustration when his fingers brushed against a latch.

“MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!”

Colton’s saw touched Mal’s leg just as the passageway swung outward. Mal fell forward, pulling away, then kicking the secret door closed. He looked around, pulling the glow stick from his pants, and realized he’d gotten to the guest room hallway. But it looked different in the dark, and he wasn’t sure which room was his.

The secret passage began to shake, and Mal got to his feet and ducked into the nearest bedroom. He quietly closed the door behind him, then took a minute to catch his breath. His neck throbbed, and he found a mirror on the wall and took a look.

In the green glow light, his blood appeared black. Mal probed the wound, wincing. It hurt, but wasn’t deep. Stitches probably weren’t required, but if he lived through this it would no doubt leave a jagged scar.

Squinting at his finger, he used his teeth to yank out a three inch splinter under his nail. He spat it out, and began to search the room.

The suitcase next to the bed wasn’t his, and he didn’t see any purses lying around. He checked the bureau drawers, and then the desk.

Nothing.

Mal crept to the door and put his ear to it. Then he opened it a crack, peering out. The coast seemed clear, and he quickly exited the room and entered the adjacent one.

Not his suitcase, but there was a purse on the desk. And inside…

Moni’s syringe. He pulled the purse strap over his head and shoulder.

Okay, that’s half the mission. Now to get my gun.

He remembered his room was next to Moni’s, so all he had to do was sneak into it and—

The doorknob began to turn before Mal could touch it. He quickly stuck the light stick back in his jeans and looked around for a place to hide.

The bed.

Quickly dropping to all fours, Mal scooted under it just as the door opened.

“Maaaaaaaaal… I… want… your… other… hand…”

Sara

Sara took off her sweater and tied a knot in the sleeves, trying to make a sling for Frank’s arm. He’d been groaning since Mal left, biting his wallet, his eyes welling with tears. Fishing around in her purse, Sara found a pack of tissue. She gently wiped his eyes, and then mopped some of the sweat off of his forehead.

Frank let the wallet fall from his lips, and stared hard at her.

“I’ve… been hope hope hoping…” he said, the pain straining his voice.

“Hoping for what, Frank?”

“To see see see…”

“To see?”

“You… with your… shirt off.”

He grinned, and Sara laughed. She didn’t even remember what bra she had on until she looked. It was frilly, pink, Fredrick’s of Hollywood. Somehow she’d had the foresight to wear her only good bra. If he’d seen some of her others, he probably wouldn’t have been as impressed.

“When we get out of here,” she whispered. “Maybe I’ll even let you see me without the bra.”

“I’d like that. Sara?”

“Yes, Frank?”

“I think think think my arm is broken.”

“It’s just a bad sprain,” Sara said. “Mal is going to get you something for the pain. He’ll be back soon.”

“I’m scared, Sara.”

“So am I, Frank.”

She kissed his damp forehead, then opened her purse and stared at her last two tiny bottles of Southern Comfort.

Sara needed a drink. Badly. In fact, Sara may have never needed a drink more than she did right then. Her hopes for getting her son back had been torn from her. Seeing the first decent man she’d met in—well—forever—suffer like this was heartbreaking. And the very real possibility that she was going to die soon, and die horribly, made her adrenaline spike so hard her head hurt.

She pulled out the first bottle, twisting off the cap with practiced precision, and tilted it—

—into Frank’s mouth.

He drank, then coughed. “Thanks.”

“Got one more coming.”

She opened the second, and he gulped it down.

“Got any any any orange juice?”

“Other purse.”

She moved her thigh under his head as a pillow, and blotted away more sweat.

She didn’t regret giving Frank the last of her booze.

In fact, in a strange sort of way, she felt liberated by it.

Sara looked over at Deb, who was sitting against the wall with her head in her hands, her fake legs spread out in front of her, looking strangely like skis. She seemed off in her own world. Sara then looked at Pang, and saw he had some new gizmo in his hand.

Pang glanced up at her. “I’d like to try an EVP recording.”

“What is that?” Sara asked.

“Electronic Voice Phenomenon. I ask a question, and record the response. The human ear isn’t as sensitive as a microphone. So answers could get picked up by the recorder that we wouldn’t otherwise hear. Then we can hear them in playback, with the sound boosted up.”

“Why do you want to do this?”

“Because maybe we can find out what these spirits want. I’ve investigated a lot of supposedly haunted houses. They’ve always had rational explanations or have been inconclusive. What’s happening here, now—it’s unprecedented. If we can prove that there is another plane of existence, and if we can get some answers from those who inhabit that plane, it will be the greatest scientific discovery of the century.”

Sara thought it was a bad idea. “Deb?”

Deb didn’t reply, apparently remaining a prisoner of her thoughts.

“Frank, what do you think?”

His eyelids fluttered. “I think it’s a break, not a sprain. Sprains don’t bend the wrong way.”

“Look,” Pang said, “you don’t have to do anything. Just stay quiet. This isn’t just for bad spirits. There may be some good ones around that can help us. But we won’t get that help, unless we ask for it.”

Sara sighed. She was used to life spiraling out of control despite anything she did. If Pang wanted to do this, Sara didn’t see how she’d be able to stop him.

Pang stood, holding up a silver gadget with a red blinking light on it. Keeping it at arm’s length from his face he said, “Are there any spirits here?”

Sara didn’t hear a response, but she supposed that was the point. After ten seconds, Pang sat down and pressed a button. A moment later his recorded voice was heard, louder than he’d originally spoken.

“Are there any spirits here?”

They all listened to the white noise that followed. No ghosts responded to Pang’s question.

Pang pressed another button and asked again, “Are there any spirits here?”

Sara found herself concentrating on the silence. The underground tunnel they were in had a slight echo to it, and the single bare bulb hanging from the wooden brace overhead didn’t illuminate more than a few meters into the darkness.

Pang stopped the recording and hit play again.

“Are there any spirits here?”

He turned up the volume, until the recording became almost a hiss. Then he pressed stop.

“Did you guys hear that?” Pang said, the excitement in his voice apparent.

Sara shook her head.

“At the end. It sounded like whispering.”

Pang played it again, the volume even higher. There was a faint murmuring sound, but Sara wouldn’t have called it a voice.

“Someone said yes on the recording. Did anyone else hear it?”

“Apophenia,” Frank said.

“What’s that, bro?”

“Your mind is seeking a pattern in randomness. Like seeing Jesus’s face in in in burned toast. You want to hear a voice, so you think you hear a voice.”

“You still saying spirits don’t exist? So what broke your arm, bro? Was that your mind seeking a pattern when that bleeding ghost dropped from the ceiling?”

“That,” Frank said, “is harder to dispute. But your EVP recording is nonsense.”

“Whatever, bro.” Pang pressed the record button once more. “Are there any spirits here?”

The silence ticked past.

Pang played it back.

“Are there any spirits here?”

Sara listened hard, to see if the faint murmur returned. Then the recorder let out an ear-splitting screech and wailed:

“I’M COMING DOWN THE STAIRS!”

Everyone turned to look as Jebediah Butler, dripping blood, stepped off the dark staircase and into the dim light.

Fran

Fran set down the magazine in mid-sentence and glanced over at her sleeping men.

Duncan, fifteen years old, but still young enough that there were traces in his face of the little boy he once was. And Josh, caring, strong, as close to a soul mate as could ever exist.

She closed her eyes and thought about Butler House. Having survived Safe Haven, Fran could imagine all too well what was going on right now in South Carolina. There would be blood. And death. And unimaginable horror. They would need help.

Looking at her family, Fran knew there were things worth fighting, and dying, for.

For the hundredth time she questioned whether they were doing the right thing.

And for the hundredth time, she didn’t know the answer.

Tom

Seeing Ol’ Jasper in the hall ahead, Tom did a reversal and ran back the way he came, passing Sturgis as he stuck his head out of the satanic chapel. Without his flashlight, Tom was at the mercy of his glow stick, which didn’t illuminate more than a few steps ahead of him. He bumped into a wall when the hall turned a corner, kept sprinting, and wound up in front of some double doors.

Tom tugged one open and saw he was in a large, open room. Tile floors. Ornate, crystal chandeliers. A row of chairs against one wall. A stage.

It was a ball room.

He drew his gun, keeping his knife in his left hand, and began to make his way across the dance floor. It was dark, quiet, eerie, and Tom was shaking so badly he felt he might fall over. He’d never been so frightened, and his mind kept flitting between the horror of what was happening and the horror of what he’d already gone through. He kept replaying the same terrifying scenes, over and over, and wanted to find someplace safe to hide and never come out again.

But people were counting on him. Good people. And fear be damned, Tom wasn’t in the business of letting people down. Even if he was going to die of fright in the process.

Tom reached a doorway, cleared it, spinning as something lunged at him in the darkness.

He fired, his Sig kicking, and then jumped to the side as a black object hurtled past him. Keeping a bead, he stared as it jerked to a stop and swung from the ceiling.

A body bag.

But he quickly realized something was strange. Bodies had weight as well as mass, but this swung like it couldn’t have weighed more than a few kilograms.

Tom reached for it carefully, and squeezed.

Fake. A prop, like they had in haunted houses around Halloween, where you paid ten bucks to have some teen in a mask jump out and say boo!

What was the point of that?

He followed the track on the ceiling—a metal rail that the body bag had been hanging from—and came to a breakfront.

Tom braced himself for something to pop out, and his expectations were met when a rubber zombie pushed through the cabinet doors, making a pneumatic hissing sound. Another phony prop, probably triggered by a motion sensor, like the body bag had been.

Though in a state of hyper-alertness, some rational thoughts still managed to gain traction in Tom’s fear-addled brain. He felt like he was missing some key element. They’d all been summoned here, offered money to be part of an experiment. Forenzi, though certainly odd, seemed sincere enough. He’d told them the goal was to scare them, and he’d made good on his promise.

But had Forenzi’s promise involved these silly Halloween gags? Was that his plan? And had something gone terribly wrong?

Tom was fighting for his life against an unknown enemy that apparently couldn’t be harmed. He had shot two of his attackers, and also slashed Sturgis across the chest. But that didn’t even slow them down.

Was there something supernatural going on? And if so, how did these dime-store attempts at scares mesh with what was happening elsewhere in Butler House?

Had the fake haunted house somehow become real?

He kept moving, and came upon a large, black crate in the center of the floor.

No, not a crate. A coffin. And not a real one. This was another Halloween prop, made of plywood. Tom approached, knowing exactly what was going to happen. The lid would open, and some fake monster—maybe a vampire or a mummy—was going to pop out.

Tom got within a meter of it, gun pointed forward, anticipating the obvious.

As predicted, the lid opened.

As predicted, a monster sat up in the coffin.

It wasn’t a vampire or mummy. It was some bizarre, bloody mannequin with a gas mask on. There were many gashes on its bare chest, glistening with stage blood.

“Hee hee,” went the prop.

Tom kept his Sig on it, then slowly walked past. It was creepier than the zombie in the breakfront, and the body bag on a conveyor track, but Tom was going to save his adrenaline for real threats, not fake ones.

“Hee hee hee.”

Movement, in front of Tom. He held fire as another body bag swung past on a pulley track. He watched it swing past the empty coffin, and disappear into the darkness.

Tom pressed forward, and then his fear spiked. He spun again, staring at the coffin.

The gas masked prop was gone.

Tom looked side to side, sweeping with his Sig. That prop apparently wasn’t a prop. Tom remembered Forenzi’s dinner speech and realized it was—

“Hee hee hee hee.”

The Giggler.

Now where the hell did it go?

Tom turned in a slow circle, ready to shoot anything that moved. He was so focused on what was around him that he wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking, and suddenly he lost his footing and stepped into a hole, falling onto his ass.

He tried to pull his leg free, and his calf screamed at him. Tom holstered his gun and reached into the hole in the floor.

Spikes. Digging into his skin.

“Hee hee hee hee.”

The Giggler walked out of the dark, into view. He was rubbing a large, bloody meat cleaver against his chest.

Tom drew his Sig and emptied his clip into the demon.

Nothing happened. The Giggler stood there, staring, swaying back and forth.

“Tom…”

Tom checked his other side, and saw a pink glow in the distance.

Moni. She had a pink light stick.

“Moni! Run!”

The pink light got closer.

“No, Moni! Get away! You need to get out of here!”

Moni slowly came into view. But it wasn’t Moni.

It was Aabir, holding Moni’s glow sick. Her eyes were completely black. She opened her mouth and roaches dropped out of it.

“Hee hee hee.”

The Giggler had halved the distance between them. Tom realized he wasn’t simply rubbing the meat cleaver against his bare skin. He was actually cutting himself, blood streaming out of the wounds he was making.

Tom blinked. His vision was getting blurry. His thoughts, fuzzy.

Drugged. Something in the spikes.

He stared back at Aabir. She was kneeling next to him. Tom held up his knife, pointed it at her, but he’d begun to see double.

He slashed at her, trying to keep her away, but everything started to fade.

Her hand shot out and she grabbed his wrist, easily prying the knife away.

Tom’s eyes closed, but he forced them open.

Can’t pass out. Not now…

Blackout.

And then he was in the throes of a full blown nightmare, unable to breath, drowning in some sort of slimy sea.

Tom’s eyes popped open, panic making him shake. Aabir was on top of him. She had her mouth around his nose, her wet tongue sticking up his nostril.

He pushed her away, eyelids fluttering.

Must. Stay. Awake. Must…

Blackout.

Then Tom was choking, thrashing around, coughing and spitting—

—because his mouth was filled with cockroaches.

Tom looked up, and the Giggler was pinning down his shoulders, staring down at him. Aabir had her hands down Tom’s pants, and she was jamming her fingers into his ass, feeling like she was tearing him apart.

“Hee hee hee.”

Tom screamed.

He screamed louder and harder than he ever had in his life.

Then the Giggler pulled off his gas mask, and maggots rained down on Tom, squirming in his eyes, his nose, his mouth, as he continued to scream and scream until unconsciousness finally took him.

Mal

The dust under the bed got in Mal’s eyes and the ragged gash on his neck, amplifying the pain.

He was so frightened he couldn’t breathe.

Under the dust ruffle, Mal saw Colton’s feet enter the bedroom. When he took a step, his old leather satchel clanged.

His bag of ghastly surgical instruments, still trying to conduct his insane experiments upon the living.

Mal let his breath out slow, then sucked dust into his nostrils—

Oh jesus I’m going to sneeze.

Mal clamped his hand over his mouth and nose, pinching his nostrils shut.

Please don’t please don’t please…

The urge to sneeze passed.

Colton continued to move toward the bed. His feet stopped less than half a meter from Mal’s face.

He doesn’t know I’m in here. If I keep absolutely still, he’ll go away.

Mal kept absolutely still.

Then something tugged on Mal’s foot.

Then he felt his pants cuff being raised up, baring his calf. He shook with effort as he fought not to scream.

What the hell is that?

It was small. Small and—

Hairy.

A rat? A rabid raccoon?

“Maaaaaaaaaaal,” Colton droned.

The ghost dropped the medical equipment bag, which clanged inches from Mal’s nose.

Then whatever was tugging on Mal’s leg bit him.

The pain was immediate and excruciating, and Mal yelled and kicked out, hearing something screech, and then he was trying to paw through the dust and get out from under the bed. When he did, he stared up at Colton, standing over him.

“I… want… your… hand…”

Fast as a striking rattlesnake, Colton reached down and grabbed Mal’s hand—

—pulling it off.

Mal clawed himself up to his feet and scampered past Colton, letting the ghost have his rubber prosthetic, rushing out of the room and down the hallway. He tugged out his light stick, flew down the staircase, found the route to the basement, and took more stairs down to the lower level where he’d left his wife and the others.

But they were no longer there.

Out of breath, scared shitless, and now in a state of full-on despair, Mal filled his lungs and cried out, “DEB!”

She didn’t answer.

Mal began to jog, deeper into the underground bowels of Butler House, until he came to a V with tunnels leading off to the right and left.

“Deb!”

No reply.

Left or right, Mal? Which way to go?

Is she even down here?

He went right. The bare bulbs hanging from the overhead braces were dim and far apart, and Mal’s light stick was getting weaker.

“Deb! Where are you?”

Mal heard his voice echo down the tunnel. But Deb’s voice didn’t echo back.

His neck hurt like crazy, but the bite on his leg was really starting to throb—bad enough that he’d begun to limp. He lifted his pants leg and took a quick look at it.

The bite was an oval, and some of the flesh was missing. Like he’d had a hunk gnawed out of him by a baby vampire.

He pulled his sock up over the wound, which was really all he could do with only one hand, and then the darkness was split by a sharp CRACK! and Mal felt his back scream at him.

Mal fell forward and turned over, because it hurt like he’d been set on fire. That’s when he saw the figure with the eyepatch and the whip standing just a meter away.

Blackjack Reedy.

Frank

When Frank Belgium was in grade school, he got picked on a lot for being nerdy. Frank wasn’t good at sports, was very good at science and math, and had a speech dysfluency where he’d often repeat a word three times. In sixth grade, he was challenged by a bully, and became a school legend for the fastest any kid had ever lost a fight. Eyewitness testimony was split on whether it took two or three seconds for Frank to go down, the result of a bloody nose.

It had been the most painful thing Frank had ever experienced, up until now.

His arm hurt a lot worse.

About ten to the eighth power worse.

They ran for their lives through the underground tunnels, away from Jebediah Butler, each step agonizing. Frank wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or not, but he thought he could feel his broken bones grind together every time his foot hit the ground.

As in sixth grade, he felt no shame in crying. He was, however, able to refrain from the embarrassment of calling for his mother. But that was only because his mother was dead.

The alcohol Sara had given him lasted no more than fifty meters, before he stooped and puked it all over his shoes. Vomiting offered only a brief respite from the pain of jogging, because Sara was tugging him along before he was even able to finish.

They came to a fork in the tunnel, went left, and then went right at the next T junction, and left again, and then Frank lost track of where he was and just concentrated on praying for death.

Finally Sara pulled him into an actual room, unlike the mineshafts they’d been navigating. This had a concrete floor, and concrete walls, which were covered with crosses.

“We’ve found the Butler House crypt,” Pang said.

That explained the concrete floor, walls, and crosses. Frank counted at least ten burial vaults, and then he had to stop to throw up again. When he finished, he sat on the floor and resumed crying.

Sara stayed with him, patting his back. He must have been the most pathetic, unsexy man on the planet right then, but she didn’t leave his side.

“Did you see see see the movie Titanic?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Remember, after the ship sinks…”

“Bro, I haven’t seen it yet,” Pang interrupted. “You gotta spoiler alert that shit.”

“After it sinks,” Frank continued, “and Jack tells Rose that getting on the ship was the best thing that ever happened to him, because he got to meet her?”

Sara nodded.

“Well, Sara, meeting you may have been the best best best thing that has ever happened to me. But coming to Butler House was a really bad move.”

“What’s with the bells?” Deb asked.

Her voice was still raspy, but it had gotten a lot stronger. Frank had no idea what she meant until he saw her pointing at one of the vaults. Each had a tiny brass bell mounted in the corner.

“Safety coffins,” Pang said. “In the 1800s, people had a huge fear of being buried alive. So they began interring people with a string that attached to a bell on the outside of the casket. If they were still alive, they could ring the bell and be rescued.”

Frank filed that information tidbit under didn’t need to know and then tried to will himself unconscious.

“At dinner,” Sara said, “Dr. Forenzi said you actually met Satan. Did you really?”

“It’s complicated. And I’m delirious with pain. But short answer, yes.”

“And?”

Frank closed his eyes. “He wasn’t very nice.”

“When I…” Sara’s voice trailed off.

“When you what?” Frank asked.

“When I was on… the island. It was bad. There was this guy. Lester Paks. He’d… filed down his teeth to points. I still have nightmares. Do you?”

“Yes.”

“In order to survive, I had to kill. I don’t regret it. I did what I had to, to save me and Jack. But sometimes I think about the afterlife. What happens to us after we die. We’re being chased by spirits—”

“Alleged spirits, Sara. Nothing has been proven.”

Pang laughed at that. “Nothing proven? Are you crazy, bro?”

“Frank, after meeting the devil, don’t you believe in the afterlife?”

Frank thought about the question. He’d seen things that defied scientific explanation. But not having the answers didn’t mean the answers had to be supernatural.

“I believe in the indomitable strength of the human will,” he said. “I believe good can conquer evil. And, even though it has been a long time for me, I believe in love.”

Sara didn’t answer. But he knew what he said resonated with her, sure as he heard the soft, gentle tinkling of the wind chimes.

No, not wind chimes.

Bells.

Bells?

Frank’s eyes opened in alarm, and he saw Sara with her jaw hanging open, eyes wide as saucers.

She was looking at the wall full of vaults. Frank followed her line of vision.

All of the bells were ringing by themselves.

“They were slaves, buried alive,” Pang said, sitting up with his face buried in his hands. “Sealed in by Jebediah Butler for minor infractions. Through the holes for the bell strings, he fed them food and water. Some lasted for weeks before they died. He let their family members visit them. An object lesson, to keep them meek and afraid.”

Deb had backed away from the ringing bells, her expression as horrified as Sara’s.

“But when they died,” Pang went on, “their spirits were released. They led the revolt that killed the Butlers. And now they roam Butler House, looking for people to possess.”

Pang lifted up his head and smiled.

His eyes had turned completely black.

Deb screamed.

Sara screamed.

But both of their voices were drowned out by Frank, who screamed louder and shriller than both of them combined. Sara somehow found the courage to help Frank to his feet, and Deb added her hands to the effort as well. Then the trio was running out of the crypt, back into the tunnels.

“Which way?” Sara screeched.

Without Pang leading the way with the light in his camcorder, they couldn’t tell which was the way they’d come.

Deb took the lead, Sara and Frank following her. But when they turned the corner, Deb was gone.

And then someone leapt out of the darkness, tackling Frank and Sara, pinning them to the ground.

Moni

A wooden crossbeam, old and weathered.

A dim lightbulb, hanging from brown wires.

Rusty iron shackles, bolted to the wall.

What Moni saw when she opened her eyes.

She blinked, yawned, tried to roll over.

Couldn’t.

The memory came back, jolting.

She’d been following Tom through the hallway, trying to stick close, but he was moving so fast and it was so dark.

And then something grabbed her. Something big and strong.

Moni remembered the needle going in. Tried to fight for a bit. Tried to scream with a hand over her mouth.

And now…

Her hands and feet were tied to some sort of bed.

No, not a bed. Beds don’t have thick metal cranks on them. Cranks meant to pull the ropes tighter until the human body stretched and broke in half.

Moni was on a rack. in a torture chamber, filled with all sorts of other horrible devices meant to inflict suffering.

Then she noticed the figure standing in the corner of the room. Staring quietly at her. Pale. Thin. Long, black hair.

It can’t be. But it looks like…

“Luther Kite,” Moni said, her voice cracking into a whimper.

“Hello, Moni.” He was whispering to her. Soft. Gentle. “It’s so good to see you.”

Luther came to her, ran a finger across her cheek. He looked different then the last time she had seen him. Thinner. Frailer. Sharper cheekbones.

And his eyes were now completely black.

“Remember this?”

He held up a metal cylinder. On the bottom were six metal spikes, each half a centimeter long. On the top was a knob.

An artificial leech. When pressed into the skin and twisted, it shredded flesh.

“It’s bleeding time, Moni.”

Luther smiled, revealing black teeth.

Moni began to scream for help.

No help came.

Tom

Tom opened his eyes to the smell of burnt pork.

He was hanging from the rafters by his wrists, the rope tight and cutting off circulation to his hands. He was tall enough that he could touch the floor on his tiptoes, taking some of the weight off.

Tom spat, hacked, and spat again until he was sure he got all of the roach parts out of his mouth. Then he took in his surroundings.

The tiny room appeared to be carved out of dirt, with railroad ties bracing up the walls and ceiling. A root cellar, maybe. There was some low light, partly from a low wattage bulb on the overhead rafter, partly from a cast iron woodburning stove in the corner of the room, its chimney rising up into the ceiling.

Whatever drug he’d been given had left him foggy, but still very much afraid. His leg hurt from where he’d stepped in the spike hole, and his arms were cramped. Tom visually followed the length of the rope that bound him, and saw it was attached to a pulley and tied to one of the beams, near the doorway.

And standing in the doorway…

“Tom…”

Sturgis Butler, face and clothing burned, eyes black as oil, voice sounding like an echo chamber, walked slowly into the room. He stopped at the stove, opening the hinged door. Next to the stove, on a wall rack, were assorted pokers, pincers, and branding irons. Sturgis selected an iron, showed it to Tom, and stuck the end inside the fire.

The worst burn Tom ever had was when he was a child, stepping barefoot on a lit sparkler on the fourth of July. It had instantly seared into his skin and stuck there, requiring him to pull it out and also burn his fingers.

It had been bad.

A branding iron seemed a lot worse.

Sturgis left the iron in the fire and turned to Tom. He smiled, his teeth black as his eyes.

“I… see… your… fear…”

And then the realization of what was happening hit Tom like a slap. Not a full understanding, but enough for Tom to show some much-needed courage.

“Enough with all this bullshit,” Tom said, punctuating his voice with forced bravado. “Let me talk to your boss.”

Sara

On her back, stars dancing in her vision, Sara reached up to scratch out the eyes of whoever tackled her and Frank.

“Where’s Deb?

Illuminated by a faint blue glow stick, Mal’s face was frantic, eyes wild. His neck was bleeding, and he had bloody rips in his shirt.

Next to her on the ground, similarly sprawled out, Frank had begun crying again.

“Is Deb with you?” Mal demanded, raising his voice.

“Pang—Pang is possessed,” Sara told him. “We all ran away. I don’t know where your wife is. We were following her, then she was gone.”

Mal helped Sara up, and then they both pried a sobbing Frank off the floor.

“Blackjack Reedy is behind me somewhere,” Mal said. “He’s got a whip.”

Sara got a closer look at Mal’s shirt, counting at least eight bloody gashes in it.

“Jebediah found us,” she said. “We had to run. We can help you look for Deb. It’s a maze down here.”

“We’ll find find find her,” Frank moaned. Then he dropped over in a dead faint.

Mal looked at Frank, and then off into the distance. “How long ago did she go missing?”

“A few minutes.”

Mal pulled the handbag off his shoulder. “The heroin. Take care of him. I have to find her.”

Sara didn’t want him to go, but she completely understood. “Thank you. Good luck.”

“You, too.”

He ran off. Sara opened the purse, found a plastic case with a big syringe in it. Somewhere, in the dark distance, she heard a whip crack.

Sara knelt down and gently slapped Frank’s face. “Frank, you have to get up.”

Frank moaned, but his eyes remained closed. Sara had no idea how much of the heroin to give him, or even how to properly administer a shot. She gave his shoulders a shake.

“Frank, it’s Sara. I have some drugs for you. You have to get up.”

“Just… leave me… here.”

“I can help with the pain. How much am I supposed to give you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Of molecular biology.”

Sara wasn’t sure how heroin worked. She’d seen enough movies to know it involved tying off an arm with something in order to find a vein. But did she inject him directly into his broken arm? Or could she shoot him up anywhere? She took the needle out of the case and did that thing where she held it point-up and flicked it with her finger to remove all the bubbles.

“That’s too much,” Frank said. “That would kill an elephant.”

“So how much do I give you?”

“See those little lines on the barrel? Each one is ten milligrams. Start with that.”

“Where do I inject you?”

“Straight into my eyeball,” Frank said.

Sara stared at him.

“Kidding kidding kidding. Just jab it in my wrist. Intramuscular probably won’t be be be as effective as a vein, but I’ll take anything as long as it’s quick.”

He gave Sara his good arm. She held his hand.

A whip cracked again, much nearer.

Sara squinted at Frank’s wrist, saw a blue vein, and slid the needle in on an angle. She pressed the plunger, giving him ten milligrams. Then she pulled the needle out, expectant.

“Well?” Sara asked.

The pain creases in Frank’s face slowly relaxed, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a tiny smirk.

“You are so pretty,” he said.

“Is it working?”

“Your breasts look like two big, beautiful scoops of ice cream in a bra.”

Sara grinned. “Yeah. I think it’s working.”

She helped Frank up, and he put his good arm around her shoulders.

“Your lips are like a little red bowtie,” Frank said.

“We need to move, Frank.”

“Yeah. Move in with me. You and Jack. I have some money put away. We can get a good lawyer, get him back.”

Another whip crack, so close it made Sara jump.

“Let’s go!”

Sara began by helping Frank along, but then he let go of her and ran ahead. He turned down a corridor, and then began to jog backward while smiling at her.

“I feel great! Why don’t they make heroin legal?”

“Frank! Watch—”

He ran backward into a wall, falling onto his face. When he got up, his makeshift tourniquet had come off.

“I’m okay,” he said. “Doesn’t hurt at all.”

Frank shook his broken arm and it wiggled like a gummy worm, bending in all sorts of places it wasn’t supposed to.

Then a pair of bloody arms wrapped around Frank from behind, grabbing him in a bear hug. Jebediah Butler. Sara ran to him, but was jerked off her feet as Blackjack Reedy’s whip snaked around her neck, choking her until she passed out.

Deb

As soon as Deb realized Sara and Frank weren’t behind her anymore, she stopped running.

“Deb!”

Sara’s voice, echoing through the tunnels. But Deb couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. She’d made two or three turns, and the faint echo seemed to be both in front of her and behind her at the same time.

“Sara!”

But even putting her lungs into it, Deb’s voice didn’t get any louder than speaking normally. Deb didn’t know if it was something Franklin had done to her voice, or if it was psychosomatic because she’d been terrified out of her mind in that exam room. Whatever the case, she couldn’t call for help.

She looked around. These underground tunnels seemed to go on forever. Deb could imagine herself, wandering around for hours, going in circles. A lesson from Girl Scouts came back to her. When lost, stay put. Let the rescuers come to you.

A wise idea. But while Sara and Frank might be looking for her, so were a legion of creepy mother fuckers.

Besides, she needed to find the stairs for when Mal came back.

Mal.

As crazy frightened as Deb was—and she was one scare away from curling up into a ball and sucking her thumb—the thought of her husband gave her strength. When he kissed her before he left, she saw the man she remembered. The one she hadn’t seen in such a long time. Brave. Strong. Determined.

Deb swore she would be just as brave. She would fight and fight and fight until she saw him again. And when she did, there would be no more sleepless nights. No more bad dreams. No more constant paranoia.

Because together, they could conquer anything.

Deb ached to remind him of that. And it ate at her that she hadn’t understood it before now.

She bent over, butt against a wooden support, and rubbed her thighs. As could be expected, her stumps ached. The prosthetics she wore weren’t suited to running on dirt, and the constant balance adjustments she had to make were taking a toll on her muscles. It had been a long time since Deb had lost her legs, but she remembered with crystal clarity what it had been like. Obviously walking and running were sorely missed. But there were other, little things as well. Dipping her feet in a cool lake. Wiggling her toes. Feeling sand on the beach beneath her—

Deb sensed someone. Nearby.

She tried to peer into the darkness around her, but her eyes couldn’t pierce it. The low watt bulbs strung up on the ceiling were few and far between, and the glow light Tom had given her was fading fast.

“Hello?” she croaked.

“Hello, Deb.”

It wasn’t Mal. Or Tom. Or Sara or Frank.

Deb knew that voice. From the examination room.

“It’s so good to see ya again,” Franklin said, walking out of the darkness. He still wore the plastic gloves he’d put on when he tried to take her blood earlier. But this time, he was holding a long, white stick that ended in forked prongs.

A cattle prod.

“This is quite a house, ain’t it?” Franklin said. He pressed a button on the stick and the electrodes crackled, throwing a bright spark. “Reminds me of home. A home that you took away from me, Deb.”

Deb backed away, but backing up in fake legs was even harder than navigating stairs. What she needed to do was turn around and sprint away. But she couldn’t stop staring at him. Especially since, like Pang, Franklin’s eyes had turned completely black.

“I owe you for that, lil’ girl. Owe you lots.”

He lashed out with the prod, and Deb dodged it but fell backward, arms pinwheeling, landing on her butt. She tried to crab away on all fours, but her prosthetics couldn’t gain any purchase on the dirt ground.

“You look so a’scared right now.” Franklin grinned. His teeth were also black. “Gettin’ me all kinds of excited.”

He zapped one of her artificial legs with the prod. Deb yelped at the sound.

“This here’s a special kinda prod, called a picana. Make ‘em down in South America. Those dictators love to interrogate rebels. Twenty thousand volts, low amps, so it won’t kill. Supposed to be gawd-awful painful. Especially when applied to sensitive regions.”

Deb backed against the wall, feeling like she was about to have a heart attack.

The feeling got worse when Franklin touched the prod to her thigh.

It was like being hit with a pick axe. A glowing hot pick axe. Her entire world was reduced to one infinite pinpoint of absolute agony.

“Yes indeedy,” Franklin purred. “You ‘n Mr. Picana are gonna get to know each other real intimately, lil’ girl.”

Forenzi

Dr. Emil Forenzi was extremely agitated, and more than a little frightened.

This was bad. Really bad. Once an experiment of this magnitude began to spiral out of control, it was time to pull the plug.

But he didn’t know if he could stop this, even if he wanted to. So many unexpected variables had been introduced that stopping now could be catastrophic.

He sped through the steel doors of the clinic and peered into Gunter’s habitat. But the monkey wasn’t in his usual spot, hanging upside down from the tree. Forenzi moved closer to see if Gunter was hiding in the fake bushes.

He wasn’t. The primate had either turned invisible, or someone let him out of his cage.

Or…

Forenzi checked the habitat’s door latch, saw something thin and blood-stained sticking in the spring mechanism.

A bone. Probably from one of Gunter’s unfortunate cellmates.

The Panamanian Night Monkey had learned to open his own lock.

Forenzi took a quick look around the lab, suddenly paranoid. While small, Gunter was a strong little animal, and he had a well-documented history of violence. He could also apparently utilize tools. If he got hold of a scalpel, it could become a very dangerous situation.

Trying to act nonchalant in case he was being watched, and he went to the closet where he kept the elbow-length Kevlar gloves, which would protect him from animal bites. He didn’t like to handle Gunter without them, especially when the animal wasn’t sedated. He was just about to put them on when the phone rang, making Forenzi jump.

“What is it?” he demanded, checking the ceiling to make sure Gunter wasn’t hanging there, ready to drop on him.

“We have a problem. He figured it out.”

Forenzi digested the words. It was, indeed, a problem. And the problems were piling up. How many set-backs could this project absorb before it imploded?

“Seal the perimeter,” he said, setting the animal gloves down on a countertop. “I’ll be right there.”

Forenzi was halfway to the door when he stopped, turned, and went back for them.

Just in case Gunter was prowling the tunnels and in a bad mood.

Sara

The sharp stench of ammonia woke Sara up.

She was sitting down, immobile, legs, arms, neck, and chest all strapped down tight. The device was known as a restraint chair, and during her years working with troubled teens she’d seen them while visiting prisons and mental institutions. Supposedly a humane way to immobilize dangerous or violent inmates who posed a threat to themselves or others, Sara knew how often it was used for cruel and unusual punishment.

Sara looked around, saw she was in some sort of laboratory. White walls, bright lights, shiny tile floors, counters topped with medical equipment; beakers, Bunsen burners, glass bottles, scales, microscopes, storage racks. A far cry from the poorly lit, filthy underground tunnels she’d been chased through.

She also noticed that she had IVs in each arm, the tubes red with her blood and connected to a machine.

Could this be a hospital? Had she somehow been rescued, and they’d restrained her to make sure she was okay?

Another whiff of ammonia, and Sara gagged. Her forehead was strapped to a headboard, but she lowered her eyes and saw a male hand holding some smelling salts.

Someone was behind her.

“Who’s there?”

The figure didn’t reply. But the hand brushed up against her neck, and a finger drew itself across Sara’s lips. Then it moved down her neck and squeezed her right breast.

This wasn’t a hospital.

She hadn’t been rescued.

Sara set her jaw, fighting not to cry out. She endured the groping, and then felt hot breath on her ear.

The horror she’d experienced on Rock Island had never gone away. Part of her had died that day, and she’d been coping with that loss ever since.

Meeting Frank, and daring to dream of a future that wasn’t haunted by the past, had given her a small measure of hope that things might change.

But now, being molested in a restraint chair, Sara knew that life had no happy endings. It was failure and misery and torture and nightmares and cruelty. And the only escape from it was death.

Her tormenter walked around the chair to face her. Blackjack Reedy, his eye patch as black as his uncovered eye. Ghost? Demon? Psycho? It didn’t matter, and Sara didn’t care. She was frightened, but more than that, she was sick of living. Jack had been taken away, Frank was no doubt in a similar situation to hers, and now she was once again evil’s plaything, suffering and dying for no reason at all.

She hocked up a good one and spat at the figure. “Do your worst, asshole.”

He walked over to the counter, where, among all of the medical devices, was a common kitchen toaster. Next to it was a loaf of bread, the kind that came in a colorful plastic bag. He removed two slices, placed them in the toaster, and depressed the plunger.

“Where’s Frank?” Sara said.

He didn’t answer. Sara tested the restraints on her arms, legs, chest, flexing and stretching to see if there was any way to escape.

The toaster dinged.

Blackjack Reedy took the slices of toast, and knelt next to Sara’s chair. He held them out to her. Sara began to wonder if he was mentally deficient. Like Lenny from Of Mice and Men.

“I don’t want your toast. Let me go.”

Blackjack held a piece out to her bound hand. Sara changed tactics. Forcing a smile, she said, “Thank you, I’d love some toast. Can you unstrap my hand so I can hold it?”

Blackjack pushed the toast under her palm. Quick as a mousetrap, he slapped the other piece on top of her fingers.

Then he smiled, and Sara saw that his teeth had been filed to points.

She screamed loud enough to wake the dead as Blackjack opened his terrible mouth and bent down to eat his sandwich.

Frank

Frank Belgium stared up at the ghost of Jebediah Butler, whose entire body was covered with blood, and said, “Need a Band-Aid?”

Belgium was strapped to a stainless steel gurney. It had gutters around the edges, which made Frank think it was a mortician’s table.

The implications didn’t bother Frank. At that moment, nothing at all bothered Frank. He decided, if he made it through the night, to pursue the glamorous and rewarding life of a heroin addict.

But living through the night was beginning to seem like a long shot.

Jebediah pushed a metal cart up to Frank, filled with all sorts of horrible-looking medical tools. Hammers and saws and blades and drills. Frank stared at a particularly rusty chisel and giggled.

“Can you sanitize those tools before you dissect me? I don’t don’t don’t want to get an infection.”

Jebediah loomed over Frank, squinting at him with his soulless black eyes.

“Aren’t… you… afraid?”

“Friend, as far as scary things I’ve seen, you aren’t even in the top five. Where’s that Ol’ Japser fellow? He’s certainly handy.” The pun delighted Frank, and he giggled again. “I also could have gone with he’s well-armed.”

Jebediah picked up some sort of crusty mallet and brought it down on Frank’s broken elbow. It stung, but the drug dulled most of the pain.

The ghost looked confused.

“You seem like a reasonable sort, Jebediah. So I’m going to offer you some advice. And I I I really think you should take it for what it’s worth. Are you ready?”

Jebediah Butler gaped.

“I’m not going to say it unless you want to hear it.”

“Tell… me…”

Dr. Frank Belgium looked the monster dead in the eyes and said, “Go fuck fuck fuck yourself.”

Tom

Tom wiggled his fingers to keep the circulation going, but his hands and arms were becoming very numb due to being hung by them. He felt he’d bought himself a little bit of time, but had no idea how to get out of this situation. His hopelessness spiked every time he looked at the corner of the room, to the branding iron heating up in the wood burning stove, which the blackened figure of Sturgis kept fussing with.

When Dr. Forenzi finally entered the room, Tom was grateful for something else to focus on.

“Where’s Roy Lewis?”

Forenzi clucked his tongue. “Out of all the things you can ask me, that’s your first question? Where your partner is? He gave all he had to give. Like you soon will. How did you figure it out?”

Tom stretched on his tip toes to take some weight off his cramped arms. “Let me down and I’ll tell you.”

“I can assure you, Detective, you’ll tell me anyway.”

Forenzi went to the corner of the room and took a black covering off of a piece of medical equipment. It looked like a dialysis machine.

“It was Torble,” Tom said, glancing at Sturgis Butler. “He said I see your fear. He said that same thing earlier today, at the prison.”

Forenzi made a face and wagged a finger at Sturgis, née convicted serial killer Augustus Torble. “I didn’t go through all the trouble of bringing you here to screw things up like that.”

“And I don’t get my kicks dressing up in a goddamn Halloween costume, spraying myself with liquid smoke to smell like a barbecue. Plus these goddamn contacts are killing me.”

To drive home the point, Torble stuck his finger in his eye and pinched out the black lens.

“So everything was fake?” Tom asked. His curiosity was real, but he was more interested in keeping the doctor talking, hoping for a situation to save himself.

Forenzi nodded. The machine he’d uncovered was on a cart, and he was pushing it over to Tom. “Of course. The house is fully rigged. Trapped doors so people appear and disappear. Electromagnets to make chairs move or pictures fall.” He reached for Torble’s neck and tore off a flap of latex make-up, holding it to his own throat. “Voice… synthesizer. Hear… how… scary… I… sound…”

“How about the painting of the house with all of our pictures on it?”

“Just painted yesterday. One of my men has some artistic talent. I doubt it has even dried yet.”

“And the guns?” Tom asked. “Bullet proof vests?”

Forenzi took Tom’s Sig from his holster and aimed at his chest. Just as Tom tried to twist away and began to yell, Forenzi fired twice.

It stung a bit, but Tom remained free of holes.

Forenzi tucked Tom’s gun into his waistband. “When your luggage was brought in, your ammo was replaced. Soft wax bullets. There’s an indistinguishable recoil, but they disintegrate before hitting the target.”

Shit. Why hadn’t Tom thought to check his ammo?

“What if I had the gun on me?” he asked. “How would you have switched?”

“The front doors to Butler House have an X-ray machine in them. You were scanned for weapons when you entered. If you were carrying a gun, you would have been the first one targeted, and your gun taken. My men are very good at what they do.”

Forenzi had damn near thought of everything. A perfect ruse that fooled everyone, Tom included. “And Aabir?”

“One of us. Like Pang. They’ve played those parts before. Unlike the live roaches put into your mouth, theirs were rubber.

“What about Deb? In the exam room?”

“Franklin is real. I was able to secure his release from prison, as I did with our friend Torble here. In Deb’s and Mal’s case, we thought that touch of authenticity would help raise their metusamine levels. Franklin sprayed a chemical in Deb’s throat—I call it traumesterone. It inflames the vocal chords so a person can’t speak. Or scream for help, as the case may be.”

It all made sense to Tom, except for the most important part.

“Why?” he asked.

Dr. Forenzi sucked in a breath, then let out a big, dramatic sigh. “I explained this at dinner. I need to frighten you to harvest the metusamine in your blood. The more you’re frightened, the more you produce. And because you and the others have experienced high levels of fear in the past, it has altered your brain chemistry so your blood contains higher levels of metusamine than the general population. Much higher, in fact. And I require that neurotransmitter. In order to make anti-venom, you need real venom. The same applies to Serum 3, my anti-fear drug.”

“So why kill Wellington? Or was that fake, too?”

“That was… unfortunate. I would have preferred terrifying him, then milking him for metusamine like you and the others. But that’s the other half of the experiment. You’re obviously aware of who is funding this research.”

Tom thought back to the Butler House website, and who owned the property now. Unified Systems Association.

U.S.A.

“The government,” Tom said. “The feds?”

Forenzi shook his head. “No. My men impersonated the FBI when they approach you and the others. This is a military operation. There have been two previous attempts to create the perfect soldier. I’ve studied the research of my contemporaries, Dr. Stubin in Wisconsin and Dr. Plincer in Michigan, and I’ve learned from their errors. Serum 3, my metusamine blocker, when given to soldiers, renders them fearless. It also has an unusual side-effect that the army has a keen interest in.”

“It makes them homicidal,” Tom guessed.

“How is it said in software parlance? It isn’t a glitch. It’s a feature. Besides making killing easier, it also gives them a much higher tolerance for pain, sharper instincts, and even boosts their stamina and strength, as Mr. Torble demonstrated for you in the prison visitation room. Wellington was an example of my drug working a bit too well, I’m afraid. But it is good practice for the soldiers. Many of them have adjusted quite well to the program. I daresay they’ve begun to enjoy it. Hunting humans in an old, dark house is good real-world practice.”

Tom had previously dealt with megalomaniacs using science for evil, and Forenzi fit the bill. It never ended well.

“So why don’t you just scare people, get what you need from their blood, and let them go?”

Another sigh. “We tried. That area of Butler House where you were caught, with the fake body bags and rubber props, it was set up to frighten people without harming them. But that didn’t produce the levels of metusamine needed for my experiments. To get the higher concentrations, I had to induce real terror in my subjects. And after much trial and error, the type of fear that produced the best results was fear of the unknown. The stuff of childhood nightmares. Ghosts and demons and things that go bump in the night.”

“But now I know this house isn’t really haunted,” Tom said. “So you can let me go.”

Forenzi shook his head. “I still need to milk you. And I’ve discovered another way to induce fear. Sadly, it isn’t as effective as ghosts, but it is more sustainable over a long period of time. The fear of pain. I’ll be able to extract quite a bit of metusamine from you as Mr. Torble tortures you to death.”

Torble was at the wood burning stove again, checking how the branding iron was heating up. And, as Forenzi predicted, Tom experienced a spike of pure, adrenaline-fueled fear.

“People know I’m here,” Tom said.

“No, they don’t. We’ve done this many times, Detective. My men are very good at tidying up loose ends. You were a loose end, searching for your missing partner. It is doubtful anyone will come looking for you with the same fervor. But if they do—your old boss Lieutenant Daniels, perhaps, or your girlfriend, Joan DeVilliers, in Hollywood—they’ll be handled in the same way you’ve been.”

“You do know you’re insane, right?”

Forenzi laughed. “My dear Detective, I’m going to cure humanity of fear. Making any omelet requires breaking a few eggs. Take some comfort in the fact that your suffering will one day benefit all of mankind. But don’t take too much comfort in it. I need you to be good and terrified for the little time you have left.”

Forenzi pulled a length of tubing out of the machine, exposing the IV needle on the end.

“This machine is going to extract the metusamine from your blood, and then return it to you. I need to put these into your veins. If you fight me, I’m going to ask Mr. Torble to break both of your kneecaps.”

“Isn’t he going to do that anyway?”

“He might. But would you prefer that to happen immediately, or sometime later on?”

Tom could probably lash out and kick Forenzi, but that wouldn’t help the situation. And if he were going to try that trick, it would be with Torble when the psycho came at him with the branding iron. So Tom nodded, letting Forenzi insert needles into each of his triceps. The machine clicked on with a mechanical whir, and Tom watched his blood travel out of his left arm, through the tube, through the metusamine extractor, and back into his right arm.

Forenzi regarded him. “I must say, Detective, I expected a bit more out of you. Your partner, Roy, fought with all he had. You seem to have given up rather quickly.”

Tom stared the man down. “The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.”

The doctor’s brow wrinkled. “Who said that?”

“I did.” Tom’s lips twisted into a grin. “And I’ll be coming for you, Forenzi.”

“And my little dog, Toto, too?”

“No,” Tom said. “Just you.”

“Save your strength for Mr. Torble, Detective. He’s been in prison for a long time, and has a lot of bottled up aggression he needs to let out.”

“Lots of aggression,” Torble said, smiling. He took the branding iron out of the fire, its end glowing orange, and Tom’s metusamine production kicked into overdrive.

Mal

He’d managed to outrun Blackjack Reedy, but then Mal got lost in the labyrinth. One tunnel looked like the next, and Mal couldn’t tell if he’d been going in circles, or was kilometers away from where he began.

Mal stopped jogging, sweaty, aching, terrified for his wife, and then he heard a sharp crack that he thought was Blackjack’s whip. But it was quieter, and different somehow. Instead of running from it, he tried to follow the sound. Maybe it would lead him in some direction other than—

He turned the corner and froze, unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

It was Franklin. Just as Deb had insisted. Older, thinner, but undeniably the man who’d caused them both so much pain.

He was poking a long stick at someone Mal couldn’t see, cackling as he did so, the stick making bright sparks to coincide with the cracking sound.

And then Mal heard a yelp. Soft. Hoarse.

But recognizable.

Deb.

He rounded the corner, and realized that Franklin was poking his wife with some sort of electric prod. Deb was crying, hysterical, feebly trying to slap the prod away with her back against the tunnel wall.

Mal froze.

It all came back to him. The helplessness. The fear. The feeling that all hope was gone, and there was nothing he could do to regain it.

That was the Rushmore Inn’s legacy. It had rendered Mal useless. Forever weak. Forever afraid.

What a pale shadow of his former self he had become.

“Hey! Asshole!”

Mal wasn’t sure who had spoken. He was about to turn around and look when a startling realization seized him.

That was me. I said that.

Franklin stopped tormenting Deb long enough to leer at Mal. “Well, lookee who came by. It’s the coward who—”

Mal was on him in three steps, hitting him in the jaw so hard that Franklin spun around, the cattle prod flying. Then he had his fingers wrapped in the man’s hair and Mal introduced the bastard to his knee, Franklin’s nose exploding with all the juice of a squashed tomato.

Franklin howled, and Mal got behind him, still holding his hair, and bent his head back to expose his neck.

“Deb! Now!”

His wife didn’t hesitate. Like a deadly ballet, she pivoted her hips, swinging her right prosthesis around in a reverse hook kick, connecting solidly with Franklin’s adam’s apple.

Mal released him and he slumped to his knees. He was no longer a threat. They’d all heard the man’s windpipe crack.

Then Deb was in his arms, pressing her lips to his, her tear-soaked cheeks rubbing against his face.

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” she said.

“I won’t.”

“We’re a team.”

“The best team ever.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“We’re going to get out of this, Mal.”

“Goddamn right we are.”

Another kiss, and then Deb squatted down and picked up the prod.

Franklin was turning an unnatural shade of blue, clawing at his neck in a futile effort to suck in air.

“You’re suffocating,” Deb told the dying man. “Point us to the exit, and I’ll help you.”

Mal was impressed by his wife’s compassion. Apparently, so was Franklin, because he quickly pointed down the tunnel.

“Thanks,” Deb said. Then she took off in that direction at a quick jog.

Mal ran after her. “What about helping him?”

“I did,” Deb said between breaths. “I helped him get to hell faster. Besides, do you want him and six of his brothers to show up at our doorstep a year from now?”

She had a point.

Incredibly, after following the tunnel a hundred meters, they were back to the concrete stairs. Mal had taken so many twists and turns down there that it hadn’t occurred to him to try a straight course.

Deb stormed the stairs like a champ, and then they were jogging down the hall and heading for the front door.

“Keep your eyes straight ahead,” Mal warned her, wary of Wellington’s headless corpse/cattail vase. “Focus on the door.”

Mal positioned himself between Deb and the circle of chairs, and when they reached the front doors he paused. The last time he opened them, Mal had run into that giggling freak in the gas mask.

“Floor is slippery with blood,” Deb said, placing a hand on Mal’s shoulder.

“I’m opening the door. Get ready to run. Either outside, or back into the house if something bad is out there.”

“Got it. What about the others?”

“Once we find the car, we’ll drive until we get a cell phone signal, then call the police. We’ll make them send the entire National Guard.”

“Mal?”

Mal had his hand on the door knob, but he paused. “Yeah, babe?”

“Coming here… you were right. This wasn’t my best idea.”

He smiled. “Are you serious? I’m thinking we do this every weekend. We rent a car, you send some psycho to hell… it sure beats the hell out of therapy.”

And the crazy thing was, it really did. There were no guarantees they’d live through the night, but Mal felt better than he had in months.

So it was quite a nasty shock when he opened the doors and found himself face-to-face with two people holding machineguns.

Moni

This guy was definitely not Luther Kite.

Kite had enjoyed making Moni suffer. It had been a turn-on for him. More than that, he’d considered it an intimate act, drawing it out while asking her mundane questions about her life. When he had finally broken her, he hadn’t bothered to finish the job and kill her, leaving Moni in a state of shock so deep it took her weeks before she could speak again. It was almost as if allowing Moni to live had been a testament to his art.

This guy, with the black eyes, was going through the motions. And what he was doing hurt Moni, no doubt about it. Getting pierced with an antique medical device was fucking awful. But after a dozen lacerations his heart just didn’t seem to be into it.

And surprisingly, Moni wasn’t terrified. She was actually more angry than she was frightened. Like this was a bad BDSM session that wasn’t working out.

In fact, the more she thought about it, the less she feared for her life and the more she got pissed off. This jackass didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

And she was just the person to tell him that.

“You’re pathetic,” she said, using her dominatrix voice.

The wannabe Luther Kite stopped poking with the artificial leech and stared at her.

“You’re a pathetic, worthless, sissy boy. Take off your pants right now.”

He remained still, his expression confused.

“I told you to take off your pants!” she ordered.

As dommes went, Moni was good at her job. She had a deep, commanding voice that scared the crap out of guys, and she knew what the little perverts wanted. In a sick sort of way, Luther Kite had saved her life. After her ordeal with him she’d kicked heroin and stopped being a victim. No more street tricks. No more pimps. She took control of her life, and her clients paid her well to be a dominant man-hater.

“Take off your pants, and show Mistress Moni what you’ve got. Now!”

Incredibly, the freak began to unbutton his pants.

Just as Moni had suspected. He wasn’t a top. He was a bottom.

“Show it to me.”

He did. And with his dick out, he was a lot less frightening. Even though she was tied up, Moni felt the balance of power shifting from him to her.

“Get over here and put it in my mouth,” she ordered.

Naturally, he complied. What guy wouldn’t? And this was most certainly a guy, not a ghost. Not a demon. Not even a serial killer. Just a worthless little worm who wanted to hurt her, like so many men had before him.

But Moni had other plans.

As she worked her lips and tongue, she gave him just enough to make him want more.

“I can make it better,” she said, deep and breathy. “But I need my hands free.”

Without hesitating he undid the buckle on her right hand. Then Moni did something she’d been fantasizing about ever since she turned her first trick at sixteen years old.

She bit down, hard as she could.

It didn’t come off as easy as she’d thought. Sort of like chewing through a tough steak. A tough, bloody steak, with lots of gristle. But she used her incisors, grinding and tearing, protecting her head with her hand as he screamed and beat at her with both fists.

And then her teeth met, and he fell away from her.

Moni spat his cock on the floor as he sprayed blood like fire hose. While he knelt down with his hands between his legs, wailing and trying to stop the hemorrhaging, Moni undid the other buckles holding her to the rack, pulled out the hefty metal bar used as a crank, and hit the son of a bitch hard enough on the back of the head to see brains come out the split.

They sort of looked like grits.

Wiping off her mouth and spitting several times, Moni got her shit together. She was free. For the moment she was safe. Now she needed to get the hell out of there.

Moni left the torture chamber, metal bar still in hand, and found herself in some sort of mine shaft. The floor was dirt. The walls braced with logs. Lights were bare bulbs, hanging from old rafters.

She spat again, hurrying down the tunnel, stopping when she heard talking.

“You, Jebediah Butler, are are are a jerktapus. That’s a jerk multiplied by eight.”

It sounded like Dr. Belgium. Moni snuck up to an open door, saw the doc was bound to a table. Some guy was standing next to him with a mallet. The mallet guy was covered, head to toe, with blood, but he didn’t seem injured at all.

Another fake ass ghost.

The bloody guy hit Frank with the mallet, right on his arm, which was all twisted and swollen up to twice its normal size.

That son of a…

Moni rushed up to him, angry and pumped, and brained the bastard with the metal bar. He went down, and she kept hitting him, over and over.

“Looks like you invited the wrong goddamn dominatrix to your little party, bitch!”

His head was harder to crack open than the Luther Kite wannabe, but she kept at it until she got the desired results.

“Moni!” Frank said, smiling at her. “Your mouth is bleeding.”

“I bit a guy’s dick off.”

“Great! That’s great!”

She undid Frank’s straps, wincing when she saw his arm. “Jesus, Doc. Doesn’t that hurt?”

“I’m medicated,” he slurred. “Tell me something… how hard is it to buy heroin?”

“It’s all about who you know.”

“Great great great!”

“Is that what you’re on? Heroin?”

“Yes. I believe it’s your stash. It’s awesome.”

He’d be singing a different tune when withdrawal kicked in, but Moni saw no reason to bring that up.

“I have to go and save Sara,” Belgium said. “Want to come with?”

“Sure.”

Frank picked up the mallet in his good hand, and then they were back to prowling the tunnels.

“Doc?” she asked.

“Yes yes yes?”

“We’re not going to get our million bucks each, are we?”

“It’s not looking too promising, Moni.”

Moni frowned. The dozen or so lacerations on her body hurt like crazy, but the fact that she’d been played for a fool felt even worse.

“Doc?”

“Yes?”

“When we find everybody, let’s burn this fucking place to the ground.”

Josh

Fran had been on edge since they landed in Charlotte. While he and Duncan had slept most of the trip, his wife had trouble relaxing on planes. A twenty-two hour flight in coach was stressful enough to make even Gandhi want to shoot someone.

But unlike Gandhi, Fran already had done so. A perimeter guard, when they’d driven up to the Butler House gate, had drawn his sidearm and fired at them as they drove up. No warning. No provocation. While Josh was driving the rental van, Fran had used her night scope to put a tight grouping of three into the guard’s chest from thirty meters.

Josh had expected an unwelcome reception, but nothing so blatant and aggressive. It only confirmed what he and Fran had suspected when they’d received the invitation; Butler House was a front for something very bad.

They pulled up to the house and parked in front, the element of surprise gone. Fran and Josh wore full body armor with chest trauma plates, and tactical ballistic helmets, as did Duncan. Woof had on a custom-made bulletproof dog sweater, which boasted a small saddle for Mathison. The capuchin didn’t like to wear body armor because it restricted his movement, but he did don a plastic army helmet that belonged to an old GI Joe action figure, simply because he didn’t like his family all dressing up without him.

“You got the wheel, son,” Josh told Duncan, climbing out of the driver seat and holding the door open for him. “If we come out in a hurry with wounded, can you handle it?”

“Yeah, Dad.”

Josh still beamed with pride every time his adopted son called him Dad.

“Keep the windows open. Listen to your surroundings.” He placed a loaded 9mm on the seat next to him, and turned on Duncan’s walkie-talkie. “Radio silence unless an emergency, but send two clicks every five minutes as the all clear signal.”

Fran leaned into the driver side window and kissed her son on the helmet. “Aim for the center mass, Duncan. Shoot to kill. This isn’t an exercise. It’s the real deal.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Love you. We’ll be back soon.”

“Love you, too.”

Josh did another check of his gear, then slung the AR-15 over his shoulder. He covered his wife as she rushed the front doors to Butler House and positioned herself on the right side of them. Then she covered him as he came up and took the left. Woof, with Mathison riding on his back like a jockey, heeled next to Josh.

Fran made the hand signal for “Ready?”

In a way, Josh had been ready for this moment since they’d survived the massacre at Safe Haven and had been forced to move out of the lower forty-eight. They’d been waiting, and training, for the day the bad guys finally came calling. After the phony FBI agents had shown up with their obvious bullshit invitation, the VanCamps had called a family meeting and voted. They could do nothing at all and wait for further developments. Or they could alert the media and spill everything, waiting for the inevitable repercussions. Or they could take the offensive.

In a unanimous vote, they decided to come to Butler House. If, as they suspected, another rogue military experiment was in progress, there would be innocent people in danger. Safe Haven had been a training exercise for psychotic killers, and Butler House smelled similar. The guard shooting at them when they arrived confirmed Josh’s suspicion.

Bad shit was going down.

And the only way for bad shit to triumph was for good people to do nothing.

The VanCamps weren’t the do nothing type. And Josh knew Duncan and Fran were just as sick of hiding from the past as he was. For years, they’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. To end what a top secret, imminently evil branch of the military had begun.

So there they were, taking the fight to the enemy, ready to finish this once and for all.

Josh nodded to his wife, and they moved into position to open the front doors to Butler House.

But the front doors opened for them.

Weapons at the ready, fingers on their triggers, Josh and Fran covered the two people who had been trying to leave. One, a man missing his right hand, who had bloody tears in his filthy clothing and a gash on his neck. The other, a woman with artificial legs. They shared the same terrified expression.

“Don’t move!” Fran barked.

They both froze, but the guy looked like he was about to try something.

“We’re the good guys,” Josh said, quickly trying to diffuse the situation. He had a feeling these people were victims, not the enemy.

“How do we know?” the man asked.

“We have a monkey and a dog,” Josh said. “Woof, speak.”

Woof barked and wagged his tail. Mathison waved.

“I was attacked by a monkey,” the man said. “Under a bed.”

“Not this monkey,” Josh replied. “We just showed up. Right, Mathison?”

Mathison nodded, then crossed his heart.

There were a few seconds of uncertainty. Josh decided, if he had to act, he’d try to use non-lethal force.

Then the woman with the prosthetics said, “I’m Deb. This is my husband Mal.” Her voice was raspy.

“You both got those invitations?” Fran asked.

Deb nodded.

“I’m Fran, and my husband Josh. Our son Duncan is in the car. We were invited, too.”

The tension seemed to dissipate. Josh sensed that like was recognizing like. Deb and Mal had that look Josh knew all too well. That I survived something awful look.

“Things went bad,” Mal said. “You have no idea what kind of hell is going on here.”

“Actually,” Fran said. “We do. And we’re ready for it. How many people inside?”

“Two are dead,” Mal told them. “One of us and one of them. Inside is a cop named Tom, a dancer named Moni, a psychic named Aabir, a biologist named Frank, a woman named Sara, and a ghost hunter named Pang.”

Deb shook her head. “Pang is possessed.”

“Possessed?” Josh asked.

“His eyes turned black and he freaked out.”

“Chemical agent?”

“Spirits,” Mal said. “There are at least five. A slave with four arms. A bleeding guy. A guy in a lab coat. A guy in a gas mask. And a guy with an eye patch and a whip. They’re ghosts or demons or something. Guns don’t work on them.”

Josh let that go for the moment. He’d seen some crazy shit himself and would never automatically reject the unusual. “Anyone else inside?”

Mal nodded. “Two doctors, Forenzi and Madison. Don’t know what side they’re on. And some guards in gray suits. At least four.”

“Some people may be down in the tunnels under the house,” Deb said. “It’s a maze down there.”

“Woof can find them once he gets their scent,” Fran said. “We couldn’t find any blueprints of the house online, so we don’t know the layout. We could use a tour, but if you two want to wait in the van with our son, we understand.”

Deb and Mal exchanged a look.

“Cops would take at least an hour to get here,” Deb said to her husband. “If we could even convince them to come.”

“I’m in if you are. I’m done with running.”

“Me too.”

“We’ll do it,” Mal said. “But we want lights and weapons.”

“Can you handle a firearm?” Josh asked.

“Guns don’t work on these things. What else you got?”

He gave Mal his tactical flashlight and his asp; a steep baton that extended when you snapped your wrist out. Fran did the same with Deb, and also gave her a can of pepper spray.

“Lead the way,” Josh said.

He sensed their reluctance to go back inside, but they did, which Josh admired.

“First guy died here.” Mal pointed to the large amount of blood on the floor.

Fran crouched down, picked up something. “Rubber bug. Looks like a roach.”

“Rubber?” Mal asked.

Fran leaned forward and found something else. Something shiny. She held it up. “Bullet casing. You said guns don’t work?”

“The cop emptied his gun into the one with the four arms. Thing didn’t even flinch.”

Josh unclipped his spare Maglite and played the beam along the floor, following it up the wall. He walked over, running his fingernail along it, then holding his hand to his nose.

“Wax. Could the cop be in on this? Using wax bullets instead of real ones?”

“You mean he’s been bullshitting us?” Mal asked. “He seemed legit, but I don’t know for sure. We just met him.”

“What’s that?” Fran asked, sweeping her light over to the chairs in the center of the great room.

Mal made a face. “That’s Wellington. Hon, don’t look.”

Mal put his arm around Deb, turning her away, while Josh and Fran went to investigate.

It was pretty awful.

“Looks like our hunch was right,” Fran said.

Josh nodded. They’d both seen similar things in Safe Haven.

“We were too late for this one,” he said. “Hopefully we won’t be too late for the others.”

Josh looked around the rest of the room. They’d spent several hours reading about Butler House, and Josh had prepared as much as possible. But now that he was inside, he couldn’t get over how creepy it felt. If ghosts really did exist, this is where they’d hang out.

His radio clicked twice—Duncan’s all clear signal. Woof got on the scent of something and then stood stock-still, growling low in his throat.

Everyone shined their lights—

—on a black man with four arms, dragging a machete.

“That’s who killed Wellington!” Mal said, stepping in front of Deb and raising his asp.

“Freeze!” Fran ordered, raising her weapon.

The four-armed man kept advancing, heading for Deb and Mal.

Josh fired a warning shot, putting three rounds into the floor in front of the man’s feet.

The supposed ghost stopped, dropped his machete, and then fell to one knee, pulling out a pistol from the back of his ratty pants.

Fran and Josh let loose. Their AR-15 rifles were loaded with 5.56 NATO cartridges and fired as quickly as they could pull the trigger.

The target took ten shots in the chest and didn’t drop. Josh adjusted for the head shot, but Fran beat him to it, taking off the back of the ghost’s head, dropping it where it stood.

“I guess bullets work,” Mal said.

Josh approached first, sensing his wife flanking him. He kicked away the enemy’s dropped weapon—a Colt 1911—and knelt next to him.

No pulse, obviously, but definitely made of flesh and blood and not ectoplasm. He touched one of the extra arms and it pulled off without too much effort.

Fake. Rubber and latex, glued on with spirit gum.

But he wasn’t wearing body armor. The fact that he took ten hits and didn’t go down scared the shit out of Josh. It was familiar, in a very bad way.

“He might have been enhanced somehow,” Josh told Fran.

“Red-Ops?” He heard fear in his wife’s voice.

“I don’t know.” Josh frowned, and his stomach clenched like a fist. “But if there are others, they’re going to be damn hard to kill.”

Sara

Sara stopped screaming.

The pain was beyond anything she could have ever imagined. Sara hadn’t looked, but she guessed her little finger had been chewed down to the bone. It was so intense, so unremitting, that it almost drowned out every other thought in her head.

Almost.

Because part of her brain was still able to think clearly, to focus. This was the worst thing Sara had ever endured, but in the middle of it all a bit of clarity broke through the misery and Sara latched onto it.

I’m a survivor.

Sara had lost so much on Rock Island. So much of who she was. She’d been so devastated, so diminished, by the experience, it had resulted in her losing even more. Her son. The one thing she had left. Taken from her.

And she finally understood why.

All along, Sara had been drowning in self-pity. Wondering how all of these terrible things could have happened to her. Blaming the universe, and trying to numb the pain rather than deal with it.

Child services had been right to take Jack. She had been unfit. But even when that happened…

I’m a survivor.

She’d taken the hits, and she was still here.

She’d lost everything, and she was still here.

She’d tried to kill herself with booze, and she was still here.

And if this psychotic Lester Paks/Blackjack Reedy ghost demon bastard chewed her entire arm off, Sara knew she would still be here.

I’m a survivor.

I’ll survive to straighten my life out.

I’ll survive to get my son back.

I will survive.

In a sea of agony, Sara latched on to that little Zen lifeboat. All she had to do was get through this one more ordeal.

As he started on the second finger, Sara closed her eyes imagined the life she once had, and could have again. Her son. A house. A job. Maybe even Frank, because as gentle and funny as he was, Sara knew he was survivor too, and suffering be damned they’d both get through this and—

“Hey! Ugly pirate guy! I’ll give you something something something to chew on!”

Frank!

Sara watched as Dr. Frank Belgium, his broken arm flopping uselessly at his side, ran into the room brandishing a gigantic wooden mallet and smashing a surprised Blackjack Reedy right in his face.

Blood and sharp teeth went flying. Blackjack went down. And then Moni was on top of him, hitting him over and over again with an iron bar until the monster stopped moving.

“Oh dear dear dear.” Frank fumbled with the straps on her restraint chair, setting her free and then trying to examine the damage to her fingers.

Sara didn’t care about her fingers. She threw her arms around Frank’s neck, so overwhelmed with absolute joy that she started bawling.

“If you need need need some painkiller,” he said, “heroin gets my highest endorsement.”

“I don’t need anything.” Sara had never spoken truer words. “Except you.”

“Well… that’s… that’s pretty terrific.”

“You saved the girl, Doc.” Moni said. “Kiss her already.”

Sara offered her tilted chin, and Frank kissed her. There was a lot more heat this time, and for a brief, glorious moment, all the pain Sara felt just melted away until the only thing in the whole world was Frank’s lips on hers.

“Okay,” Moni said, interrupting the moment. “You guys gonna fuck, or are we getting the hell out of here?”

Frank pulled back enough to look at her, and he had a twinkle in his eye that told Sara he was weighing his options.

“We’re going,” Sara said, and she noted it was said with some reluctance.

“Okay. And you might want to put a bandage or something on your hand. It’s gross.”

Sara finally looked at the damage that had been done, and wondered why she was holding some raw hamburger.

That’s not raw hamburger. That’s my hand.

And she promptly passed out.

Duncan

Duncan VanCamp sat behind the wheel of the Dodge Caravan and wondered why he wasn’t more scared.

Though he was just a kid when all the bad stuff happened in Safe Haven, he still thought about it a lot. And sometimes, when he was alone in his room at night, he was frightened enough to turn on his closet light.

But everything since then had been great. He loved Josh like he was his real dad. He loved living in Hawaii. He had cool friends. He’d even been seeing a few girls. When he went to the beach with Woof and Mathison, girls would flock around him like he was a celebrity. And these weren’t like the girls in his freshman high school classes. These girls were older. One was even eighteen, and she kissed Duncan and they texted each other a lot, even though he told his buddies it wasn’t serious because he was too young to get tied down.

But now here he was, thousands of miles away from home, helping his parents clean up the mess that began at Safe Haven.

He should have been freaked out. This wasn’t kid stuff. This was real serious shit. People dying, government cover-ups, experimental military super commandos. But as Mom and Josh had told him too many times to count, praemonitus praemunitus; forewarned is forearmed.

In other words, if you’re always prepared for anything, you can never be surprised.

So Duncan took judo classes, and learned to shoot and field strip various firearms, and was able to wake up from a dead sleep and get into the panic room in less than thirty seconds. He didn’t find any of that strange. It was just part of his daily life.

He checked his watch, then reached for the walkie-talkie on the passenger seat next to the 9mm and tapped the talk button twice, giving his parents the all clear signal once again. The night, and the fields, and the house, was all pretty spooky. But Duncan kept cool. He’d just seen Mom shoot some dude, and it didn’t bug him at all. Dude shouldn’t have shot first. Duh. You can’t expect to act violent and not expect violence in retaliation.

Praemonitus praemunitus.

Duncan placed his hands on the steering wheel. The van was parked, the engine not running, but Duncan had already driven three times, even though he still hadn’t gotten his permit, and he was pretty sure he knew what he was doing. He went through the start-up procedure, like Josh had taught him.

Put on his seatbelt. Done.

Check to make sure all of his mirrors were adjusted. Done.

Keys in the ignition, foot on the brake. Done.

Then Duncan pretended to start the van. In his mind he put it into drive and pulled onto the H2 Freeway in Mililani. He had Jenni, the eighteen-year-old he’d kissed, in the passenger seat. She was wearing a halter top, and her boobs were huge. If Duncan had a chance to kiss her again, he’d have to try to touch one and—

Something dark appeared in the passenger window.

Duncan turned and looked, but there wasn’t anything there.

Weird. He would have sworn that—

The walkie-talkie that had been on the seat.

It was gone.

Duncan looked up, finding the interior light on the ceiling, switching it on. The radio wasn’t on the floor. Could it have fallen between the seat and the door? If so, how?

He leaned over, trying to see, but the seatbelt only stretched so far. So he unbuckled it, opened the door, and walked to the front of the van. The moon was out, but not very bright. And there were no lights on in Butler House. Only the interior light of the van.

Then that winked off.

In Hawaii, even the darkest night was bright with stars, alive with sounds. This place was dark and dead. No frogs, no insects, no birds. The night was like a smothering blanket, covering Duncan’s eyes and ears.

And he was afraid.

He hurried around to the passenger side, no longer caring about the radio, much more interested in getting that 9mm pistol Josh had left him in his hand. Duncan swung open the door, reaching for the seat.

The gun wasn’t there.

He felt all the old fears come back and climb onto his shoulders, weighing him down, pinning him so he couldn’t react.

Then he pushed all the fear away. This was being forewarned. Now what did he need to do to protect himself?

When he didn’t check in, his parents would come back for him. That meant holding his position until they arrived.

Duncan immediately climbed into the van and crawled into the driver seat. He locked both doors, and rolled up the windows as he hit the overhead light again.

As soon as it went on, something lunged out of the backseat and attacked Duncan with a scalpel, driving it into the boy’s shoulder.

Tom

Torble held the glowing branding iron in front of Tom’s nose.

“This liquid smoke crap Forenzi insisted I spray all over my body, so I smell like Sturgis Butler burned at the stake, it’s not right. I mean, it seems to scare people just fine. But the odor is off. As I told you in prison today, the real smell of searing flesh is much tastier.”

Torble tore the buttons off Tom’s shirt, exposing his bare chest. Just as he stepped back, Tom lashed out with his foot, trying to kick away the poker.

He missed. By a lot.

“Seriously?” Torble said, looking amused. “That was your big move? How long have you been planning that one?”

“A while,” Tom admitted.

“That was pathetic, man. I mean, I’m actually embarrassed for you.”

“It went better in my head.”

“How so?”

“I kicked the poker, it went flying up into the air, and burned my rope off, freeing me.”

Torble nodded. “That would have been pretty cinematic. But instead we’ll have to settle for this.”

When the branding iron touched Tom’s chest, the sensation defied description. He’d been hurt before. Badly. Plus there were all the common, human pains everyone had to deal with. Toothaches. Back strains. Ear infections. Kidney stones. Kicked in the balls.

This was worse than all of that, happening all at once, confined to one small section of Tom’s body, multiplied by ten.

It hurt like hell.

The next thing Tom knew, he was being slapped in the face. When he woke up, the pain was still there.

“You passed out,” Torble said. “And you’re crying. It’s really disappointing, Tom. Aren’t you supposed to be the hero? The one who rushes in to save the day?”

The branding iron was back in the stove. Tom was shivering all over, and the tears wouldn’t stop.

“You smell that?” Torble took a big, exaggerated sniff. “That’s you. Isn’t it the most succulent scent? I confess, sometimes when I had a whore down here, the smell was so overpowering that I took a little nibble. I’ll try to refrain from doing that with you, Detective. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. But if I do have a moment of weakness, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Tom kept looking at the stove.

“Don’t worry, Tom. It’ll be ready shortly. Iron holds its heat pretty well. If you’re anxious, I can have two irons going at once, so one is always heating up. I’ve also got some pincers we can try. They snip out a bit of flesh while they’re burning you.”

Torble came over, gave Tom a gentle poke in his new burn.

“I believe that’s going to leave a scar, Detective. That is, it would, if you lived long enough for it to heal. I have to say, you look really frightened right now.”

Torble moved closer.

“Don’t you have anything at all to say, Tom? No begging me to stop? No threats? Don’t worry, you’ll open up. You’ll tell me all about your life. Try to get my sympathy. Try to distract me. By the end of the day, I’ll know everything about you. Your hopes and dreams. Your fears. All the little secrets you’re too embarrassed to even tell your lover. It’s a bonding experience, Tom.”

Then Torble stuck out his tongue and gave Tom’s burn a slow lick.

“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. But it is delicious. You’ll also be able to taste it for yourself, when I use the branding iron on your lips.”

Torble went back to the stove, and Tom felt a scream welling up inside. A scream, if let out, would continue until his voice was gone.

“Mr. Torble, you’re needed immediately.”

Dr. Forenzi had come back into the room. He appeared agitated.

Torble’s eyebrows furrowed. “What for?”

“We have some intruders, and they’re causing some problems.”

“How about all your super military killing machines? Why don’t you get them to help?”

“Everyone is helping, Mr. Torble. Now please come with me.”

Torble blew Tom a kiss, then followed Forenzi out of the room.

Tom let out a sob, and then considered his options. As far as he could tell, he only had one. Try and use his feet to pull one of his IV tubs out of the dialysis machine, and then hopefully bleed to death before Torble returned.

A pretty shitty option. And though it was preferable to being tortured to death with a branding iron, Tom wasn’t quite ready to give up yet. Where there was time, there was hope. If there were even a slim chance he might get out of there alive, and see Joan again, he had to take that chance. Even if it meant days of unbearable agony.

What the fuck am I thinking?

Tom kicked out, grabbing the tube between his toes, yanking it free. Then he began to hyperventilate so his heart beat quicker, pumping blood out of his body at a faster rate. If he got lucky, he’d be in hypovolemic shock before Torble returned.

“Tom!”

He looked at the doorway, and saw Moni, Frank, and Sara.

“Oh my god,” Moni cried. “You’re bleeding all over!”

“Good thing you got here in time,” Tom said. “Hurry up and cut me down.”

No one had a knife, but Tom told them his original idea of burning the rope with the branding iron. Moni was able to untie his hands and remove his IVs, and Dr. Belgium offered him heroin.

Tom demurred. “I’m good, Frank. Where are the others?”

“We lost Deb. Mal went off to find her.”

“Okay, we look for them, then get the hell out of here.”

Much as he loathed it, Tom took the branding iron as a weapon, and they crept out into the hallway so search for survivors.

Fran

Woof took the lead, sniffing down the hallway with Mathison jockeying him, and Fran followed two steps behind. She’d mounted a flashlight on the rail of her AR-15, lighting the way as they pushed into the bowels of Butler House.

The house was creepy, that was for sure. Mal and Deb continued to contribute snippets as to what had gone down that night, and Fran was happy she’d missed that particular party. She also wondered what possessed these people, who seemed smart and capable, to come here in the first place.

Then again, Fran and her family had shown up as well. Better prepared, perhaps, and playing by a different set of rules. But Fran came here to exorcize her past demons same as the Dieters did. She just brought bigger guns.

Woof stopped, growling. The dog could track, but hadn’t ever learned to point. That was okay, because Mathison did point, directly at a hallway door opening up.

Fran dropped to one knee, giving Josh a clear shot over her head.

A man stepped into the hall and faced them. Tall, thin, wearing a dirty white jacket and holding a leather bag and some sort of saw. Like the four-armed man in the great room, he also had eyes that were completely black.

“Colton Butler,” Mal said.

Fran shivered, memories of Safe Haven pushing into her head, of the fear and helplessness, and then she returned to the here and now and sighted the target’s head.

“Drop the weapon,” she ordered. “We have real bullets.”

Colton Butler rushed at them.

Fran wasn’t sure who made the head shot, her or Josh, but the wannabe ghost went down in a pink mist of blood. When he hit the floor, the top of his skull gone, what was left of his brains spilled out like a tipped bowl of oatmeal.

Fran had experience trying to kill enhanced psychopaths. They didn’t die easily. But that was so simple it was almost unfair.

“They can hear, right?” Fran asked.

“I think they’re on a drug that eliminates fear,” Deb said. “That’s what they’re making here.”

Fran got up from her crouch. A drug that eliminated fear. On one hand, something like that could be a huge benefit to mankind. On the other, Fran didn’t relish the idea of an entire army made up of kamikaze pilots and suicide bombers.

She changed her magazine, snapped her fingers, and Woof continued to sniff his way down the hall.

“Entrance to the tunnels is up ahead,” Mal said.

Woof was already on it, scratching at the door and whining. Fran opened it, illuminating the stairwell.

“It’s a maze down there,” Mal told her. “We’ll need a string to find our way back.”

Fran hadn’t packed a string, but she and Josh each had a sack of reusable road flares. She took one out, flipped the switch, and dropped the red light on the top stair.

“I got point, Woof.”

The dog looked at her, wagging his tail, and Fran descended the stairs first. Rather than the expected basement, Fran found herself in a tunnel. She dropped another flare and whistled for Woof. Once again the beagle took the lead.

“Time?” Fran asked.

“Duncan is thirty seconds late,” her husband answered. Fran listened to her walkie-talkie click three times—their signal for Duncan to respond.

There wasn’t an answer.

“Duncan, come in,” Fran said into the radio.

Her son didn’t reply.

“I’m going,” Josh said, turning around and breaking into a run.

“Mathison!” Fran said. “Find Duncan!”

The capuchin monkey hopped off Woof and scrambled up the stairs, faster than Josh could move.

“Duncan, are you there?” Fran said again.

Still no answer.

Fran’s mind tortured her with nightmare scenarios. She and Josh had fought over whether to bring Duncan along or leave him in Hawaii. They’d ultimately decided to take him in case those fake feds came back. Fran figured she could better protect her son while she was with him, instead of him being home alone.

But now she regretted that decision more than she’d ever regretted anything. Could someone have taken her son? Could someone have hurt him?

Killed him?

“Duncan, it’s Mom. Please answer me.”

Then the radio exploded in Fran’s hand, and three more bullets peppered her back and she fell to the ground.

Duncan

The scalpel poked at Duncan’s bulletproof vest, four times in rapid succession, and then Duncan lashed out to swipe at his attacker and got stabbed in his palm.

He recoiled, batting at the blade blindly, and then something was in his lap, something Duncan recognized instinctively, and when he reached for it his hands locked around the waist of a monkey.

Mathison?

No. This primate was bigger by a half, its fur different, rougher. Duncan grabbed tight and pinned it to the steering wheel, hitting the van’s horn. In the glow of the van’s interior light, Duncan saw this was a much different animal than Mathison was. Besides being larger, it had huge, red eyes, almost like a lemur.

The monkey screeched, poking with the scalpel, digging it into Duncan’s forearms.

Duncan managed to throw the little monster into the back seat, and then he fumbled for the door handle and tumbled out of the vehicle, landing on his back.

The monkey pounced on him, landing on Duncan’s chest, bringing the scalpel up to the boy’s bare throat.

There was a screech, loud and shrill and—

—coming from the front of the van.

Mathison!

The little capuchin stood there, wearing his silly little plastic GI Joe helmet, his teeth bared.

The monkey on Josh screeched a reply.

Mathison gave him the finger.

Josh’s attacker hopped off and howled, stretching out its long arms, the scalpel glinting in the van’s interior light.

Mathison calmly removed his helmet, and took out the C1ST miniature revolver holstered inside of it. The smallest handgun in the world.

The psychotic primate charged at Mathison.

Mathison stood his ground and fired five rounds of 2.34mm ammo, each shot hitting home.

His opponent spun, facing Duncan, who saw that Mathison had put rounds through both of its oversized eyes. The monkey flopped over, dead.

“Mathison!” Duncan yelled, overjoyed. In sign language, the boy told his friend, “Thanks. I love you.”

Mathison put the revolver back under his helmet and signed back, “Stupid simian. Brings a knife to a gun fight.”

Then he hurried over and gave Duncan a hug. Duncan hugged him back.

“Duncan!”

Josh ran up, gun at the ready. He stared at Josh and Mathison, and at the dead monkey.

“We’re okay, Dad.”

Josh spoke into his radio. “He’s fine, Fran.”

Mom didn’t respond.

“Stay in the van, lock the doors,” Josh told him. “Mathison, stay with him.”

The monkey saluted, and Duncan’s dad ran off, back toward Butler House. But before he reached the doors, two men in gray suits walked out and began shooting.

Tom

He had no idea where he was going, but Tom somehow had taken the lead, wandering through the endless underground tunnels without the slightest idea where he was going.

“That’s new.”

Sara pointed, with her good hand, to some steel doors.

Tom went through first, clenching the branding iron. It was a lab, lots of equipment on various counters, a table in the corner of the room, and standing next to the table—

Dr. Forenzi.

Tom set his jaw and raised the branding iron, beelining for the son of a bitch, when something he saw stopped him in mid-stride.

Strapped to the table. Shirtless. Bleeding. Hooked up to one of those dialysis machines.

Roy!

His friend had so many wounds he looked like he’d been pecked to death by dozens of birds. But he wasn’t dead. He was breathing.

Forenzi quickly took a revolver from his coat pocket and pointed it at Roy’s head.

“That’s close enough, Detective. Drop the weapon.”

Tom released his grip, letting it clatter on the tile floor.

“You and your friends have proven extremely resourceful,” Forenzi said. “I’m impressed. But your little coup d’état has failed, I’m afraid. If you take one step closer I’m going to shoot your partner and—”

Moni ran straight at Forenzi, smacking him upside the head with her metal bar. Forenzi fell to the floor, and she continued to hit him until Tom pulled her off.

“Let him stand trial,” Tom said. When he was sure she’d calmed down, he pocketed Forenzi’s gun and went to Frank and Sara, who were doing their best to release Roy each using only one hand.

“Hey, buddy, can you hear me?”

Roy mumbled something, but he was completely out of it. He needed immediate medical attention. Tom helped them undo the straps binding his partner, and then they helped him off the table.

He couldn’t even stand.

Tom looked around for a wheelchair or a gurney, and saw Moni in the corner of the lab, spilling chemicals onto the floor.

“What are you doing?”

Moni smiled, lighting a match. “I’m burning this fucking place to the ground.”

“Moni! Don’t—”

She dropped it, and there was a WHOOSH! of flame, spreading out across the floor.

“Everyone! Move!” Tom ordered. With Sara and Frank’s help, they dragged Roy out of the lab and into the tunnels—

—where Torble was waiting with a gun.

Before Tom could draw, Torble fired, shooting Frank Belgium in the chest.

Tom fired back as Torble ran off into the darkness.

Frank was down on his back. Tom set down Roy and knelt next to Frank, ripping open his shirt.

The bullet hole was near his heart, gushing bubbles of blood.

Sara was crouching next to Frank, her good hand holding his. “Frank, oh Frank, oh god.”

Frank stared at her. “It’s okay. I don’t don’t don’t feel anything.”

Sara looked at Tom, her eyes imploring. “Don’t let him die. Please.”

“Hold your hand here,” Tom said, placing it on Frank’s wound. “Keep pressure on it. Moni?”

“Yeah?”

“My room. The first aid kit in my suitcase.”

“I’m on it.” Moni ran off.

There was another gunshot, from the opposite direction. The bullet pinged into the metal door, inches from Tom’s head.

Torble.

“I’ve got to go after him,” Tom said.

Sara shook her head. “Don’t leave!”

“If I don’t, he’ll stay in the shadows and kill us all. I’ll be right back. Keep an eye on my partner.”

Then Tom ran after Torble, plunging headlong into the darkness.

Forenzi

Dr. Forenzi smelled smoke and opened his eyes.

Smoke had indeed filled the lab, and he was surrounded on all sides by fire.

His head hurt. So did his chest. But those pains paled next to the abject terror he felt by being trapped in a burning room. Everywhere he looked the flames stretched to the ceiling. There would be no escape.

Please. Don’t let me burn. Not like this. Anything but this.

Forenzi had never been badly burned, but he saw the pain and fear it caused in his patients. Torture with fire was one of the most effective ways to harvest metusamine.

Now that he was surrounded by fire, about to be roasted alive, the irony wasn’t lost on him.

But maybe I don’t need to be afraid of it.

Next to him on the floor, like an answer to a prayer, was a syringe of Serum 3. Forenzi had never used it on himself, but now seemed like the perfect time.

He bared his forearm and expertly gave himself an injection of his life’s work.

The effect was immediate and stunning.

His fear vanished instantly, to the point where Forenzi couldn’t even remember what fear felt like. It was replaced by an overwhelming sense of well-being.

He stood up, chin raised, chest out. The flames closed in around him, but Forenzi didn’t care one bit. Even as his coat caught fire, it didn’t matter to him. Forenzi felt invincible.

But in short order, it did begin to hurt.

Quite a lot.

As he burned, Forenzi wasn’t frightened at all, even when the pain became intolerable. And it occurred to him that being scared might actually be a good thing. Soldiers without fear would rush blindly into a firefight without taking the proper precautions. Nations without fear would hit that nuclear launch without considering the consequences.

“Maybe this wasn’t my best idea.” Forenzi thought as the flames ignited his hair.

Then his brain boiled and he didn’t think about anything anymore.

Fran

She hit the dirt, falling onto her chest, bringing up her rifle and not bothering to check if the shots had penetrated her vest or not. Fran quickly sighted the targets, all armed with handguns. An Asian man with black eyes, a woman dressed as a gypsy, also with black eyes, and a guy in a gray suit.

None of them were even attempting to take cover. They walked up the hallway, guns extended, acting as if they were bulletproof.

They weren’t. Fran took them out with three quick head shots.

“Clear!” she yelled to Mal and Deb, who had all fallen back.

Then she checked herself for damage. The Kevlar had stopped the rounds, but it still hurt like hell. Like someone had worked her over with a sledgehammer.

“Help! Help!”

Fran raised her weapon, saw a woman coming at her. She had at least a dozen bleeding wounds on her, and appeared unarmed.

“It’s Moni,” Deb said. “She’s with us!”

Fran covered her anyway.

“Frank got shot,” Moni said. “Sara is with him. There’s also another man who needs help. I’m getting a first aid kit. Also, someone may have started a fire.”

Moni ran past. Fran got off the ground and followed Woof as he led them down two turns and straight to the wounded. There was smoke, and it was quickly filling the tunnel.

Fran glanced at the man who was shot, and the other man, who looked like he’d been dropped in a blender on puree.

She didn’t see how either of them were going to survive.

But she shouldered her rifle and helped just the same.

Moni

She wasn’t quite sure where she was going, but she was in a damn big hurry to get there. It didn’t help that the only light she had was the matches she’d found in the lab, and she had to stop constantly to light one to see where she was.

By some extreme stroke of luck, she found the stairs to the upper level, and less than a minute later she was opening the door to Tom’s room.

Her match went out as soon as she entered. As Moni began to strike another one, she heard something that scared the shit out of her.

“Hee hee hee hee.”

Lighting the match, Moni saw she was standing next to a bloody guy with a gas mask on, holding a huge meat cleaver.

“Hee hee,” he said.

Moni cracked him upside the head with her iron bar, and when he fell she kept beating him until he stopped moving.

“What’s so goddamn funny now, asshole?”

She lit one of the candles in the room and held it while she searched, finding Tom’s suitcase open on the bed. The first aid kit was on top, and Moni grabbed it and ran out of the room—

—right into that psycho who shot Frank. The one who smelled like barbecue.

She swung the metal bar, but he ducked and came up behind her, getting Moni in a choke hold. He pressed the gun to her temple.

“Time to die, whore.”

Tom

Torble ran as soon as he saw Tom coming, and after rounding a corner he ducked into a room. Tom followed, going in low, and saw he was in a root cellar.

An empty root cellar.

Torble had disappeared.

Tom looked around, but the room was completely empty. No place to hide. No exits. It didn’t make any sense.

Then he recalled the Butler House website, which talked extensively about secret passages and hidden staircases. Walking to the far wall, he ran his hand across the brick until he found a seam. Tom pushed against it, and it swung on hinges, exposing an old, wooden ladder.

Tom looked up, unable to see where it led. He went up anyway, climbing in the dark, expecting Torble to shoot him at any moment. The smarter thing to do was to go back, meet with the others, and get the hell out. But Tom didn’t want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, waiting for Torble to come calling. He wanted to finish this, today.

The ladder ended in a small, dark room the size of a closet. Tom found a latch, pushed it open, and then he saw he was on the second floor of Butler House, the only light coming from a candle—

—that Moni held. And behind Moni…

“Hello, Detective. What are you going to do now?”

Tom aimed at Torble’s head.

“Don’t you remember?” Tom said. “I’m the hero, rushing in to save the day.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re going to drop the gun, or I’ll blow this whore’s head off.”

“I’m not a whore anymore,” Moni said. “And I’m getting goddamn sick of all these goddamn psychos trying to hurt me.”

Moni thrust the candle behind her, into Torble’s face.

He cried out, letting her go.

She dropped to the floor.

Tom fired three times, two in his chest and one in his head.

Then he rushed over, pulling the gun out of Torble’s dead hand.

“Not bad for a pig,” Moni appraised. “I got your kit. Let’s go save Frank.”

They ran for the stairs as smoke began to fill Butler House.

Duncan

The men in gray walked out of the house and began shooting at Josh. He watched as his Dad was hit in both legs, watched as he fell to the ground, pinning his rifle underneath his body, unable to return fire.

The men kept shooting.

Duncan jumped into the van and didn’t remember anything Josh taught him.

He didn’t put on his seatbelt.

He didn’t check his mirrors.

He didn’t put his foot on the brake when he started the engine.

He just cranked it and mashed the gas pedal to the floor, the van spinning tires, and headed straight for those assholes shooting his father. They didn’t even try to get out of the way as he ran them both over, splattering the hood and windshield with blood.

Then he hit the brakes, threw the van into park, and ran to Josh.

“Dad!”

“I’m okay,” he said. “Just winged in the legs. Come here.”

Duncan knelt down and hugged his father, hugged him so tight.

“Nice driving, son.”

Duncan began to cry. “I forgot to wear my seatbelt.”

Josh patted his back. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. You did really, really good.”

And they held each other until Mom and Woof appeared with a group of people, including two wounded. A moment later, two more people came out of Butler House, a man and a woman. The woman helped Mom use a first aid kit on Dad, bandaging his legs. The man put some sort of plastic disk on another guy’s chest, the guy who had been either stabbed or shot.

“I hope hope hope heaven has heroin,” the shot guy said.

Then everyone got into the van and Mom drove away. Duncan watched through the back window, petting Woof, Mathison perched on his shoulder, as Butler House burned, lighting up the night sky.

Epilogue

At Bon Secours-St. Francis Hospital in Charleston, South Carolina, Dr. Frank Belgium died on the operating table at 12:52am from a gunshot wound to the chest.

He was resuscitated at 12:53am.

When he regained consciousness eight hours later, he asked the duty nurse for heroin. He repeated himself three times. He was administered morphine instead.

The woman who was admitted with him, Sara Randhurst, had eighty three stitches in her fingers, which she demanded be done in Frank’s room because she refused to leave his side.

Both were expected to make a full recovery. As was Chicago Homicide Detective Roy Lewis, who was treated for shock, dehydration, and multiple burns, cuts, and contusions.

Josh VanCamp, also treated for GSWs, left the hospital after treatment against doctor’s orders. He and his wife Fran called an immediate press conference, where they were joined by Mal and Deb Deiter. They all spoke at length about what had occurred at Butler House, and about what happened years ago in Safe Haven, Wisconsin.

Public outcry was universal. Full investigations were demanded.

Butler House burned for two full days, until almost nothing remained. What was left was bulldozed over by the state.

During the demolition, four construction workers reported seeing ghosts, and one was fatally injured when a piece of equipment malfunctioned, crushing him. When tested later, the equipment appeared to be in perfect working order.

FOUR WEEKS LATER

Hollywood, California

Tom

The sun beat down on Tom as he sprawled out on the chaise lounge, baking him almost as brown as Roy, who occupied the chaise to his right.

The Hotel Roosevelt was one of Joan’s hang outs, and she’d pulled some strings and gotten them suites for practically free. Tom’s Sam Adams was almost empty, and he was going to do rock, paper, scissors with Roy for who got the next round when a very pretty little blonde in a teeny little bikini came up to them.

“Ooh, how did you get all those scars?” she asked Roy.

“I’m a cop. I was tortured for a week by some maniacs dressed as ghosts. Shot me, too. You heard of Butler House?”

The swimsuit model’s eyes got wide. “Oh my gosh! You were at Butler House?”

Roy nodded. “Lemme buy you a cocktail, I’ll tell you all about it.”

Roy took her hand and led her to the poolside tiki bar.

“He’s adjusting well,” Joan said. She was in the chaise on Tom’s other side. Also in a bikini, also very pretty.

“Roy doesn’t remember most of it. I think he’s going to be okay.”

“Are you?”

He reached out and held her hand. “I’m getting better every day.”

Joan took a sip of lemonade. She had to visit a shoot later, so she wasn’t drinking. “That hooker. Moni. She’s a real trip. Killed three of those psychos by herself. Amazing woman.”

“No kidding. And she’s not a hooker. She’s a dominatrix. No sex. Just figging.”

“What’s figging?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Joan whipped out her iPhone and Googled it. A moment later she made a face.

“Figging is sticking a ginger root up someone’s butt. It is supposed to cause an intense burning sensation. Why would anyone willingly do that?”

“I said you didn’t want to know. And thanks for finding a press agent for her.”

“Are you kidding? I’m going to produce the movie. There’s a bidding war now for her story. Up to seven figures.”

Tom shook his head, amused as hell. So she finally got her million bucks. Go, Moni.

“Am I going to be a character in the flick?” Tom asked.

“Maybe.”

“Who is going to play me?”

“We’re talking to Nick Cage’s people.”

“Nicholas Cage? Really?

“No. But Jason Alexander is interested.”

“George from Seinfeld?”

“He’s got some serious drama chops.”

Tom shrugged and drained his beer. The sun felt glorious, except for on the scar on his chest, which still hurt like hell a month later. Burns sucked.

“Mind if I ask you something?” Joan said. “Something personal?”

“Shoot.”

“When you were being branded, did you ever want to give up?”

Tom turned to her. “Who? Me? Of course not.”

“What kept you going?”

“Thoughts of you, of course. I realized I couldn’t let him break me, because then I’d never see your face again.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Joan leaned over and gave him a peck on the lips. “I call bullshit.”

“As soon as Torble left, I kicked out the IV to try and bleed to death.”

“That I believe.”

“But I did think of you.”

“I’m sure.”

“I did. I swear.”

Tom gave her a quick, but tender, peck on the cheek.

“So you really want to quit the force?” she asked.

“Yeah. Roy and I are thinking about opening up a fishing charter business.”

“In California?”

“I heard they have an ocean somewhere close.”

Joan ran a finger across his belly and grinned. “I think I could get used to having you around all the time.”

“I could, too.”

“And I remembered something. Something you asked me about. Last time I was at your place, I was watching you take a shower.”

“Pervert.”

“That was the night we drank all that wine. So I think it was me who wrote I’m watching you on your mirror.”

Tom laughed. That was the last thing that had nagged him about the whole Butler House experience, and now it had been resolved. Case closed. Time to get on with life.

“You know what?” he said.

“What?”

“I think I’d like to watch you take a shower.”

“Peeping Tom, huh?” She smiled and sat up. “Race you to our room. Loser washes the winner’s back.”

Joan won.

But Tom was the one who really did.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Frank

Dr. Frank Belgium was sitting in his easy chair, Jack on his lap. The boy was an absolute marvel. Cute. Smart. More fun than Frank ever could have imagined.

Even if he hadn’t married his mother, he would have still wanted Jack around.

“Ma ma ma,” Jack said.

“I think he wants you,” Frank said to Sara. “He said mama.”

Sara got up off the sofa and took Jack in her arms. “He didn’t say mama. He said ma ma ma. He repeated his word three times.”

“Hmm. Now where do you think he picked that up?”

“Where do you think?”

“Do I do do do that?”

“Yes you do do do.”

They exchanged a smile. The moment was interrupted by the doorbell.

Frank moved to get up, but Sara told him to stay put.

“I’m not an invalid, dear. The doctor said I need the exercise.”

He pulled himself out of the chair, wincing at the slight pain from his still-healing wound, and used his cane to make it to the front door.

Frank didn’t like what he saw in the peephole. Two men in black suits. One holding a Secret Service badge.

“Who is it?” Sara asked.

“It’s for me. I’ve got got got it.” Frank opened the door a crack. “Can I help you?”

“Dr. Frank Belgium? The President sent us. Your country needs you.”

“Tell the President I’m not interested.”

“Please, sir. Can we have just one moment of your time?”

Frank was thrown by how polite they were. Asking, not demanding. Reserved, not threatening.

“I’m done with all this,” he said. “I have a family now.”

“Believe me, Dr. Belgium, your country recognizes the sacrifices you’ve made, and they are appreciated. But we truly need your help. Even if it is only on an advisory basis.”

Frank sighed, then let them in. “Okay, but but but let’s keep it in the hallway. I don’t want you upsetting my wife or son.”

He let them in, and one of them handed Frank a manila folder. Frank didn’t want to take it. As if sensing his reluctance, the agent opened it and held a picture for Belgium to see.

It was of a cow. A very dead cow, almost stripped to the bone.

“I’m a very good scientist, gentlemen, but even I don’t think I can help help help you save that cow.”

“Here is a close-up of the lower right hand section of the picture, Dr. Belgium.”

He held up a second photo, grainier, zooming in to the cow’s ribcage.

Perched there, staring into the camera, was a tiny, red creature with bat wings and large horns.

“Do you recognize that, Dr. Belgium? We believe it is one of the demons that escaped from the facility you worked at. Project Samhain.”

The biologist made a face, and the first thought that popped into his mind escaped his lips before he could stop it.

“Uh oh.”

THE END

AUTHOR NOTE

For those interested in reading the backstories of the various characters in Haunted House, here is the chronological order of the works they appear in.

ORIGIN (Dr. Frank Belgium)

THE LIST (Tom Mankowski and Roy Lewis)

SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT (Moni Draper)

AFRAID (Josh, Fran, Duncan, Woof, and Mathias VanCamp)

TRAPPED (Sara Randhurst)

ENDURANCE (Mal and Deb Dieter)

Dr. Frank Belgium will return in SECOND COMING

Tom Mankowski, Roy Lewis, and Joan DeVillers will return in THE NINE

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Mal and Deb Dieter first appeared in the Jack Kilborn novel Endurance, which took place at the Rushmore Inn in West Virginia. Mal is a sports reporter. He’s missing his hand. Deb is an athlete who competes regularly in the Paralympics and triathlons. She has prosthetic legs.

Roy Lewis and Tom Mankowski first appeared in the J.A. Konrath novel The List, which ended in Springfield, Illinois. They have made cameos in several novels in the Jack Daniels series (Cherry Bomb, Shaken, Stirred). They are both Homicide Detectives that work in Chicago.

Dr. Frank Belgium first appeared in the J.A. Konrath novel Origin, working for Project Samhain in New Mexico. He’s a molecular biologist and has a speech dysfluency, where he sometimes repeats the same word three times.

Sara Randhurst first appeared in the Jack Kilborn novel Trapped, which took place on Rock Island in Lake Michigan. She’s a former guidance counselor.

Fran, Josh, and Duncan VanCamp first appeared in the Jack Kilborn novel Afraid, which took place in Safe Haven Wisconsin. They live in Hawaii with their pets, a basset hound named Woof and a capuchin monkey named Mathison. Josh and Fran live off a stipend. Duncan is fifteen years old, learning how to drive.

Moni Draper is a dancer and call girl who appeared in Serial Killers Uncut written by Jack Kilborn and Blake Crouch. She survived encounters with two serial killers, the Gingerbread Man (Whiskey Sour) and Luther Kite (Stirred).

About J.A. Konrath:

Joe Konrath has sold over two million books. He’s learned all he knows about writing from fellow scribes F. Paul Wilson, Blake Crouch, Scott Nicholson, and Iain Rob Wright. Joe has yet to read any of Jeff Strand’s self-described “thrillomedies”, but he’s pretty sure that some of them may be good, probably. You can read more about Joe’s work at www.jakonrath.com.

EBOOKS BY J.A. KONRATH

Jack Daniels Thrillers

Whiskey Sour

Bloody Mary

Rusty Nail

Dirty Martini

Fuzzy Navel

Cherry Bomb

Shaken

Stirred

Shot of Tequila

Banana Hammock

Jack Daniels Stories (collected stories)

Serial Killers Uncut (with Blake Crouch)

Suckers (with Jeff Strand)

Planter’s Punch (with Tom Schreck)

Floaters (with Henry Perez)

Truck Stop (short)

Flee (with Ann Voss Peterson)

Spree (with Ann Voss Peterson)

Three (with Ann Voss Peterson)

Babe on Board (short with Ann Voss Peterson)

With a Twist (short)

Street Music (short)

Other Books

Symbios (short,writing as Joe Kimball)

Timecaster (writing as Joe Kimball)

Timecaster Supersymettry (writing as Joe Kimball)

Wild Night is Calling (short with Ann Voss Peterson)

Shapeshifters Anonymous (short)

The Screaming (short)

Afraid (writing as Jack Kilborn)

Endurance (writing as Jack Kilborn)

Trapped (writing as Jack Kilborn)

Draculas (with Blake Crouch, Jeff Strand, and F. Paul Wilson)

Origin

The List

Disturb

65 Proof (short story omnibus)

Crime Stories (collected stories)

Horror Stories (collected stories)

Dumb Jokes & Vulgar Poems

A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing

Be the Monkey (with Barry Eisler)

WOLF HUNT

By Jeff Strand

Wolf Hunt copyright 2010 by Jeff Strand

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

For more information about the author, visit www.JeffStrand.com

CHAPTER ONE

Meet George and Lou

“Okay, it says here that you stole...” George Orton glanced down at his notebook, then flipped through a few pages. “Where did I write that down? Bear with me for a second...yeah, here it is. Sixty-three thousand dollars.” He whistled. “Wow. That’s a lot of skimming off the top.”

The old man’s eyes glistened. “I have a family. I have five grandkids. Please don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you? For sixty-three thousand you should be begging me not to kill you, right?”

“Please don’t kill me,” said the old man, Douglas, in a whisper. “I’ll double whatever he’s paying you.”

“Hmmmm. Let me check my notes.” George glanced down at his notebook again. “Ah, here we go. ‘If he tries to bribe you, break an extra finger.’ Look at that, you just created more work for me.”

“Please--”

“Not to mention that you probably intended to pay that bribe out of the money you stole, so in a few hours I’d have men at my house wanting to break my thumbs. Don’t get me wrong, I like the idea of getting double pay for this job, but you’re asking me to put future earning potential at risk. That’s an unfair thing to ask of somebody you’ve just met.”

Douglas’ voice cracked. “There has to be a way we can work this out.”

“There’s really nothing to work out. Were we sent here to break your thumbs? Yes. Will your thumbs be broken when we leave? Yes indeed. Does it have to be the worst experience of your life? Not necessarily.”

“I’m sure that--”

“Discussion over. I want you to understand, Doug, that I’m no sadist. I’m here to do a job like any other working man. If it were up to me, there would be no snapping of bones in the next few minutes. But it’s not up to me. So now that we’ve established what is most definitely going to happen, let’s see if we can work together to make it go as smoothly as possible.”

Douglas looked over at George’s partner, Lou Flynn, as if for help. Lou shrugged and leaned back in the recliner, the briefcase of recovered cash resting in his lap. The old man had been skimming for the past few months but hadn’t spent a cent, which made things a lot easier for everybody.

Really, the old man should’ve felt lucky that it was George’s turn to handle the uncomfortable part of the business. Lou was pretty good with knives, but he cringed at the act of breaking bones, which meant that he didn’t always get it done on the first try. Yeah, Lou was doing an excellent job of presenting a casual front, pretending to be sitting there all cold and emotionless, but George knew that he was feeling sick to his stomach.

Apparently realizing that no help was forthcoming, Douglas looked back at George. A tear trickled down his cheek. “Yes, sir.”

“Good to hear. Do you have a cover story?”

“Excuse me?”

“For your family. You’re not going to tell them that a couple of hired thugs came over and broke your thumbs for stealing from a drug lord, are you?”

“I guess not.”

“Are you clumsy?”

“I...I can be.”

“So, theoretically, you could have tripped, put out your hands to break your fall, hit the floor, and snapped your thumbs, correct?”

“I’m not sure.”

George sighed. “Work with me, Doug. This is for your benefit. I’m trying to protect your marriage. You want your grandkids to know that you’re a scumbag sleazeball criminal? You’re way too old to start your life from scratch, so you need to commit to the story, make it believable. Let’s practice.”

“I fell...and, uh, hit the floor...”

“That’s total crap. You need conviction, and you also need a sheepish demeanor. Look me in the eye and start it off with something like ‘You’ll never believe this,’ and then hold up your thumbs. That’ll make it seem like you aren’t trying to hide anything. It’s kind of a ridiculous story, so your performance needs to be spot-on.”

Douglas cleared his throat. “You’ll never believe this...but I was walking through the living room...”

“Hold up your thumbs.”

Douglas held up his thumbs. “I was walking through the living room, and I tripped on a dog bone--”

“Chew toy sounds better.”

“A chew toy. I fell and tried to break my fall, and I hurt my thumbs.”

“Nobody’s going to punish the dog for making you trip, right?”

“No.”

“Good.” The Yorkshire terrier had been shut in the bedroom after George and Lou arrived. “Let’s hear it a few more times.”

The old man recited his story five more times, refining it upon George’s suggestions. “You’d buy that, wouldn’t you?” George asked Lou.

Lou shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“That’ll have to do.” Douglas seemed like a decent enough guy, and he’d clearly learned his lesson, so George didn’t want to see him lose his family over this whole mess. “So, Doug, are you ready?”

“Isn’t there a way out of this?”

“Oh, come on now, we were doing so well. Why would you want to backtrack like that? Give me your hand.”

Douglas hesitated for several seconds. “Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re doing them both.”

After a few more seconds of hesitation, Douglas held out his left hand. George took it gently in his own, then wrapped his right fist around Douglas’ thumb.

“Just close your eyes and breathe deeply. Think about something else. Do you like skiing?”

“No, sir.”

“Fishing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Imagine that you’re fishing. Picture yourself on the bank of a calm lake, sitting in your favorite lawn chair, watching a bobber float. You’ve got a cold beer in your hand. It tastes good, doesn’t it? Ahhhh, nothing better than a nice cold frosty beer. Do you taste it?”

Douglas’ shoulders trembled and he was on the verge of sobbing.

“Nod if you taste it.”

Douglas nodded. In one sudden motion, George jerked his thumb backwards until there was a loud snap.

The old man screamed in pain. George grabbed his other hand and quickly broke his right thumb as well. Douglas’ scream intensified, becoming so high-pitched that George might have almost found it amusing were this not a serious, professional matter.

George waited patiently for a couple of minutes until Douglas stopped shrieking and thrashing. “It’s all over now,” he said. “I know it hurt. But, hey, in another time and place they would’ve chopped your hand off for stealing a loaf of bread, so a pair of broken thumbs for sixty-three thousand dollars isn’t a bad deal. A better deal if you’d actually got to keep the money, but you know what I mean. So are you cool with your cover story?”

Douglas nodded and wept.

“Technically, I’m supposed to break another finger for your attempt to bribe me, but I like you and I’m going to pretend it didn’t happen. You should feel lucky--I’m not always this nice. We won’t tell if you don’t. We’ll get out of your hair now. Please don’t take any more drug money that doesn’t belong to you, okay?”

* * *

“Jeez, I hate that sound,” said Lou as they pulled out of Douglas’ driveway. “I’d almost rather have his fingers get cut off, know what I mean?”

“I don’t think he’d agree with you.”

Lou shivered. “It’s just disturbing.”

“I thought he took it pretty well.”

“They usually do, when it’s your turn. Maybe we should stick with that dynamic. I kinda like being the quiet creepy one.”

George chuckled. “Nice dynamic. You supervise and I do the manual labor. Screw that.”

“I’m not saying I won’t ever rough them up. You’re just a better communicator is all.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I hate this car.”

“Me too.” George and Lou were both big guys, and the car wasn’t designed for big guys. George stood six-five, and though he wasn’t quite the all-muscle physical specimen at age forty-three that he’d been at age twenty, he was still in fine shape. Lou stood an inch taller and had let himself go a little bit, but even with a potbelly, he was one intimidating son of a bitch.

They both had black hair. George wore a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, while Lou favored a full beard, which he was in the process of re-growing out like a mountain man, since he’d reluctantly trimmed it before a classy job a couple of weeks ago. Normally they wore black suits, but it was too damn hot and muggy down here in Florida, and so they wore only their white dress shirts. Red tie for George, no tie for Lou, sweat stains for both.

George’s cell phone rang. “It’s Ricky,” he said.

“Tell that scrawny punk to get us a bigger goddamn car next time.”

George pressed the “talk” button and put the phone to his ear. “Get us a bigger goddamn car next time, scrawny punk.”

“I love you too, George,” said Ricky. He made a kissy sound into the phone. “So did the old guy cry like a baby?”

“There were tears.”

“Oh, yeah, I bet there were, I bet there were. Did you leave his fingers at a freakish angle?”

“Why’d you call, Ricky?”

“I pulled some strings and got you a top-notch assignment.”

In Ricky-speak, that translated to I’ve got a crap job that nobody else wants. “What is it?”

“I can’t talk about it over the phone. Let’s just say that I hope you’ve got some silver bullets handy.”

“What are we doing, killing a werewolf?”

There was a long pause on the other end. “Look, George, pretend to be surprised, okay? I wasn’t supposed to give the werewolf part away.”

“You’re serious? Some whack-nut really wants us to kill a werewolf?”

“What werewolf?” Lou asked. George waved at him to shut up.

“It’s an easy job,” Ricky insisted. “There ain’t no such thing as werewolves, I know you know that, but this guy Bateman, he swears he’s got one in captivity, and he needs you to drive it up to this other guy Dewey.”

“Dewey. Like the decimal system?”

“Yeah. And you should make that joke when you see him. Guys in his position, they get a real big kick out of people making fun of their names.”

“I wasn’t making fun of it. I was clarifying it.”

“Anyway, it’s not even a half-day job. You’ll be on the red-eye back to New York tonight.”

“Are we seriously expected to drive with a wolf in the car?”

“Nah, he’s in human form. And it’ll be a van. Lots of legroom. But I’m not supposed to be telling you this, so act surprised.”

“So it’s some crazy guy who thinks he’s a werewolf? I’m not so keen on sharing a van with the mentally ill. He’s not going to be howling and crap like that, is he?”

“Just forget I said anything,” said Ricky. “I’ll text you the address. Be there in an hour.” Ricky hung up before George could protest.

“What werewolf?” Lou asked.

“I don’t know. I think Ricky’s screwing with us.”

“Remember a few months ago when we had to lean on that guy who wore the dog collar around his neck because he thought his head was gonna fall off?”

George scowled. “Don’t remind me. What a joke that was. Maybe we need to treat Ricky with a little more respect so we can get a higher class of assignments.”

“Respect would just confuse him. He enjoys our suffering.”

“He’s going to be doing a lot of suffering of his own if he was lying about this being a quick job. I’m serious--I’ll pop his nose like a water balloon. I’ve gotta get out of this state.”

CHAPTER TWO

Wolf in a Cage

They stopped for an early lunch of drive-thru chicken sandwiches and fries, then followed the GPS directions to a small warehouse in downtown Miami. A kid in sunglasses who looked about nineteen stood outside waiting for them. He raised the sliding metal door and waved their car through.

The warehouse was mostly empty, except for a van, two cars, and about a dozen wooden crates stacked against the far wall. George parked next to a red Porsche that was dirty and a bit dinged up--a criminal act, as far as George was concerned--and then he and Lou got out as a middle-aged man in an ill-fitting business suit approached, flanked on each side by a goon in black.

“Are you Bateman?” George asked.

“I am.” Bateman smiled, revealing yellow teeth that marred an otherwise handsome face. “You two come highly recommended. Which one is George and which one is Lou?”

“I’m Lou,” said Lou, tapping his chest.

“And you’re George?” Bateman asked.

“Yes, sir.” Nice process of elimination.

“I’ve got a task for you gentlemen,” said Bateman. “It’s a simple transport job and shouldn’t cause any problems, but I need good men like yourselves on it. Extremely valuable cargo is involved.”

“We know how to protect cargo,” George assured him.

“That’s what I hear.” Bateman gestured to a black van that was parked about twenty feet away. “Follow me.”

“It’s too damn hot to be in a black van,” Lou whispered to George as the five of them walked over to the vehicle.

George couldn’t see anything through the tinted windows, but one of the thugs opened up the rear doors, revealing a metal cage with thick bars that filled most of the back of the van. A man sat inside, leaning against the cage wall, looking scared and miserable.

Lou sucked in a deep breath.

George hated assignments that involved this kind of crap, but kept his expression devoid of emotion. It was important to always behave in a professional manner around the guy who signed the checks...or at least authorized the non-traceable cash payments.

Bateman gestured to the man. “Do you know what that is?”

George shrugged. “Somebody who fucked with the wrong guy?”

“That is a lycanthrope. A werewolf.”

“I see.”

“By the light of the full moon, that weak-looking, frail man will transform into a vicious beast. The legends are true, gentlemen. Werewolves live among us. Their numbers are small, and few believe in their existence, but we’ve been given an unprecedented opportunity to study one.” Bateman shrugged. “Or, if you don’t believe me, then you’re just driving some poor caged-up bastard from Miami to Tampa. Either way, you get paid.”

George glanced at the other two goons, hoping to get some clue as to whether this was all a big gag or not, but their faces were unreadable.

“I’m not in the habit of questioning my employers,” George said. “But...a werewolf? Really? Isn’t that just movie stuff?”

“I don’t blame you for being skeptical. I’d worry about your sanity if you weren’t. Rest assured that you’re being trusted with an astounding discovery, and I’m confident that you’ll deliver him to my associate safely.”

“What if he sprouts fur and fangs while we’re on the road?”

“That won’t be an issue. The full moon is two weeks away.”

“Ah, okay,” said George, not sure why he was embarrassed. “I don’t really keep track of the lunar cycles.”

“The rules are simple. Even though he’s not a transformation risk, do not, under any circumstances, let him out of the cage. Do not, under any circumstances, let anything happen to him. Keep your hands away from the cage. That means do not offer him any food, do not offer him anything to drink, do not offer him any reading material to pass the time during the ride, and do not reach in there to slap him if he won’t stop talking. I don’t think I have to tell you that getting stopped by the police would create an awkward situation, so don’t break any traffic laws. Any questions?”

“Is anybody after him?”

“To the best of our knowledge, no. But I’m sure that you’ll proceed with all due diligence.”

“Of course.” George looked over at Lou. “You have anything?”

Lou thought for a moment. “What if he’s gotta use the restroom?”

“Then the cage will get messy.”

George grimaced. “Really? Isn’t this a five-hour drive?”

“I think you can handle an unpleasant odor for a few hours. We’ll give you a can of Lysol.” Bateman raised his voice and turned his attention to the man in the cage. “However, if he wishes to be treated with more kindness upon his arrival, he may want to consider keeping his bodily functions under control.”

The man glared at him but said nothing.

“What’s his name?” George asked.

“Ivan.”

“All right. I guess we’re taking Ivan the Werewolf for a ride.”

* * *

They quickly worked out the remaining details, moved their suitcases to the van (behind the seats but still out of Ivan’s reach), left the too-small car in the warehouse, and drove the van out onto the downtown street. It was Lou’s turn to drive, so George slid the briefcase of recovered cash under his seat, then turned around and looked into the back of the van.

Ivan appeared to be in his early thirties. He was thin, with a pasty complexion and long, straight hair--to be honest, he gave off more of a vampire vibe than a werewolf one. He wore a blue dress shirt that was probably expensive but looked like it had been worn for several unpleasant days.

Driving around with a guy in a cage was a contemptible thing, but business was business. George and Lou had the luxury of turning down the worst of their job offers--they didn’t do anything that involved kids, and never committed murder--but transporting a man in a cage across the state was depravity within their moral boundaries.

“This is messed up,” Lou noted.

George turned back around in his seat. “You won’t hear me argue.”

“I mean, who believes in that werewolf nonsense? ‘By the light of the full moon...’ What a load of crap. What are we in, the 1600’s?”

“Is that when people believed in werewolves?”

“I dunno. Maybe I’m thinking of witches. But, c’mon, look at the world we live in.” Lou tapped the GPS that rested on the dashboard. “This thing has street-by-street directions for anyplace in the world we wanna go. In a world where humans can accomplish this kind of technology, what kind of person still believes in the supernatural?”

George grinned. “Maybe that GPS is supernatural. Maybe only the devil knows all of those streets. Or it could be ghost-powered.”

“I’m trying to make a serious point here. Why would you want to derail that?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But I don’t think Bateman believes in that werewolf stuff for one second.”

“You think it’s a cover?”

“Yeah. Either our friend back there has got a stomach full of heroin and they’re playing a practical joke, or they’re trying to distract us from something else that’s going on. There’s definitely something screwy here, so we need to be careful.”

Lou nodded. “I agree.”

“You could just ask me,” said Ivan. It was the first time he’d spoken.

George turned around in his seat to face their prisoner. “What?”

“You could just ask me if I’m a werewolf. That would be the polite and reasonable thing to do, instead of speculating amongst yourselves.”

“Fair enough. Are you a werewolf?”

“No, I’m not a fucking werewolf! What the hell? Are you two really that stupid? You’re seriously going to drive me to Tampa so that some pretend-scientist can slice me up?”

“Hey, I don’t care what you are. They could say you were the Easter Bunny and it wouldn’t change anything. This is just a transport job.”

“Oh, sure. Transport job. He told you that I’m a werewolf, George. You know, those magical people who transform into scary wolves during the full moon, and can only be killed by silver bullets, and gobble up little children. Those people who are, you know, non-existent! Doesn’t it bother you to be working for that kind of insanity?”

“I don’t think you heard me. You’re just cargo.”

“Well, that’s lovely. Nice humanistic attitude you’ve got there. Do much slave trading in your spare time?”

“Hey, if you want to be allowed to talk, you’d better watch the lip.”

“You can’t stop me from talking. I’m valuable merchandise.”

“Look, Ivan the Werewolf, I’m about as nice of a guy as you’re liable to encounter in this kind of situation, but don’t get the mistaken impression that I will let myself be disrespected. There’s only one way that this drive will end, and that’s with you being delivered to our destination. No other outcome is possible. However, there are several different moods that can hang over our afternoon until then, and I want you to think long and hard about whether you want to have a pleasant drive or an unpleasant one.”

Ivan pouted for a few moments. “You’re taking me to a guy named Mr. Dewey, right?”

“Dewey’s his last name? I thought it was his first. But yeah, that’s who we’re going to see.”

“You know what he wants, don’t you?”

“No idea. A pet?”

“You think that’s funny? You think the idea of turning me into some madman’s pet is just a joke? Do you even have a soul?”

“You’re right, that was inappropriate,” George admitted, legitimately feeling as if he’d stepped over the line. “Believe me, I sympathize with your plight. It sucks.”

“He doesn’t want a pet. Do you know what he wants?”

“What?”

“He wants me to bite him.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Can you imagine that? The sick, twisted lunatic wants me to turn him into a werewolf. I mean, to believe in werewolves in the first place you’ve got to have a gigantic screw loose, but to want to become one...?”

“That is peculiar,” George agreed.

“What do you think is going to happen to me when I bite Mr. Dewey and it doesn’t do anything? Do you think he’s going to say ‘Oh, goodness gracious, my mistake!’ and let me go, or do you think he’s going to kill me? My death is going to be on your conscience. Can you handle that?”

“I’m not that familiar with the werewolf legend, but you’d have to change into a wolf first, right? He wouldn’t just make you give him a nibble on the hand as a human.”

Ivan sighed with frustration. “Fine, so when I don’t change into a wolf, then he’ll kill me. Are you okay with that? No problems working for somebody so severely wrong in the head? I don’t know about you, but if I heard about somebody whose brain is so diseased that he’s kidnapping innocent human beings in hopes of getting a werewolf bite, I’d stay as far away from him as possible.”

“I guess you’re smarter than we are, then.”

“I guess so. I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Hold it.”

“I can’t.”

“Think about the desert.”

“Do you have one of those things on your palm?” Lou asked.

“What things?”

“The star thing.”

“A pentagram?”

“Yeah.”

Ivan held up his palm, which Lou checked out in the rear-view mirror. “No. And would you like to know why I don’t have a pentagram on my palm?”

“Because you’re not a werewolf?”

“Exactly! Because I’m not a werewolf! I manage a temp agency! This is bullshit!”

“Again,” said George, “the only way this is going to end is with you being delivered as promised. Pleasant or unpleasant. The choice is yours. Most people go with pleasant.”

“They’re calling me a werewolf, but you’re the ones who are inhuman!” Ivan said. “You’re the monsters, not me!”

“That’s deep,” Lou noted.

“If you do this, it’ll haunt you for the rest of your life. You will always be somebody who took an innocent guy to his death for being a werewolf. That doesn’t go away. No matter how long you live, you’ll never not be that person. Thirty years from now, when I’m long since tortured and dead, you’ll still be the guys who were told that a man in a cage was a werewolf--a werewolf--and delivered him into the hands of a deranged maniac who believed in that kind of nonsense. Do you really want all those years of sleepless nights?”

“Thirty years from now, one or both of us will probably be dead, too,” said George. “Our work is pretty dangerous. I’m actually surprised Lou is still around. He really doesn’t take care of his body.”

“Not only will you be the men who drove an innocent person to his death, but you’ll be the men who casually dismissed him when he tried to explain the insanity of the situation. Even if I were a werewolf, you’d be the villains here.”

“Okay, you’ve talked enough,” said George. “Shut up for a while.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are my desperate pleas for my life annoying you? I wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience. I certainly hope that my shrieks of pain when they’re dissecting me don’t cause an unpleasant sensation in your eardrums--I don’t know if my mutilated body could live with itself!”

George turned on the stereo, cranking up some classic Metallica to drown him out.

CHAPTER THREE

Lycanthrope Chatter

“Holy crap, look at all of those things.” Lou pointed out the window at where eight or nine alligators were sunning themselves along the edge of the water. The wretched creatures were all along Tamiami Trail--Lou had stopped counting about an hour ago when he reached one hundred, much to George’s relief--but that was the most they’d seen at once. The fact that they were on the other side of a fence didn’t provide much comfort.

“That’s why I’d never live in Florida,” said George.

“The gators?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think anybody ever gets eaten by them. Maybe in extreme cases, if somebody’s dumb enough to go messing with them, but aside from that I think gator attacks are pretty rare.”

“Still, I wouldn’t want to live around them.”

“We’ve got rats in New York.”

“Rats don’t bite people’s legs off.”

“If you lived in Florida, I can almost guarantee you’d never get your leg bit off by an alligator, whereas in New York City, I can almost guarantee you will get your car crapped on by a pigeon. Which is worse?”

“I’d rather take the one-hundred-percent chance on pigeon crap than the one-percent chance on an alligator bite.”

“I think it’s way less than one-percent.”

“Any percent is unacceptable.”

“It’s probably not even one in a million. So what’s that...one percent would be one in a hundred, so you’d times it by, uh...ten thousand?” Lou frowned as if mentally checking his math. “One ten-thousandth of a percent chance of getting a leg bit off by an alligator. That’s pretty slim.”

“They also have hurricanes.”

“Again, low odds.”

“And it’s too damn hot.” George had grown up in Cleveland, and moved to New York City in his late twenties. As far as he was concerned, the entire bottom half of the United States could just fall off into the ocean.

“I completely agree about the heat. That’s what should keep you away from Florida--the climate, not the alligators and hurricanes.”

“Are you two entertaining yourselves?” asked Ivan.

George turned around and glared at him. “Yeah, it’s called a conversation. Do you have a problem with it?”

“No, no, by all means, continue your insipid conversation.”

“We’re driving across this miserable state on a road that has nothing to look at but alligators. Why shouldn’t we talk about alligators? If we drive past an anti-abortion billboard, we’ll be sure to have a spirited philosophical debate for your entertainment, but for now it’s alligators and pigeon crap. Are you going to be okay with that?”

“Sure. Go right ahead.”

George grinned. “You didn’t think I’d know what ‘insipid’ meant, did you?”

“Nope. Surprised the hell out of me.”

“Well I do. Fuck you, werewolf.”

Ivan settled back against the bars of his cage. “You know, if I was a werewolf, this cage wouldn’t hold me. I’d be picking my teeth with your ribs in about thirty seconds.”

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

“Then I’d deserve it, because I would’ve let my guard down and failed to take the necessary precautions. If you do that, you deserve to have your ribs used as toothpicks. But Lou and I, we don’t let our guard down like that. Would you like an example?”

“By all means.”

“Right now, I want nothing more than to smack that smirk right the hell off your face. Not torture you, not beat you bloody--just smack you really, really hard. If we pulled off to the side of the road, I am ninety-nine point nine-nine percent sure that I could get in this smack with no danger to myself, and then we could proceed on our merry little way. But even though it would give me intense pleasure to do this, I’m not going to. Instead, we’re going to continue to drive your werewolf ass to Tampa, just like we’re supposed to.”

“Then I salute you,” said Ivan, saluting him. “A lesser man would have succumbed, but not the mighty George.”

“You’ve become kind of sarcastic all of a sudden.”

“Hey, if I can’t appeal to your common sense or your sense of decency, I might as well be a dick for the rest of the ride. How are we doing on gas?”

“No need to worry yourself about the gas situation. We’ve got everything under control.”

“I’d hate to be stranded out here. I know how concerned you are about the alligators.”

George glanced at the GPS. “We’re going to get gas in a few minutes at someplace called Hachiholata. Nice Indian name.”

“Native American,” said Lou. “Indians are from India.”

“I thought ‘native’ was offensive?”

“No, ‘native’ is offensive to people in the jungle with spears, like if you say ‘the natives are restless.’ Native American is fine. Did you know that the word ‘midget’ is offensive?”

“To Native Americans?”

“Very funny. To a little person, the word ‘midget’ is as offensive as the n-word to a black person. Can you believe that? You hear midget, midget, midget all the time, and it’s like saying n-word, n-word, n-word. If a politician said the n-word, his career would be over, but he could probably say ‘midget’--hell, he could probably tell a midget joke--and he’d be fine.”

“Can other midgets say midget?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t say it. It’s not their fault they were born like that.”

“So anyway,” George said to Ivan, “we’re stopping for gas in a few minutes. Does that make you feel better?”

“It does indeed. Can we get a burger while we’re there?”

“No.”

“Come on, I’m starving.”

“No.”

“You can just toss it through the bars.”

“No.”

“What am I going to do, throw a deadly bun at you?”

“You can’t have a burger. Drop it.”

“It’s pretty sad that a couple of big strong guys like you are scared of a man in a cage.”

“We’re not scared of you.”

“Yeah, you are. You’re scared that if you toss me a hamburger and fries I’ll somehow use them to my advantage. That, my friend, is fear. You have to be pretty damn afraid of somebody for them to intimidate you with a sack of fast food.”

“What about those overcooked fries? Those tiny sharp hard ones at the bottom of the bag? You palm one of those, we let our guard down--smack! French fry in the eyeball.”

Ivan stared at him for a long moment. “You know, I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.”

“I’m kidding, but you still don’t get any food.”

“See? Fear. Knee-shaking, bone-chilling fear. It’s okay, we all have our phobias--it’s not your fault that yours is a helpless man in a cage. I’m going to take it as a compliment.”

“Is this supposed to be the part where my masculinity is so threatened that I give you a burger just to prove I’m not scared?”

“I wasn’t thinking about your masculinity, necessarily, but that was the general idea, yeah.”

“I’ll make you a deal, werewolf. If you can go ten full minutes without talking, we’ll buy you a value meal.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, I was serious, but you just talked.”

“Prick.”

“Now I’m going to buy the biggest, juiciest burger they’ve got, with mayo and ketchup and onions and bacon and maybe even bleu cheese, and I’m going to eat it right in front of you. Do you prefer fries or onion rings?”

“Onion rings.”

“I’m going to get those, too. Big greasy ones, with just the right amount of breading. Some places use way too much breading, so it’s like you’re eating fried dough, but I’ll make sure that these onion rings are perfect.” George felt kind of guilty after he said that. He normally didn’t behave like this, but something about Ivan just annoyed the living hell out of him.

Ivan smiled. “You both realize that you’re going to die today, right?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. We’re all having a grand old time right now, busting each other’s chops, kidding around like best buddies, but what you two don’t realize is that you’re in hell. You’re burning in hell right now and you can’t even feel the flames. If you walked right up to the devil and tugged on his horns, your soul could not be more damned than it is right now.”

“I don’t think that’s how damnation works,” said George. “I think God has to do it or you have to make some kind of deal for vast wealth or something.” He nudged Lou. “Did you make any deals with the devil recently that I should be made aware of?”

“If I had, we sure wouldn’t be spending our day driving this loudmouth across Florida.”

George looked back at Ivan. “Sorry. Your intimidation tactic didn’t work.”

“A pity.”

“Intimidation is a big part of how I make my living, so let me give you some pointers. First of all--and this is a big one, Ivan, so write it down--when you’re trying to intimidate your opponent, the most important thing to remember is to not be locked in a cage in his van. If you fail to follow that rule, your chances at a successful intimidation attempt drop to just about nil. Did you write it down?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have a writing utensil.”

“Well, then just try to remember it. Your ‘hell’ speech works much better when you’re not in a cage, that’s all I’m saying.”

“You’re a confident man, George. I admire that. I enjoy licking up blood that comes from a confident man.”

“That’s gross.”

Ivan nodded. “Yes, it is. Also irrelevant, since what I’m really going to do is set off this explosive device that’s strapped to my left leg.”

George felt a sudden flash of panic. He couldn’t help it. Then he immediately relaxed--the little creep was just messing with him. “Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“Bateman captured you and caged you up without realizing that you had a bomb on your leg?”

“You’ve had me in the car for two hours without realizing it.”

George looked at Ivan’s leg. There didn’t seem to be a bulge, but...

“I call bullshit.”

“Or maybe Bateman knows about it. Maybe we just haven’t reached the designated detonation point yet.”

“Or perhaps you’re conversing out of your ass.”

“Aren’t you going to order me to pull up my pant leg?”

“Nope.”

“Not going to pull a gun on me?”

“I might pull a gun on you if you don’t shut up, but I’m not going to do it to make you pull up your pant leg.”

The female voice of the GPS announced that they had one mile left until their exit.

“Make you a deal. Buy me a burger and I won’t blow us all to smithereens. That’s a fair deal, right? A combo #1 and your scorched head doesn’t land three towns away.”

George turned back around in his seat. He had to admit that Ivan’s endless chatter was preferable to the sobbing and begging and screaming that he and Lou sometimes had to endure, and probably better than the whining that Ivan had subjected them to at the beginning of the drive, yet it was still pretty grating. And they had another three hours to go. He wished they had a tranquilizer dart.

They pulled off at the next exit. They could’ve gone up to Interstate 75 and then quickly found an easy-on, easy-off place to get gas, but whenever possible George and Lou preferred to fill up at mom-and-pop gas stations. Less chance of security cameras. And they liked to support small businesses.

“Welcome to Hachiholata,” said Lou, as they stopped at a red light.

The town, if you could even call it a town, was quite a bit smaller than George had expected--just a two-lane road lined by a few non-chain businesses. He didn’t even see a McDonalds, and traffic was almost non-existent.

“Looks like a peaceful place,” Lou noted. “I could retire here.”

“What? You hate Florida!”

“I mean I could retire in a place like this that wasn’t in Florida.”

“Well, we’ve got a long way to go before retirement. And when I do, it’s sure as hell not going to be--wow, look at that dog.”

George pointed out his side window. A dog--a collie, one of those Lassie dogs--was about a block away, running toward the van, barking furiously. A yellow leash dragged on the ground behind it, though George didn’t see any sign of the owner.

“He looks mad,” Lou noted.

The light was still red. The dog continued racing toward them, moving at an alarming pace, with the van clearly its target. “Make sure you don’t run him over when you go,” George said. “Jeez, he’s really not slowing down...”

The dog slammed into the side of the van. George’s heart gave a jolt and he let out a cry of surprise.

“What the hell?” Lou asked, sounding even more startled than George felt. “How do you hit a dog when you’re not even moving?”

The dog slammed into the side of the van again, still barking. George quickly adjusted the side-view mirror, and saw the dog throw its entire body into the van, face-first, over and over, leaving behind smears of blood. The van rocked a little with each blow.

“Fucker’s rabid!” George shouted. “Get us out of here!”

The light had already turned green, so Lou gunned the engine and they sped through the intersection. George spun around and saw the dog, broken and pitiful, limping after them.

“Holy shit!” said Lou. “Have you ever seen a dog do that before?”

“Never.” As a rule, George didn’t have sympathy for anything that attacked him, but he felt terrible for the poor beast. “Should we go back and put it out of its misery?”

Lou looked incredulous. “You mean run it over all the way?”

“No, I mean shoot it or something.”

“Yeah, let’s whip out some guns and shoot a rabid dog when we’ve got Ivan in the back. That won’t attract any attention. Real smart, George.”

“You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

“I’m not sarcastic. I’m freaked out!”

George looked back at their prisoner. Ivan sat silently in his cage, his expression unreadable, almost serene. George considered telling him to shut up anyway, but didn’t.

“What do we do now?” Lou asked.

“Same thing we were going to do before. Get some gas and deliver the werewolf to Tampa. Let’s not lose our heads over a Cujo.”

“You’re right, you’re right.”

“I hope its owner is able to fix it up.”

Lou looked as if he wanted to make another sarcastic comment, then just shook his head. “There’s a gas station up there.”

They pulled into the gas station, Hachiholata Gas & Gulp, which had four pumps and a small convenience store. Their rule for the past nine years was that whoever drove, the other guy had to pump the gas, so George got out of the van. There were several dents in the side of the vehicle along with the blood. George wondered if Bateman would be pissed. He didn’t seem to care enough about his Porsche to keep it in pristine shape, so he probably wouldn’t get all upset over a few dents on a dumpy old van.

George swiped his untraceable credit card and began to pump the gas.

He picked up the gas station’s squeegee and dipped it into the cleaning fluid, which was gray and murky and probably hadn’t been changed in weeks. He wiped off the blood with the squeegee, rinsing twice before he was done, and finished off the task with a paper towel.

That was totally surreal. Maybe the dog knew they had a werewolf in captivity and was trying to pull off a rescue mission. A little shared-species courtesy.

Nah. Only a rabid dog would bash itself bloody like that. He hoped its owner found it in time to get it to the vet, although he didn’t think the dog had much of a chance even if it wasn’t diseased. At times like these, George wished he weren’t a criminal, so he could safely put a dog out of its misery without having to explain why he had an unregistered firearm.

Another car pulled into the gas station, a small blue one that George and Lou probably couldn’t have fit inside without ripping out the front seat. The driver, a hot young brunette in shorts and a tight t-shirt, got out of the car, gave George a friendly, not quite flirtatious smile, and began to pump her own gas.

George opened up the passenger-side door. “Do you want a Snickers?” he asked Lou.

“Nah.”

“I’ll take one,” said Ivan.

George ignored him and closed the door. Maybe it was more of a Three Musketeers moment. He needed something light and fluffy.

There was a sudden growling to his left. George looked over at the source and saw a dog, this one a scary-ass-looking Doberman, come around the side of the van.

More growling behind him. George turned around, and the second dog charged at him. A fucking rat terrier?

The Doberman launched into a ferocious barking fit, spittle flying from its jaws, and charged as well.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dogfight

With a Doberman attacking him from the front and a rat terrier attacking from the rear, George decided in a split-second that if he wished to avoid being savagely mauled, he should probably focus on the Doberman. He quickly yanked the fuel pump out of the van and doused the dog in the face. It let out a loud yip and violently shook its body, shaking off gasoline as if it had just jumped out of an unwanted bath.

George kicked the snarling rat terrier out of the way.

Even more barking. Another frickin’ Doberman was running toward him. And behind it, some large brown-and-white dog of a breed that George couldn’t identify. What the hell was going on?

He kicked the rat terrier again. It latched onto his leg, biting but not breaking through the fabric of his pants. He didn’t want to douse a dog with gasoline unless absolutely necessary, so he swung his leg as hard as he could, hurling the dog into the air. It landed on its side, yipped, got back up, and rushed at him again, so he sprayed it.

There wasn’t time to get back inside the van before the other two dogs reached him, so he held the fuel pump like a pistol. He had a real one in a holster under his shirt, and this was one of those moments where he wasn’t particularly concerned about the locals knowing he had a gun, but shooting around spilled gasoline was never a good idea, even if the resulting explosion would most likely take care of his psycho dog problem.

He heard Lou’s door open. “Stay in there!” George shouted.

He sprayed the second Doberman, getting the unfortunate canine right in the eyes. Its wail of pain hurt George’s ears and his conscience, but the dog didn’t veer from its prey. It leapt into the air, striking George in the chest and knocking him down onto the cement.

He threw his arm over his eyes to protect them, blinking away tears as the gasoline fumes hit him hard. The dog’s head jerked around as if it were having an epileptic fit, but it got a good solid bite on George’s chest. He punched the dog in the face with his left fist, then bashed it on the side of the head with the fuel pump.

Had it broken the skin? Did he now have rabies? Did they still treat that with several painful shots in the stomach?

The woman screamed, though George couldn’t see what happened to her.

He could see, however, that Lou was standing a few feet away, holding his own pistol.

George tried to wave him away, but the Doberman’s jaws clamped onto his wrist. “Don’t shoot! Gas!”

Lou, thank God, behaved intelligently and did not shoot. He grabbed the dog by its leather collar and strained to drag it off of George. The Doberman let go of George’s wrist but its nails raked across his chest as his partner slowly pulled the thrashing animal away. Then Lou slammed it against the van. Once, twice, three times, four times, five times, and then the Doberman stopped struggling.

George had to kick the rat terrier again.

The brunette’s car door was open and she was halfway inside, but the brown-and-white dog was inside with her, tearing at her flesh as she shrieked in terror.

George quickly got up, forcing himself not to look at his wrist. Another small dog, some kind of mutt, came at him. George’s tendencies toward being pro-animal-rights were not as passionate now as they’d been sixty seconds ago, and he blasted the little bastard with enough gas that it ran off-course and smacked into the van’s back tire instead of him.

The woman flailed and kicked at the dog, but she couldn’t get it out of her car. George’s moral code allowed for breaking an old man’s fingers, and for driving an accused werewolf across the state in a cage, and for use of gasoline as a blinding agent against dogs when necessary, but it did not allow for watching an innocent woman get savaged by an out-of-control animal.

“You get in the car,” said Lou, waving him back as he hurried toward the woman. “I’ve got this.”

“What the hell is going on?” a square-faced, middle-aged man demanded, voice filled with panic. He’d come out of the convenience store and held a rifle.

“Get back inside!” George shouted.

But the man’s moral code, much like George’s, apparently did not include a clause about hiding in a store when somebody was being attacked. He took a few steps toward the woman’s car, then stopped and took aim at a new dog that was running toward them, having come from behind the store. Another Doberman. Who the hell owned all of these Dobermans?

He fired. A perfect head shot. The Doberman tumbled forward.

Lou reached the blue car. He grabbed the dog by its long tail with both hands and gave a sharp tug. The dog twisted around, bashing its head against the steering wheel and honking the horn, then scrambled out of the car, lunging at Lou’s throat.

Lou slammed his hands together, boxing the dog’s ears. It yelped but didn’t stop fighting. As Lou quickly backed away, the dog snapped at his legs.

Yet another goddamn dog--was there a dog factory in the area or something?--came running toward the gas station, followed by two more. All big ones. One of them was dragging a leash.

The gas station attendant fired the rifle. Either his first shot had been total luck, or he was getting too scared to shoot straight, because this one didn’t even come close. He fired again. Another complete miss.

George’s fuel hose wasn’t long enough to reach the dog that was attacking his partner, which didn’t matter because Lou stood between the dog and a possible gasoline stream. George dropped the pump and rushed forward, kicking the dog in the side, hard enough to produce a crunch.

The brown-and-white dog stumbled away, then launched itself against the car, bashing itself against the metal over and over.

George looked at the woman. Her shoulder was a mess. The gas station attendant fired again, this time hitting one of the oncoming Dobermans in the ear. That didn’t stop the animal. The top half of its ear dangled in a bloody flap, and the attendant adjusted his grip on the rifle, holding it like a club.

“Behind you!” the woman shouted at George.

George didn’t even have time to turn around before the dog knocked him to the ground. He couldn’t see the creature, could just hear its growling and feel its hot breath on his neck. He elbowed it in the face, which probably hurt his elbow worse than its face. Some froth got into his eyes.

George frantically tried to blink it out, as Lou grabbed the dog under its front arms and pulled it away. The dog snarled and twisted around and bit at Lou’s nose, while Lou struggled to get the thrashing animal away from George.

“Help!” the attendant shouted.

George pushed himself up again. The attendant lay on the ground, kicking at the dogs that had brought him down. He swung with his rifle, but one of the dogs sunk its teeth deep into his forearm, creating a spray of red, and he lost his grip on the weapon.

“Pull your legs in the car,” George told the woman, putting his hand on the door. She seemed to be in shock and didn’t respond. Instead of acknowledging his command, she was staring off behind--

George looked to see what she was staring at. A pit bull. Running right at him. Fast.

Again, there wasn’t enough time to get the van door open, or even to grab the fuel pump. George, less concerned with dignity than survival, quickly climbed up onto the hood of the van, just as the pit bull’s teeth snapped at his ankle. George had a lot of good physical attributes, but few would call him nimble, and the process of scrambling up onto the hood of the van was a sloppy one.

While the pit bull was distracted with George, Lou managed to run around to the other side of the van. George heard a squeal of pain as Lou apparently kicked a miniature dog, and then Lou successfully got into the driver’s side of the van and slammed the door shut behind him.

The pit bull jumped for George’s tender and succulent (he assumed) flesh. It didn’t get his ankle, but it did get his pants leg. George grabbed for the first thing he saw--a windshield wiper--to steady himself as the dog tried to pull him off the van.

He pounded on the windshield. “Start the car! Start the frickin’ car!”

As George tried to shake the pit bull off his leg, he helplessly watched the gas station attendant’s desperate fight for life. One dog was at his legs, the other was at his shoulder, as if they were working together to rip him in half. The attendant still had a lot of struggle left in him, but the dogs were winning.

Awful way to go.

Lou started the engine. As he backed up the van, George’s already precarious grip slipped away, and he tumbled off the front of the vehicle, crushing a tiny dog beneath him as he landed on his ass. The pit bull went for his face.

He punched it away, but the blow barely seemed to phase the animal. George extended his thumbs and thrust at its eyes. He missed by a few inches--and missed getting his thumbs bit off by even less. He elbowed the dog just like he’d elbowed the other one. It had the same lack of effect.

“Hold it steady!” said Lou from above.

George looked up. Lou had rolled down the passenger-side window and was pointing his gun at the dog.

“Don’t--!”

Lou squeezed the trigger, firing a bullet into the dog’s forechest. The dog flopped off of George and lay on the cement, flailing and whimpering.

“Don’t shoot!” George shouted. “There’s gas everywhere!”

“It was killing you!”

“It wasn’t killing me, it was attacking me! Don’t fire bullets when there’s gasoline spilled on the ground!”

“The gas station guy did!”

“He wasn’t near the actual gas!”

“I saved your life!”

“Put the gun away!”

George got up yet again, though this time it was quite a bit more difficult.

“Move!” Lou said.

Before George could move, Lou fired another bullet, shooting a medium-sized black dog that had been racing at George.

“I said stop shooting!”

“Then get the hell out of danger!”

George turned to check on the woman. She hadn’t shut her car door. In fact, she was no longer in the vehicle. She was running toward the gas station attendant, which seemed like the exact opposite direction in which a young woman who’d already been mauled by a dog should be running.

The attendant wasn’t struggling as much, but he was still alive. The woman had something in her hand.

Lou reached through the open window and smacked George on the arm. “Get in the goddamn car!”

That was an excellent recommendation. Lou scooted back into the driver’s seat as George opened the passenger door, got inside, and slammed the door.

As the woman rushed over to the attendant, the dog that was ripping apart his legs let go of its bloody prey and turned on its new victim. She blasted it with a dose of what was looked like pepper spray, and the dog howled and ran off in the other direction.

Before she could get the other dog, it tore a huge strip of flesh out of the attendant’s throat. George winced and slapped his hand over his mouth. Even if he wanted to be a hero, that poor bastard would be dead within seconds.

The woman sprayed the dog. It yelped, but the pain wasn’t enough to keep it from tearing out a second piece of the attendant’s throat.

Lou sped forward. The van bounced as he ran over one of the dead dogs. “Get the lady!” George said.

Lou drove up next to her, George opened his door, and she jumped inside the van, squeezing onto George’s lap. He pulled the door closed most of the way, then threw it open again, bashing yet another Doberman in the face. Then he closed the door and, tires squealing, they sped out of the gas station and back onto the road.

The woman began to sob. “You’ll be okay,” George assured her. “We’ll get you to the emergency room. They’ll fix you up.”

“Did you see what they did to that man? He...he...I don’t think we can help him.”

“That was the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen,” said Lou. “They couldn’t all go rabid at once like that, could they? I mean, do you think they escaped from a medical center or something?”

“No idea. Not a clue. Jesus.” George hurt in several places and wanted to check out the extent of his injuries, but he couldn’t do it with the woman in his lap. He did glance at his wrist, which had a couple of puncture wounds, but the blood was seeping instead of spraying so he figured he’d be okay.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

George cursed under his breath. Ivan kicked at the bars of his cage once more, and then smiled at the sound of the woman’s gasp. “My name is Ivan. Lou is driving. You’re sitting on George’s lap. They’re driving me to my death. Because you know this, I assume you have to die, too.”

George pointed a warning finger at him. “Shut up.”

“Oh, I’m done. No, wait, I missed the part about you thinking I’m a werewolf.”

“I said, shut up.”

“What are you going to do, come back here and beat me up in front of a witness? That doesn’t seem very smart. When you kill her, are you going to snap her neck quickly or drag her death out, slowly?”

“One more time--”

“I think you should drag it out slowly.”

“Enough!” George shouted. Then he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, trying to get rid of the sudden migraine. He hadn’t had one of those in over a year, and he’d been in a lot of stressful situations in the past year.

“Don’t take it out on me,” said Ivan. “I’m not the one who let her into the car, Mr. Intellect.”

George took a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. The situation was screwed up enough already without him letting Ivan send him into a rage. He had to ignore the werewolf, keep himself from losing his mind, assure the woman that she was in no danger, and think this whole thing through.

They drove in silence for a few seconds. The woman looked as if she wanted to lunge for the door handle. They’d almost definitely let her go free fairly soon, hopefully outside of a hospital, but George couldn’t have her making any wild escape attempts until this was all figured out. He reached over and locked the door.

“So what now?” she asked.

CHAPTER FIVE

Questioning What The Hell Just Happened

“How’s your shoulder?” George asked.

“It’s fine,” the woman insisted. “Just let me go, okay? I won’t say anything, I promise.”

“What’s your name?”

“Seriously, who am I going to tell? You saved my life. I wouldn’t turn you in.”

“Ma’am, just tell me your name.”

She hesitated. “Michele.” The way she said it, George thought she might be giving him a fake name, but that didn’t matter--he just needed something to call her.

“Michele, we’re not going to hurt you. We’re FBI agents, and the man behind us is a federal prisoner. We’re just transporting him to a maximum security facility.”

“The FBI doesn’t transport people in cages.”

“Okay, look, forget about the guy in the cage for a minute. We’re not going to hurt you, and we’re not kidnapping you. We’re going to take you to a hospital.”

“If you’re not kidnapping me, then let me go.”

George’s headache got even more intense. “Fine. We’re kidnapping you for now. But we’re not going to hurt you.”

“You’ll be locked in here with me pretty soon,” Ivan said. “Assuming they decide it’s okay for you to live.”

“Can we muzzle him?” Lou asked.

“No! That’s exactly what he wants us to try to do! Let’s just get situated and figure this out.” George gently slid Michele off his lap, putting her between him and Lou. Though he liked having cute young women on his lap, now wasn’t the time. It was a tight, uncomfortable fit on the seat with them squished together, but he didn’t plan to keep her around for much longer.

“Are you going to bleed to death?” George asked.

Michele shook her head. The shoulder of her shirt was soaked with blood, but though the wound was grisly, it didn’t seem to be that deep. “If you’re going to force me to ride with you, do you at least have some Band-Aids?”

“Yeah, we’ve got some stuff. If you reach behind the seat there’s a brown suitcase.” George pressed his wrist against his pants as Michele reached back and got his bag. He ran the index finger of his other hand over his chest. The bite wasn’t too bad, and the lines where the dog’s nails had raked across his chest felt more like scrapes than gashes. The traces of gasoline didn’t exactly feel pleasant on his wounds, but he was a tough guy, he could handle it. George gestured to the upcoming exit. “Go ahead and get back on Tamiami Trail for now.”

Lou nodded and took the exit.

George opened the suitcase, dug through his dirty clothes, and took out the first aid kit. He handed the suitcase back to Michele and she returned it to its spot behind the seat. The first aid kit was fairly small, but it had enough supplies to take care of various on-the-job injuries one might sustain when one’s job involved dealing with unsavory and occasionally violent individuals. George took out a handful of bandages, gave half to Michele, and they began to tend to their wounds.

There were so many things to discuss, George wasn’t sure where even to begin, so he started with the first one that popped into his mind: “Lou, why the hell did you shoot when I told you not to?”

“Because you had a great big dog trying to rip your guts out.”

“What if there’d been a spark?”

“Dogs don’t produce sparks when bullets go in them.”

“What if you’d missed?”

“I wasn’t gonna miss.”

“Lou, you’re a shit shot!”

“Watch your mouth around a lady. The dog was five feet away. I wasn’t gonna miss. I’d rather take the chance of blowing us all up than letting you get eaten. If I hadn’t fired the gun, you’d be sitting there with only one arm and one leg whining at me going ‘Why didn’t you shoot it? Why didn’t you shoot it?’“

George considered that for a moment. “Okay, I probably would be. But the next time a flammable substance is all over the ground, don’t shoot, got it?”

“Screw you. The next time gas is involved, I’m going to find a frickin’ flamethrower.”

“Is this really the most important thing you two have to argue about?” Michele asked.

“I’m sorry. Lou, I’m sorry. But when I make an important judgment call like that, it’s very frustrating to have you--”

“You can’t keep talking after the apology.”

George closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead again.

“How are your bites?” Lou asked.

“They’re fine. They hurt like hell, but they’re fine.” He inspected his wrist wound again. It was badly swollen but the flow of blood had almost stopped. Apparently the dog had been polite enough not to sink its teeth into an artery. “I can’t believe I killed those dogs. I wouldn’t even spank Quincy for going potty off the paper.”

“You did what you had to do.”

“Did I?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” said Lou. “If you’re going to have a dark night of the soul over those dogs, save it for when I’m not around.”

They’d had countless lively debates over the years, but George and Lou rarely bickered like this. Of course, they rarely found themselves in a situation so far out of their control.

“I apologize,” said George, wrapping a large bandage around his wrist. “I’m not going to say anything else. And I thank you for shooting the dogs.”

“No problem.”

George turned his attention to Michele. “Do you know anything about what made those dogs go berserk?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“I didn’t think so.” With Michele on the seat, there really wasn’t room for him to turn around to face Ivan, so George adjusted the rear-view mirror to give himself a good look at their captive. “Ivan, what do you know about this?”

“Why, whatever would I know?”

“You can drop the smart-ass tone. Tell me what just happened out there.”

“Baffling, wasn’t it? All those dogs going nuts. What an odd occurrence. I guess Lou was right, there must have been some sort of problem at a local medical facility, causing a bunch of rabid dogs to escape and go on a rampage. Unfortunate timing for you two, huh? I’m glad I was safely locked in this cage. You should probably report this incident to your superiors.”

“Maybe he’s right,” said Lou.

“He’s not right.” George tried to look menacing, although that was difficult when he and Ivan were just looking at each other with a tiny mirror. “We get hired to drive a werewolf across the state. That’s weird enough. Then we stop for gas, and every dog in town comes after us--dogs that were not rabid, because some of them had obviously just pulled away from their owners.”

Ivan smiled. “A riddle wrapped in a puzzle cloaked in an enigma.”

“What do you know about this?”

“Well, George, I suppose the first possibility is that I have friends who train vicious dogs for a living, and that I cleverly surmised that you would need to stop at that particular town to get fuel for your van, after I cleverly surmised that you wouldn’t be taking the most efficient route to get from Miami to Tampa. Pretty brilliant of me, although to make this plan truly foolproof I’d need an army of dogs waiting in all of the neighboring towns. Let’s stop someplace else for another tank of gas and see if that’s the case.”

“I want to know how you made that happen.”

“It wasn’t me. That would lack credibility.”

“I’m dead serious, Ivan. How did you make those dogs lose their minds? Or do you just give off some kind of scent or something?”

“I can’t believe you’re trying to pin this on me. That’s as silly as the idea of me being a werewolf.”

“Look, asshole, wolves are dogs--”

“Oooooh, look who knows his biology!”

“--and there’s no way this is a coincidence.”

“Well, then, if it’s not a coincidence, I must have the power to control dogs, or at least make them go nuts. Is that what you want to hear?”

“If it’s the truth.”

Ivan let out a high-pitched, incredulous laugh. “Listen to you! Has the big bad thug-for-hire opened his mind to the possibility of the paranormal?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, but two hours ago, if I’d told you that you shouldn’t mess with me because I’ve got the power to send a bunch of killer dogs after you, you would have just made fun of me. You would’ve been all ‘Oh, dude, if you’re trying to scare me with your doggie powers, don’t do it from inside a cage,’ right?”

“You were the one insisting that the whole werewolf thing was ridiculous.”

“Yes, but I was the one who had something to lose by being a werewolf. You came at it from neutral ground. Now you’re a believer, and all it took were a few nasty dog bites. I’m proud of you, George. This has opened a whole new world of excitement for you.”

“I didn’t say I was a believer.”

“You implied it. That’s all I need to declare victory.”

George glanced at Michele. “I don’t really believe he’s a werewolf.”

Michele said nothing. She still looked more concerned about being murdered by kidnappers than whether anybody believed in lycanthropes.

“Let’s take a vote,” said Ivan. “I believe I’m a werewolf. George reluctantly believes I’m a werewolf. What about you, Lou?”

“I believe that you need to stop talking.”

“Or what?”

“Or else.”

“That’s the best you’ve got? Really? You know what, I’m embarrassed to be your prisoner. Flat-out humiliated. It was cool for a while, when I thought that a couple of scary mob guys had me, but you two buffoons? I might as well be in the hands of the--”

“Enough!”

“Don’t you want to know what non-threatening group I was going to compare you to?”

“One more word,” said George. “Just one more word, and I will come back there and beat the snot out of you.”

“Bet you won’t. So what about you, Michele? We’ve got two votes in favor and one non-committal. Do you think I could possibly be a werewolf?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s not about what you know, it’s about what you think. I’m the only one who knows for certain. So do you think I’m a werewolf?”

“Sure, whatever.”

“Three votes in favor. That’s a majority, even if Lou changes his cowardly cop-out vote to ‘no.’ Looks like I’m a fuckin’ werewolf with the power of dog control, ladies and gentlemen. Now what are we going to do about that?”

“Not a thing,” said George. “The plan stays the same.”

“The plan to deliver me to Mr. Dewey in Tampa so I can bite and transform him? Come on, guys, there’s no need to be discrete around our new friend Michele, is there? After all, you’re planning to kill her.”

“Nobody is getting killed.”

“Nobody except poor Michele.”

“Don’t listen to him,” George told her.

“Right, don’t listen to the guy in the cage,” Ivan said. “Clearly there can be no wrongdoing in a situation that involves people in cages. Maybe you’ll be lucky and their plans revolve around slavery instead of murder, but either way, I’m not getting a strong ‘drop you off at the hospital and everything will be all right’ vibe from this, are you?”

“Seriously, don’t listen to him,” said George. “We’re going to let you go.”

“Then why haven’t you done it already?” Ivan asked. “She asked to be let go as soon as she saw me. True gentlemen would have honored the poor doomed victim’s request.”

“We’ve got shit to figure out first.”

“Then figure it out. It sounds like I’m the only one trying to figure things out, to be completely honest. Oooooh, I hope if you decide to rape her, you take it outside--there are some things I just don’t enjoy watching.”

“We should just let her out,” said Lou. “She won’t tell.”

“Of course she won’t,” said Ivan. “It’s not like she’s seen anything memorable.”

“Get off at the next exit,” George told Lou.

“Why?”

“Because we need some answers.”

“No, no, this is an ‘ignorance is bliss’ deal. Let’s leave this alone.”

“I’m not comfortable with not knowing what’s going on when things are this severely screwed up. We left behind a bunch of dead dogs and a dead gas station guy--that’ll be on the news. We need a full understanding of what we’re dealing with.”

“We shouldn’t have brought the girl.”

“Yeah, I know. We weren’t thinking right.”

“I never said to bring her in the first place.”

“Okay, fine, I wasn’t thinking right. The dog teeth in my skin messed with my thought process. Are you happy?”

“Just saying.”

“They’re going to kiiiiiiiiiilllllllll you,” Ivan sang out from the back.

“We should call Ricky, at least,” said Lou. “Let him know what happened.”

George sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Damn it.”

He took out his cell phone and pulled up Ricky The Prick from his “recent contacts” list. Ricky answered on the first ring. “Hiya, sweetie. How’s the werewolf doing?”

“He’s fine. But we had a pretty big problem.”

“Fleas? Hairballs?”

“Ricky, don’t make me--”

“All right, all right. Jeez, you sound tense. What’s the problem?”

“We stopped to get gas, and about a dozen dogs attacked us. Like they’d gone crazy. One of them bashed itself half to death against the van.”

“You for real?”

“Yeah. Lou had to shoot two of them. The guy who worked there, they ripped his goddamn neck open.”

“No kidding? He died?”

“Unless you can live with most of your throat gone.”

“Wow. I’ve never seen somebody get mauled to death by dogs before. I mean, I’ve seen videos, but never in real life. You guys all right?”

“I’m kind of bit up, but I’ll be okay.”

“You should put some antiseptic on the bites.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that. Any idea why a bunch of dogs would suddenly attack us like that?”

“Who do you think you’re calling, National Geographic? How would I know?”

“We think the werewolf was responsible.”

“Uh, by ‘werewolf’ you mean the guy that nutcase Bateman thinks is a werewolf, right?”

“Yeah, him.”

“This is a joke, isn’t it? You’re trying to get back at me for giving you the crappy werewolf assignment. Y’know, there are a lot of worse places you can be. A guy at a sewage treatment plant isn’t paying his protection money. Can you believe that? A sewage treatment plant. How do you get protection money out of them in the first place? The world is crazy. You could be on your way to the turd processing factory right now, so don’t--”

“Are you done?”

“I don’t think I was supposed to say anything about the sewage place. Don’t tell anybody, okay?”

“Enough, Ricky! We need to know if we should keep going where we’re going, or if we should get off the road for a while until things blow over.”

“Oh, you should definitely keep going. They want the werewolf this evening at the latest. Where did you say the dogs were?”

“It’s a small town called Hachiholata or something like that.”

“Can you spell it for me?”

“H-A-C...” George trailed off. “No, I can’t spell it for you! Just find it!”

“All right, all right, I’ll follow what’s going on there. Worst case, we’ll try to get you a new van that nobody will be looking for, though I’m not sure we have any people in that area who can make that happen. For now, just assume that everything’s cool. I’ll call you back.”

“Are you going to contact Bateman?”

“Oh, hell no. Just keep going. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thanks,” said George. He hung up and tucked the cell phone back into his pocket.

“I noticed that you didn’t mention your new hostage,” said Ivan.

George ignored him. “Still take the next exit,” he told Lou.

“Why?”

“Because this wolf is going to talk.”

CHAPTER SIX

An Unwise Decision

“That seems like it could turn out bad,” said Lou.

“We’re not going to let him out of the cage,” George insisted. “We’re not even going to get close to it. I’m just going to make him talk.”

“Why does he need to talk? Why do we need to know anything? I’m perfectly happy not having a clue in the world about what’s going on.”

“Well, I need some answers. We were not sufficiently briefed before we took this job. There’s a big frickin’ difference between transporting an annoying guy in a cage and transporting a guy who can command dogs to do his bidding...or, you know, his scent makes them crazy and violent, or whatever it is that he did. If he can mess with animals like that, who knows what else he can do? Maybe he’s...I don’t know, an abomination or something, and we should destroy him for the good of mankind.”

“I liked it better when we didn’t care if he was a werewolf or not.”

Truth be told, so did George. He usually didn’t want to know the details. He’d committed plenty of immoral acts without understanding the true motive behind them.

But this was different. A lot different. This wasn’t about stolen cash or sleeping with the wrong person’s wife or making a poor business decision that needed to be rectified with knives. This was an unexplained phenomenon. Or, if it had been explained, then Ivan really was a werewolf, which was completely absurd but a matter that needed to be further investigated.

Sure, George had absolutely no intention of doing anything to put the job or his personal safety at risk, but Ivan didn’t need to know that.

“Are you having trouble adjusting to your new view of the world?” Ivan asked. “It’s always a little devastating when decades of preconceived notions about the way things really work are shattered all at once. But just wait until you meet the aliens.”

“Let me explain something to you,” said George. “Do you understand the concept of ‘everybody fucks up once in a while’?”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“Good. This is how it relates to current events. When Lou and I do a job, we’re expected to complete it successfully. That’s what we get paid for. But no matter how good you are--and we’re good, believe me--there’s going to be the occasional job that goes bad. Somebody’s not where they’re supposed to be, somebody who’s not supposed to be there shows up, your car breaks down...there are lots of reasons why a job might not work out properly. The people in charge understand this.”

“Yeah, right. If you don’t deliver me to Tampa, you’ll be at the bottom of a lake by midnight.”

“Oh, we’re going to deliver you, don’t get me wrong. But if we deliver you with your arms and legs broken, we’ll get yelled at, and possibly forfeit our fee, but nobody’s going to kill us. Now, I don’t want to get yelled at, and I certainly want to get paid for all the crap I’ve gone through today, but I’ve reached a level of frustration where busting you up might be worth it.”

“Cool. I’m glad I could bring you to that level.”

“George, are you sure you wanna do this?” Lou asked. There was a knowing look in his eyes. He was playing along.

George nodded. “Oh yeah.”

“All right. Promise me you won’t do any permanent damage.”

“Do you see what they’re doing?” Ivan asked Michele. “They’re going to break my legs. I wonder how they’re going to do it? Tire iron to the kneecaps, I guess. That’s what I would do if I were them, to make sure it hurts enough.”

“You don’t really believe that he’s a werewolf, do you?” Michele asked George.

“I might.”

“But that’s crazy.”

George pointed to her shoulder. “How do you explain that?”

“A pack of feral dogs. A chemical in the air. A ridiculously elaborate assassination attempt on you. There’s a huge number of things I’d need to cross off my list before I got to ‘werewolf.’“

“Well, hopefully he’ll help us cross them off.”

“You know, George,” said Lou, “we really should get rid of the girl. The longer we keep her around, the more she’s gonna see, and the worse things are gonna get.”

“So you think we should just drop her off somewhere?”

“Maybe.”

“What if she talks?”

“What’s driving around with her gonna do to change that? Are we so charming that an hour in the van with us is gonna keep her from going to the cops?”

George sighed. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t want you to let me go,” said Michele.

“What?”

“I’m staying with you. I want in.”

“What?”

“I want ten percent of what you’re getting.”

“You don’t even know what we’re getting,” said George.

“Did you see the shitty car I was driving? I’ll be happy with ten percent of anything. Look, I already know what’s going on with you guys, so you might as well keep me around and pay me off.”

George and Lou exchanged a look of disbelief. “And why wouldn’t we just kill you?” George asked.

“If you wanted me dead, you could’ve just left me back at the gas station. Instead, you brought me with you, knowing full well that we were leaving behind my car, which has my purse in it, which means that people will know that I’m missing, which means that they’ll look for other clues, which means that they’ll find some blood on the pavement, which means that they’ve got DNA evidence on you. It’ll take a while, because there’s so much blood to sort through, but why would a couple of smart men like you want to link yourselves to a murder when you could just keep a cooperative girl around for a tiny payoff?”

George grimaced. He tried to think of a bigger blunder they’d ever made in their careers in crime than letting Michele into the van. None immediately came to mind. Still, bad guys or not, they couldn’t have just watched her get ripped apart by dogs while she was trying to save the attendant from getting ripped apart by dogs. Obviously, they should’ve expelled her from the vehicle as soon as they’d driven away from the gas station, but Ivan had opened his big mouth right away, and George wasn’t thinking straight, and he had a hot chick on his lap, so how could he be expected to make an intelligent decision?

That said, they were supposed to be professionals. He gave Lou a sheepish look. “When did we become such retards?”

“Don’t say retards. That’s offensive to developmentally disabled people. We’re just the regular kind of stupid.”

“Fair enough. What do you think?”

Lou shrugged. “Better than disposing of a body.”

“All right,” George told Michele. “You’ve got yourself a deal. Ten percent.”

“Ten percent of your combined take, not just ten percent of what one of you is getting.”

“Of course.”

Michele extended her hand. George shook it. He had to admit, he now liked her on a much deeper level than just her physical attractiveness.

“You guys are going for that?” Ivan asked. “Seriously? Well, shit, if I knew it was that easy to negotiate, we could’ve saved ourselves a couple of hours. Let me go and I’ll make it worth your while. How much do you want?”

“One hundred bazillion dollars,” said Lou.

Ivan sneered. “How about twenty bucks and a gently used porno mag, you fuckin’ Neanderthal?”

“Watch the potty mouth,” said George. “My partner doesn’t appreciate foul language around women.”

“Yeah, well, your partner can go fuck a duck-fucked pony from Fucksville.”

“I don’t even know what that means, but I’m going to quote it every chance I get.”

“Fuck you.”

“What’s the matter, werewolf? You don’t sound quite as arrogant as you were before.”

“Well, I’m either terrified, or I’m faking it because I have some sinister plan ready to go into effect. You’d better hope it’s the first one, because I’m really in the mood to exsanguinate a couple of minor-league thugs and their new hooker.”

“Is that another word that I’m not supposed to know what it means?”

“What word? Hooker? Surely you know that one.”

“Hey, George, I think you’re getting a bit worked up,” said Lou. “Just ignore him.”

“Oh, no, he’s not getting ignored. Not at all. There’s our exit.”

Lou gave him the I knew that look that George had seen a hundred times. George cracked his knuckles. He encountered a lot of scumbags in his line of work, but there was something about Ivan that he truly disliked. He wasn’t going to hurt him, or even touch him, but the werewolf was going to lose the attitude, no question about it.

This town seemed quite a bit larger than the last one, although there still wasn’t much there. Every other establishment on Main Street seemed to be an antique shop. George hated antique shops.

“Find us someplace isolated,” George said. Lou gave him another I knew that look.

It took about a mile and a couple of turns to find a dirt road with a misspelled sign in green spray paint that said “No Tresspassing.” Lou turned onto the road, and after rounding a corner there was more than enough tree cover to keep any witnesses from seeing what they were doing from the paved road.

Lou parked and shut off the engine.

“You ready to talk?” George asked.

Ivan smiled and gave him a thumbs-up sign, though now his smile seemed kind of forced.

“Please don’t cause us any trouble,” George told Michele.

“Please don’t damage our investment,” she said.

George grinned and got out of the van.

* * *

Michele’s day had started with a pregnancy scare. She’d thought it would improve from there.

The stick had not turned blue, thank God. The non-father, Aaron, was the only guy to whom she’d ever provided pity sex. He’d been so distressed when his girlfriend broke up with him, and his prospects of landing another girl in a timely manner were bleak, and Michele wasn’t exactly getting it on a regular basis, so she’d slept with him.

The “during” part had been pretty good, despite the fact that he kept singing during sex, but when she woke up in the morning Michele really wished she’d gone with the original plan of spending her evening with some microwave popcorn and a DVD. She’d carefully extricated herself from their spooning and hid in the bathroom for an hour, trying to will herself not to take the cowardly way out and sneak out of the apartment before Aaron woke up.

When he did wake up, beaming, she’d sat on the edge of his bed and explained that it had been a one-time “friends with benefits” thing. He’d cried. For ten minutes he’d sobbed into his pillow about how his heart had been broken a second time in twenty-four hours, and finally Michele decided that her best plan of action was to go away.

He kept calling and sending her text messages and e-mails. He changed his Facebook relationship status to “It’s complicated.” She kept trying to explain that she’d lost herself in the moment and wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. Finally, a week after their night together, she’d gotten completely fed up with the situation and used the term “pity fuck.” He quit calling, texting, and e-mailing. He changed his Facebook relationship status to “Single.”

Michele felt terrible. She hated losing a friend.

This morning, after a mildly restless sleep that came from being nervous about the fact that her period hadn’t started quite yet, she’d awakened feeling sick to her stomach, rushed into the bathroom, and vomited.

She couldn’t be pregnant. They’d used protection and she was on the pill. One-night-stand pregnancy came from drunken flings, not pity sex.

She’d prayed to God that it was just food poisoning. She’d thawed the chicken out on the counter. You weren’t supposed to do that. She knew that, and now she was suffering for her careless meal preparation.

She’d driven forty-five minutes away to ensure that she didn’t run into anybody she knew while buying the pregnancy test. Then, with the bag and receipt in her hand, she’d suddenly decided that she had to know now, and so she found herself in a Walgreens restroom, peeing on a stick.

When the test showed that she wasn’t pregnant, she’d cried with relief.

Then she’d cried with disappointment.

She certainly didn’t want to have Aaron’s kid, and the test being negative was a one-hundred-percent good thing. She was emotionally wrecked from all of the stress and that’s why she was crying like this. That’s all it was. She’d had a rough day.

On the way out of the store, she’d bought some flowers to make herself feel better. Carnations. Even if buying herself flowers was mildly pathetic, it did cheer her up.

And then, while fueling up, a bunch of dogs went berserk and she got stuck in a van with a couple of mobsters.

If she believed in karma, she would’ve thought that she was being punished for breaking Aaron’s heart with their ill-advised intercourse. Or that her habit of pulling on the family dog Tin-Tin’s tail when she was three had finally come back to haunt her. But she didn’t believe in that stuff, so it was just bad luck. Wrong place at the wrong time.

She felt like she should be siding with the guy in the cage, but he just seemed...well, evil. Instantly unlikable. If Ivan approached her at a bar, she’d be creeped out and refuse to touch any drinks he bought her. Though he obviously wasn’t a werewolf, he probably deserved to be locked up in there--she could imagine him wandering the streets, offering lollipops to little girls if they promised not to tell.

Of course, George and Lou were clearly not kind-hearted, caring people, and she genuinely believed that they might kill her if they felt backed into a corner. She could definitely see them walking her out into the woods, apologizing softly, then putting a bullet in the back of her head. They’d feel awful about it, but they’d do what needed to be done.

Swearing not to tell anybody wasn’t going to work. Of course she’d tell. There was no possible way she wouldn’t run to the police and describe the two thugs in their black van, and they knew it. They weren’t going to simply let her go.

But if they thought that she thought they had a deal, there’d be no reason to come to their senses and kill her. They could stop constantly worrying about her. And then she could find an opportunity to escape. Now that they’d stopped the van, maybe an opportunity was approaching.

And--she couldn’t deny it--this was all kind of exciting. A werewolf? Where was this going to lead?

George shut the passenger-side door of the van and walked around to the back. She could jump out right now and make a break for it.

No, too risky. She didn’t want to get shot.

But with George distracted by whatever he was planning to do with Ivan, she’d definitely keep her eye on Lou.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Don’t Mess With Wolves In Cages

George opened the rear doors of the van. Ivan seemed to be trying very, very hard to look amused by the whole situation.

“You know, you have to actually open up the cage if you want to beat me with a tire iron,” Ivan said. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all in favor of you making a fatal mistake, but that seems pretty extreme.”

“I’m not opening the cage,” said George. He waited for a few moments, letting the tension build, then took his pistol out of the holster.

“So you’re going to shoot the cargo?”

“Question for you. How long do you think it takes to bleed to death from a kneecap that was shattered by a bullet?”

“No idea.”

“More than three hours. So you’ll still be alive when we deliver you.”

“Okay.”

“How long do you think it takes to bleed to death from two kneecaps that were shattered by bullets?”

“More than three hours?”

“Exactly. And where do you think is one of the most painful places to get shot?”

“We both know that you’re not going to shoot me.”

“Oh, trust me, I know no such thing. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it does, I’ll take my scolding like a man. If there was ever a time in your life when you should be cooperative, it’s now.”

“Do you really think that threatening me with a gun is going to get you accurate information?”

George nodded. “I’m a good judge of when somebody is telling me the truth.”

“I saw how you flinched when I said I had a bomb strapped to my leg.”

George chose to ignore that. “When somebody is scared, it’s easy to tell if they’re lying. And I don’t care how cocky you are, having a gun pointed at you is a scary thing.”

“And what are you going to say when they ask why you shot me?”

“I’ll say that you told me you had a bomb strapped to your leg, and that you wouldn’t show me, and that I felt I had no other way to keep their precious werewolf from blowing himself up.”

Ivan’s smile vanished.

George pointed the gun at him and gave Ivan his coldest stare. “What do you know about those dogs?”

“I didn’t do anything to them.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Point the gun someplace else and I’ll tell you.”

“Do I need to start counting?”

“Okay, fine. Fine.” Ivan looked a bit flustered, though he was clearly struggling to maintain a calm demeanor. “When I get stressed out, it has a weird effect on dogs. I don’t know why. It’s been like that since I was a teenager.”

“This bad?”

“No, never this bad, but I’ve never been this stressed before! I don’t know what it is; maybe I’ve got some...” He trailed off. “I don’t even know. That’s how this whole werewolf thing started, but I swear there’s nothing to it beyond that.”

“That doesn’t seem like enough to create a werewolf theory.”

“I told people that I was a werewolf, all right? I used it to impress some chicks in a club. You know, those ones who are all wet over Team Jacob. You tell them you’re a werewolf, you watch a dog flip out, and you’re in their panties. I don’t think any of them really believed it, it was all just role-playing, but word got back to Bateman and he sure as hell believed it.”

“So you’re officially saying that you’re not a werewolf?”

“Why do I even need to officially deny something like that? How am I supposed to prove it? What should I do, not transform into a wolf? The full moon is two weeks away; I couldn’t change if I wanted to. You’ve got me in a no-win situation here, George.”

“If you’ve got dog blood in you or something, how could that work from so far away, inside a van?”

“I don’t know! If I understood it, I’d be doing a lot more with the power than just trying to get laid. It’s just some weird effect I have on dogs that I can’t control. Nothing more.”

“You’re stressed now. Why aren’t any dogs coming after us?”

“How the hell should I know? Maybe the residents of this town are cat people! I’m not a werewolf, for Christ’s sake!” He scooted over to the end of the cage and held up his palm. “Like your partner said, no pentagram. If I was a werewolf, I wouldn’t care that you’ve got a gun on me, because I’m sure you don’t have silver bullets in there. What are the other signs?”

“I’m not sure,” George admitted.

Ivan extended his arm all the way out of the cage. The barrel of George’s pistol was still a couple of feet out of his grasp. “I don’t have hairy palms. I don’t have an unusually long middle finger. It’s all a huge misunderstanding.”

“Put your arm back in the cage,” said George.

“I don’t know what you want from me! Do you need me to break my arm to show that there aren’t werewolf bones underneath? Is that what I need to do?” Ivan bashed his arm against the cage, hard enough to make George wince.

Ivan bashed his arm again. His eyes were crazed, like he’d totally lost it.

George lowered his gun. “Hey, knock that off.”

“I’ll split my arm open! Then you’ll see!” Ivan struck the bars again, right on the elbow, and George was surprised that the bone didn’t break through the skin. It hurt just to see it.

“I mean it. Stop that.” For a half-second, George was about to make a move to restrain him, then he caught himself. Ivan could snap both of his own arms off if he wanted, but George wasn’t going to get close enough to the cage for Ivan to grab him. Not a chance.

One more slam, this one against the top of the cage, and George thought he might have heard a bone crack. He wondered if Lou was feeling queasy. “Is that what you want?” Ivan asked, extending his arm all the way, but still coming up a foot short of George’s neck. “Is that what you want?”

“This needs to stop,” George said. This was getting out of control. It was time to just shut the doors again and drive out of here.

Then Ivan’s arm changed. Instantly.

One second it was a regular human arm, the next second it had doubled in bulk and sprouted thick dark brown fur. And in that second it had lengthened and made up the distance between Ivan’s fingers and George’s neck.

George could barely even register what had happened.

Now he had a set of claws digging into his throat.

“Drop the gun!” Ivan shouted. The rest of his body remained human, though his voice had gone down about an octave. “Drop it now or I’ll rip open your neck!”

George dropped the gun. He wasn’t sure if he was actually following Ivan’s orders, or if he was just too shocked to keep a hold of his weapon.

“Stay where you are, Lou!” said Ivan, not looking back. George couldn’t tell if Lou could see exactly what had happened or not. “I’ll kill him! One squeeze and he’s dead!”

George wanted to shout “Do what he says!” but he couldn’t breathe. How had this happened? How the hell had--

Lou fired a shot into Ivan’s back.

Michele screamed.

Ivan grimaced, and blood misted in the air, but he didn’t release his grip on George’s throat. His other arm transformed, so quickly that George could barely see it change, and then he grabbed the front of George’s shirt and yanked on it, slamming George’s face into the cage.

“Tell him not to shoot me again!”

George couldn’t speak.

“I have nothing to lose!” Ivan shouted. “I’ll kill him! You fire that gun again and his death is on you!”

“Okay, okay,” said Lou. “Just stay calm.”

“Give the gun to the girl! Now!”

Lou handed the gun to Michele. She took it, but seemed unsure whether she should point it at Lou or Ivan.

“Nobody has to die,” said Ivan. “We can get through this and go our separate ways. You just need to let me out of the cage.”

George managed to find his voice. “We don’t have the key.”

Ivan raked the talon of his index finger down George’s cheek, causing him to cry out in pain. He could already feel the blood trickling down his face. “You’re not delivering a cage without a key. I will pop your fuckin’ eye if you don’t stop playing around.”

“It’s in the glove compartment,” said Lou.

“Get it.” Ivan slammed George against the bars again. “I bet you’re feeling a little bit silly, huh? Maybe you’ll think twice before you mess with another werewolf. You know what, I should just do it. I should just rip your throat out. It would be worth never getting out of this cage to watch you choke on your own blood.”

“Don’t...”

“Say please.”

“Please.”

“Oooooh, that almost sounds like you’re begging for your life! I like that. I like that a lot. Do it some more, motherfucker!”

“I’ve got it,” Lou announced.

“Then get over here!” Ivan licked his lips. “Georgie, you really don’t know how much I want to take a big bite out of you. I just think you look delicious right now. Mmmmmmm.”

George had no response. He was still trying to process the fact that not only might he be moments away from death, but there was a living, breathing goddamn werewolf right in front of him. There were countless ways for a guy like him to die, but like this? What could they even put on his tombstone?

Lou hurried around to the back of the van, breathing heavily in panic. He held up the key to show Ivan.

“Don’t show it to me! Use it!”

Lou didn’t hesitate. He shoved the key into the lock and turned it sideways.

Ivan immediately released his grip on George’s neck and shoved the cage door wide open. It smashed into George and knocked him to the ground. Ivan jumped out of the cage, landing on his feet and transforming as soon as he hit the dirt.

His pants and shirt split apart, exposing a newly muscular and fur-covered body. He grew at least two feet in height, and claws burst through his shoes.

Ivan’s face took longer to change completely--several seconds rather than almost instantly. Along with the sprouting brown fur, his jaws extended, his nose transformed into a snout, and his ears changed into the pointed ears of a wolf.

Ivan stood before them, still humanoid, but a very definite wolfman. Then he put back his head and howled, even though it was broad daylight and there was no moon to howl at.

He jerked back as a bullet punched into his chest. Michele fired again, hitting him in the stomach. Though she was a surprisingly good shot, the overall effect seemed to simply be to piss him off. He took a menacing step forward, and her third shot missed completely. She pulled the trigger several more times, but the gun just clicked.

Lou said “shit.” George just thought it.

The werewolf smiled, revealing plenty of sharp teeth, and let out a low growl. He looked as if he wanted to make some sort of taunting comment, yet said nothing. Maybe he couldn’t talk in this form.

He howled again, then--moving on two legs instead of all fours--ran down the path in the direction they’d come.

George, Lou, and Michele all watched him go, staring in horror and amazement.

“Get in the van!” George shouted, slamming the rear doors of the van shut. “Get in the van now!” He ran around to the driver’s side door, which Lou had left open. Lou and Michele didn’t seem to be moving. “Did you hear me? Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!”

“Where are we going?” Lou asked.

“Get in!”

Lou nodded. He and Michele ran over to the passenger’s side. Michele got in first.

“You don’t have to go,” George told her. “We’re setting you free.”

“I’m not staying out there with that thing on the loose!”

“Fair enough.”

She scooted over as Lou joined her on the seat. It was an even tighter fit than when she and George had shared it, but comfort was not a huge priority right now. George started the engine.

“What are we doing?” Lou asked.

“What the hell do you think we’re doing? We’re getting that werewolf back!”

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Chase

“Why the hell would we go after him?” Lou asked, sounding more than a little unhinged.

“Because we’ve got a job to do! And if we fail at that, we’re at least going to run that fucker over! He may be able to withstand bullets but he’ll sure crunch under our tires!”

Lou shut his door. “We can’t follow a werewolf in a van! He’ll just run off into the woods!”

“He might.”

“And he’ll kill us!”

George drove forward and began to make a three-point turn. “If he wanted to kill us, he would’ve done it while we were standing there with our jaws hanging open. He could’ve killed all three of us, shredded us on the spot, but he didn’t.” George didn’t actually know this, but it sounded reasonable.

“Good! I’m glad he didn’t! When a werewolf like that doesn’t kill you, you count your blessings; you don’t give it another chance! We shouldn’t be following him, we should be driving to the nearest bar, or finding a church to join or something!”

“I agree with Lou,” Michele said.

George got the van turned around and floored the accelerator. “I said you could get out.”

“Do you have any more bullets?” Michele asked, as they drove off the dirt road and back onto the paved one.

“We’ve got a couple of spare clips. Lou, reload her.”

Lou reached for the gun. Michele hesitated, as if unsure whether she should give up the weapon.

“It’s empty,” Lou said. “You might as well hand it over.”

Michele gave him the gun.

“Don’t give it back to her,” George said.

Lou reached under the seat, then snapped in a new clip. “I know.”

“There he is!” George shouted, pointing through the windshield.

Ivan was a long way ahead, at least five or six blocks. Bastard was fast. It looked like he was still in his wolfman form. George wondered if he could change from wolf to human as quickly as he could change from human to wolf.

How could Ivan do that? Werewolves were supposed to scream in pain and thrash around and slowly transform by the light of the full moon. George couldn’t conceive of a biological process that allowed somebody to change immediately, at will, with such control that he could transform a single appendage. It was completely freaky. It was wrong, damn it!

The van was closing the distance pretty quickly.

There were a few houses along the road, but they hadn’t passed any cars yet in either direction and nobody seemed to be hanging out in their front yard.

“Watch out!” Lou shouted.

George swerved out of the way of the garbage can that lay on its side in the middle of the road. Goddamn garbage collectors.

“He wants us to follow him,” said Lou. “He wouldn’t be running alongside the road otherwise. We should let him go.”

George wondered if his partner was right. Ivan was clearly leading them on a fun little chase for his own amusement. They didn’t have to put themselves at risk like this. They could take the hit to their reputation. They’d still get work.

But he shook his head. “No. We’re not letting that prick outsmart us again.”

“He didn’t outsmart us. You outdumbed him.”

“Fine, I got overconfident and it bit me in the ass.”

“Yes. It did.” Lou nodded. “It certainly did.”

“Well, it’s his turn to get overconfident. Now we know exactly what we’re dealing with. No more is-he-or-isn’t-he questions. He won’t trick us again.”

An overweight couple sat on a porch swing. The man stood up in surprise as Ivan ran past him. Fortunately for the couple, Ivan didn’t veer from his course. The woman stood up as well as the van sped past.

Ivan glanced back over his shoulder, then immediately picked up his pace, at least doubling his speed. George ground his foot against the already-floored accelerator.

Lou cleared his throat. “I just wanna make it very clear--”

“Your objection’s noted. We won’t get ourselves killed over this, I promise.”

“I don’t think you can promise that.”

George knew he was being reckless, but he didn’t care. Well, that wasn’t true--he cared, but not enough to give up the hunt. He couldn’t stand the idea of that smirking creep thinking that he’d made George look like an idiot. The bastard was having himself a big hearty werewolf chuckle as they chased him, thinking how goddamn clever he’d been. He’d regret it. Ivan the Werewolf was going to be delivered to Mr. Dewey, even if it was in bite-sized pieces.

The werewolf rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

“Slow down!” said Lou. “Don’t topple the van!”

George wanted to ask his partner to please shut up because he did indeed realize that he needed to slow down before making this very sharp right turn, but decided to just remain silent. Let Lou bark out orders. It would keep him distracted.

He made the turn without toppling over the van and sped down the new street. Ivan was a couple of blocks ahead. He turned to the right and again vanished from their view.

“He’s just going in circles!” said Lou.

“It’s not a circle yet!”

George spun the steering wheel to the right and they rounded the corner. A car was parked on the side of the street. Ivan leapt up onto it, ran over the top, then jumped back onto the street without missing a beat. Showing off. Fine. He could do somersaults for all George cared.

Ivan began to run down the center of the street, not seeming to care who saw him. If that’s how he wanted to be, no problem, then George didn’t care who saw them run his wolf ass over.

“So what’s the plan if we catch up to him?” Lou asked.

“If you can think of one, shout it out. Right now I just don’t want to lose him.”

Ivan was slowing down a bit. Was he getting tired? George imagined a great big red target on the werewolf’s back as the distance ahead of them dwindled to just a few van-lengths.

Now one van-length. If George gunned the engine, Ivan would be part of their front fender. Werewolf go splat.

And then...Ivan sped up again, racing away from the van and turning another corner.

“Damn it!” George pounded his fist against the dashboard.

“It’s just a game to him,” Lou said. “Following him is ridiculous.”

“You know what?” George asked, applying the brake. “You’re absolutely right.”

Let the werewolf go. Take the heat. Why drive around after him, which was obviously what Ivan wanted them to do, and fall into another trap? Why risk his, Lou’s, and Michele’s lives just to salvage his own bruised ego? Why be a complete and total suicidal idiot about this?

George Orton was no quitter. When a job needed to get done, he saw it through to the end. Abandoning a task because it was too difficult was something reserved for pathetic losers. He lived his entire life by that code.

That said, when there was a supernatural beast involved, fuck it. Smart people quit.

“Let’s get out of this place,” said George. “We’ll let Ricky explain what happened and just lay low for a while.”

“I like that plan,” said Lou. “That’s pure genius.”

“Are you in favor?” George asked Michele.

“I get a vote?”

“Not one that counts, but I figured I’d ask.”

“Yes, I’m very much in favor of not following the werewolf around.”

“Fine. It’s settled.” George considered offering Lou an extremely large sum of money in exchange for calling Ricky to deliver the news, but no. He’d been the one to screw up, and wanted to make sure that a chant of “I told him not to do it!” was not part of the initial confession.

Ivan, several blocks ahead, ran back into their line of sight and stopped in the middle of the road, facing them.

“Oh, look,” said George. “The little fellow is mad that we’re not playing Follow the Leader anymore.”

Ivan began to walk toward them. Without a break in his stride, he transformed back into a human, just as quickly as he’d become a wolfman. His shredded clothes hung off his body.

“I have to admit, that fashion statement works for him,” said George. “Not a lot of people could pull that off.”

“We’re still driving away, right?” Lou asked.

“Yeah, yeah, absolutely.”

George watched Ivan’s continued approach. Ivan was moving quickly, but not yet running. He was now close enough that George could see the smug grin on his face. Bastard.

“So if I wait for him to get closer, and then floor the gas pedal, do you think he’ll change back into a wolf and then jump on the roof of the van?” George asked.

“Yes,” said Lou.

“Definitely,” said Michele.

They were probably right. And, having just made what he considered to be a wise decision, George wasn’t inclined to put them back in danger...but if Ivan was right in front of them, in human form, just walking...

“We need to get out of here,” said Michele.

George shook his head. “I’m not running away from him.”

“But we just decided--”

“We decided not to chase him. That’s not the same as running away.”

Ivan continued walking. He cracked his knuckles, as if preparing himself to deliver a substantial ass beating.

“What could we do that he won’t expect?” George asked. “Lou, maybe if you shoot him a couple of times while I try to hit him with the van...?”

“We can’t start shooting! It’s a residential neighborhood!”

“We’ve been driving around chasing a werewolf! We’ve already attracted some attention!”

“That doesn’t mean we should attract more! We still need to think about the future, George! We need to get out of here, ditch the van, ditch the girl, and keep ourselves out of an interrogation room!”

Ivan was now only about fifty feet from the van. Still moving at the same pace. Still had the same grin.

When he was twenty feet away, George floored the gas pedal. The tires squealed, and the van shot forward. George tried to focus on Ivan as if staring at him through a giant magnifying glass, watching intently for the slightest hint of movement that might indicate if he was going to dodge to the right or to the left, so that George could turn in that direction and bash him.

Ivan transformed again, his entire body at once. With one jump, he was on the hood of the van, and with a second he was on the roof.

George slammed on the brakes, trying to dislodge him. The werewolf didn’t go anywhere. There was a loud metallic thump on the roof as Ivan punched or kicked it, followed by two more. Apparently he couldn’t punch through the top of a van in one blow. That was a plus, at least.

“He’s on the roof!” Lou shouted.

“I know he’s on the goddamn roof!”

George floored the accelerator yet again, then slammed the brake a second later. He tried that several more times, jerking the van forward a few feet at a time in a desperate attempt to get the werewolf off.

There were three more quick thumps on the roof, but light ones, like a polite knock.

Lou saw what was about to happen before George did, but was still only able to get as far as “Oh sh--” before a pair of oversized wolfman feet came down upon the windshield and the entire thing exploded, spraying safety glass everywhere. Michele screamed and threw her hands over her face. Glass rained down on George’s lap and he let go of the steering wheel in panic. The van veered to the right.

Ivan leapt onto the front hood. Lou scrambled to use his gun, but Ivan lunged forward and plucked it out of his hand. He gave them a fanged grin, and then jumped back onto the roof.

The van bounced up onto the curb and George quickly grabbed the steering wheel again and straightened their course.

“He’s got my gun!” Lou shouted.

“Quit saying things that I already know!”

George applied the brakes. “You two, go back and get in the cage. He can’t bend the bars or he’d have done it before, so you’ll be safe in there!”

“We won’t be safe! Now we’re up against a werewolf with a gun!”

“You’ll be safer than you are now!”

“Everybody just calm down!” Michele brushed some glass out of her hair. They sat in silence for a long, tense moment. “Ivan?”

No response.

“Ivan? It’s Michele. I understand that you have a problem with these guys, and that’s totally cool, and you’re completely justified in anything you want to do to them, but I’m an innocent bystander in this whole thing, so if you could let me go, that would be really nice!”

They waited. Ivan said nothing, and there were no sounds to indicate movement above.

“Ivan? I know you can hear me. I think it’s terrible that they locked you in there. It was wrong of them. There’s no excuse. If you could just give me some sort of sign that it’s okay for me to get out of the van...”

Now there was some movement, the sounds of weight shifting above them. Finally, Ivan spoke: “I just want to be liked, you know?”

George groaned. The werewolf still had the energy to be a smart-ass. This was not good. “Hey, Ivan,” he said, “it’s crazy for you to stay up on the roof like that. Somebody’s going to see and call animal control. You win! You proved that you’re far superior, and I look like a total douche. We aren’t going to follow you anymore. Just run off and make your escape.”

“But, George, you said that the only way this was going to end was with me being delivered to Tampa.”

“I misspoke.”

“Well, you can’t give up yet. I’m not ready for this to be over. I was bored out of my mind for those two hours in a cage, so you owe me at least two hours of entertainment. You know what I should do? I should murder somebody.”

He leapt off the roof and onto the street, human now. He turned to look at them, then put a finger to his lips and said “Shhhh. Don’t tell.”

Then he began to stroll down the sidewalk. Didn’t even jog. Didn’t look back to see what they were doing.

“I hate that son of a bitch,” said George. “I hate him more than I’ve ever hated another person. Look at that goddamn swagger.”

“Shouldn’t you be less pissed and more grateful to be alive?” Lou asked.

“I will never stop being pissed. He has now created a ‘lifetime of seeking vengeance’ scenario.”

Ivan stopped at a small brown home. An affordable, practical car was in the driveway, and the front yard was littered with toys. Ivan shrugged--an exaggerated shrug, obviously meant for them to see--and then walked up to the front door.

George’s stomach sunk. “Aw, crap. He’s really going to do something.” He hurriedly got out of the van.

“You’re going after him?” Lou asked.

“Of course I’m going after him! Be ready to drive away fast. If you hear sirens, get out of here and don’t worry about me. If I don’t come out in a few minutes...I don’t know, you work it out.”

George ran toward the house as Ivan opened the front door and stepped inside.

CHAPTER NINE

Home Invasion

George had always been prone to extreme perspiration, but he couldn’t remember ever having been this drenched in sweat. He felt hot and sticky and miserable, he reeked of gasoline, and lots of glass chunks were still stuck to his clothes. The dog bite on his chest stung, and his wrist hurt even worse, and overall this had been one spectacularly crappy day.

He didn’t anticipate that it was going to get better in the next few minutes. Revenge or not, he most definitely was not looking forward to going after Ivan without even the safety of being in the van. But he’d be forever haunted if Ivan killed the little kid who owned those toys because of his mistake.

And he did have his gun. Not that bullets had done any good thus far, but it still felt slightly reassuring to have a weapon, even a useless one.

Ivan had left the front door ajar. George pulled it open and stepped inside. The house was messy but not dirty. More toys, mostly action figures, were all over the floor, and a television in the living room blared one of those daytime courtroom shows that George hated in concept but that were surprisingly addictive. The place smelled like air freshener.

A muffled scream.

Gun raised, George ran through the dining room into the kitchen. Ivan had his arm around a blonde in her early thirties, his hand over her mouth and Lou’s pistol pressed against the side of her head. Ivan remained fully human, and looked amused by her efforts to struggle.

“Hey, George, look what I caught!” he said with a smile.

George pointed the gun at him. “Let her go.”

“Sorry, doesn’t scare me at all.” Ivan pulled Lou’s gun away from the woman’s head, removed his hand from her mouth, then bashed her against the counter, hard. He yanked her back to a standing position and put the gun to her head again. “Stop squirming,” he told her.

She let out a sob. “Don’t hurt me...”

“Stop squirming or I’ll smash you against the counter until I break out every tooth in your head.”

“C’mon, Ivan, let her go.” George tried to keep his voice calm and polite, like a hostage negotiator. “She had nothing to do with this.”

“Well, that’s part of the fun, isn’t it? Innocent people harmed? Collateral damage?” He backed up a few steps, toward the refrigerator and another counter, dragging the woman with him. “I hate guns. Guns are for thugs and cowards.” He tossed the gun onto the counter, slid a butcher knife out of a wooden rack, and immediately pressed it against the woman’s throat. “Oh, yeah. Much better.”

“The cops are on their way,” George said.

“Excellent. Maybe I’ll kill her and let them find you here with her corpse.”

“So what do I need to do to get you to let her go? Just tell me.”

“Hmmmmmm.” Ivan pretended to consider that. “I’m not sure. This is an interesting new side of you, George. All concerned about innocent women and stuff. If I had time I could probably come up with something, but at the moment, nah, nothing springs to mind. I think I’m going to kill her.”

The woman’s entire body shook as she sobbed.

“What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Diane.”

“Diane, huh? I don’t see a ring on your finger, Diane. Are you married?”

“No.”

“Kids, though, right? How many?”

“Two.”

“How old are they?” She didn’t answer, so Ivan pressed the blade harder against her neck. “How old are they?” he repeated, almost growling the words.

“Five and seven.”

“What are their names?”

George stepped forward. “Ivan, don’t--”

“You need to stay exactly where you are and keep your mouth shut!” Ivan lowered his voice and took on a soothing tone as he spoke to Diane. “Ignore the rude man who interrupted our conversation. What are the names of your children?”

“Robin and Gabriel.”

“Robin. Girl or boy?”

“Boy.”

“Two boys, huh? I bet they’re a handful. Where are they now?”

“School.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s Wednesday, so that makes sense. Silly question. It must be a challenge to raise two young boys on your own. You’re not a welfare mother, are you?”

“No.”

“Why aren’t you at work?”

“Please...”

“Diane, answer my question. Why aren’t you at work?”

“I have the day off.”

“Okay, fair answer. You figured you’d get in some alone time, run a few errands, clean up the house, and take a mental health day, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Things would sure be tough for Robin and Gabriel if they didn’t have a mother, wouldn’t they? I bet they’d cry their little eyes out. I hope you have relatives who would take them in, or else the poor kids may end up bouncing from one foster home to the next. They can’t always keep orphaned siblings together, you know. Oh, they try, they give it their best, but there’s only so much you can do.”

George felt like he was going to vomit. What the hell was he supposed to do? Rush him? Try to shoot him in the face? It was absolutely killing him to stand there helplessly, but what else could he do?

“Hey, George, I’ll make you a deal. You throw that gun over here, toss it into the sink, and I’ll let her go. I won’t even slice off an ear. Maybe I’ll slice off part of an ear, but not the full ear, I promise.”

“No way.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t cut off anything. No mutilation. You won’t get that offer again, and you’ve got five seconds to decide.”

George put on the safety, then tossed the gun across the kitchen into the sink. Bullets didn’t seem to hurt Ivan anyway, so it wasn’t as if he was worse off.

“Nice toss,” said Ivan. “Just for the record, I wasn’t worried about getting shot, but I don’t want you squandering bullets and attracting the cops while we’re having sooooo much fun.”

“I said, the cops are already on their way.”

“And I believe you’re fibbing. I at least know that you didn’t call them. Hey, George, do you know who else in this room likes to lie? I’ll give you a clue. It’s not the woman.”

Oh God...

“That’s right. Well, Diane, it’s been lovely chatting with you, but now I need to create a couple of orphans.”

He slowly slid the blade across her throat. Diane’s eyes widened, her legs buckled, and Ivan let her fall to the floor, clutching at her neck and making horrible choking sounds.

“You sick fuck!” George shouted. He took another step forward--he couldn’t help himself--and Ivan held up the bloody knife in a defensive position.

“Don’t do it, George. You’ll get it a lot worse than she did.” He crouched down next to her. “See how I didn’t cut all that deep? I could’ve cut all the way to the bone, but then she would’ve bled out too quickly. This way it lingers a little more.” He ran a finger through the gash in her neck and held it up for George’s inspection.

“She didn’t do anything to you!”

“No, but you did.”

Diane’s body twitched as the pool of blood on the tile expanded. George had witnessed some terrible things in his life, even a few cold-blooded murders, but those were brutal, emotionless killings designed to punish or send a message. He’d never seen anything like the sense of malicious glee that was on Ivan’s face right now. The guy couldn’t be happier if he were a ten-year-old at an amusement park.

Diane coughed, sending blood trickling down both sides of her mouth.

Ivan held the butcher knife over her, moving it back and forth. “I think I should stab her again. What do you think, George?”

“If you do, I’ll kill you.”

Ivan shrugged. “Eh, empty threat.” He stood up and picked George’s gun out of the sink, then pointed it at him. “I don’t want to shoot you. You won’t be much fun if I do.” He crouched back down next to Diane. “Wow, lots of blood in the human body, huh? You don’t think there’s that much just looking at somebody, but we leak pretty good.”

George forced himself not to scream in rage. “You’ve made your point.”

“Oh, I’m so far from having made my point that it isn’t even funny.” Ivan slammed the knife into Diane’s stomach, burying it all the way to the hilt. Most of her strength was gone by this point, but she still let out a gasp of pain through the gurgling blood. He wrenched the knife out of her, considered his next target for a moment, then slammed the knife deep into her thigh.

George clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails dug into the skin.

“Pretty frustrated, aren’t you?” Ivan asked, yanking the blade out of her leg. “I would be too, in your shitty situation. You should beg me to let her go. That would be pretty entertaining, since she’s basically dead at this point.”

Ivan stabbed her five more times, running the length of her body, each thunk making George cringe. Then Ivan stood up and rolled her onto her back with his foot. Diane lay splayed out on the kitchen floor, eyes open, unquestionably dead.

“You’re pathetic,” said George, his mouth completely dry.

“Pathetic? That’s the adjective you’re going to throw out? Pathetic? You had to stand there and watch me murder a mother of two. Your best buddy apparently isn’t even going to check on you. George, dude, at this particular moment, I am most definitely not the one who’s pathetic.”

“Then why don’t you come after me, instead of an innocent woman?”

“It’s not an either/or deal. I can do both.”

That comment scared George a lot more than he wanted to admit, but he stood firm and held up his fists. “Then let’s do it.”

“No rush, no rush.” Ivan put a hand to his ear. “Hear that? No sirens. Amazing what you can get away with during a weekday, isn’t it? Let me tell you a little about me. Secret origins kind of stuff. I love to kill people. Absolutely love it. Always have. It’s the usual serial killer deal--I caught a frog when I was in grade school, and spent the afternoon playing around with it, putting it in a Lego maze and that kind of thing. Tried to make it eat a grasshopper. Great afternoon. Then my mom called me in for dinner, and I knew she wouldn’t let me bring the frog inside, so I was going to let it go, but instead I took out my pocketknife and cut off its arms and legs. Frogs are a bitch to hold down while you’re doing that. Loved watching it writhe. I spent the whole meal wondering how my poor dismembered frog was doing, and I didn’t even have dessert. That’s right, hot fudge sundaes on the table and all I cared about was that frog.”

George wiped some sweat from his forehead. He’d really hoped that Lou would come in, guns blazing, even though Lou didn’t currently have a gun. His partner had to be doing something, right?

“I went back outside, looked in the shoebox where I’d left that frog, and he was still alive. Oh, he wasn’t doing much, just sort of opening and closing his mouth, but he was alive. So I dissected him. I couldn’t tell you what the frog parts were called or what their biological functions were, but I saw all of them.”

“Am I supposed to respect this?” George asked.

“I don’t care if you respect it or it disgusts you or gives you a big fat boner. I just want you to listen. I killed a lot more frogs after that. I mean a lot more. If the Supreme Being turns out to be a frog, I am more fucked than Hitler. From there I moved up to mammals. Mammals were even more fun. Bagged my first human when I was twenty-one. A hooker. I wish I’d been more inventive, but no, it was the typical ‘crack whore who won’t be missed’ scenario. Wanna know how I did it?”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“Oh, come on.”

“How did you do it?”

“Blowtorch. It’s extremely inefficient.”

“So how many people have you killed?”

“Americans, not that many, probably not even a dozen. But I spent some time in Africa, and, oh, I racked up a body count there. Same thing in Mexico. You go to the poor parts of the world, and you can live like a king and slaughter like a dictator. It’s pretty fantastic.”

“Yeah.”

“I love how you’re reduced to saying things like ‘Yeah.’ Very weak. Question, would it weird you out if I started licking up Diane’s blood? Because I don’t want to be nasty or anything, but it’s smelling really good to me right now, and I’d love to just bury my face in her neck and slurp away.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“I probably shouldn’t indulge. You seem like the kind of person who would attack a guy when he’s licking blood from a mutilated corpse.”

“What about the whole werewolf thing?” George asked.

“Oh my God, it’s more awesome than you can imagine. I mean, I know it’s supposed to be a curse and everything, but if you’d be killing people anyway, it’s the best thing in the world. Not everyone takes to it. Lot of suicides in the werewolf community. They’re always fighting the change instead of embracing it.”

“So clearly the full moon is bullshit.”

Ivan shook his head. “Pretty much. I mean, the full moon causes the transformation whether you want it or not, but there are a lot of other factors. Most werewolves--and I don’t want to imply that there are hundreds; we’re actually a very rare species--they’re terrified of what they are. But if you relish the change, and you practice, practice, practice, you can do it whenever you want. Hurts like hell, but you can learn to even like that part. I love it.”

“How’d you get caught?”

“I let myself get caught.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Okay, maybe that part wasn’t entirely intentional. But I sure got out, didn’t I?”

“What happens next, Ivan? Are you trying to make me the first person in the world to get talked to death by a werewolf?”

“Ooooh, we’re back to being saucy again, huh? Didn’t take you long to get over your horror. I want to fight it out. No guns, no butcher knives, no wolves, just you and me, man to man.”

“You’re going to stay human?”

“Yep.”

“For how long?”

“Until you’re lying on the floor with a broken jaw. I know, you’re thinking that you’ll get one good punch in and I’ll instantly wuss out and change, but you’re wrong. Let’s see who’s the better man.”

“Fine,” George said. “Let’s do this.”

“Excellent.” Ivan dropped the butcher knife. It hit Diane’s face and stuck there. Then he set George’s gun back in the sink. “I recommend that we move out of the kitchen, so that nobody slips on the blood.”

CHAPTER TEN

Thug Versus Wolfman

“Works for me.” George walked into the dining room. Though he was so scared that he was practically trembling, he forced himself to remain optimistic. He was going to get out of this with a dead werewolf at his feet and his dignity restored. Ivan was positive that he had the upper hand, and technically he did, but it would only take one moment of arrogance and carelessness for George to make his move.

Ivan had joked about “one good punch,” which was exactly what George planned to do. Werewolf or not, superhuman or not, you didn’t immediately recover from a nose-breaking blow. If it didn’t send shards of bone rocketing into Ivan’s brain, George would pound on him until his own knuckles were bloody and Ivan’s face was nothing but frothing pulp.

Ivan followed him. The two men stood about five feet apart.

George rushed forward, throwing a sideways punch at Ivan’s nose, hoping to make it splatter. Ivan pulled back out of the way, and George cursed as he hit nothing but air.

Ivan punched him in the stomach, so hard that George dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. The pain was so incredible that he was honestly surprised Ivan’s hand hadn’t burst right through his stomach and come out his back.

He knew he needed to get back up, quickly, but his guts felt like they’d been completely squashed. Even if he was a wolfman, how could such a skinny guy hit so goddamn hard?

“Done already?” Ivan asked. “This was barely worth me wasting time with the frog story.”

George forced himself to at least get up off his knees, though he remained doubled over with his arms crossed over his stomach. He pulled his arms away, raised his fists, and stood up straight.

Ivan punched him in the face. His head shot back with almost neck-snapping force, and he stumbled backwards against the dining room table. He fell to the floor.

C’mon, Lou, where the hell’s the cavalry? At this point, he’d almost welcome a visit by the cops. Better to spend twenty years in the clink than to let Ivan beat him to death.

“I’m going to give you one more chance to get up and fight like a...you know, it doesn’t even have to be like a man, just not like a crippled old lady. Can you do that for me, George? Because if you can’t, I’m going to change into a wolf and start eating you.”

George reached up and grabbed the back of one of the chairs. He used it to steady himself as he pulled himself up.

“I don’t even like the taste of human flesh that much,” said Ivan. “I’m into a lot of demented things, but cannibalism isn’t one of them. And I do consider it cannibalism, even if I’m in my wolf state.”

“Weren’t you just talking about licking up blood?” George asked, bracing himself against the table and trying hard not to throw up.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It’s drinking instead of eating. If there’s no meat involved, it’s not cannibalism. Everybody knows that. Not that I’m morally opposed to cannibalism. It’s just not for me.”

George needed to focus his rage. He had a hell of a lot of rage available to focus. Just imagine the sense of euphoria you’ll feel when that bastard’s head explodes into a billion sloppy chunks. Work with the pain and fury. Harness it. Make it your bitch.

He quickly picked up the chair and smashed it into the side of Ivan’s head, like a pro wrestler. Neither the chair nor Ivan’s head broke apart, but Ivan let out a loud grunt and stumbled away, clearly stunned, which was satisfying enough.

Not wanting to lose his momentum, George rushed him and swung the chair a second time. Ivan dodged, but George got him on the reverse swing, bashing the wood into his chest and cracking one of the chair legs.

Ivan’s right arm transformed. George took another swing. This time, Ivan grabbed a hold of the chair and yanked it out of his grasp, then threw it against the wall, where it broke into several pieces and clattered to the floor.

“Didn’t take long to violate the no-weapons agreement, huh?” Though Ivan’s tone was sarcastic, his eyes flashed with anger. The hit with the chair had obviously hurt. Ivan the Werewolf wasn’t invulnerable after all.

He had, of course, just taken a brutal chair hit to the head without his skull fracturing, so George was still in plenty of danger.

“I thought you weren’t going to change,” he said.

“You cheated first.”

And George was going to cheat again. He bolted back for the kitchen. A few close-range gunshots to the face would certainly test the wolfman’s resilience.

He leapt over Diane’s corpse, slipped on the blood, and fell on his ass.

He scrambled to get back on his feet, but his hand flew out from underneath him as he tried to push himself up on the blood-covered floor. If he were lucky, Ivan would pass out from laughter at George’s predicament, giving him a chance to escape.

Ivan’s sense of humor was apparently on hold for the moment. He grabbed the back of George’s shirt with his clawed werewolf hand and dragged him back through the blood and over the corpse. She still had the butcher knife in her face. George yanked it out as he slid over her.

He twisted himself around and jabbed the knife at Ivan. Missed.

Another jab and the blade went an inch into Ivan’s upper leg. He winced, and then backhanded George across the face with his wolf hand. The handle of the knife popped out of George’s grasp as he struck the tile yet again. It fell to the floor. Ivan kicked it out of the way, so hard that it slid all the way across the kitchen and onto the carpet of the dining room.

George chose his target, bent his knee, and then slammed his foot into Ivan’s groin with as much force as he could summon.

It was a spectacular direct hit. Ivan howled and clutched at his balls.

His head transformed, but it wasn’t the rapid transformation from before. Fur sprouted in random patches on his face, and his skull became misshapen. His cry of pain revealed wolf-sized teeth in a human-sized mouth. His nose changed into a snout and then back into a nose, and three of the fingers on his left hand grew talons; unfortunately, they were not positioned in such a way as to further damage his scrotum.

A line of fur raced across his arm and then disappeared.

The leg George had stabbed changed into a wolfman leg, throwing him off-balance.

Despite his size and constant urging from the coach, George had never played football. He wasn’t into team sports. But he sure as hell knew how to do a tackle, and he took advantage of Ivan’s distraction to charge him, ramming into his gut and knocking the still-shifting werewolf to the floor.

Ivan’s head changed to full wolfman and he bit at George’s arm. George pulled away just in time, threw a punch that connected solidly with Ivan’s jaw, then got off him and went for the sink.

Ivan grabbed his ankle just as George snatched the gun.

George fired a shot. Even at almost point-blank range, George’s aim was slightly off, and the bullet tore across the side of the werewolf’s head, ripping a trail of red through his fur.

Ivan released his ankle.

George fired again, hitting him in the forehead. A gout of blood burst from the wound. He emptied the rest of the clip into the werewolf’s chest, wanting to shout something clever but settling for a primal scream.

Ivan, bleeding profusely, fell back against the counter. Aside from a two-inch patch around his right eye, he was now a full wolfman.

His werewolf eye glowed red with fury.

George almost threw the empty gun at him, but didn’t. Ivan was still very much alive, and George might need the weapon later.

Ivan ran his palms down his face and chest in one fluid motion, wiping off some of the blood. He said something that looked like it was meant to be a sadistic, menacing comment, but came out only as a growl.

Not wanting to lose his advantage, George hurried over and threw a punch at the werewolf, hoping to hit him directly in one of the bullet holes. He didn’t quite succeed, but it was a solid blow to the chest. One that had no visible impact.

He punched again. Still nothing, except a bolt of pain in his hand that made him think he might have broken a finger or two.

Ivan drew his hand back, bloody claws glistening. With him in full werewolf mode and pissed off beyond belief, George had no doubt that a full-force swipe could knock his head off, or at least remove most of his face. He ducked underneath Ivan’s arm and sprinted through the dining room.

There had to be another weapon in the house. Perhaps not a fire poker or machete, but maybe a broom that he could snap in half or a fire extinguisher.

He ran through the living room into the hallway. The doors on each side were closed, so he ran into the open doorway at the end.

A bedroom. Obviously Diane’s. A television on the dresser was set to the same channel as the one in the living room, and a folded-out ironing board stood next to the bed. A blouse was draped over it. An iron, the red light on, rested on the board.

So, what, she’d been about to do some ironing, then went into the kitchen for a snack?

It didn’t matter. He grabbed the iron and tugged on the cord to pull it free of the power outlet.

Something moved on the other side of the bed.

A little kid popped his head up, his face stained with tears. He looked about five.

Oh, shit!

Which one was it? Robin? Gabriel? George couldn’t remember which one was younger.

George frantically waved for the kid to duck back down.

“Okay, sweetheart, I’ll get you a juice box, just promise Mommy you won’t touch the iron, all right?”

George moved out of the bedroom, almost pulling the door shut behind him but realizing that it would look suspicious. Ivan stood at the other end of the hallway, still full werewolf. His bullet wounds seemed to be smaller than before--George couldn’t actually see them shrinking, but there was unquestionably some sort of rapid healing going on.

Instead of waiting for the werewolf to come after him, George charged forward. He’d replace the smell of air freshener with the scent of burnt dog.

The way he’d envisioned the attack, George would press the hot iron firmly against Ivan’s chest, relishing the sizzling sound. But two steps in, he could tell that he wasn’t going to get that opportunity, so he adjusted the angle of the iron, holding it so that the pointed end was in front. He swung the iron as he ran, aiming it in an arc toward Ivan’s ear, hoping to impale the creature.

Ivan blocked the swing, smashing his clenched, clawed fist into George’s forearm. George lost his grip on the iron. It fell, landing with the hot side on George’s leg, but bouncing off before it could do more than startle him.

George took a powerful blow to the chin--not quite a decapitation blow or a face-removing one, but certainly enough to rattle his jaw--and careened back against the bedroom door, which swung all the way open.

Ivan looked past him and snarled.

There wasn’t any sense looking back. It didn’t matter if he’d seen the little boy or not, because either way, George wasn’t going to let the werewolf through the doorway.

He was starting to feel pretty lightheaded, though, and his wrist was soaking through the bandage.

He shook off the dizzy spell. No time for that shit.

George just had to get past the werewolf and lead him away from the bedroom. Ivan was interested in killing him and not a five-year-old boy, right?

Unfortunately, it was a narrow hallway and they both took up a lot of space. Getting past him was going to be almost impossible.

He could rush back into the bedroom and close the door, but he figured the door would only last a few moments of being pummeled by Ivan, if that. More likely it would explode in a shower of splinters and they’d have nowhere to go.

Screw it. He’d try another tackle.

George lowered his head and ran at Ivan, building up as much speed as he could in those few steps. Ivan shoved him aside, slamming George against the wall and dislodging two framed photographs.

Jaws wide open, Ivan lunged at George’s face.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ferocious

Lou Flynn sat in the driver’s seat of the van, trying not to fidget in front of Michele. He wasn’t quite sure where their relationship stood at the moment, and he guessed there was a pretty good chance that it might revert back to a “kidnapper and captive” deal, so he wanted to make sure she didn’t notice any signs of weakness. He had an almost uncontrollable desire to chew his fingernails, but withstood the urge and just scratched his left knee, pretending that it itched a lot.

He stared at the front door of the home, waiting for George to emerge, victoriously leading the werewolf in handcuffs, or holding its severed head. Better the handcuffs than the severed head, since despite the current danger of having an actual werewolf trying to slaughter them, exterminating their cargo would most likely lead to a whole mess of problems that they weren’t ready to handle.

He hated when George said things like “If I’m not back in a few minutes, get out of here.” What that really meant was “If I’m not back in a few minutes, sigh with frustration, utter a couple of your favorite expletives, and then embrace your heroic side.” George knew that Lou wasn’t going to simply drive off and leave him, despite the overwhelming temptation to do so.

“Does he do this a lot?” Michele asked.

“Foolishly chase werewolves?”

“You know what I mean.”

Lou shook his head. “Nah. Things usually go pretty smooth.”

That was true. It wasn’t as if their lives were a series of disasters. Even excluding the supernatural element, the path this job had taken was unlike anything they’d ever experienced. They’d exchanged some gunfire with gangsters, just barely dodged the cops a few times, and once, when he’d been carving a scarlet “A” on a cheating husband’s arm, the man had somehow gotten a hold of his switchblade. A quick punch to the nose corrected the situation, but it had been a pretty scary moment.

Overall, most jobs, even the most distasteful ones, went reasonably well.

Lou had decided that he might give this lifestyle another five years, keep building up his nest egg, and then retire. Enjoy life. Travel to places that he wanted to go. Find a girlfriend, and then propose to her. Let his beard grow down to his navel.

If he had to die before that, so be it, but he didn’t want to die chasing a werewolf. Werewolves should be left alone. He and George should’ve told Ricky to suck it and made him find somebody else.

“C’mon, George,” he said under his breath, still watching the front door. “We shouldn’t be here.”

“Should you go in there after him?” Michele asked.

“I’ll give him a couple more minutes.”

“I can wait here. I’ll honk if somebody’s coming.”

“What you mean is, you’ll drive away as soon as I get out.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Of course you will. I would.”

“You saved my life.”

“Right. Which means you probably have a newfound appreciation for not being dead. And I hate to say this, but your ten percent has pretty much been flushed down the can.”

“I figured that.”

“Do you think there’s some kind of reasonable explanation for this? I mean, it’s hard to stay a skeptic when a man changes into a wolf-thing right in front of you, but do you think there’s some way he could’ve faked it? Penn and Teller, they could probably pull that off, don’t you think?”

“Not unless they’ve turned to sorcery instead of illusion.”

“Crap.”

“Yeah.”

Lou shifted in his seat. “I’m surprised the cops haven’t shown up yet. That damn wolf was running down the street in broad daylight. What about those people on the porch?”

“They’re probably throwing out all of their weed.”

“Could be.”

“Or maybe the police don’t rush out to respond to werewolf reports.”

“Well, the people who called in wouldn’t have to say it was a werewolf. They could just say it was a big dog.”

“But if they did use the word ‘werewolf,’ that could explain why the police haven’t given this a top priority.”

Lou nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. Also the people who live around here might have day jobs.”

There was a crash from inside the house. Lou sat up straight.

Did that noise relate to damage inflicted by George, or to him?

“Crap,” he said.

Michele said nothing. She looked as if she might be back to considering making a run for it. If she did, Lou probably wouldn’t try to stop her, though he had no plans to tell her this.

He sighed.

More crashes.

He had to go in there. No matter how dumb or bordering on suicidal it was, he had to go in there to try to help his partner.

“He’s gonna get me killed,” Lou muttered, unfastening his seat belt. “Or maimed. It’s official: you’re seeing me alive for the very last time because of him. Son of a bitch. Excuse my language.”

“No problem.”

Lou looked over at Michele, took the keys out of the ignition, and pocketed them.

“So you’re leaving me with no way to escape if the wolf comes back out?” she asked.

“I’m leaving you with no way to ditch us, correct.”

A gunshot rang out from inside the house. Lou hurriedly opened the door and got out of the van. More gunshots went off as he ran toward the front door. Oh, how this sucked. This sucked so thoroughly. It was hard to even quantify the level of suck involved here.

He pressed the button on the handle of his switchblade, snapping out the blade, and then opened the front door and stepped into the living room, hoping to see George stomping up and down on a pile of werewolf mush. Instead, the living room was empty.

A commotion in the hallway.

He ran over there and saw Ivan, fully transformed, looming over George. Ivan’s back was to Lou. Lou’s first instinct was to freeze, but he forced himself to ignore the terror and rush at the creature. He slashed diagonally across Ivan’s back, left shoulder to the right side of his waist, cutting deep.

The werewolf howled in pain.

Wow. The switchblade seemed to work better than bullets.

Ivan spun around and Lou slashed him again, cutting in the opposite direction. Ivan howled once more, clawing at the long red gash, and then violently shoved Lou out of the way. Lou smashed into a dent in the wall that he thought may have already been made by George, but kept his footing as the werewolf rushed past him, through the living room, and out the front door.

“You hurt him!” George shouted. “You actually hurt the bastard!”

“Are you okay?” Lou quickly reached out his arm. George grabbed it and pulled himself up.

“Yeah, I’m fine! What’s important is that he’s not! Let’s go!”

“Where?”

“After him!” George hurried into the living room, and then into the kitchen.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m getting the guns!”

George returned, holding both pistols. He gave one to Lou and hurried for the door. “Come on!”

“But--”

“If he’s weakened, maybe we can take him down! He’s a deranged psychopathic killer, Lou! We can’t let him escape!”

Lou followed George out of the house. Psychopathic killer? Who had Ivan killed? Was the blood on George’s clothing not his own?

Michele slammed the door of the van shut. Clearly she’d been trying to make a break for it, but retreated back to the safety of the vehicle when Ivan came outside. The werewolf ran past the van and down the sidewalk, moving with great speed yet at a visibly slower rate than during the previous chase and leaving a small trail of blood.

“In the van!” George shouted.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Lou threw up his arms in protest, but still got in the van. He tossed the keys over Michele to George, who started the engine and sped off.

“We’re going to run him down,” said George. “We’re going to squash him underneath the tires, and then we’re going to back up and do it again!”

Ivan ran along the sidewalk, just ahead. George looked wild-eyed, almost deranged and psychopathic himself, and Lou suddenly wondered if he’d survived his brief fight with the werewolf only to perish in a van wreck. “Don’t drive on the sidewalk!”

“I’m not going to!” said George, although it kind of looked like he was.

Ivan darted across to the other side of the street, then onto somebody’s yard and crossed between two houses. George slammed on the brakes.

Off in the distance, Lou heard sirens. “Damn, it took them long enough,” he said. “Okay, George, it’s time to get the hell out of here.”

“We need to catch him.”

“No! Now, I’m usually happy to let you take the lead, and I’ve let you give orders all day, but we need to leave! I’m not going to prison for this, do you understand? If you want to keep chasing him, fine, but you’re doing it on foot.”

George gave him a look of absolute fury, which immediately softened. Now he almost looked like he was going to cry. “Yeah, you’re right. We’ll go. The cops’ll take him down.”

“You okay?”

“Should I be okay?”

Lou didn’t say anything. They kept to the speed limit to avoid attracting police attention, though of course it was entirely possible that the cops were also seeking a black van as a vehicle of interest in the disappearance of Michele. Much to Lou’s relief, they ended up making it out of the town and back onto Tamiami Trail without even driving past one of the cops or emergency vehicles.

George stared straight ahead as he drove, looking more spooked than Lou had ever seen him. That was only to be expected--Lou was more spooked than he’d ever been, too, and most likely Michele felt the same way. But George’s mental state seemed to go beyond simply “Holy shit! That werewolf almost killed me!”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” Lou asked.

George shook his head.

“We can. I mean, if you’re that badly hurt. I can drop you off at the door, or I can come in with you if you need it, or whatever.”

“Do you know what he did?” George asked.

“What?”

“He killed the lady who lived in that house. Not just killed her--he made her talk about her family, and then he slashed her up, like it was a great big joke. Remember that hit we saw two years ago in Buffalo?”

“Yeah.”

“That guy laughed and it was frickin’ chilling, but that was an ‘I finally got revenge’ laugh. You could sort of understand where he was coming from. This was...it was just like ‘Look how much fun I’m having stabbing this woman.’ It was playtime.”

“Jesus.”

“He kept doing it after she was dead. He sat there stabbing her corpse. And her kid was in the house.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. He was hiding in the bedroom. This little kid. He’s already terrified, and he’s going to walk into the kitchen and find his mom in a great big pool of blood, stabbed to death by a madman. I should have gotten him out of there. Should’ve taken him to a neighbor or something. He’s five, Lou. He shouldn’t see that. What’s going to happen to him?”

“He should be okay, right? I mean, Ivan’s gone.”

“I’m not talking about whether or not he gets killed by a goddamn werewolf. I’m talking about him seeing his dead mom!”

“Okay, okay, I dunno what to tell you, George! It’s heartbreaking, but we didn’t have a choice. We couldn’t hang out there any more. Protecting the kid from psychological trauma isn’t worth going to prison, right?”

“I guess not.”

“No, no, don’t use the word ‘guess.’ This is a definite. I’m not going to jail for a kid.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“I am right, and we need to get this perfectly clear: we’re not heroes. If you wanna be sad about the kid, I completely understand--it’s disturbing as hell. But don’t sit there thinking that we should’ve taken him by the hand and led him over to the nice old lady who lives next door. You got me?”

“I’ve got you.”

“Good. I’m not a cold-hearted monster. I’m gonna have some sleepless nights over this whole thing, but the reason I’ll get to have those sleepless nights is that I’m still alive.”

“I said I’ve got you! Quit hammering in the goddamn point!”

“And now I think we should call Ricky.”

“Aw, shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Who’s Ricky?” Michele asked.

“If we’re lucky, he’s going to be the guy who covers our butts.” George took his cell phone out of his pocket.

“You want me to do it?” Lou asked.

“Nah, I’ll take the heat.”

“Don’t throw up on the phone.”

“I won’t.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Difficult Confession

George took a deep breath, exhaled slowly in an effort to calm himself, then called Ricky. He hoped that the little prick didn’t give him any crap, because George was positively not in the mood for it.

Ricky answered. “George?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, I was half a second away from calling you. Your dog problem is on the news. I thought you were just yanking me, but I’m looking at it right now. Anyway, I just got off a conference call with Bateman and Dewey. Intense stuff.”

“Intense how?”

“Manic depressive intense. Anger and joy. I’m glad I only have to deal with them over the phone. So here’s the deal: get off the road ASAP. Find someplace safe to hide out. Get as far off the beaten path as you can. They weren’t anticipating any problems like this, so they’re going to send out a bunch of reinforcements and collect the furball from you.”

“Oh.”

“Your voice sounds funny.”

“Yeah.”

“Just relax. It’s all going to be taken care of. Your buddy Ricky makes your headaches go away.”

“So, Ricky, what if there was another problem that they hadn’t anticipated?”

“What do you mean?”

George could almost feel the new ulcer burning into his stomach lining. “What if we lost our cargo?”

“Oh, shit, George. Don’t tell me that. Please don’t tell me that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You lost him? For real?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God. This is--you’ve got to be--how the hell do you lose a guy in a cage?”

“He escaped! He changed into a werewolf and escaped!”

There was a long silence, and then Ricky let out a sigh of relief. “Ah, okay, you’re just screwing with me. Good one. I almost had a heart attack over that.”

“I am absolutely dead serious! He transformed into a wolfman and got out of the cage!” George didn’t see any reason to confess to his own starring role in the escape.

“What?”

“That’s what happened!”

“Listen to me. I’ve got to report back to Bateman and Dewey, and it’s fine if you want to goof around with me, I deserve it, but these men have no sense of humor and I need to know the truth: do you still have Ivan with you?”

“No.”

“Shit!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shit! Oh, shit! How could you lose him? You idiot!”

George bristled. Whether he was an idiot or not, he didn’t appreciate being called one by a little punk like Ricky. “He changed into a wolf, that’s how I lost him! I wasn’t expecting it!”

“But everybody told you he was a werewolf! I know for a frickin’ fact that it came up in the conversation!”

“I didn’t believe it! You didn’t believe it either! Why the hell would I believe something like that? If there’s a real-life werewolf involved, that’s a concept you need to do a better job of selling! You need to give me pictures or video or expert testimony! I thought he was just some skinny guy in a cage! And it’s not even the full moon! The full moon was supposed to be a crucial element! I’m sorry things went bad like this, but we were not given enough information to successfully carry out this task!”

Ricky sounded as if he were about to hyperventilate. “You have no idea how bad this is. They’re going to execute you!”

“Execute us? Nobody said this job had the risk of us getting executed!”

“Every job has the risk of you getting executed! You know that!”

“Why did they pick us to do it? If this was so important, why didn’t they get one of their own men?”

“Because you and Lou are good! And because it was supposed to be an easy transport job!”

“Well, it wasn’t!”

“Look, George, this is a nightmare scenario, but I’ll do everything I can to keep you guys alive. I’ll stick out my neck for you. Is there anything else I should know?”

George hesitated. “No.”

“Why’d you hesitate?”

“Okay, the werewolf murdered somebody. A lady.”

“Aw, damn it.”

“And when we were at the gas station, we picked up this girl who was being attacked by the dogs. She ‘s in the van with us now.”

“Are you tugging my dick?”

“No.”

“You brought a witness? Are you on crack?”

“The dogs were going to kill her!”

“You didn’t have to let them kill her, but that doesn’t mean you had to--you know what, I’m not going to have this conversation. I’m going to get back on the phone with a couple of very violent men, and get my ass chewed out while I try to figure out how to unfuck this disaster. Did your werewolf buddy bend the bars?”

“No.”

“Then lock the girl in there.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding? We’re in hardcore damage control mode. This is ‘fingernails ripped out before they drown you’ bad. You need to put that girl in the cage, hide out, and pray to God that we can clean up the loose ends. Now I have to go.”

George flinched as Ricky slammed down the phone in his ear.

“Did that go as bad as it sounded?” Lou asked.

“It did go poorly.” George’s head was pounding. “It’s not our fault, right? How could we know? Even if we believed in the werewolf thing, it’s not a full moon. We specifically discussed the full moon issue when we picked him up, right? I made that comment about not following the lunar cycles that closely. It’s not our fault, right?”

“Well,” said Lou, “you’re right that it’s not our fault...”

In addition to all of his other physical discomfort, George felt his upper lip begin to twitch.

“...but I’m not gonna say anything else about it,” said Lou. “It’s done and we can’t take it back. We’re just gonna start from where we are and stick together.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

“However, I’m hoping that the plan involves finding someplace to hide out until reinforcements arrive.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Crap.”

“We can’t let him go on a killing spree,” said George. “He’ll leave a trail of bodies just to prove he’s better than us. If we don’t stop him, ten bucks says that the police will find our names spelled out with somebody’s intestines.”

Lou rubbed his forehead. “I’ve got a headache.”

“Mine’s worse. If we recapture him, we’ll be okay. We’ll have to do some apologizing, but they won’t kill us.”

“Do you know that for sure?”

“No, but I do know that they will kill us if that werewolf gets away.”

“So what are we gonna do, catch him in a net?”

“Maybe.”

“We can’t catch a werewolf in a net! That’s ridiculous! We can’t even run him down in a van!”

“He has weaknesses, Lou. I got him in the crotch and it hurt him bad.”

“Wolfman’s got nards,” said Michele.

“Excuse me?”

“‘Wolfman’s got nards.’ It’s a quote from The Monster Squad.” She seemed to realize that George was not amused. “Sorry. Trying to lighten the mood.”

“What’s your knife made out of?” George asked Lou.

“Sterling silver.”

“Our lead bullets made him bleed but they didn’t really slow him down. Your knife, though--that got him. Maybe some of the werewolf lore is accurate. What do you think we could do with pure silver?”

“Do you have any?”

“No. I’m sure we can’t just drive to Wal-Mart and pick up a clip of silver bullets, but we can get other stuff. What else can you use to stop a werewolf?”

“We could dig a big pit and cover the top with leaves,” said Lou.

George shook his head. “We don’t have time for that.”

“George, that was a joke. An obvious one. If you’re so far gone that you think I was being serious about the big wolf pit, then maybe we’re not in the best frame of mind to go on a werewolf hunt.”

“Okay, we need some silver,” George said, continuing as if he hadn’t heard Lou’s comment. “Maybe we can make a tip for a spear or something. Jab it through his nards.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“We need a jewelry store and a sporting goods store. No problem.”

“We drove by a bunch of antique stores when we first got here.”

“Perfect.” George smiled, but then he remembered the little boy who might be crouched next to his dead mother right now, and his smile disappeared. He hoped the kid and his brother wouldn’t be separated if they went into foster homes.

“You okay, George?” Lou asked.

“I’m fine. Delightful. Come on, let’s go save our lives.”

* * *

The first antique shop was an absolute dump of a place. Granted, any shop that sold old crap fit George’s definition of “dump,” since he had a whole head full of bad memories about his mom and grandmother dragging him around from shop to shop, squealing in delight when they found more rare garbage to display in their curiosity cabinets. He couldn’t prove it and didn’t want to, but he was pretty sure that the first female orgasm he’d ever witnessed was at the moment his grandmother found an old coffee table. It stayed in her living room for twenty years and wasn’t any better than one she could have bought at a furniture store for less money and without Grandpa having to spend six months fixing it up.

The decrepit guy behind the counter had asked if they’d been in a car accident, and George explained that, yes, they had, and that they appreciated his concern. George asked about silver, and the ancient guy had stared at him for a while, trying to think. “No,” he finally said, “but I’ve got some Silver Age comic books. A buck each.”

“No, thank you.”

“Seventy-five cents.”

“Sorry.”

They thanked him and left the store. The next one was only two shops down, so they jogged over there and went through the rickety door. A bell tinkled as they entered. An old lady sat on a rocking chair on the other side of the small shop, reading a paperback novel and smoking a cigarette. George didn’t like or care about antiques, but he was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to smoke around them.

“You’re not going to get blood on my stuff, are you?” the old lady asked.

“No, ma’am. We’ll be careful.”

“Were you in an accident?”

“Yes. None of us are going to die, though. In case you were worried.”

“Anything I can help you find?”

“We’re looking for silver. Pure silver, if you’ve got it.”

The old woman nodded and tapped some ashes off her cigarette onto the ashtray that rested on the rocking chair arm. “I’ve got plenty of silver. What do you want?”

“Anything you’ve got.”

“Sounds desperate.”

“No, we’re just late for a wedding, mostly because of the car accident.” He gestured at Lou. “This jackass forgot to pick up a gift.”

“Please don’t curse in my store.”

“Jackass?” George decided to let it go. “Anyway, we need a gift. The bride loves silver.”

“All right.” The old woman took another drag from her cigarette, then stood up and walked over to the counter, moving at an excruciatingly slow pace. George wanted to ask her to speed it up, since people might be horribly mutilated while she ambled over there, but figured that wasn’t such a good idea.

“Do you have a restroom?” Michele asked.

“No.”

George gave her a dirty look. She probably assumed that George and Lou wouldn’t prevent her from going to the bathroom when this old lady was around to hear their conversation. She really was going to end up in the cage if she wasn’t careful.

The old woman hobbled behind the counter, then ducked out of sight. A few moments later, she stood back up and set a wooden box on the counter. She raised the lid, revealing dozens of rings.

“Great, great,” said George. “Which ones are silver?”

“The ones colored silver.”

As a rule, George didn’t hit old ladies, though it was a rule for which he was momentarily inclined to try to find a loophole. He quickly went through the selection, plucking out ten or eleven of the rings.

“By the way, I don’t take credit cards,” the old lady said.

“You don’t?”

“Nope.”

“In the twenty-first century, in a store full of high-ticket items, you don’t take credit cards?”

“The credit card companies charge me service fees. Nobody ever got charged a service fee for cash.”

“Actually, ATM’s do usually charge a service fee for cash withdrawals. But that’s fine. I’m not going to tell you how to run your place.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“What else do you have in silver?”

The old woman looked around. “Over against that wall, there’s a silver mirror.”

“Good. Lou, go get that.” Lou nodded and went over to retrieve the mirror. “What else?”

“Well, let me see...are you Catholic?”

“We’re whatever religion worships silver.”

“I’ve got this,” said the woman, taking out a silver crucifix that was about six inches long.

George picked it up and examined it. “This Jesus kind of looks like Kenny Rogers.”

“Don’t blaspheme in my shop, please.”

“I apologize. I was just commenting on the fine production values here. How much?”

The lady thought for a moment. “Two hundred dollars.”

George looked at Michele. “Is that a good deal?”

“How should I know?”

“Don’t women know standard pricing on all precious metals?”

“Sorry, I don’t buy a lot of silver crucifixes.”

“Two hundred, deal,” said George, “under the condition that you never saw us. Plus we’ll take the mirror and all of the rings.”

“This mirror isn’t silver,” said Lou, scraping his fingernail along the edge. “It’s just painted.”

“Stop scraping my merchandise.”

“Forget the mirror,” said George. “But we’ll take all of the rings.”

“Must be one big wedding.”

“It is.”

“Is that thing real silver?” asked Lou, gesturing to a very small cross that dangled from a chain bracelet on her wrist. “I mean, more real than the mirror?”

“Yes, but it’s not for sale.”

George snorted. “It’s not for sale, or you’re going to charge us a lot for it?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“We’ll stick with the rest of the stuff, thanks.”

“No,” said Lou. “We’ll take it.”

The old woman shrugged, removed the bracelet, and handed it to Lou. Lou put it around his own wrist. George rolled his eyes.

“All right. Anything else you’re looking for?”

“Do you sell nets?”

“You mean like fishnet stockings?”

“No. God no. Like a big net that you could use to catch a...bear.”

“Sorry. There’s not a huge market for antique netting.”

“Thanks. Pay her, Lou.”

Lou held the briefcase with the sixty-three thousand dollars they’d taken from Douglas that morning. They’d decided that leaving it unattended in a van with a broken-out windshield was not the wisest course of action. Stealing from it was probably not the best way to keep their own thumbs unbroken, but they could replace the missing money before they handed over the briefcase, and considering the extreme circumstances it seemed perfectly justified.

Lou popped open the top of the briefcase, keeping the contents hidden from the old woman’s view. He snatched out a few bills then closed the briefcase.

“Are you involved in organized crime?” the old woman asked.

George nodded. “Knock twenty bucks off the price of the crucifix, and nothing happens to your business.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

More Prey

“Why’d you do that?” George asked, starting up the van.

Michele was relatively certain that she knew what he was talking about. However, she didn’t want to accidentally confess to something else, so she feigned ignorance. “What?”

“You know.”

“Really, I don’t. And do we have time for guessing games?”

“You asked the old woman about the bathroom.”

“So? Am I not allowed to pee?”

George cracked his knuckles, one at a time. Next to her, Michele felt Lou’s leg muscles tighten, as if he were cringing. George drove away from the antique shop, looking extremely stern. He was good at it. “You were trying to escape.”

“Did you see the place we were in? Did it look like the kind of place to have a secret rear entrance? Let me give you Women 101, George: when we go into a store, we usually have to pee.”

“This guy Ricky, who sets up our jobs--he told me to lock you in the cage. I don’t want to do that. Right now, we can pretend that we’re business partners, but when you try something sneaky, it makes me feel that I need to take an extra level of precaution.”

“You don’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Just needed to pee. I had to go before the dogs attacked.”

She was, of course, lying. The antique store might have had a back exit. If not, she would’ve used the opportunity to steal some kind of weapon. Unfortunately, George had kept her close during the shopping adventure, and she hadn’t been given the chance.

To be perfectly honest, the cage seemed like the safest place to be. If Ivan couldn’t get out, he probably couldn’t get back in, and Michele was very close to raising her hand and politely volunteering to be locked in there. It wouldn’t be that uncomfortable.

The problem, of course, would come when they met up with the other bad guys. If she seemed to be on relatively even ground with George and Lou, she might be able to still talk her way out of this. If she was locked in a cage while George and Lou introduced her...well, it was going to be difficult to sell the idea of them being newfound business associates.

She really did have to pee, though.

The positive side to this whole thing, and she did indeed feel that it was a positive side and not merely self-delusion, was that there was an incredible story here. If she survived the werewolf ordeal, she’d be on television twenty-four hours a day for at least the next week. Book rights. Movie rights. She’d donate a generous portion of her proceeds to the gas station attendant’s family, and perhaps to the families who’d tragically lost their household pets in the dog attack, but as long as she didn’t get killed and her injuries didn’t go much further than the slashed-up shoulder, the danger would be worth it.

That said, she’d still try to get the hell away from George and Lou, given the opportunity. She wasn’t crazy.

“We have a lot of problems right now,” said George. “Please don’t cause more for us.”

“I won’t.”

* * *

Ivan Spinner sat in a tree, feeling good about life. He hadn’t felt so good half an hour ago, when he climbed up this tree; in fact, he’d been pissed off and even a little ashamed. Why did he run away when that bozo Lou cut him? Yeah, it hurt, but he should have ripped Lou’s heart out, stuck it on the end of his talon, and licked it like a Tootsie Roll Pop. It would’ve been fine to murder Lou. That still left George as his plaything.

Of course, he couldn’t forget Michele. He had no ill feelings toward her, but he was certainly going to enjoy devouring her fine ass, even though he wasn’t really a cannibal. He’d be romantic about it. He’d tell her he loved her first.

He reached back and touched the cut. It felt almost healed. The one on his chest had faded to a red scratch. Both cuts still hurt, but that was typical--the wounds went away before the pain.

He wished he hadn’t been forced to reveal the full scope of his power. Unfortunately, though being a werewolf made his life much easier and a lot more fun and was quite honestly absolutely fucking fantastic, it did not allow him to bend bars. He’d been a little worried--not too much, but a little--that George and Lou would take him all the way to Tampa without giving him a chance to escape. Ivan didn’t know much about Mr. Dewey and his crew, and though he was relatively certain that he could’ve gotten away even after George and Lou made their delivery, it was much better to be on the loose here.

He wondered if the werewolf element had made it into the news, or if they thought it was just a regular old human serial killer who’d cut up Diane. He loved the idea of some hillbilly being interviewed: “Why, I saw it, and that thing, it was half-man and half-beast! I ain’t done seen nothin’ like it in my life, even when I’ve sucked down a couple quarts of my county-famous moonshine!”

Ivan climbed down from the tree. Logically, he knew that he should make a run for it and move to another part of the world--again--but what was the point of being a werewolf if you couldn’t terrorize people? George had probably dropped a great big loaf in his oversized underwear, but Ivan hadn’t come close to being satisfied with the thug’s comeuppance.

He’d loved George’s expression when he slid that blade through Diane’s silky neck. Fifty percent horror, fifty percent guilt, mixed into a delicious concoction of misery. George was sitting in that van right now, wailing “It was all my fault! It was all my fault!”

Yeah, George, it sure as hell was.

And this whole killing spree is going to be your fault, too.

Ivan’s shirt had fallen off completely, though his pants had held up fairly well thanks to the elastic waist. He could probably break into somebody’s house and steal a change of clothing without too much trouble, but, no, it felt like the kind of afternoon where he should murder somebody just for their clothes.

Murder them slowly.

Make them die a lingering, horrible, excruciatingly painful death simply because they wore the same size shirt as him.

He sat down next to the tree. It was a pretty desolate piece of road, but three cars had driven by while he was up there, so another one was bound to approach before too much longer.

He wondered if any of his four-legged friends were around. He closed his eyes and put out the call. Nothing heavy-duty like before; just a mild little dog-call to see if any showed up.

Ivan didn’t have the slightest idea how this power worked, whether he was sending out some frequency that only dogs could hear, or if one of George’s guesses was right and it had something to do with his scent, or if he could control dog brain waves, or whatever. Unlike the transformations, which he’d mastered in a ridiculously short timeframe--okay, eight years, but that was damn good for a werewolf, since most of them never learned to control it--he still hadn’t quite figured out the whole dog thing. It was sort of like being able to move a pencil with his mind, except that he didn’t know if the pencil was going to roll across the table or twirl up into the air and poke out somebody’s eye.

He sat there for about five minutes until a small gray Schnauzer walked along the side of the road toward him. No collar. He wondered if it was a stray.

He heard the engine of an approaching car. Sometimes, things just worked out perfectly.

The dog looked at him and let out a sharp bark.

“Fuck you,” he told it. He continued to concentrate.

The dog walked into the middle of the road and began to happily move in the direction of the oncoming car.

Poor, poor doggie. Ivan chuckled as the dog, its tongue hanging partly out of its mouth like a complete moron, trotted along toward its doom. I think I’ll name you...Roadkill.

The car, a white sedan, came around the corner. The driver swerved at the last instant, missing the Schnauzer by the length of its stubby tail, and then careened off the road.

The dog ran off.

Well, shit. He’d hoped to see the dog get creamed and to disable the vehicle. Oh well.

Ivan stood up, jogged over to the car, and opened the passenger-side door. The driver, a bald man who was too young to be naturally bald, seemed shaken up but not hurt. He’d been wearing his seatbelt. Smart lad.

“You okay?” Ivan asked.

“Yeah...stupid dog ran right in front of me...” The man sounded kind of dazed. That wasn’t any good. Ivan wanted him fully aware of what was about to happen.

“Did you injure yourself?” Ivan asked. “Do you need me to seek the services of a medical professional? If you have one of those new cellular phone devices, I could probably call for assistance.” He climbed into the car next to the man, who looked shocked at both Ivan’s shredded pants and the fact that he was getting into the car uninvited.

“I don’t need--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ivan told him, pulling the door shut. He gave him a wide smile, revealing his werewolf teeth. “Spooooooky, huh?”

The man immediately reached for his door handle. Ivan decided to go half-werewolf. The one bitch he had about his lycanthropy was that he couldn’t talk as a wolfman, so he went for the not-quite-as-hairy, not-quite-as-muscular, but still clearly wolfish and scary look. It was actually kind of demonic.

The man screamed.

Ivan laughed at him, a low, sexy growl of a laugh that the ladies found ever so alluring. Then he showed him his claws. “You try to leave this car and these are going right into you.”

The man kept screaming, so Ivan said it again, louder. Then he raked his claws across the man’s chest. “Shut up!”

“Oh, God, please don’t hurt me!”

“I just did hurt you, dumb-ass. Do you like your head?”

“What?”

“I said, do you like your head? It’s not a challenging question. Yes or no. Do. You. Like. Your. Head?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t make me rip it off and drink from it like a juice box, all right? What size shirt do you wear?”

“A...a large.”

“I look better in a medium, but I prefer large for comfort, so that’ll work just fine. What’s your name?”

“What are you?”

“What the fuck do you think I am? A Martian? Come on, buddy; I know you’re scared, but think before you ask stupid questions. Now apologize to me for wasting my time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. I asked you your name.”

“Dale.”

“Like Chip and Dale? The squirrels?”

“Yes.”

“Or Chippendales. Wow. Never thought of that before. I wonder if it was intentional.”

“I...I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t really asking. Chip and Dale, I guess they aren’t squirrels, are they? They’re chipmunks. Chip the Chipmunk. That’s a pretty lame name for a cartoon character when you take Dale out of it, don’t you think? The Disney writers weren’t having a good day. Now it’s my turn to apologize to you--we’re getting pretty far off the subject at hand, which is your shirt size.”

“Yes.”

“Yes? What were you saying yes to? Were you agreeing that I need to apologize to you?”

“No. I mean--I don’t know.”

“Why the hell would I apologize to you? I don’t owe you a thing, Dale. How dare you? I mean, how dare you?”

“I’m sorry!”

“Oh, don’t be so gullible, I’m just messing with you. Clearly my whole Chip and Dale bit was wasting your time, and I do owe you an apology, so from the bottom of my werewolf heart, I’m sorry. Now let’s talk about me ripping your guts out.”

Dale looked as if he wanted to say something, most likely “What?” or “No!” or “Please!” but couldn’t find his voice.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Ivan said. “You knew I was going to kill you as soon as I turned into a scary monster. Do you want to know why I’m going to do it?”

“I...”

“For your clothes. That’s it. No other reason. I’m going to end your life, all however many years of it...how old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“...all thirty-two years of it for your shirt. And I don’t even like your shirt. How does that make you feel, Dale?”

Dale threw a punch at him. Ivan deflected the blow with his palm with very little effort, then used the same hand to grab Dale’s wrist. Then, with the index finger of his other hand, he slashed a line across the length of Dale’s entire arm, opening it up like a zipper. Dale, not surprisingly, screamed.

Sweet. Ivan had thought Dale might be too paralyzed with fear to actually fight back, so this would make things more interesting.

“Did that hurt? I hope so. That’s just a sneak preview, by the way. A tasty little sample of the main attraction. I really feel sorry for you and the hellish pain you’re going to endure. I’m sure glad I’m not the one sitting here in a car with a sadistic werewolf.”

“I’ve got money!” Dale said.

“Lots?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Thousands.”

“Here?”

“Not with me, but--”

“Sorry. You just failed to save your life. Any other good bribes?”

“You don’t have to do this!”

“I realize that. I like that it’s optional.”

“I’ll do anything.” Dale finally succumbed to tears. Ivan had expected that part to happen a bit sooner.

“Oh, now, Dale, there’s no reason to cry. You say you’ll do anything. Would you...take a knife and cut out your own stomach?”

“What?”

“If I gave you a knife, would you cut out your own stomach? I wouldn’t make you eat it or anything--although, come on, let’s be honest, it would be pretty cool to watch somebody eat his own stomach. I’d just make you cut it out. Do that and I’ll let you go.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then don’t say shit like ‘I’ll do anything’ if you don’t mean it. Would you slash your own throat? Would you jam a stiletto heel in your heart? Would you give yourself brain surgery? I hate it when people throw out offers that they’re not prepared to honor.”

Dale began to sob.

“Where were you headed?”

“Home.”

“To your wife?”

“No.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Why not?

“I don’t know.”

“Is it because you’re bald?”

“No.”

“When did you last get laid?”

“I don’t know.”

“Liar. Somebody who looks like you knows exactly how long ago it was. Tell me.”

“Three weeks.”

“Hey, that’s not so bad. I thought it would be six months or something like that. Was she a prostitute?”

“No.”

“One of those Internet booty calls?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of? Details, please.”

Dale sniffed. “We met online, but I’d seen her in person a couple of times.”

“Gotcha. Do you need a Kleenex or something? Your nose is all snotty. You wouldn’t want your hot Internet sex bunny to see you like this, would you?”

“No.”

“Are you going to see her again?”

“No.”

“Because you broke up, or because I’m going to murder you?”

“We weren’t really together.”

“She was a hooker, wasn’t she?”

“I said no.”

“Was she a skank?”

“No.”

“Do you love her?”

“No.”

“Do you love anybody?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah, so you do love somebody. Well, Dale-without-his-Chip, let’s discuss this. Just remember that the longer you keep me engaged in conversation, the longer you get to live, unless I hear a car coming and have to gut you. You never know, the details of your love life might be so fascinating to me that I forget to murder you. Wouldn’t that be nice? I’d be walking home and think ‘Oh, how about that, I completely forgot to murder Dale! How forgetful of me!’ You’d enjoy that, right?”

“Yes.”

“Who do you love?”

“Karen.”

“Does she love you back?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know.”

“So who is this darling Karen?”

“Co-worker.”

“Is she hot?”

“Yes.”

“See, that probably explains why the attraction isn’t mutual. Is she blonde, brunette, redhead...?”

“Black hair with red streaks.”

“So you’re into the dyed hair thing, huh? Nice. Does she have any tattoos?”

“One.”

“One that you know about, right?”

“Yes.”

“Does Karen live around here?”

Dale vigorously shook his head. “No.”

“Are you sure? You’re not just saying that to protect her from me?”

“She doesn’t live here.”

“Well, obviously she doesn’t live here. The question was whether or not she lives around here.”

“No.”

“I think you’re being deceptive. How far away is she? Five minutes? Ten?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s really not much of a crush if you don’t even know where she lives. You should’ve followed her home. Women love it when you put forth that extra bit of effort. And with enough practice, you can actually build up a resistance to pepper spray. It’s true. I love the taste now.”

Dale was still crying. It was becoming kind of annoying.

“You know, Dale, we don’t have to be enemies. I’m not saying that we should hang out and drink together and become best buddies, but this doesn’t have to end in such a negative way. Having a werewolf on your side makes you kind of powerful. Ladies can’t resist a nice furry werewolf, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“I think you’re lying about not knowing where she lives. I think you’ve done a bit of light stalking in your time. Don’t try to deny it--I see that glint of mischief in your eye.”

“I never stalked her.”

“Okay, fine. No stalking from the Boy Scout. But you know where she lives. We could pay her an unannounced visit. If she doesn’t want to let you in, I’ll kick the door down. Or, better yet, you just keep the car running while I go get her. We’ll take her someplace nice and private. You could do anything you wanted to her. I wouldn’t even watch if it made you uncomfortable--I’d just wait in the next room and listen.”

“Go to hell.”

“Do you understand what’s happening here? We’re bargaining for your life. That’s a pretty major deal. On one hand, I’m threatening you with a horrible death--blood and limbs flying everywhere. That’s option one. On the other hand, I’m offering you a completely hedonistic experience, the chance to do whatever you want with your precious little Karen, and she’ll be helpless to stop you. Whatever freaky, depraved, brutal, and just plain fun thing you want to do, you can. I might even let you keep her afterward. That’s option two. What do you say?”

“I said, go to hell.”

“Really? You’re not even going to pretend to go along with the plan? I don’t know if that’s admirable or stupid. Okay, deal’s off. Get out of the car.”

“What?”

“Get out of the car. Now.”

Dale wiped some tears from his eyes. “You’re letting me go?”

“No, I’m not letting you go. You had your chance and you turned it down, so get out of the car and run so I can hunt you down and tear you apart. Go on. Shoo.”

Dale unfastened his seatbelt. “Please, I--”

“The time for talk is over. You should have at least given me a fake address and then waited for an opportunity to exploit a moment of carelessness. That’s what I would’ve done. Get out. I’m giving you a head start, but I’m not saying how long, so if you’re not a complete idiot you’ll get moving now.”

Dale opened the door, got out of the car, and ran. Ivan watched him go. He was a good runner.

If he didn’t have other things to do, Ivan would’ve made an evening out of this. It was extremely rewarding to chase a victim until he or she literally collapsed from exhaustion. One time he’d even followed a man in an electric wheelchair, just casually circling him in full wolfman form, hoping to go until his battery completely ran out. Unfortunately, they got too close to a populated area and the cripple was screaming too much, so Ivan had to kill him, though he rode around on the wheelchair for a while afterward.

He got out of the car, stretched, then completed his transformation. Became the Beast. It felt exhilarating.

The Beast took off after Dale. Caught up to him in seconds. Swiped his claws across Dale’s back, cutting so deep that flesh dangled from all five of his talons.

Dale didn’t fall. Impressive.

The Beast let him run a few more steps, watching him bleed, then pounced. Dale hit the ground face-first, letting out a loud grunt and then a muffled shriek.

Poor, unfortunate Dale. If he’d gone along with it, the Beast really would have helped him rape the girl he loved.

He went wild with his claws and teeth, shredding Dale’s back. Then he rolled him over and shredded his front side.

He rolled him over again to get any parts he might have missed. There weren’t many.

He smiled as he looked down at the remains. A moment later, he frowned.

Shit. Now Dale’s clothes were in worse shape than the ones he was wearing.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Working Things Out

“Is that him?” Lou asked, pointing through the broken windshield.

George applied the brake and leaned forward. “Where?”

“There!”

“The cat?”

“Is that a cat?”

“It’s sure as hell not a werewolf.”

“It’s a possum,” said Michele. “They’re everywhere.”

“I didn’t see what it actually was,” said Lou. “I just noticed movement.”

George muttered something rude. They’d been slowly driving around for more than an hour. They hadn’t been able to get a net, but one of the local shops did have a blanket and a travel-sized sewing kit. So Lou had sewn the silver rings onto the blanket in various places, hoping that maybe if they successfully tossed the blanket on top of the werewolf, the silver would keep him from getting out. It was perhaps the furthest thing from a foolproof plan that they’d ever concocted, but unless they drove past a guy with a cart selling hot dogs and silver bullets, their options were limited.

Michele was filing the handle of the silver cross into a point. If by some miracle they were able to get close enough to use it, it would make one hell of a weapon. Sharpened silver cross to the heart. No more werewolf.

“Looks pretty good, don’t you think?” asked Michele, holding it up for their inspection.

“Yeah.” George was originally going to ask Lou to file the cross and Michele to sew the rings, but he didn’t want to seem sexist. They’d both done fine work. “Oh, by the way, Lou, I forgot to complement you on your lovely bracelet. It really brings out the color in your eyes.”

“It could be useful.”

“That tiny thing? Maybe if we stab him with it a few thousand times.”

“It makes me feel better to have it.”

“Because it’s silver or because it’s a cross?”

Lou shrugged. “Both. Don’t make fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t even bother.”

“Maybe we should get some wooden stakes, too,” said Lou.

“That’s vampires.”

“I know that, but how do we know that the vampire myths didn’t come from werewolves? I completely believe in werewolves now, but I don’t believe in vampires yet, so isn’t it possible that somebody once killed a werewolf with a wooden stake to the heart and over the centuries the story changed to a vampire?”

“That’s actually not a bad point,” said George. “Maybe we should get some garlic, too. What else kills monsters?”

Lou shrugged. “Direct sunlight?”

“Well, Lou, I’m afraid we already know his weakness isn’t direct sunlight, because we’ve seen him out in the direct goddamn sun!”

“We’re brainstorming! You don’t criticize ideas in a brainstorming session!”

“Fine, fine. Write ‘direct sunlight’ on the chalkboard. Jesus. What else?”

“In The War of the Worlds, they defeated the aliens with the common cold.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Yeah. I was just seeing if you would criticize it. How about holy water?”

“Good, good. We’ll pick some up if we drive by a church.”

“Also,” said Michele, “he might need to return to his coffin before sunrise.”

“Let me make this very clear,” George told her. “Lou gets to behave like a third-grader because he’s my partner. You do not have that option. I want serious suggestions.”

“I’m so terribly sorry to have offended you,” said Michele. “I guess I was just trying to draw attention away from the fact that our brilliant plan to recapture the werewolf is to just drive around hoping he’ll be conveniently wandering around. It’s a good one. I see why you make the big bucks.”

“Better this than sitting around with our thumbs up our rectums waiting for the reinforcements,” said George. “You never know, he may be looking for us, too.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring.”

“You seem to think that because we’ve done arts and crafts together that we’re not going to put you in that cage. That line of thinking is incorrect.”

“Sorry. I just happen to believe that brainstorming ways to kill vampires in hopes that these ways might also work on werewolves is silly.”

“Not just vampires. All monsters.”

“Either way, it’s silly. We should get more bullets.”

“Bullets don’t kill it.”

“So far they haven’t. But a whole shitload of bullets at once might kill it. Or even a grenade.”

“Do you own a grenade?”

“No, but I’m not the mobster.”

“We’re not mobsters. We perform unpleasant tasks that are usually illegal, but we don’t have any mafia connections. And when we pack for a trip to break an old man’s thumbs, we typically leave the grenades at home.”

“Can’t you get them? Don’t you have connections?”

“Not in the middle of the frickin’ swamp! You think I can just call somebody and have them drop a little care package with a parachute out of a plane?”

“They killed King Kong by shooting him off the Empire State Building,” said Lou. “We could try that.”

“You’re an asshole.”

* * *

Frank Bateman had gone three weeks and four days without a cigarette. The last one was after he drowned his son’s chemistry teacher. Technically, his men had been the ones to tie the rocks around Mr. Amrita’s feet and drop him into the lake, but it had bothered Bateman. He liked Mr. Amrita. He seemed to genuinely care about his students and brought an infectious enthusiasm to the subject matter. Hell, after the first parent/teacher conference, Bateman had almost been compelled to break out his old chemistry set from when he was a kid and start mixing some liquids.

But when he’d explained to Mr. Amrita that it was unacceptable for Bryan to get less than a C in the class, apparently the implications of that message had not sunk in properly. That’s what Bateman got for trying to be subtle. There was no doubt that Bryan deserved the D, since he was a lazy video game-playing dumb-ass who probably cheated just to get the D, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Bryan needed a halfway decent grade point average if he was going to get into a good school, and Mr. Amrita stood in the way of that.

Bateman had met them out there by the lake and explained the situation. Some would say that it didn’t matter, since the poor chemistry teacher was going to die anyway, but Bateman felt that a man always deserved to know why he was being put to death. It was a respect thing. Mr. Amrita had done the usual begging and crying, which was fine. He was scared and Bateman understood that. No shame in fearing death.

He’d waited in the car while Gallows and Bonez (not their real names) rowed Mr. Amrita out to the middle of the lake and dropped him in.

Then he’d gone home and told Bryan that if his chemistry grade wasn’t at least a C on his next report card, he’d smash the fucking Xbox to pieces with a sledgehammer and Bryan wouldn’t get another one. After that, Bateman went out onto the back porch and had a cigarette.

He’d been nice and relaxed since then, until he got the call that the werewolf was loose.

Very disappointing. And unnerving.

He probably should’ve used top men for this, but George Orton and Lou Flynn had an excellent reputation, they just happened to be in the area, and they worked cheap. The last part was the most important. Bateman didn’t live his current lifestyle by throwing money away, and it should have been a straightforward, easy job. Now he had to pay out the ass for bounty hunters, and the deal with Mr. Dewey was a flat fee arrangement, although Bateman planned to try to renegotiate, considering that the whole idea about the werewolf not transforming except during the full moon was apparently an extreme bit of misinformation.

Dewey was seriously pissed about Ivan getting away, but seriously thrilled with the new discovery about Ivan’s power. Bateman was much more pissed than thrilled.

All he could say was, thank Christ they’d put in the chip. They could pinpoint Ivan’s location anywhere he went. His arm had healed right up before he regained consciousness, so he didn’t even know about it.

Bateman’s non-emergency “civilian” cell phone rang. Unknown caller. “Hello?”

“Hello. It’s your former captive. I assume you got word that I escaped?”

Bateman sat up straight at his desk. “Where are you?”

“I’m around. Here and there. But I’d like to register a formal complaint about their treatment of me. George in particular was very rude.”

“Why are you really calling? I take it you’re not going to be nice and turn yourself in?”

“No, but you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I need to get a hold of George and he apparently has an unlisted number.”

“I’m not giving you shit.”

“Seriously? From your point of view, you actually think that putting me in touch with George is a bad thing? I’m all in favor of making things difficult for people, but don’t be stubborn just to be stubborn.”

“I don’t have his number.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because we don’t do direct contact for jobs like this.”

“Well, that’s inefficient and stupid. I guess put me in touch with that guy Ricky instead.”

* * *

“Aw, crap, that’s Ricky,” said George. Maybe it would be good news. Hey, we found the werewolf at the movies. Something with Sandra Bullock. He didn’t put up a fight. Everybody’s enjoying a good laugh at the whole thing, so you and Lou can just upgrade to first class and bask in luxury on your flight home. He answered. “Yeah?”

“It’s Ricky.”

“I know. Any updates?”

“Yeah, I’ve sort of got your werewolf on a conference call.”

“Hello, George.” George’s grip on the phone tightened at the sound of Ivan’s voice. It was a tiny phone, so he relaxed his hand so as not to break it.

“What do you want?”

“World peace. No, scratch that, world destruction. But at the moment I just want to chat.”

“So chat. Where are you?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Hey, Ricky, did George tell you about how I made him so mad that he opened up the cage?”

“That’s not how it happened,” George said.

“He opened the cage and dragged me out by my feet. Said my attitude needed adjusting. Lou sat there and watched him.”

“I don’t care about any of this,” said Ricky.

“You should. He was going to beat me bloody. If it weren’t for his temper, I’d still be on my way to Tampa.”

“Is this why you called?” George asked. “To make shit up?”

“No. Well, that’s part of it, but that’s not the whole reason. Hey, Ricky, I’m going to need you to drop off the call. Wait, you’re the host, so before you do that give me George’s number in case we get disconnected.”

Ricky gave it to him and then hung up. George was surprised he didn’t protest.

“You still there, George?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, good. So I was thinking that we should meet up.”

“I’m all in favor of that. But why do you want to do it?”

“Because being a werewolf doesn’t pay that well, and I heard you and Lou chatting about the briefcase of drug money, back when you thought that I’d never, ever, ever get out of the cage. I could hide away for a couple of years with sixty-three thousand dollars.”

“It’s less than that. We spent some on jewelry.”

Ivan chuckled. “You’re a funny guy, George. So I’m offering you the chance to meet with me, give me the money, and have your problems diminish.”

“If we give you the money you’ll lock yourself back up in the cage? That doesn’t even make sense.”

“I didn’t say that your problems will go away completely. But if you hand over the cash, I’ll disappear. You’ll never hear from me again. Otherwise, there will be a bloodbath beyond anything your criminal mind can imagine. I’m talking about dead women and dead babies. Dead grandmas, dead grandpas, dead aunts and uncles, dead moms, dead dads, dead sisters, dead brothers...I will kill and kill and kill, and I will write ‘George Orton Was Here’ in the blood of every victim.”

“The cops will take you down.”

“You think so? Maybe. I might only get to murder twenty newborns instead of thirty. I guess if you can only kill twenty babies, why even bother, right?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s fine. I wouldn’t believe me, either. But this is a one-time offer. Once the Everglades genocide begins, I’m not going to take a time-out to see if you’ve changed your mind.”

George knew the skinny bastard was up to something, but he also believed that Ivan would make good on his threat. If they were going to drive around looking for him, they might as well meet him somewhere. “All right.”

“Superb choice.”

“Where should we meet?”

“I’m in Naples.
How far away are you?”

George punched in some information on the GPS. “About fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes. Lie to Ricky when he asks what’s going on. If I get any kind of feeling that you’re not playing fair, the deal is off.” He hung up.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

No Time For A Good Plan

“What are we going to do with her?” Lou asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You could let me go,” Michele said, helpfully.

Though they had a perfectly good cage to lock her in, the broken windshield meant that she could scream for help and attract attention. They could gag her, in theory, and you couldn’t really see the cage from outside the vehicle, but the broken windshield would also make the van very enticing to thieves if they left it unattended.

They could just let her go, except that if they did succeed in recapturing Ivan, they’d wish that Michele wasn’t free and blabbing to the police. It was a big loose end they didn’t need. But what else could they do? Bring her to the meeting with Ivan and get her killed?

“I didn’t run before,” she said.

“Actually, you did.”

The phone rang. Fifteen minutes on the dot. “Yeah?” George answered.

“Where are you?”

“We’re in Naples. Just passed a Seven-Eleven.”

“Well, that’s helpful. Put the Cotton Mouse Tavern into your magic machine.”

George entered the name in the GPS. “Nine minutes away.”

“Then be there in seven. Find us a cozy booth.”

At 2:47, exactly when the GPS said he’d get there, George pulled into the parking lot of the Cotton Mouse Tavern, a bar with about three billion neon beer signs on the outside, along with an ugly-ass rat-thing on the roof. There were about eleven or twelve other cars in the lot, none of them fine automobiles.

George parked, shut off the engine, and turned to Michele. “This is our chance to negotiate with this psycho. If he thinks we called the cops, he may start killing people. So I’m not going to lock you up, but I’m going to trust that you’ll make the right decision and not cause any trouble that will get anybody killed.”

“You’re letting me go?” Michele asked.

“Yeah. It’s either that or drag you in there with us. You want to tag along?”

“Not really.”

“You know, it would’ve been nice to be consulted on this,” said Lou. “I’m just saying.”

“Where were we going to talk about it?”

“We could’ve talked about it right in front of her. What was she gonna do?”

“Are you saying that we shouldn’t let her go?”

“No, I’ve been in favor of letting her go from the beginning. I’d just like to be part of these decisions. We’re partners. You’re not my boss.”

“Then I apologize. But for the past nine years our relationship has generally involved me making the decisions and you cheerfully going along with them. Forgive me for not realizing that suddenly you want to--”

“I get to go, right?” Michele asked.

“Yes,” said George.

“Yes,” Lou added.

“Thank you. I’m not going to get anybody killed, I promise.”

George and Lou got out of the van. Lou carried the briefcase, while George carried the folded-up blanket. Michele followed them, then stood there, looking uncertain.

“I guess it’s inappropriate to, I don’t know, shake your hand or anything like that.”

“It would be weird,” said George.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I hope you guys catch the werewolf. I’m rooting for you.”

“Thanks.”

Michele stood there for another moment, then walked away from the van. George watched her go, wondering if he’d just made a huge mistake.

“Did we just mess up?” Lou asked.

“I don’t know. What else were we going to do with her? Hobble her?”

“I kind of liked her. Not just because she was hot.”

“Well, damn, you should have asked her out on a date. That might keep her from rushing right to the cops.”

“Think I’d have a chance?”

“Not in hell.”

“Yeah. Oh well. So in addition to letting her go, are we really going to walk in there and talk to the werewolf?”

“Yep.”

“This is a decision we’re making on purpose, as opposed to, say, getting in that van and driving for the border?”

“Which border?”

“Whatever one is closest. Canada or Mexico. I don’t care.”

“You don’t have to come with me.”

“Yeah, I know. But if I didn’t, you’d get all killed and stuff, and then I’d have to deal with funeral arrangements, and your financial affairs are probably completely screwed up.”

“They’re actually very solid. I’ve even got a living will. It says that if I can’t go to the bathroom on my own, pull the plug. That’s my minimum standard for quality of life. So if Ivan doesn’t kill me but he turns me into a paraplegic, that’s what you need to know.”

“Got it. Hey, George?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re just standing here talking so we don’t have to go in there and face this guy, aren’t we?”

“That’s why I’m standing here, at least.”

“We should get it over with.”

“Yeah.”

They walked into the bar. A jukebox played a country/western song that immediately became George’s least favorite song of all time. All of the stools at the bar were taken, though a couple of the booths in the back were unoccupied. An extremely intoxicated sixty-year-old slow-danced (even though it was a fast song) with a twenty-one year-old who had one hand in each of his back pockets. The place smelled like smoke, booze, and desperation.

It wasn’t even three o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday. Didn’t these people have lives? Granted, George’s line of work didn’t stick to a strict nine-to-five schedule, so who was he to judge?

There was no sign of Ivan.

“Now what?” Lou asked.

“I guess we have a seat.”

They weaved through the crowd to the booth furthest in the back and sat down on the same bench, giving the werewolf a place to sit across from them. George brushed some ashes and a wet straw wrapper off the table, put a finger in his left ear to block out the hellish noise, then called Ivan.

“Are you there?” Ivan asked.

“Yeah. Where the hell are you?”

“Making sure you’re not setting a trap.”

“We’re not that clever.”

“I see that. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Ivan hung up. George tucked the phone back into his pocket. A waitress who was neither the appropriate age nor the appropriate body shape for her tight t-shirt walked over to their booth. “What can I get you?”

“Coke,” said George.

“Diet,” said Lou.

The waitress gave them a look of mild disgust, as if they’d announced their intention to simultaneously urinate on the floor, then rolled her eyes and walked away.

“If you end up dying today, you’ll wish you at least had a regular Coke,” said George.

“If I live, I’m getting back in shape.”

“Fair enough.”

Right after their drinks arrived, Ivan walked into the bar. He looked confident. Fearless. Arrogant. Like a complete prick.

He walked through the bar and sat down at their booth, then gestured to their drinks. “Didn’t you order me anything?”

“No,” said George. “Order your own drink.”

“Did you bring the money?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me see it.”

Lou took the briefcase off his lap and set it on the table. He kept it close, as if worried that Ivan might make a sudden grab for it.

Ivan nodded. “Open it.”

Lou popped open the lid. He held the briefcase open just long enough to give Ivan a glimpse of the cash inside, then closed it back up.

“Thank you,” said Ivan. “Now burn it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Take out a lighter and set the money on fire. Right now.”

“We really aren’t in the mood for any more of your games,” George said, leaning across the table in what he hoped was a threatening manner. “Now are you here for the cash, or are you here to waste our time?”

“Well, I’m definitely not here to waste your time, George. And we all know that this could never be as simple as you bribing me to go away, because I’ve already proven that I’m not a man of my word. Remember when I kept insisting that I wasn’t a werewolf? Good times.”

“So what’s it going to take for us to make a deal?”

“Oh, there won’t be a deal. Just a massacre.” Ivan looked around the bar. “How many people do you think are in here? Twenty-five? Thirty?”

“About that.”

“How many do you think I can kill? I think I can get eight before this place completely clears out. What’s your guess? Higher or lower?”

“We’re not playing around, Ivan.”

“You’re not? Then why are you here? You actually think you’re going to stop me?”

“We might.”

“Okay, I’ll make you another deal. Both of you take your drinks and slowly pour them on your heads, and I’ll surrender.”

“I’m not kidding,” said George. “We’re done with the games.”

“We’ve barely even started the games. What have we done so far that qualifies as a game? You chased me around that neighborhood, but that wasn’t really a game, that was just a chase. Doesn’t count. There weren’t any games played at poor Diane’s house--personally, I consider that cold-blooded murder. If you thought it was a fun game, well, you’re just not a very nice person. Are you two playing games without me?”

George gently kicked Lou under the table. They did not have an elaborate plan to trap Ivan. They’d tried to come up with one, but all of their ideas seemed like plans that could go terribly wrong. So they’d settled for the following scheme: if they decided that they had no other choice, George would give Lou the signal by gently kicking him under the table, at which point they would pull out their guns and pump several rounds into Ivan’s face. Hopefully that would surprise and weaken him enough for them to throw the blanket with the silver rings over his head and drag him out to the cage. If he got a chance, Lou would also try to stab him.

It was far from subtle, and it wasn’t something they really wanted to do in front of a tavern full of witnesses, but they didn’t have much of a choice at this point.

They pulled out their guns.

Moving faster than George would have ever expected possible in his human form, Ivan slid below the table. He was an arrogant prick, but apparently not such an arrogant prick that he hadn’t anticipated that he might be in physical danger. As he disappeared from sight, George and Lou shoved their guns underneath the table and squeezed the triggers. They were blind shots but almost point-blank ones.

The table went flying into the air, sailing across the bar and crashing into the dancing couple, knocking them to the ground with what looked like a spatter of blood, though George caught this only in his peripheral vision and couldn’t be sure.

He and Lou opened fire on the fully transformed wolfman, pumping bullets into his face and chest. The “shoot and shoot and shoot” portion of their plan was working nicely.

Blood sprayed and Ivan recoiled with each shot, throwing up his clawed hands to defend himself. One shot got him directly under the left eye. Another broke off most of a talon. At least three got him in the heart.

In the background--the faint, distant background--George heard people screaming. Lots of commotion.

Lou’s gun ran out of ammunition a couple of seconds before George’s did. They both kept pulling the trigger for a few clicks after bullets stopped firing, staring at the blood-soaked monster that stood before them.

Ivan let out a howl of animalistic fury.

No way were they going to get the blanket on him. George didn’t even make a move for it. Better not to let Ivan know they had it.

Lou, who’d taken out the silver cross so quickly that George didn’t even see him do it, put their emergency backup plan into action: he lunged forward with the weapon, thrusting it toward Ivan’s heart.

Ivan swiped at Lou’s hand, striking it with such force that George thought he might have snapped Lou’s wrist. The cross flew across the bar, striking the wall and falling to the floor. Lou was lucky that the same thing didn’t happen to his hand.

Though Lou cried out in pain, it didn’t slow him down. He punched Ivan in the chest, hitting him hard enough to create a shower of crimson from Ivan’s blood-soaked fur.

George threw his own punch, aiming for Ivan’s neck but hitting him in the shoulder. The bastard was solid as hell, and George felt as if his knuckles burst inside his skin. Both George and Lou could throw mean punches, but though their blows clearly hurt Ivan, they didn’t knock him down.

God, he wished they’d had silver bullets. What kind of irresponsible scumbag would send you on a trip with a werewolf and not provide silver bullets?

Ivan balled his hand into a fist and punched Lou in the face, sending the big guy crashing into the bench, against the wall, and onto the floor. At least Ivan hadn’t tried to kill him--had he used his claws, Lou’s face would be splattered across the bar next to the silver cross.

The werewolf slammed its hands against George’s arms, pinning them to his sides. He tried to knee Ivan in the groin but though his knee connected with its target it was just a glancing blow that seemed to have no effect. Ivan squeezed George’s arms, just until it hurt, and then he...well, he didn’t quite throw George, but George definitely didn’t hurtle across the room of his own volition.

He struck a table, knocking it over and sending a couple of beers flying. He grabbed for a chair to stop his fall, but it toppled along with him and he crashed to the floor, a leg of the chair bashing into his kidney, hard.

The pain was unbelievable. He’d be pissing blood for sure.

He blinked away the wave of dizziness, and took a half-second to survey his surroundings. People were screaming and running for the exit in a mad panic, with at least two of them on the floor being trampled.

The twenty-one year-old knelt on the floor, wailing and cradling her older dance partner in her lap. Blood gushed from a laceration in his forehead and his neck was bent at a hideous angle.

A man behind the bar cocked a shotgun.

Lou, dazed and confused, was trying to get back up.

George wanted to get up as well, but he needed just a few seconds for the worst of the agony to fade before he’d be of any use to anybody. Just a few. Not long.

The man behind the bar pointed the shotgun at Ivan, but Ivan was at the counter before he could shoot. Ivan knocked the barrel of the gun upward just as the man squeezed the trigger, firing into the ceiling, creating a cloud of plaster, and eliciting a scream of pain from above.

Holy shit. Had he actually shot somebody upstairs?

Ivan wrenched the shotgun out of the man’s hands and shoved the barrel in his face. The man held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t shoot!”

The werewolf seemed to consider that. Ivan moved the shotgun barrel away from the man’s face, fumbled a bit with his claws on the trigger, then fired into one of the man’s upraised hands, blowing it completely off. The man’s shriek was silenced a moment later as Ivan tossed the gun aside and swiped off his entire lower jaw.

Before the impact of that could even sink in, Ivan pulled the man forward by the front of his shirt, opened his mouth wide, and then bit down on what remained of the man’s face. Ivan spit the bloody chunk onto the counter, let the man’s corpse fall, and then turned toward George.

Ivan held up his index finger and wiggled the talon.

The message was clear: That’s one...

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Massacre at the Cotton Mouse Tavern

George and Lou both got up. Despite the agony, George was able to find his voice, if not his wit. “I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

Ivan beckoned. Bring it on.

But instead of waiting for George, Ivan ran over to the formerly dancing couple, pouncing on them with his claws and fangs bared. The girl died first, unless the old man was already dead when the werewolf got there, which was entirely possible. Ivan didn’t try to be inventive--he just ripped their bodies apart in a matter of seconds, tearing off flesh with such speed and intensity that George couldn’t be certain which piece came from which victim.

Lou patted his pocket, then frantically looked around on the floor, presumably for his switchblade. Had he lost it in the fall? Lou quickly gave up the search and went for the cross.

About half of the patrons had made it out of the bar already, but there was a bottleneck at the doorway. Panicked drunk people shoving each other was not conducive to an efficient exit.

An overweight bearded man pushed a skinny girl out of the way, his hand cupping one of her small breasts in the process. She bashed a beer bottle against the side of his head, spraying glass and Bud Light everywhere. The bearded man fell, taking the two people in front of him down with him.

Another man, clean-shaven, his eyes wide with terror, had apparently retained his sense of chivalry and pulled a blonde woman out of the way before she could get trampled.

It didn’t surprise George that Ivan went after the nice guy.

Ivan leapt off the two mangled dancer corpses, knocked another man out of the way, and grabbed the nice guy’s arm. As the guy cried out and tried to pull away, Ivan gave it a brutal yank. It wasn’t enough to rip off the limb, but it was clearly enough to pop his arm out of its socket.

With the second yank, the skin split. The arm remained attached. A third yank, and the arm came most of the way off. Ivan quickly finished the job with his teeth.

Lou crawled around on the floor, searching unsuccessfully for the cross.

George slammed his foot down on the wooden chair, breaking off the leg that had bashed his kidney and creating a makeshift wooden stake. Even if it didn’t kill Ivan, they might be able to injure him enough to finally subdue the creature.

Ivan shoved the one-armed nice guy toward George. The guy, spurting blood and almost completely drained of color, dropped to the floor before he could get in George’s way. George leapt over him, tried to fake a swing to the left, but took a werewolf fist to the face and stumbled backwards, almost but not quite losing his footing.

Ivan snarled and tossed the severed arm aside. There was so much gore in his fur that it was hard to say for certain, but his gunshot wounds no longer seemed to be bleeding.

Most of the bar patrons had finally made their way out of the place. Aside from the bearded guy and the two people on the floor with him, only a man and woman who looked to be in their early twenties remained at the doorway. They were presumably a romantic couple, since they were dressed in matching cutesy light green shirts.

One of the people who’d been trampled had apparently made it outside to safety. The other, a middle-aged lady with pigtails, lay dead on the floor, her body broken and bloody.

Ivan ran to the doorway, bashed the cutesy man out of the way with his right hand, then grabbed the cutesy woman with his left. Instead of killing her, he tossed her over with her lover, then pulled the door closed.

The bearded guy scrambled away, his ass dragging along the floor as he did a clumsy version of a crab-walk. George ran at Ivan again, focusing all of his attention on Ivan’s heart, but the werewolf knocked him aside once more. George’s landing was not gentle.

As he got up, he noticed two other people in the bar, hiding underneath the table of a booth. Assuming the nice guy with one arm hadn’t bled to death yet, that left eight potential victims in there, not counting George and Lou. Ivan might very well make his body count goal.

George caught a glimpse of silver as Lou found the cross and quickly palmed it. Lou got up and wobbled a bit on shaky legs, but didn’t fall.

“Hey, Ivan!” George shouted. “You hit like a ferret!”

Ivan let out what was clearly meant to be a derisive laugh. George tried to think of an animal comparison more rage inducing than “ferret” but nothing immediately came to mind.

George had hoped that Ivan might change back just to offer up a snappy retort, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked around the bar, still smiling, as if joining George in tallying up his potential victims.

Ivan’s ear perked up a bit as he noticed the people under the table in the booth.

The man and woman who were dressed alike grabbed each other’s hand and sprinted away from Ivan, running toward a plate-glass window covered by neon signs. Ivan followed, taking down the man before they made it halfway across the bar. The woman bellowed and desperately pulled on her boyfriend or husband’s arm, refusing to let go of him even as Ivan slashed at his legs and back.

“Just leave me!” the man shouted, gurgling the words. George winced as Ivan ripped out a particularly meaty strip of his leg, exposing bone.

George picked up another chair.

Lou moved cautiously toward the werewolf, not revealing the cross. His breathing was as heavy as if he’d run a marathon and George hoped that he wouldn’t have a massive heart attack before he made it to Ivan.

Ivan extended all ten of his fingers, then slammed his claws deep into the man’s neck all at once. The woman finally let go of her lover and ran for the window again.

The two people who’d been knocked down by the bearded guy--another man and woman, also in their twenties, but hopefully not a couple considering their complete lack of interest in assisting each other in a moment of crisis--got the door open again. It slammed into the man’s shin and he let out a grunt of pain as the woman opened it, but they both rushed through the doorway and out of the bar.

Two more survivors. If this upset Ivan, he didn’t show it. The woman who’d just lost her boyfriend or husband ran straight at the window, arms extended.

Lou took another hesitant step toward Ivan. The werewolf’s attention was directed toward the running woman, but it was pretty hard for a guy the size of Lou to sneak up on somebody in a wide-open bar.

George threw the chair as hard as he possibly could, so hard that he thought he might have injured his shoulder. His intent was for the chair to smash directly into Ivan’s head, distracting him from the woman long enough for her to escape, during which time George would figure out how to deal with a murderous werewolf whose attention was now on him. The chair didn’t hit Ivan’s head, but it smashed into his side with enough force to stop him in his tracks.

The woman struck the window. The glass did not shatter. She bounced off, careened to the side, and doubled over in pain.

Taking advantage of Ivan’s distraction, Lou picked up his pace and held the cross like a dagger. George hurriedly grabbed another chair to keep Ivan’s attention focused on him.

“Did that hurt, you hairy bitch? Did you get a boo-boo?”

Lou was only a couple of steps away from being able to slam the cross into his back. They were, of course, assuming that the silver cross would do a lot more damage than just stabbing him with a regular old sharpened object, and if that turned out not to be the case, Lou was in a lot of danger.

“C’mon, Ivan, you feeble little fuck! We kicked your butt back in the other house, and we’ll kick it here!”

Without taking his eyes off George, Ivan suddenly reached out his arm, grabbing Lou by the throat.

Shit...

George was about to rush him, but Ivan held up a hand, palm-out. Don’t move. George decided not to move.

Ivan’s head transformed back into its human form. Though it should have looked ridiculous to have a big strong wolfman with a human head, George found nothing even remotely comical about his appearance. The bloody bullet holes in his face helped with the lack of amusement value.

“Hey, George, remember when I had my claws on your throat?”

Just had to talk, didn’t you? Couldn’t resist a little mockery.

“I remember.”

“I let you live. Lou’s fucked.”

Lou slammed the cross into Ivan’s arm, burying it about an inch deep. Ivan screamed and released his grip on Lou’s neck. His face began to switch between human and wolf features the way it had after George kicked him in the nuts.

Now!

George moved forward. No other chairs were immediately available, so he’d just use his goddamn fists.

Ivan ripped the cross out of his arm, which sizzled at the wound. He flung the cross at the bearded guy, who had almost made it to the open doorway. It struck the back of his head with skull-shattering velocity, and the bearded guy slumped forward, clutching at the immense gash.

The woman kicked the window. This time, her foot broke through.

George threw a punch, aiming for Ivan’s kidneys. Let him find out how it felt. The punch connected and Ivan howled.

Ivan spun around and grabbed George. Using both hands, he threw George into Lou, and the two of them stumbled across the bar and hit the floor for the umpteenth time that evening.

The woman kicked at the glass twice more, opening up a hole big enough to escape through. She ducked through the new exit, then lost her balance as Ivan grabbed her by the ankle, digging his claws in deep. She fell onto the glass, breaking through it most of the way to the floor. Ivan dragged her back inside over the jagged remains. Her screaming and flailing around made things much worse for her.

George cringed. Where the hell were the cops?

The cross wound had stopped sizzling and bleeding. Ivan stepped on the woman’s legs, grabbed a handful of her long black hair, and jerked her head back, snapping her neck.

The one-armed man lay on the floor and groaned.

The bearded guy wasn’t moving. He was either unconscious or dead. Probably dead. Six for Ivan, if you didn’t count the trampled woman or the person who’d been shot upstairs.

That only left the couple underneath the table, George, and Lou.

Ivan held up five clawed fingers on one hand and his index finger on the other hand. Then he pointed to the man and woman under the table and held up two more.

They screamed as the werewolf strode over to them. Ivan picked up the table, exposing them completely, then threw it at the bearded guy. Direct hit. Even if he wasn’t dead now, he’d never walk, speak, or eat solid food again.

The man and woman cowered against the wall, hands in front of their faces as if that would stave off Ivan’s attack.

Ivan transformed his head back again, then beckoned to the man. “Come here.”

“No!”

“Here’s my offer,” Ivan said, speaking calmly although he was breathing heavily. “You get up, walk over here, and let me gouge your eyes out, and I’ll let your woman live. Otherwise I’m going to jump over there and rip you both to shreds.”

George picked up another chair.

Ivan looked back at him. “Are you fucking kidding me? Enough with the chairs, George! I’m tired of punching you around.”

“Really? I’m sure not tired of hitting you with chairs.”

“Hilarious. You’re a funny guy, George. But I’m not talking to you right now.” Ivan looked back at the couple. “It’s a straightforward deal, sir. Walk over here, let me poke out your eyes, and she goes free. I swear. How about it?”

The man stood up. Without hesitation and ignoring the woman’s horrified wail, he walked right up to Ivan, fists clenched and head held high.

“Holy shit! You actually did it!” Ivan looked around the bar as if to confirm that everybody had seen the same thing. “I can’t believe it! I am absolutely flabbergasted! You must love the absolute shit out of her, huh?”

The man nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, I--I honestly don’t know how to react to this. I kind of figured that I’d just be ripping you two apart.” Ivan gestured to the woman. “Go. Get out through the broken window.”

“Please don’t hurt him,” she said, getting to her feet. Sobbing, she ducked underneath the broken pane of glass and left the bar.

“I’m stunned,” said Ivan. “Just stunned. Wow. I don’t know if you’re brave or a complete idiot. You know what? I don’t even feel like gouging your eyes out after that. You deserve to keep them. Go follow your woman and get some mega-pussy tonight.”

The man turned and hurried out through the broken window. Ivan let him go.

“Can you believe that?” Ivan asked George. “He was going to let me do it. Would you do that for your girlfriend?”

“I don’t have one.”

“And it’s probably because you wouldn’t give up your eyes for her. So what’s my count? Six...” Ivan walked over to the nice guy with one arm, and slammed his foot down on his head, several times. “Seven. I could cheat and count the poor bitch who got crunched at the door, but I like to play fair.”

“So you’re one short,” George said.

“Yeah. What a disappointment. Do you think anybody else will be dumb enough to come inside?”

“The cops.”

“Cops count. I could definitely make it to eight if the cops show up. But that would involve more waiting around, and I can’t help but feel that there’s another way to achieve my goal. Hmmmm. Let me think...”

George looked at Lou. They exchanged a knowing glance, and then both rushed Ivan at the same time. The “bash him with a chair” tactic hadn’t been entirely successful thus far, but if they both got in good hits simultaneously...

Ivan leapt at George, jumping into the air like a wolf going for the kill. George didn’t even get to swing the chair before Ivan landed on him, knocking him to the floor yet another time. He had an instant to think that counting the number of times he hit the floor would make a good drinking game, and then his head struck the floor and nothing mattered anymore.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Bad Time To Be Lou

Considering the circumstances, Lou thought he’d done a pretty good job of keeping himself together. He wanted to yell and cry and run around in circles and let the dark specter of madness completely engulf his ass. He could use a little bit of insanity right now to keep him from focusing so much on the current reality.

Unfortunately, either he was locked away in a padded cell having hallucinations about a bloody werewolf massacre at the Cotton Mouse Tavern, or he was entirely sane. If this was a hallucination, he could just sit back, relax, and enjoy his tranquilizers and lobotomy, but for now he had to assume that this was all real, and so he had to act.

Lou was not a man who liked to lose. If he wasted fifty bucks at the slots, he’d be pissed about it for hours. The big difference between himself and George was that Lou would ultimately decide that losing fifty dollars was punishment enough and walk away, whereas George would keep pumping coins into the machine hoping to win enough to make up his losses. And, usually, George would leave with enough cash to pay for the hotel, meals, and a topless show, whereas Lou would be out his fifty bucks and fuming.

But there was no “win” this time. Maybe they’d recapture Ivan, and maybe they’d kill him, but there was no happy ending in store for anybody here.

As George hit his head on the floor, with that werewolf bastard on top of him, Lou saw a sudden flash of his partner’s funeral. Closed-casket, of course. Maybe a separate coffin for each piece.

You know, George, Lou had said once, when I die, I don’t want a funeral. I don’t want people sitting in a church crying over my dead body. I just want a few of my close friends to get together and drink to my memory. Maybe share some stories.

Fuck that, George had replied. When I die, I want people to be depressed. I want them to wear black and I want a thunderstorm and I want people to throw themselves on the casket. Why should people be happy I’m dead?

I don’t want them to be necessarily happy that I’m dead. They just don’t have to be all bummed out about it. They should remember the good times.

Well, Lou, I hate to break it to you, but when you die, I’m going to be sad.

Lou figured that the best way to save his partner’s life was to jam the cross right into the back of Ivan’s neck, deep enough that it popped out the other side, and watch him claw at it desperately as his throat dissolved.

Lou would probably fail at that. Especially since he didn’t have the cross anymore, and the cross wasn’t long enough to go all the way through Ivan’s neck anyway. He’d also somehow lost his sterling silver switchblade when Ivan threw him across the bar.

So he had to resort to the second best way to save George’s life: lure the werewolf away from him.

He ran past Ivan, shouting “Ferret! Ferret! Ferret!” The insult was just as lame when he shouted it as when George used it, but hopefully the sheer inanity of it would piss Ivan off enough to make him follow.

Ivan did.

Lou ran behind the bar counter. There was a swinging door that he assumed led to a kitchen, but first he grabbed the nearest object, a bottle of white wine, spun around, and flung it at Ivan. It shattered against Ivan’s chest, sending glass spraying back at Lou. He grabbed a second bottle and threw it, hitting Ivan in his now-wolfman face. The bottle bounced off and broke in half against the counter. The third bottle also hit Ivan in the face and smashed against his teeth.

Lou pushed through the swinging door, which did indeed lead to a small filthy kitchen. He kicked the door back as hard as he could, and it bashed into the werewolf, knocking him against the counter. Lou heard the crash of a few more bottles falling to the floor.

The door flew open with enough force to knock it halfway off its hinges.

Lou decided to attack before Ivan could leap at him. He rushed forward just as Ivan made the jump, colliding with the werewolf’s stomach. The werewolf was stronger. Lou let out a loud grunt as Ivan knocked him back against the metal sink.

Lou thrust his hand into the warm soapy water, grabbed the handle of a frying pan, and smacked it into Ivan’s face with a loud clang. Ivan growled and spit out a bloody fang.

Lou took another swing. This time Ivan ducked out of the way. Ivan grabbed Lou’s wrist, squeezed hard, and then bashed the frying pan against Lou’s face using Lou’s own hand. Lou released his grip and the pan clattered to the floor.

Some blood trickled from Lou’s nostrils.

Ivan grabbed the back of Lou’s neck and shoved his head into the sink. Lou’s forehead struck a pot or some other large metal object as he plunged into the water.

He braced his hands against the edge of the sink and tried to push himself up again, but Ivan was too strong. Holding his breath and closing his eyes against the sting of the soapy water, Lou pushed as hard as he could.

His head popped out of the water for an instant, not long enough to gasp for air. Ivan shoved him back down, and Lou hit the same fucking pot. At least he knew his head was durable.

He stomped his feet several times, trying to crunch one of Ivan’s paws underneath his shoe, but didn’t even hit a toe.

Lou put his hand back in the water and fished around for a moment. He found a fork. He grabbed it by the handle, then slammed it over his shoulder, hoping to strike lycanthrope.

He hit something.

Ivan’s grip on his neck loosened. Lou pulled his head out of the water and gasped for breath.

He spun around. The tines of the fork were buried halfway into Ivan’s upper right arm. Ivan yanked out the fork and tossed it aside. Too bad it wasn’t silver. Then, in a motion like flicking a bug off a table, Ivan slashed his talon across Lou’s cheek. He immediately repeated the gesture with his other talon, giving Lou matching cuts.

Ivan grabbed the front of Lou’s shirt, then threw him away from the sink. He almost collided with the grill, which was still on. A pair of burnt hamburgers sizzled on it. Clearly the cook had been smart and gotten the hell out of there.

The werewolf pounced. Lou tried to move out of the way but was unsuccessful, and a quick contortion later he found himself in the same predicament as before, except that instead of his face being shoved into warm dishwater, it was being shoved toward a hot grill.

He tried to elbow Ivan in the gut but couldn’t get sufficient leverage. His foot slipped out from under him, and his chin came down on the surface of the grill with a thump and a hiss.

He yelped and lifted his head. The searing pain gave him an extra burst of adrenaline, and he wriggled his way out of Ivan’s grip, just in time for Ivan to give him another pair of matching cheek slashes.

Now the son of a bitch was just trying to humiliate him.

Lou punched him in the face--a solid uppercut that connected with Ivan’s jaw. His teeth snapped shut on his tongue. The werewolf howled.

Ivan swiped at Lou’s chest, a ferocious swing that was obviously not meant to humiliate Lou but rather disembowel him. It missed. Not by much. The second swipe missed by even less.

A thick rope of bloody drool dangled from Ivan’s lower jaw. He snarled, then attacked.

Lou screamed. It wasn’t something he would’ve ever expected to do. He shouted a lot, but he’d never screamed in his life.

He bashed into the grill again as Ivan struck him. Rational thought disappeared. Lou thrashed wildly, trying to use his own fingers as claws to lash out at Ivan’s eyes. He slid to the floor, screaming some more as Ivan slashed at his arms and legs and chest.

He hit Ivan, several times, but the pain kept coming. He punched and clawed and kicked in blind panic, thinking that this might be the end because suddenly time seemed to be creeping along as if in a weird dream and he could see a few droplets of his own blood flying into the air in slow motion, almost a beautiful thing, yet his life wasn’t flashing before his eyes, and wasn’t that supposed to happen when you were moments away from death?

Time sped up with a jolt.

Ivan howled and clutched at his eye. Lou had gotten the son of a bitch. Incredible.

Lou scooted away, forcing himself not to completely lose it over the sight of so much of his own blood. Ivan removed his hand from his eye. Instead of the gooey orb dripping jelly that Lou hoped for, his eye was just dark red. Not punctured. Not a fight-ending injury by any stretch of the imagination.

Lou got up, elated that he wasn’t hurt badly enough to simply lie bleeding to death on the kitchen floor, and rushed for the food preparation counter. He saw a flash of metal. A meat cleaver.

He grabbed the meat cleaver and slammed it into Ivan’s chest. The blade sunk in deep. He wrenched it out and slammed it in again. Got him in the heart.

A wave of pain shot through his arm as he pulled the blade out again. Holding the handle of the meat cleaver with both hands and swinging it like a baseball bat, Lou smacked the blade across Ivan’s throat, trying to chop his fucking head right off.

Ivan threw his head back and howled as a geyser of blood spewed forth. The cut was so deep that he shouldn’t even be able to howl, not with severed vocal chords.

Lou swung again but missed as Ivan pushed past him and raced for the swinging door. Lou flung the meat cleaver at him. It sailed through the air, rotating end over end, and hit Ivan in the back--unfortunately, handle-first. The kitchen implement dropped to the floor as Ivan threw open the door, now ripping it completely off its hinges, and rushed back into the main part of the bar.

Lou heard a cry of “Shit!” that obviously came from George.

He glanced down at himself and wished he hadn’t. Ivan had gotten him good in a couple of places, and there were several other small gouges that would have, at another time, ruined his entire day. But he’d worry about that later.

He ran out into the main tavern area just as George tossed the silver ring-lined blanket over Ivan. George struggled to get the blanket completely over him, but could only get it over his head, and as Ivan violently thrashed, even that bit of progress looked extremely temporary.

“Lou, get over here, you lazy fuck!” George shouted.

Moving as quickly as he could, which wasn’t all that fast anymore, Lou ran over to help his partner. George now had Ivan in a bear hug from behind and clutched the blanket tightly in his fists, and though he wasn’t coming close to holding Ivan in place, he did seem to be successfully steering the werewolf in an awkward stumble toward the exit.

The blanket was already soaked red.

Lou reached them just as the werewolf changed direction, claws slashing through the air as he struggled to get free. Lou stuck out his foot. Ivan lost his balance and fell to the floor, with George landing on top of him.

He’d actually tripped a werewolf. Holy shit. Something new to add to his resume.

“He’s getting loose!” George shouted. “Don’t let him get away!”

Lou kicked Ivan in the head, as hard as he possibly could.

“Do it again! Do it again!”

Lou did it again. He wasn’t sure if it was the slit throat or the silver rings or both, but Ivan did seem to be legitimately weakened. A few stomps on his head and they might be able to drag him back out to the van and--

“Get away from it!”

Two cops stood at the broken window, guns raised. Young guys, one black, one white, and both quite visibly horrified by the grisly and absurd scene in front of them. Mutilated corpses, two blood-covered thugs, and a thrashing werewolf with a blanket over its head.

“Everything’s okay!” George insisted.

“Get away from it!” the white cop repeated.

Are the cops seriously trying to save Ivan? Lou wondered, incredulous. Then he realized that, no, they were trying to save him and George from the homicidal beast.

“We can’t do that! But you could help us hold him down!”

The cops exchanged an uncertain glance. Lou didn’t blame them. He sure as hell wouldn’t come through that window if he were them.

“Get away!” said the black cop. “We’ll shoot it!”

“Bullets don’t hurt it!”

“Of course bullets hurt it!”

Lou vigorously shook his head. “No, they don’t!”

Ivan pushed himself up and almost got out from underneath George, but they managed to keep him on the floor. The blanket was dripping. George punched him in the back of the head. “Shouldn’t he be out of goddamn blood by now?”

The cops remained at the window. The white one put a walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Dispatch, where the hell is that backup?”

Lou felt the werewolf slipping away. Oh, crap, we’re losing him...we’re losing him...

“Get over here and help us!” Lou shouted to the cops. At this point, getting arrested was a minor concern. If the cops dragged Ivan away, Lou and George might be able to take advantage of the distraction to get away and live out the rest of their years as hermits.

The cops, apparently not being complete idiots, remained where they were.

Ivan shook his head from side to side, shaking off most of the blanket. Lou felt himself start to panic. They definitely weren’t going to be able to hold him. “Throw me some handcuffs!” Did cops use handcuffs anymore, or was it just those plastic things?

George angrily reached into his pocket, pulled out his keys, and slammed one deep into the back of Ivan’s neck. “Stop moving, damn it!”

Ivan stood up part of the way. George remained clamped onto his back for about a second, as if going for a piggyback ride, and then Ivan bucked him off. Lou grabbed for him again and got the werewolf’s arm, but it popped out of his grasp.

The cops opened fire as the werewolf, George’s keys still dangling from the back of his neck, rushed at them. Ivan flinched with each shot but didn’t fall. He broke more glass as he went through the window and pushed through the cops, swiping with both hands simultaneously. Both cops went down, screaming.

They really should have believed Lou about the whole bullets thing.

Instead of finishing them off, though, Ivan left their fallen bodies and ran away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Bloodbath Aftermath

Michele was having difficulty reconciling her previous beliefs about tornado chasers with her current plan not to run away.

Tornado chasers were idiots. Why would you ever go toward the storm? Why would you stand outside in a hurricane doing a weather report? Why would you take pictures in a war zone while mortar shells exploded all around you? She’d spent many hours vocally criticizing this kind of stupidity while she watched the news on television, even if nobody else was around to hear. Stay out of the shark tank if you don’t want to disappear in a cloud of blood. Don’t wrestle the alligator and be surprised when you lose a hand.

So when George and Lou set her free, she should have just run as far away from this whole mess as she could. Let her role in this little drama come to an anticlimactic conclusion. Find a hospital, get better bandages for her shoulder, finish off a bottle of wine to celebrate her survival, finish off a second bottle of wine to celebrate the fact that she wasn’t pregnant, and happily pass out.

Instead, she stood at the edge of the parking lot and watched George and Lou walk into the bar.

Was Ivan already inside? Probably not. He had to suspect that George and Lou might burst in there with a dozen cops, so he’d want them to get settled first, give himself a chance to scope things out.

A few minutes later, her theory was proven correct (or Ivan was just running late) as she hid behind a pickup truck and watched him pull into the parking lot. Where had he gotten a car? She prayed there wasn’t a fresh corpse in the trunk.

Ivan drove around the building a couple of times, slowly, then parked at the closest space to the front entrance.

She crept a little closer to the building as Ivan walked inside.

This was still her story, her cash cow, and she needed to know how it all turned out. “Oh, yeah, I was terrified,” she’d tell the person who was hired to ghostwrite her book. “I’d never been so scared in my life. Every bit of common sense I had, every piece of knowledge I’d acquired in my entire life was screaming at me to get out of there, but I just couldn’t.”

The ghostwriter would nod as if she understood completely. Her expression would say You were so very brave without having to speak the words, which would be ass-kissing.
“And is that when you called the police?”

“Yes. I mean, there was a dangerous werewolf in the building, so I had to let the authorities know. I couldn’t let more innocent people get hurt.”

“And you’d have a better story if the cops actually caught him or shot him down, right?”

“You said that, not me.”

“Do you want to say it in the book?”

“No. That sounds kind of bad.”

Michele didn’t have her cell phone or any change, but there was a pay phone next to the entrance, and she was pretty sure you didn’t need the fifty cents to make an emergency call. She hurried over to the phone, picked up the receiver, and cursed. The entire mouthpiece was gone, exposing a few broken wires.

She placed it to her ear anyway. They’d still trace a 911 call even if nobody said anything.

No dial tone.

Okay, this was a pretty big problem.

Now what? She certainly wasn’t going to go inside the Cotton Mouse Tavern and ask if she could use their phone.

A large, burly man walked out of the bar, looking annoyed and angry, as if he’d just had a heated argument. “Sir?” she said, gently touching his arm.

His eyes lit up, but then he frowned as he noticed her bandaged-up shoulder and bloody clothes. “Yes?”

“Can I borrow your cell phone? It’s an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“I need to call the police. A man just went in there with a gun and I think he’s going to start shooting.”

“Is this a scam?”

“No, I swear.”

“I can’t give you my phone.”

“Then could you call the police for me?”

“Sure, sure.” He took out a cell phone and punched in three digits. “You say a guy with a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Should we be standing here?”

“Probably not.”

They began to quickly walk away from the building. The man touched a button on his phone, and the speaker came on. “911, what is your emergency?” The man kept the phone in his hand, but held it toward Michele so she could talk.

“Hi,” she said. “I think there’s going to be some trouble...”

* * *

Ivan didn’t look back at the cops after he savaged them. They were both probably still alive, but they’d be needing some serious skin grafts. Fuckers. He hoped they spent the rest of their lives being shunned as disfigured freaks.

The pain was almost unbearable. Yeah, he was a fast healer, but he’d been shot, sliced, punched, stabbed, and kicked. Bullets didn’t just pop out of his body when he healed--he had to dig them out, and that was not a pleasant process. He didn’t mind getting mangled every once in a while, but Jesus Christ, this was insane.

He reached back and tugged the car keys out of his neck. Slit throat, stabbed neck--he was lucky he hadn’t been decapitated. When he’d fully recovered he’d hunt George and Lou down and make them die ever so slowly, but for now, he just needed to get away. Revenge could wait. A dish best served cold and all that shit.

Or...not.

He saw their black van. If he couldn’t kill them, he could at least steal their van using the keys they’d stabbed him with. That would keep them nicely frustrated until he came back into their lives.

He transformed back into his human form as he reached the driver’s side door and hurriedly unlocked it, blood gushing down onto his hands as he did so. He got inside, slammed the door shut, and started the engine.

Shit. He was really bleeding bad. He didn’t think he could die from this, but he’d never sustained these kinds of injuries. He’d gotten cocky again. Time for that to stop.

He sped off, but then managed a smile. It didn’t matter how badly he was hurt, the sight of George and Lou running after their stolen van was fucking hilarious.

* * *

“He stole our van!” Lou shouted, as they ran after Ivan in a rather pathetic half-run, half-limp.

“I know!”

“A werewolf just stole our van!”

“I know, Lou!”

“With the keys you stabbed him with!”

“I can see! I still have my eyes!”

“So now what do we do?”

“We get the hell out of here before more cops show up!”

“We should have just waited for the reinforcements.”

“Well, freakin’ duh! How’d you figure that out? The slaughtered corpses? Your eight thousand werewolf wounds? The fact that he just drove away in our goddamn van?”

“It’s not even our van.”

“I realize that! Believe it or not, I’m not a complete ignoramus and I am aware of the severity of the situation!”

Lou stopped running. “I bet you’re not.”

“What do you mean?”

“We left the briefcase of cash in the bar.”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, that is bullshit!”

“What do we do?”

“So, what, you’re back to being cool with me making decisions again?”

“George, we don’t have time for this!”

“I know, I know. You keep running. Find us a car that we can hotwire. I’ll run back in and get it. It’ll only take a minute.”

“All right. Don’t get killed.”

“I’ll try.” George turned and ran back to the bar. He couldn’t believe how badly things were working out for him today. Next there’d probably be some kind of earthquake that split open the earth and swallowed him up, dropping him right into Hell, which might be preferable to dealing with Ivan.

Oh, how he hated that werewolf. Despised him. Loathed him. Abhorred him. He could take every synonym in the thesaurus, plus all of their foreign language equivalents, including dead languages that only a couple of scholars in the world still knew how to translate, and it wouldn’t come close to expressing just how deeply he hated that man-beast.

From now on, every old man whose thumbs he broke would have Ivan’s face superimposed over his own. And George expected to start doing some mad cackling in the near future.

The black cop lay on the ground, walkie-talkie to his lips. “Officer down...” he said, voice weak. The white cop looked at George with pleading eyes, which was one of the only facial features that was still recognizable. George was not a cop-hater--he had no problem with them or their duties as long as they weren’t specifically coming after him--and he felt horrible. What if the guy had kids? Still, there was no time to offer a moment of comfort. He hurried past the cops and went back into the bar.

He could hear somebody sobbing upstairs. He wondered how badly the woman up there had been hurt when she got shot.

George ran to the booth where they’d sat in slightly happier times. He stepped on some viscera but, thankfully, did not slip on it.

He picked up the suitcase, the side of which was stained with werewolf blood. He quickly glanced around for the guns they’d dropped, or the sharpened cross, or Lou’s switchblade, but didn’t immediately see them and he could hear sirens in the distance, so he ran back out of the bar. Not stepping in blood was a challenge.

Now they needed a vehicle. George and Lou both knew how to hotwire a car, but it wasn’t as easy of a task as it looked in the movies. They couldn’t do it here. Hopefully they’d find another car relatively nearby where they could break in without arousing suspicion.

* * *

Ivan was getting blood all over the seat. Good. Another reason for Bateman to hunt down his unfortunate, incompetent thugs. Ivan rubbed his palm on the dashboard, smearing blood everywhere.

No, wait. He didn’t want George and Lou to get exterminated by their employer. That would be too painless, even if Bateman used a red-hot poker and a cheese grater. And besides, Ivan wouldn’t get to watch.

He stuck his tongue in the gap from his missing tooth. He’d never lost a fang before. He didn’t think it would grow back.

He could turn the van around and--

No.

Let them go. Even if their ghastly fate didn’t come at his hands, he had to let this drop. He was too badly injured right now. Werewolves who didn’t learn from the past ten minutes were condemned to repeat them.

It was also disappointing that Michele hadn’t come with them. He still wanted to sink his teeth into her. He wondered where she’d gone.

Then he laughed out loud. He knew exactly where a person in her position would go. The GPS was still mounted on the dashboard, so he bloodied up the screen and found the nearest hospital. Six miles away. He floored the accelerator and sped off.

* * *

Right after she’d gotten into his car, Michele suddenly decided that the burly guy was a serial killer, and that her arms and legs would turn up in four different counties. Then she decided that he was just kind of weird.

When the chaos inside the tavern began, she’d rolled down the window, leaned out, and vomited onto the pavement. She should’ve called the police sooner, but she didn’t want them to scare Ivan away.

The man had insisted that they drive off. She’d protested. The man had explained that it was his car and that she was welcome to get out. She’d decided that it was time to revert back to her stance on tornado chasers and leave with him.

“Could you take me to the hospital?” she’d asked.

“Of course.”

There hadn’t been much in the way of conversation during the drive. He kept asking her if she was okay. He kept insisting that she’d be fine. She kept thanking him for going out of his way to help her. He kept saying that it was absolutely no problem.

He pulled right up in front of the emergency room entrance. “Do you want me to come in with you?” he asked.

Michele shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine. You’ve done enough.”

She got out of the car, waved goodbye, and shut the door. She caught a flash of movement in the glass door, turned around, and the werewolf pounced upon her. The punch to her stomach knocked the wind out of her.

Michele tried to scream as Ivan tossed her over his shoulder but couldn’t find her voice. He ran off, claws digging into her back, and then within a few seconds they were behind George and Lou’s black van. The back doors were open.

Ivan tossed her into the cage. She landed on her elbow, crying out in pain. Ivan slammed the cage door shut and transformed back into a human predator.

The man who’d given her a ride was running towards the van, but he’d never make it in time. Michele tried not to cry as Ivan shut the van doors, got back into the driver’s seat, and peeled out of the hospital parking lot.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Grand Theft Auto

There was a small restaurant two buildings away from the Cotton Mouse Tavern with parking in the back. George and Lou walked back there and glanced at the selection of about four cars.

“That one?” George asked, pointing at a rusty orange Chevrolet. It looked like the oldest one, the least likely to have an alarm, and the least likely to give them problems with the hotwiring process. Hopefully it belonged to an employee and not a diner. Less chance of them being discovered, unless somebody took a smoke break.

“Yeah, that works.”

They walked over to the car. With the proper tools, either one of them could break into a car with no noise or damage to the vehicle, but at the moment they didn’t have tools or time. Lou picked up a rock and smashed the driver’s side window. Though the noise seemed like a nuclear blast, there was loud music coming from inside the restaurant and hopefully nobody overheard them.

George got in the car, reached over, and unlocked the passenger side door for Lou. As Lou got in, George immediately looked around the car for a screwdriver or something that could be used like one.

There was plenty of litter in the front seat, but fast food containers and soda cans weren’t going to help them. Lou popped open the glove compartment and quickly rifled through the contents. “Nothing here.”

George twisted around and searched the back seat. More fast food containers, a few magazines, a Justin Timberlake CD with a cracked jewel case...and a hammer. Good enough. George picked it up off the back seat.

“I can’t believe he stole our van,” said Lou.

“He’ll suffer for it.”

“He might not. Karma seems to be on his side.”

George pushed his seat back and adjusted his position so he could use the claw end of the hammer to break open the access panel beneath the steering wheel. The seat was a tight fit already, so this would be a lot easier if he could crouch outside the vehicle and lean inside, but that might attract unwanted attention.

“Karma? Why would he have karma?”

“I don’t know. I mean, maybe we’re being punished for what we’ve done. You know, hurting people and stuff.”

“Give me a break, Lou. A sociopathic werewolf is not going to have better karma than us. You’re just having brain problems from all the blood you’ve lost.”

Lou looked horrible. Ivan had really done a number on him. The entire bottom half of his face was stained red from the four cuts on his cheek, and the rest of his body looked like he’d been in a losing battle with a Weedwhacker. Good thing Lou was one tough son of a bitch.

Lou scratched at his chin, which had several blisters on it. “Maybe.”

“Is that a burn?”

“Yeah. My face went on a grill.”

“How the hell did your face go on a grill?”

“He pushed me on it.”

“That’s crazy.” George strained to pry off the access panel, but it wasn’t budging. “Are you going to bleed to death?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Let me know if you get close.”

“I will.”

“I’m glad he didn’t kill you.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” said Lou. “I’m glad he didn’t kill you, too.”

“Of course, before too much longer, we might be wishing that he killed us both.”

“Nah, I think we’ll be okay.”

“Why would you think something stupid like that?”

“Well, we aren’t dead yet, are we? We’re luckier than a bunch of other people tonight.”

George sighed. “Don’t remind me. Do you think that was all our fault?”

“Do you think there’s any way it couldn’t be?”

“I was hoping for a guilt loophole.”

Lou shook his head. “Nah. I hate to say this, but it’s our fault those people got murdered. Ivan did it, but it’s still our fault.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you stab him eight thousand times with the cross on your bracelet?”

“Didn’t get the chance.”

“I’d suggest that you sharpen it, but then there wouldn’t be anything left.”

“Bite me. Like I said before, how do we know the ‘cross stops vampires’ idea didn’t come from werewolves? Did you see the way his flesh sizzled? Maybe the cross had as much to do with it as the silver.”

“You could be right.”

“I bet I am.”

“This goddamn access panel won’t come off.”

“Can I help?”

“How are you going to help? I can barely get in here by myself.”

“I was just offering. Don’t be rude to somebody who might be bleeding to death.”

“I think you’d be talking less if you were really bleeding to death.” The corner of the access panel came loose...and then snapped off. “Damn it!”

“Do you want to switch spots?”

“No, just let me do this.” George wedged the claw end of the hammer in the crack and began to pull.

“Where do you think Michele went?”

“Straight to the cops.”

“You’re probably right. At least we didn’t get her killed.”

“Yeah. I’d be so much more bothered by this situation if we were responsible for eight deaths at the bar instead of seven. At least he didn’t make his prediction.”

“I’m just going to stop talking to you until you’re done with the car.”

The access panel broke in half. “Damn it!”

“We should place a bet on how this night ends. Jail, death, or escape?”

“How much are we betting?”

“How much do you want to bet?”

“Twenty bucks.”

“Let’s do twenty-five.”

“Fine,” said George, breaking off the rest of the panel. “You pick first.”

“I’ll pick ‘escape.’ That way I can enjoy my twenty-five bucks.”

“I’ll pick jail.”

“Good choice. I’m glad to hear that you’re not completely cynical.”

George leaned forward and tried to duck his head underneath the steering wheel. Not a chance. There simply wasn’t room.

“If you pop the trunk, I’ll see if I can find a flashlight,” said Lou.

“It’s not the light.” He opened the door. “Keep watch. Let me know if somebody’s coming.

“Will do.”

George got out of the car and crouched down. There were several wires beneath where the panel had been. The shadow of the steering wheel made it hard to see their colors, but he didn’t want to admit to Lou that he really could use a flashlight.

His cell phone rang. “Aw, crap.”

“Is it Ricky?”

George pulled the cell phone out of his pocket. The shell was cracked, but it still seemed to be working. He flipped it open. “Yeah, it’s him.”

“Want me to talk to him?”

“Nah, I’ve got it.” He punched the “talk” button. “Hello?”

“George! Who do you love?”

“Right now I pretty much hate everybody.”

Ricky chuckled. “Aw, don’t talk like that. I’m about to become your very best friend. Even though you’re heterosexual, you’re going to want to make sweet love to me. I’ll turn down your advances, but you’ll be insistent, and finally--”

“Will you get to the point?”

“If you’re going to act that way, maybe I won’t.”

George found the two red wires he needed. If he had a pair of wire strippers, this next part would take a couple of seconds, but he’d have to use the claw hammer, which was going to be a bitch.

“Ricky, just tell me the good news,” George said.

“He has good news?” Lou asked.

“Salvation is near. Werewolf Hunters Incorporated--that’s not their real name, that’s just what I’m calling them--is in the area. I don’t think they have an actual name, or if they do nobody told me, but they are armed to the frickin’ teeth and that werewolf is toast, baby!”

George scraped the claw of the hammer against the first red wire. “They’re going to kill it?”

“No. I guess I didn’t mean ‘toast’ like toast, y’know, dead. I just meant that they’re gonna catch it. Then we’ll throw it back in the cage, get it to Dewey, and everybody can kiss and make up.”

“Ah.”

“You should be a lot happier than you sound. What’s wrong? Did you kill the werewolf? Please tell me you didn’t kill the werewolf.”

“No. But there was a...uh, slaughter.”

“What?”

“He murdered a bunch of people.”

“How many is a bunch? Fifty?”

“No. Nine or ten.”

“Nine or ten? He killed nine or ten people? Aw, shit, the cops are going to be crawling all over this!”

“And he mauled two cops.”

“Mother fuck!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Y’know, I actually had two minutes of happiness where I thought everything was going to be okay. That’s what I was thinking: ‘Wow, this was a bad scene for a while, but help is almost there and everything will be fine. I’m sure my good buddies George and Lou won’t screw things up any worse than they already have, right? Oh, no, they’re professionals, they won’t cause me to have to chug down any more Peptol Bismol! It’s all wonderful! Life is ducky!’“

The claw hammer was sort of working, but not efficiently, and George was scraping carefully to avoid accidentally cutting the wire in half. “I’m really kind of busy right now,” said George.

“Busy? Busy? Are you seriously trying to tell me that you’re too busy to talk to me?”

“Will you please get to the point?”

“I need you to punch this address into your GPS. Are you ready?”

“We don’t have the GPS.”

“Why the fuck don’t you have the GPS?”

George saw no reason to confess everything that had gone wrong. “It broke.”

“Well then somehow you need to find 7151 Pegg Avenue. Two G’s. It’s just a parking lot. The Werewolf Hunters Incorporated are on their way over there, and they need all of the information you’ve got. Everything you can tell them about his powers so that they don’t get screwed like you did.”

“All right.” The hammer slipped and George cursed.

“They’ll move the cage to their own van, and you can ride along while they recapture him.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

“We lost the cage.”

“Explain.”

“He stole the van.”

“Please tell me I didn’t hear you right. Because otherwise I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”

“The werewolf stole the van, okay? What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say any goddamn thing but ‘The werewolf stole the van!’ Are you in league with him? Is that what’s going on? Have you formed some kind of werewolf alliance?”

“No, we just lost control of the situation.”

“You owe me one punch, George. When you come back here, I get to punch you in the stomach, as hard as I can, and you can’t hit back. Same thing with Lou. One punch for each of you.”

“Fine.” George had finally stripped the first wire, and started on the second.

“Somebody’s coming,” Lou whispered.

George immediately dropped the hammer, got in the car, and shut the door, trying to behave in a casual and completely non-suspicious manner.

“I just can’t believe this,” said Ricky. “I thought I was going to deliver good news, and we’d laugh, and there’d be some homoerotic banter, and I’d get to go home. You realize that you’re basically unemployable at this point, right? Who’s going to hire thugs who messed up like this? You’d better get a real social security number, because you’re going to be flipping burgers for the rest of your life.”

“I understand that.” George discretely looked over his shoulder. A well-dressed couple stood by their car, talking.

“And I don’t mean that you’re going to be flipping burgers at a classy place. You’re going to be flipping shit burgers at a rat-infested restaurant where everybody in there is a fat redneck and you have to wear some kind of dumbfuck uniform and a zit-faced teenager barks orders at you all day. That’s your future, George!”

“Can we do this later?”

“And you’ll probably get food poisoning just from the fumes of the crap you have to cook! You’ll have your stomach pumped, and the doctor will say ‘Oh, shit, it’s cancerous!’ But it won’t be the good kind of cancer that you can get rid of with chemotherapy, George, it’ll be the kind where your whole body decays inside, where your guts turn into this big goopy blob of rot!”

“I think I should hang up now.”

“Yeah? Well, I think you should not. Are you on your way to 7151 Pegg Avenue yet, you jerk-off?”

“I’m hotwiring a car.”

“Oh. Need me to talk you through it?”

“No.”

“Did I tell you about when I hotwired this guy’s car and drove it into a lake?”

George hung up on him. The couple finally got into their car, started the engine, and backed out of their parking space. As they did so, their car scraped against the one next to it. They stopped.

“You have got to be kidding me,” George muttered.

The man got out of the car to inspect the damage. He ran his finger along the spot where the two vehicles had scraped against each other, looked nervously at George and Lou, did a double-take at their grotesque appearance, then hurriedly got back in his car, backed the rest of the way out of the space, and sped away from the restaurant.

George opened the door, returned to his previous position, and began to strip the second red wire. His phone kept ringing, but he ignored it.

“Are they going to exterminate us?” Lou asked.

“It doesn’t sound like it.”

“Well, that’s good.”

“Yeah. They want us to tell the reinforcements everything we know about Ivan.”

“Should we do it?”

“Tell them about him?”

“No, meet up with them.”

“I don’t know. Ricky was having a meltdown yelling at me, so I doubt that he was trying to be sneaky about anything. I think we’ll get our asses chewed out--and for what it’s worth, I’ll make sure I take the heat on that--but I don’t think there’s any reason for them to kill us.”

“What about pure anger?”

“What I mean is, we won’t give them a reason to kill us. We’ll just make sure we don’t give up all of our information right away. Keep ourselves needed.”

“Are you sure that’ll work?”

“Do you want to spend the rest of our lives as fugitives from the law and from other criminals?”

“I guess not.”

George finished stripping the second wire. He wrapped the two stripped wires together. “I’m going to let you make the final decision on this one. My choices today haven’t worked out so well.”

“I don’t know. We should at least return the case of money, so they’ll stop looking for us eventually.”

The phone had gone to voice mail three times, but Ricky kept calling. George pressed “talk.” “Give it a rest, will you, Ricky?”

“What happened to the girl?”

“What girl?”

“Don’t be coy with me. The girl you had with you. Did you create a Wikipedia page for our whole operation and drop her off at the CNN studio?”

“The werewolf killed her.” George assumed that the lie would be exposed before too long, but for now he just wanted Ricky off his back.

“Well, that’s one good thing to come out of this. Didn’t I tell you not to hang up on me?”

George stripped a brown wire. Now that he’d gotten some practice with the claw hammer, the process was going more smoothly. “We got disconnected.”

“The hell we did. Did you finish the car yet?”

George touched the brown wire to the red wires. The engine roared to life. “Just got it.”

“I could’ve done it in half that time.”

“Can I hang up now?”

“Are you going to 7151 Pegg Avenue?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to create any more disasters on your way there?”

“No.”

“Then you can hang up. Jerk.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

An Unpleasant Conversation

And, just like that, Michele was screwed again.

Honestly, it wasn’t all that surprising that Ivan had snatched her, but she would have expected it to be when she was being stupid and hanging around the tavern, not when she was being smart and going to the hospital.

They’d been driving for a few minutes. Ivan hadn’t said anything, though she caught him glancing at her in the rear-view mirror several times, and she made no effort to start a conversation. Thus far she’d successfully forced herself not to cry. He could carve the entire Bible into her skin before she’d give him the satisfaction of watching her cry.

She wouldn’t beg, either.

There was nothing she could do about the trembling, though.

God, she was scared. She didn’t want to die. She considered lying and telling him that she was pregnant, to see if she could appeal to some tiny shred of goodness, but she didn’t think he had any. He’d probably love it if he thought she was pregnant. She could just hear him: “Oooooh, then I’d better save your belly for last!”

She adjusted her position. Her only solace was that he’d have to open the cage to kill her, at least if he wanted to do it with his teeth and claws, and she’d have an opportunity to escape.

“How are you holding up?” he finally asked.

“I’ll be honest with you: not so well.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You can still talk, can’t you? A lot of my prey gets so scared they can’t even do that.”

“Then I’m honored.”

“You should be. Mute people just aren’t much fun.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Do you think I should?”

“No.”

“Why not? Appeal to my sense of reason.”

“I never did anything to you. I tried to help you.”

“I don’t recall that.”

“I guess I was being too subtle, then. We were both victims.”

“Correction. I was no victim. I had George and Lou exactly where I wanted them the entire time. There’s evidence of this back at the tavern we just left. How many people do you think I killed? Guess.”

“Six.”

“Higher.”

“Twelve.”

“Lower.”

“Ten.”

“Lower.”

“Nine.”

“This is going to take all night,” said Ivan. “I killed seven people. Murdered two people earlier today, for a twenty-four hour total of nine so far. Messed Lou up in a big way. Shredded two cops. Got a lady shot. Let two people go on purpose, and believe me, that’s the only reason they’re not dead.”

“What about George?”

“I didn’t kill him yet.”

“Why not?”

“He comes later. Got to save the good stuff. Are you impressed by the seven people I killed at the tavern?”

“Sure.”

“I think you’re just humoring me. I’ll bet you’ve never killed nine human beings in a day. I bet you haven’t even killed two. Am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“You know what sucks about the number nine? It’s not a monumental number. Nobody celebrates the ninth anniversary of something. It’s all about those nice round numbers. That’s what people like. If I went around telling everybody that my body count for today was nine, they’d be amazed by my awesomeness, of course, but they’d feel that something was missing. It just wasn’t quite at the next level. You can’t really have a party for nine. Do you see what I’m saying? Can you think of any possible way for me to fix my little quandary with the whole number thing?”

“Just lie and say you killed ten.”

“Hmmmm. I never thought about that. I hate to be deceptive, though. There has to be a better way. Thinking...thinking...thinking...”

“Do you really want people to know about your feat?”

“I like that you called it a feat. I figured you’d feel a little more revulsion than that.”

Michele ignored him and tried to steer the conversation back toward reasons he shouldn’t kill her. “I could have run away. They let me go.”

“You did run away. I found you at the hospital.”

“I had a chance before that. I stuck around because I want to tell this story.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“So, what, you want to write The Dastardly Deeds of Ivan the Werewolf?”

“Something like that.”

“Or maybe Interview With a Werewolf. Let Anne Rice sue.”

“If you let me go, I’ll make you famous.”

“If I wanted to be famous, I’d walk onto Oprah’s set and transform in front of her cameras. Then I’d rip out her throat. I appreciate your efforts, Michele, but there’s really not much you can offer me.”

“I disagree.”

Ivan smiled. “Well, I mean, there’s that. You like it wolfy style?”

Michele felt the blood drain from her face, but tried to keep her voice steady. “Why are your aspirations so low?”

“What do you mean?”

“You have this incredible power, something that’s so amazing that nobody who hadn’t seen it for themselves would ever believe it could be true, and yet you just use it to kill people.”

“Killing people is fun. It’s better than not killing people, I’ll tell you that.”

“There’s so much more you could do.”

“Like what? Bring canned food to homeless people? Teach our children about the wonders of volcanoes?”

“You could be a superstar celebrity. How much earning potential do you think a werewolf in the public eye could have?”

“A lot, until somebody put a silver bullet in his heart.”

“There are plenty of rich celebrities who a lot of people want to assassinate and they do just fine. With that much money, you could keep yourself safe.”

“I’ve got it! Maybe I could be a superhero!”

“Maybe you could.”

“I could be Werewolf Man, and I’d go around biting evildoers. I could wear a furry cape with a big W on it. Oh, man, I never even dreamed I had so much untapped potential. You’ve opened up a whole new world for me. How can I ever repay you?”

“I’m serious, Ivan.”

“Are you trying to become my manager or something?”

“Maybe.”

“I think you’re talking just to keep yourself alive. I think you’re too adorable and innocent to actually want to go into business with a big bad werewolf, who would probably ruin all of his promo ops by going on bloody rampages.”

“That’s not true.”

“You’re certainly an opportunist. I admire that. But, again, let’s say for the sake of argument that I was interested in your idea. Maybe I looked in the mirror one day and said ‘Golly, I’ve devoted my whole life to evil. How shameful. Woe is me for my poor decisions. I must balance out all of the death and destruction by doing good deeds.’“

“I didn’t say they had to be good deeds.”

“You mean I should become a supervillain? Now that might be cool.”

“You’re not taking me seriously.”

“What’s a good name for a werewolf supervillain?”

“Ivan...”

“What about Wolf Killer? No, wait, that sounds like I’m killing wolves. Death Wolf. Blood Wolf. Ghost Wolf. I’m not really a ghost, but that sounds kind of scary, doesn’t it? Beware the evil done by the Ghost Wolf. Oh, hell yeah.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“No, but thanks. You really aren’t very good at trying to negotiate yourself out of death. The only thing I might need you for is a sweet piece of ass.”

“If you try it, I’ll rip your dick off.”

“There’s no need to be crude. You could have just said ‘penis.’“

“I’m serious.”

“Are you? Do you really think that I’m afraid of you? With all the people I’ve slaughtered today, you expect me to be worried about you injuring my wee-wee?”

“If it gets anywhere near me, you’ll lose it. I promise you that.”

“See, now, you almost had me convinced to go along with your idea about cashing in on my werewolf fame, but then you had to go and threaten my genitalia. Rude, rude, rude. And yet, strangely arousing.”

“Try it and see what happens.”

Ivan laughed. “Relax, sweetheart. There’ll be no sexual violence tonight. I’m not the kind of guy who needs to take it by force, if you know what I mean and I think you do. I am going to murder you, though.”

Michele clenched her fists. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry...

“Nothing to say to that? Surprising. Do you want to know how it’s going to happen?”

“Okay.”

“I love how you tried to sound brave when you said that. Here’s the plan: I’m going to pull this van over to someplace nice and secluded. I’m going to search through the radio stations until I find some appropriate mood music--hopefully they’ve got a jazz station around here, but if not, we might go for some classic rock. Then I’m going to walk back there, open the van doors, and then I’m going to stand there and stare at you. You know that creepy feeling you get when somebody is just staring at you, where your skin crawls and you can’t concentrate on anything else? You’ll have that, except you’ll know that as soon as I’m done staring at you, I’m going to kill you. I might stare at you for a minute, I might stare for an hour, but when it’s over, I’m going to very slowly unlock the cage.”

“You’re making a big mistake.”

“No, I think I’m making a wise decision. Don’t interrupt my scenario. After I open the cage, I’m going to--”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I don’t care what you want to hear, little lady. You’re going to hear what I want you to hear, and I want you to hear about your upcoming horrible death. If you want to put your hands over your ears and go ‘la la la la la’ there’s not much I can do, but it would be kind of childish.”

“There’s no reason to kill me.”

“I want to. That’s a pretty good reason. I mean, if you really think about it, there’s no reason to eat a great big chocolate chip cookie dunked in a glass of cold milk, but it’s something you’d want to be doing right now, isn’t it? You’re my cookie. That’s what I’ll call you from now on. How’s it going, Cookie?”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, see, now you’re just resorting to expletives. Not cool, Cookie. I guess that means you’re done trying to have an intelligent conversation, which in turn means that it’s time for you to die. Oh well.”

They drove in silence for a few more minutes. At one point Michele had to choke down some vomit, but she still didn’t cry. She refused to cry.

Ivan stopped the van and shut off the engine. “Here we are. Looks like you’ll be dying in...actually, I don’t know the name of this place. It’ll be in the obituary, though. Your family will know.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“That’s already been well established. You’re not bringing anything new to the table. Offer me something better than the lame observation that I have a choice in the matter. Come on, offer something now. You’ve got ten seconds. Nine...eight...seven...”

“I can bring you George and Lou.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Did you bond with them? Got some of that Stockholm syndrome going on, huh? Sorry, Michele--I mean, Cookie--but I feel like I have no other choice but to messily kill you.”

Michele’s mind raced as she tried to think of something to offer him. But she just couldn’t concentrate. She was going to die. Oh, God, she was going to die.

Ivan got out of the van. A moment later he opened the back doors. “Miss me?”

Michele scooted to the back of the cage.

“Don’t do that. I’ll think you don’t trust me.” Ivan grinned. He ran a hand through his blood-slicked hair. “How does it feel to know that you only have minutes to live? Wait, don’t answer that, let me guess...it feels like...wait, I can get this...it feels bad! Am I right? Do I win?”

Michele didn’t respond. If he opened the cage, she’d attack him like a wild animal. She’d probably lose the fight, but she’d go for his eyes with her fingernails and put up a hell of a struggle.

Ivan’s grin faded. “You know, I like to joke around a lot, but when it comes right down to it, I’m a pretty serious guy. So let me present you with your options, and I’d like you to truly focus on which one you prefer. The first option is to let me come into that cage after you, at which point I will transform into a wolfman, pin you down, and ruin you.” He paused, presumably to let that sink in. “In the second option, I won’t kill you at all.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just give me your hand.”

“No.”

“No? I just offered you the chance to stay alive. Don’t dismiss it so quickly.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It’s a surprise. Give me your hand.”

Michele shook her head.

“When I said that I was going to ruin you, I didn’t mean that in a ‘put you out of your misery’ way. You will die worse than anybody you’ve ever read about. You’ll be wishing that all I was doing was ripping out your fingernails with my teeth. We are talking about a level of agony that people base religions on. Is that your choice? Because it seems like a bad one.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry...

“You really should give me your hand.”

“Come in here and get it.”

“So let me get this straight. You are choosing a horrible, bloody death where your body parts will be scattered for miles over the option where you live?”

“I’m not giving you my hand.”

“I’m not going to keep it! Jeez. Okay, I’m going to do something that I never do. I solemnly swear that if you give me your hand, I will not kill you. Not tonight, not ever. That’s a promise.”

Visions of being chained in his basement as a torture slave for the rest of her life flashed through Michele’s mind. “I don’t believe you.”

“Do you believe me about the horrible bloody death part?”

Michele hesitated. “Yes.”

“The ‘let you live’ part is just as true. I think you should trust me on this one. I’m not sure I can emphasize enough how much better of a deal option two would be for you. Give me your hand.”

Michele really did not want to do this...but for some freaky, messed-up reason, she believed Ivan when he said that he wouldn’t kill her. Whatever he did to her would be awful, there was no question about that, but she could either trust him or hope that she could beat him when he crawled into the cage.

Better to trust him.

She scooted to the front of the cage.

“You’re making a good choice.”

Michele took a moment to work up her courage, then slid her right hand through the bars.

Ivan took it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

A Job For The Pros

“Are you sure you’re not going to bleed to death?”

Lou nodded. “I’m getting blood all over this poor guy’s car, though.”

“It’s probably insured.”

“This piece of crap? No way. I guarantee you he’s only got liability. It would probably cost more to insure it than the trade-in value of the car.”

George considered that. “What do you think it’ll cost him to get the bloodstains out?”

“A shitload.”

“Poor bastard.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess in the grand scheme of what happened tonight, the guy with a bloody car isn’t getting such a bad deal, but I’d still be pissed if I were him.”

“Plus, we’re not done with the car yet,” said Lou. “We could end up wrecking it.”

“Yeah, the way things are going a blown-up car is a definite possibility. Although I think the worst is over.”

“Well, so did I, until you just now went and jinxed it.”

George smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Hey, Lou, is it okay if I get all deep on you?”

“Aw, crap.”

“Bear with me. It’s my fault that all those people died today.”

“No, it’s the werewolf’s fault. Don’t beat yourself up.”

“I should be beating myself up. This is a really appropriate time for that kind of thing. Look, I know we’re basically scumbags. We hurt a lot of people, but it’s usually people who deserve it.”

“Not always.”

“That’s why I said ‘usually.’ When we do bad things, we’re shaking people for money, breaking a couple of bones, maybe cutting somebody if they need it. We never orphaned kids. We never murdered people just for kicks.”

“We didn’t, but we still suck.”

“I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to be a good person.”

“May I speak freely?” Lou asked.

“Of course.”

“Fuck you, George.”

“That’s how you respond to me wanting to be a good person?”

“Yep. You don’t want to better yourself. You’re just a selfish prick. This is about making you feel better, not about helping anybody else. If you wanted to become Mother Theresa, you should have done it when that poor old guy begged you not to break his thumbs, not while we’re driving away from a bloodbath. I don’t want to hear about any recanting of your previous ways in the middle of a really bad situation. You want to be a better person? Make that decision when we’re sipping Margaritas on a luxury cruise.”

“Margaritas are chick drinks.”

“No they’re not. Jimmy Buffett sings about them.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But I’m going to make it up to the victims for what happened.”

“How? By bringing them back as zombies?”

“I don’t know yet. Those kids who lost their mother, maybe I’ll pay for their college education.”

“What? Are you brain damaged?”

“What’s wrong with doing that?”

“I know I said the term was offensive earlier, but George, that’s completely retarded. You’re not going to send those kids through college. What are you going to do, go around offering financial support to everybody we’ve wronged?”

“Not everybody. Just the worst ones.”

“Give me a frickin’ break. You want to help somebody you’ve wronged? Help me. Buy me a new shirt and pants. Get me some goddamn Band-Aids.”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m being completely serious. I’m going to start helping people. Sure, maybe I’ll wake up in the morning and decide that the college education idea is kind of stupid--”

“You will, I promise.”

“--but I’m going to do whatever it takes to clear my conscience. Maybe it won’t be big things. Maybe it’ll be a bunch of little things. Maybe I’ll...I don’t know, entertain kids or something. Dress up as a clown.”

“Kids don’t like clowns. Kids are scared of them. You’re going to terrorize the children you’re trying to entertain.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t. I’ve never been more lost in a conversation in my life.”

“I just want to be a better person.”

“We’ve established that. We’ve also established that it’s stupid.”

“Becoming a better person is stupid?”

“Maybe the concept isn’t, but the ideas you’re throwing out there are.”

“Well, my brain isn’t working at full capacity right now, okay? Give me a break. You should be encouraging me.”

“Fine. Be a scary clown.”

“I don’t mean the clown thing. But if I have a major life epiphany, a positive one, you shouldn’t sit there and make fun of it. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You make fun of me for ordering a diet soda! Don’t pretend that you’re some self-improvement cheerleader. Our relationship is based on blunt honesty, and my bluntly honest opinion is that you’re being an idiot. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be affected by what happened, but do I believe that you’re going to become Santa Claus? Hell no.”

“I think you could stand to be more affected by all of this.”

“I’m compartmentalizing.”

“Fine. We’ll let the whole thing drop.”

“Good idea.”

“Are you sure you’re not bleeding to death?”

“As far as I know.”

“How much further?”

They’d found a mustard-stained road map underneath the back seat. Lou ran his finger along it. “A few more blocks.”

“I hope these guys know what they’re doing. What I really hope is that they let me pull the trigger when they’ve got Ivan in their sights. That’d be sweet.”

“Right. We’ve performed so well up to this point, I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to turn the responsibility right back over to us, just to keep our high self-esteem intact.”

“I can fantasize, at least. God, I hate Ivan.”

George still wasn’t one hundred percent certain that they should be driving to the rendezvous point. The idea that one of the professionals would say “Lost the werewolf, huh? Time for you to die,” and put a bullet in each of their brains seemed like a legitimate concern. But ultimately, much like the rhetorical question of pigeons crapping on your car versus alligators eating your limbs, it came down to the certainty of a life spent hiding from vengeful criminals versus the potential of being executed for incompetence. If the reinforcements successfully recaptured Ivan, it would be much better to be hanging out with them at the time than to get the news from Ricky.

And, to be safe, they’d make sure the reinforcements knew that George and Lou hadn’t shared all of their werewolf wisdom.

“I think it’s this next one,” said Lou, pointing with a bloody finger.

Like Ricky had said, the address was just a small parking lot. As soon as they turned in, a white van with “Ray’s Air Conditioning” on the side pulled out of one of the spaces and drove forward. A man in a tan jumpsuit got out of the passenger side and beckoned to them. George looked at Lou, shrugged, and then pulled into the newly vacated space.

George shut off the engine. “Well, if we get shot, I just want you to know that it’s been a pleasure working with you.”

“If we get shot, I won’t be able to say the same.”

They got out of the car. The man, who looked about fifty and sported a brown handlebar mustache, whistled in amazement. “The wolf did that to you?”

“Most of it, yeah,” said George. “Some of mine came from dogs.”

“You should’ve been more cautious.”

“Yeah, we figured that out once we started bleeding all over the place. I’m George, and this is Lou.”

“I’ve got a question for you, George.”

“Sure.”

“Do you think it’s better use of our time to get in the van and get moving, or to stand out here introducing ourselves?”

What a dick. “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

The man slid open the side door, revealing a woman in a similar tan jumpsuit. She was in her thirties, had her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and would have been extremely attractive if she didn’t have such a sour expression. She held a crossbow on her lap.

George nodded at her politely and they got in the van. The man slid the door closed behind them, almost slamming it shut on Lou’s foot.

There were two rows of seats. Out of consideration for Lou’s more extensive injuries, George climbed into the back seat. Lou sat down next to the woman, eyeing her crossbow nervously. There was no room in this van for the cage even if Ivan hadn’t stole it; Ricky could just suck it.

The driver, who looked like a college kid, turned around and gave them a salute that seemed more than a little condescending. Just stay polite, George told himself. You need these people. It’ll all be okay.

The handlebar mustache guy got into the front passenger seat. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, sir.”

The van sped out of the parking lot fast enough to make George momentarily lose his balance. He fastened the seatbelt.

“Now is the appropriate time for introductions,” said the handlebar mustache guy. “I’m Prescott.”

“Angie,” said the woman.

“Sam.”

“Nice to meet you,” said George. “Is it okay that we’re getting blood all over your van?”

Prescott shrugged. “It’s had worse.”

“So you’re the mighty werewolf hunters?”

“We hunt what needs to be hunted.”

“But have you specifically hunted a werewolf before?”

“What do you think?”

“I have no idea. That’s why I asked.”

Prescott gave him a look of pure contempt, as if George were the stupidest human being ever to reside on the planet. “Of course we haven’t.”

George snickered. “Ah. I get it. You don’t quite believe in what you’re hunting yet. That’s where we were not too long ago. You’ll learn.”

“I’m sure we will. Why don’t you start the education process by answering some questions?”

“What do you want to know?”

“What are its capabilities?”

“Well, first of all, he’s a human being who can instantly change into a wolf-creature. That’s a pretty big capability.”

“Please don’t editorialize. Just the facts.”

Dick. “Fact: my partner and I shot him several times, close range, in the frickin’ head, and it didn’t kill him.”

“Did it injure him?”

“Not a lot.”

“But it did injure him?”

“He bled and reacted with pain, yes.”

“What kind of bullets did you use?”

“Regular old lead bullets. I don’t suppose you guys have silver ones, do you?”

“No. They’re not something you can get quickly, even with our connections. Not a lot of call for silver bullets in the real world. We’d have to make them ourselves. We’ve got somebody on that, but it won’t happen today.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“Are there any other weaknesses we should know about?”

“Possibly.”

Angie, who had been glaring at him the entire time, tightened her grip on the crossbow. “I’d hate to think that you were trying to withhold information to make yourselves indispensable.” Her voice sounded like she’d been a chain smoker her entire life. No, worse than that, it sounded like she extinguished cigarettes on the back of her throat.

“Would I do something like that?”

“For your sake, I hope not.”

“Relax,” said Prescott. “We wouldn’t take you out even if we wanted to.”

“Good to know.”

“After all, we may need bait.”

Serving as bait didn’t sound like much fun, but George would take it over an execution any day. Prescott looked as if he really wanted to watch George cringe at that idea, so George made sure to maintain a casual front. “Sounds fine. Happy to help.”

“What are his other weaknesses?”

“Pretty much just silver, as far as we can see. And he’s an arrogant son of a bitch. Now can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“How exactly are you going to catch him? Because all I can think of is to follow a trail of corpses.”

“We’re quite a bit more sophisticated than that.” Prescott pulled what George had thought was a GPS from its mounting on the dashboard. “Ivan Spinner had a chip implanted into his arm while he was in custody. We know exactly where he is.”

“Holy crap! Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s fantastic! That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. I mean, sure, pretty much all of the news I’ve heard today has sucked shit, but still, that’s great news! Did you hear that, Lou?”

“Where is he?” Lou asked.

“You’re on a need-to-know basis.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like you very much and don’t feel like sharing.”

“Can we at least have some weapons?” George asked.

“Bait doesn’t need weapons.”

“So are you catching him or killing him?”

“As of right now, the plan is still to capture him. If that changes, you’ll know by the dead werewolf at your feet.”

“Will he be tortured after we get him?”

“That’s not for us to decide.”

“If I get a vote, I hope he is. One last question: if you guys are so fantastic, why didn’t they have you do this job in the first place? Why hire us?”

“Because we’re expensive as hell.”

“Are you worth it?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Trackers

“He hasn’t moved for the past few minutes,” said Prescott. “He’s probably resting, licking his wounds.”

Or he’s dead, thought George. Now that they had the professionals on their side, the thought of Ivan’s death wasn’t as appealing. Much better to get him tranquilized, back in custody, and over to Dewey where he belonged.

“He heals quick,” said George.

“Did he expel the bullets?”

George shook his head. “Nah, not that I saw. As far as I know, he still has a bunch of bullets rattling around in his skull and ribcage. How do you think he gets them out?”

“Hopefully through an extremely painful process of manual extraction. But his body may just reject them and squeeze them out like a splinter.”

George had an amusing mental image of bullets popping out of Ivan’s head like zits. Then he had an even more amusing image of Ivan’s entire head popping like a zit. Actually, any mental image that involved harm coming to the werewolf provided George with at least a small level of entertainment.

“How’s it going?” he asked Lou.

Lou held up another one of the bloody antiseptic wipes for George’s inspection. He’d made a pile of about a dozen of them now. Lou was clearly doing his best not to wince and show weakness while he disinfected his wounds, but his jaw was clenched tight and it was definitely not a pleasant process.

“You’ll need to get bandaged up quickly,” Angie told him. “Looks like we’re almost there.” She didn’t offer to help.

Lou ripped open the front of the left leg of his pants. He unwrapped a large bandage and pressed it against a six-inch-long cut that ran lengthwise above his knee.

“So what’s the big elaborate plan?” George asked as Sam took an exit off the highway that promised gas, food, and camping.

“It’s not elaborate,” said Prescott. “We will park a safe distance from where he’s resting, and either you or your partner will walk out there and make your presence known. The way your partner looks right now, I think it should be you.”

“Agreed,” George said.

“When the target shows himself, we’ll get the net on him. Problem solved.”

“How exactly does that work?” George asked. “Are you setting the net up beforehand?”

“No, George,” said Prescott, once again making no effort to conceal his disgust. “We have a net gun. An expensive one. Believe it or not, it’s much more effective than tossing a blanket over an animal’s head.”

“How’d you know about that?”

“You’re famous.”

“Just so you know, the blanket did have a few silver rings sewn into it.”

“And you thought something like that would slow him down?”

“It might have. We were dealing with a supernatural creature. For all we knew, those rings could’ve sucked out his energy or something.”

“Did it work?”

“Maybe. A little. Or it might have been all the times we shot him, hit him, and kicked him that slowed him down. Either way, it didn’t hurt to try.”

“I suppose it didn’t.”

“Do you disagree?”

“I can’t honestly say that I would have tried it myself. There’s a fine line between innovation and just being silly.”

“There’s also a fine line between being honest and being an asshole.”

Prescott actually smiled in a non-asshole manner at that. “You’re right. I apologize.”

“And I accept your apology. Are you guys good shots with the net gun?”

“Absolutely.”

“Will he be able to get free?”

“Not easily. And by the time he does, we’ll have pumped a few darts into him. You’ll be safe.” Prescott looked at Sam. “One mile away.”

Sam turned onto a dirt road that reminded George of the one where Ivan had escaped. At least the first time.

“You’re going to walk straight,” Prescott told George. “Angie and I will be on either side of you. If he runs away, we’ll give chase, but try to keep him from running away.”

“If he runs, you won’t be able to catch him.”

“We’ll catch him. We can always track him with the chip. He’s not going to escape.”

“Where is the chip?”

“Need-to-know basis. This is far enough, Sam.”

Sam stopped the van. Angie got out of her seat and slid open the side door. George patted Lou on the shoulder as he followed Angie out of the vehicle. He, Angie, and Prescott went to the back of the van.

“I’d feel a lot better about this if you gave me something to defend myself,” said George.

Angie opened the rear doors, revealing an impressive stockpile of weapons. “We’d give you a tranquilizer gun,” she said, “but they’re too big for you to hide, and we don’t want him to know that we’ve got one. Best we can do is this.” She took a small pistol down from a shelf and handed it to him. “If what you’ve said is true, it won’t stop him, but it might give you a couple of extra seconds to live.”

George tucked the pistol into the holster under his bloodstained shirt. “I’ll take it.”

“And I’ll go you one better,” said Prescott, giving George a tiny plastic baggie. “That’s a cyanide capsule. If you find yourself about to suffer a fate worse than death, swallow that.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Trust me, we’ve got ours.” He touched his earpiece. “Sam, how’s our connection? Good.”

Angie quickly strapped the crossbow to her back. Prescott handed her a long rifle, then took one for himself. George tossed the baggie back into the van.

“Just walk along the path,” Prescott told George. “Stay calm. Don’t do anything suspicious. If you can get him out into the open, that’ll be extremely helpful. Don’t let him know we’re here--we will decide the appropriate moment to strike.”

“All right,” said George. “I’m trusting you guys to have good aim.”

“We’re almost perfect.”

George extended his hand to Prescott. “Best of luck. If we all survive this, I’m buying the beer. As much as you can drink.”

“I’ll take you up on that.”

George walked past the van, giving Lou a thumbs-up sign that Lou returned, though neither of them seemed sincere.

He walked down the path, moving at a brisk pace. Prescott and Angie disappeared into the trees next to him. George at least had to appreciate that he wasn’t joining them in wandering through a swamp, though Sam was getting a pretty sweet deal if he was that well-paid just for hanging out in the van.

He focused on taking deep breaths to keep himself calm. He wasn’t quite on the verge of freaking out, but he couldn’t imagine that Prescott and Angie had his personal safety as a top priority, or even any kind of priority. If Ivan suddenly charged him, he expected that they’d be perfectly happy to fire the net, entangle both of them, and let the werewolf shred him. George very much doubted that there’d be any kind of penalty for letting the hired thugs perish.

Still, he had to cooperate. They weren’t going to go out of their way to protect him, but it also didn’t seem as if they were going to go out of their way to kill him, so his best bet for long-term happiness was to be their bait, try to keep himself alive, and hope that the plan to recapture Ivan was a great big rousing success.

And then, assuming they could ever get hired again, George and Lou would vow never to take any kind of job that involved cages or man-beasts. That’s how he’d start every conversation with Ricky: “Does this job involve a cage or a man-beast? Because if it does, tell them to shove it.” And they’d never come back to Florida. Fuck Florida and its sweltering heat and ugly alligators and evil serial killer werewolves. Fuck it right in the face.

He kept walking. There was no sign of Angie and Prescott. They were good at staying hidden, he had to give them that, unless they’d lagged behind for a cigarette or a quickie or something.

Maybe Ivan would be lying on the ground, barely alive, huge ring-shaped burns in his flesh from being underneath the blanket. Oh, George would love that. It would almost be worth all of this happening, just for that moment of victory.

Ivan grins, sliding the blade across Diane’s neck, as blood spills down the front of her shirt...

George tried to force the memory out of his mind. He couldn’t let himself get distracted.

He could hear the little boy wailing “Mommy!”

For all George knew, the cops had never actually been to the house. The little boy could still be in the kitchen, sobbing while he held his mother’s blood-soaked body. Or the boy could be staring off into space, never to really see anything again.

Stop it.

George hadn’t been just talking bullshit with Lou. He really did plan to make things right. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that he’d become some kind of saint, strolling from town to town doing good deeds, but he’d find a way to make up for this. Though he’d never be able to completely clear his conscience, maybe he’d at least be able to soothe it a bit, silence the voice inside that was screaming at him and telling him he was a monster.

But, again, it was not something to worry about now. For now, he needed to worry about that goddamn werewolf.

George thought he heard the crack of a branch to his right. Apparently Prescott wasn’t a total ninja.

His stomach really hurt. He just wanted this over with.

If you die, that’s a pretty crappy legacy you’re leaving behind. Lots of people’s lives are worse because you were born. Even if you died this morning, before you met Ivan, there’d be no good reason for anybody to mourn, except maybe Lou since he’d have the hassle of finding a new partner. If an angel seeking his wings went It’s a Wonderful Life on you and showed you a world where you’d never been born, it would probably be a festival of smiles and balloons and merry children.

His stomach really, really hurt. Throwing up might actually make him feel better, but he didn’t want Prescott or Angie to see it.

He wiped some sweat from his forehead. He looked at his hand, which seemed to have more blood than perspiration on it.

Focus on the positive, he told himself. When this is over, you and Lou will check yourself into a luxury hotel--separate rooms--and spend the next seven days soaking in a hot tub. You’ll catch up on all of those books you’ve never quite found time to read. Drink fine wine and eat grapes. Watch porn.

He came around a slight corner and, about a hundred feet ahead, he could see Bateman’s van.

Son of a bitch. Ivan really was here.

George forced himself not to run. Stay calm. Don’t get too excited.

The back doors of the van hung open, and George could see the cage inside. Somebody was in there. Had Ivan actually gotten back into the cage? Why the hell would he--?

No. It was Michele, huddled into the back corner.

Shit.

This had to be a trap. But how could Ivan have known they were coming? He couldn’t, unless the reinforcements were actually working for the werewolf, and that idea was really dumb.

The situation was making George uncomfortable and paranoid, but he had to stick with the plan. The absolute last thing he needed was for Ivan to rush off and find another well-populated area for a killing spree. George’s official role was “werewolf bait,” and he was going to play it out.

He walked over to the van. Michele was seated, head down, arms wrapped tightly around her legs, her whole body quivering as she silently wept.

“Michele...?”

She looked up. Her eyes were red and puffy and her whole face was blotchy from crying.

“I’m here to get you out of there,” said George. “Where’s Ivan?”

“I don’t know.”

“Which way did he go?”

“I didn’t see.”

“Michele, I need you to focus. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise, I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

“You can’t promise anything,” Michele said. She sniffled, then held up her right hand, revealing a curved row of deep puncture wounds.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Wolf’s Bite

“It’ll be okay,” George assured her. “That’s an ugly bite but it’s not too bad. Lou got clawed up a lot worse and he’s still kicking around.”

“Don’t pretend to be dense. You know what this means.”

“No, he doesn’t play by the werewolf rules. This doesn’t mean anything.”

“He said it did.”

“Well, Ivan’s a liar. He just said that to scare you. Don’t listen to anything he says. I swear to you that you’ll be fine.”

Michele shook her head sadly. “No. I can feel it.”

“You’re just stressed out. It could be anything.”

“I’ve been stressed all day. This is something horrible. As soon as his teeth went into me I knew what he’d done.”

George hurriedly glanced around the area for any sign of Ivan. There was none. “Okay, okay, for the sake of argument let’s say that he did make you into a werewolf. Is that really such a bad thing? He seems pretty happy.”

“He can control it.”

“Maybe they all can. Maybe that’s why we never hear about werewolves--they all have total control over their powers, so only the lunatic idiots like Ivan let out the secret.”

“You shouldn’t be here.” She began to sob uncontrollably.

“Just calm down. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s all going to be fine. I need to know, did Ivan set a trap?”

“Me, maybe.”

“Why did he leave you? Was I supposed to find you?”

Michele shook her head. “He looked nervous all of a sudden and just left.”

“Good, good. So he’s either running or watching us.”

Ivan spoke. “What the hell do you want, George?”

George spun around. He couldn’t see Ivan’s face, but he was at the edge of the trees, mostly obscured by some tall bushes.

“I want the girl back.”

“Bullshit. You wouldn’t put yourself at risk for her. Why are you here?”

“I just want her back. That’s the truth.”

“You weren’t even around when I nabbed her.”

“It was on the news.”

“Then where did I catch her?”

Crap. “A gas station.”

“Wrong. How did you find me?”

“There were several reports of the van coming this way. You should be more careful.”

“Uh-huh. Then why aren’t the cops here?”

“How should I know? Maybe they’ve got the area surrounded. Do you really think I work with the police?”

“George, I’ve had a good time ruining your life today, but I’m tired. I know you’re tired, too.”

“Exhausted.”

“Why don’t we just go our separate ways and work this out some other time, huh?”

“See, I’d love to, and if you give me the girl, I will.”

“What’s stopping you from taking her? I’m all the way over here.”

“Not a goddamn thing.”

Ivan stepped to the side, revealing his smiling face, which was now missing a tooth. His wounds were no longer bleeding, though his entire face was so caked with blood that he was almost unrecognizable. “I should warn you, though, that she’s damaged goods in a big way. My recommendation is that you just discard her.”

“Why would you do that to her?” George asked. When the hell was Prescott or Angie going to put a tranquilizer dart into that prick?

“I guess there are a lot of possibilities,” said Ivan. “Maybe she’s the first inductee into my werewolf army. Or, this should have you quaking in your booties; maybe she’s the thousandth one. Maybe my whole purpose is to enslave humanity, and you just got caught in the middle. You could be humanity’s last chance, George. Hell of a bad deal for the human race.”

“I don’t buy that one. What’s the next possibility?”

“Oh, gosh, I don’t know. Let me think. Maybe I’ve been looking to get it on in my werewolf form, but I can’t find any chicks who are into the whole bestiality scene, so I decided that my only option was to make a she-wolf who can handle me.”

“That sounds more reasonable.”

“But, no, that can’t be it, because it’s way more fun when the coin is bigger than the slot, if you know what I mean. You probably do. Despite our differences, you seem like you might be pretty well-endowed.”

“So how does this end, Ivan? I know you don’t want to just stand around and gab all day.”

“You’re right. I’ve actually been pretty bored with this conversation for the past thirty seconds or so but I didn’t want to say anything. The plan was actually to just hide out for a moment, wait to see who was coming, and then give them the ol’ Cotton Mouse Tavern treatment. I had no idea it would be you. Where’s Lou?”

“He’s in police custody.”

“Aw, man, that’s too bad. You must be pretty bummed. Well, my original plan was to murder whoever came down the path, and I can’t think of any good reason to change that, so I think it’s all over for you, Mr. George.”

Ivan stepped onto the path.

George took out the pistol and pointed it at him. Ivan stopped walking and stared at him for a moment.

“And...?”

“This is loaded with silver bullets.”

“Really? And where exactly does one acquire silver bullets these days?”

“It was a shop for Goth kids. A novelty item.”

“You are a good liar,” said Ivan. “You don’t blink, you don’t break eye contact, you don’t put your hand over your mouth--I’m impressed. The only problem with your lie is that you’re standing there talking instead of shooting me with the legendary silver bullet.”

Ivan stepped completely out of the bushes. His hands transformed into claws as he strode toward George.

A dart struck him in the side of the neck.

Ivan looked confused for a moment, then positively furious. He plucked the dart out of his neck, tossed it to the ground, then transformed into a full wolfman and leapt back into the bushes.

George resisted the urge to raise his clenched fist into the air and let out a victory shout. They got him!

Still no sign of either Prescott or Angie, but George heard the rustling as Ivan ran off. Hopefully the tranquilizer wouldn’t take too long to take him down.

He stood there, listening carefully.

“What happened?” Michele asked.

“The cavalry’s here,” George said. “He’ll be snoozing any second now.”

“What’ll they do with me?”

“Nothing. I mean, they won’t hurt you. I won’t let them. We’ll get you help.”

“You’ll deliver me just like you were going to deliver Ivan.”

“No. That’s not part of any bargain.” He thought he heard something, and gestured for Michele to stop talking. “Shhhh.”

He stood as still as possible. The only sound was Michele’s rapid panicked breathing.

And then a scream.

Not from Ivan.

Prescott’s scream was a mixture of agony and terror. George couldn’t hear any attempt at bravery--this was the sound of a man who knew that screaming would be the last thing he ever did.

The scream did not cut off. It did not fade.

What the hell was George supposed to do? He couldn’t just go running off after them. He’d get himself killed, too. Ivan had been hit with the dart, so maybe he’d succumb to the drug’s influence before he could finish off Prescott. If not, thanks to the noise, Angie had to know exactly where they were.

George thought about running back to the other van, but if Ivan came back for him, he didn’t want to be on the unprotected path. Instead, he slammed the back doors of the van shut, then hurried around to the front and climbed into the driver’s seat.

He really wished the windshield wasn’t missing. And there definitely wasn’t time to hotwire this one.

The screams continued.

“Damn you,” he whispered.

Finally the scream began to fade. Not quickly. It was obvious that Prescott never got to use his cyanide capsule. George wondered if Lou and Sam could hear it, too.

After what felt like several minutes but couldn’t possibly have been that long (could it?), the screaming stopped.

“I think the cavalry is dead,” said Michele.

“I saw the dart go in his neck.” What if the tranquilizer didn’t work on supernatural monsters? Or did a werewolf just require a second dose? Or had Prescott stopped screaming because Ivan fell asleep on top of him?

Rustling in the bushes.

“I think he’s coming back,” George said.

A dark shape, like a basketball, flew into the air from amidst the trees. George realized that it was Prescott’s severed head about two seconds before it splattered against the hood of the van. It rolled off and fell to the ground.

Damn it. That wasn’t the action of a sufficiently tranquilized werewolf.

Something else flew into the air. Half of an arm. It sailed right through the broken windshield and landed on the seat next to George. He recoiled in horror.

A leg followed. This one came up a few feet short and landed on the dirt path in front of the van.

The second leg struck the front hood, only a couple of inches from where the head landed. It remained there.

“Stop it, you son of a bitch!” George shouted. Oh, nice one, dumb-ass. As if Ivan would cease his grotesque attack based on George’s request.

The rest of the first arm missed the van. The second arm, thrown in its entirety, hit the roof. Michele screamed.

Where in the world was Angie? Ivan was out there throwing body parts at them. How could she not find him?

The next wave was a volley of internal organs, flung quickly, one after the other. And, finally, Prescott’s bloody and shredded jumpsuit.

George just stared at the carnage in a state of disbelief. Even having seen Ivan’s malicious thrill-killing ways up close, it was still hard to imagine that he’d tear somebody into pieces and pelt a frickin’ van with them!

He wondered what happened to the ribcage and spinal column.

Ivan stepped onto the path, still fully transformed as a wolfman. He wasn’t holding Prescott’s ribcage--that was presumably a mystery never to be solved.

Ivan rushed at the van.

Something swished through the air toward him.

The net struck Ivan, knocking him to the ground. He immediately began to roll around in panic and fury, getting himself more tangled.

Angie ran onto the path on the opposite side from which Ivan had emerged.

I never stopped being bait...

Though he was more inclined to stick with the phony perceived safety of the van, George threw open the door and got out to help her. Angie pointed the rifle at Ivan’s thrashing body from about ten feet away and fired a tranquilizer dart into him.

He didn’t stop moving.

Angie pulled her crossbow off her back and notched a bolt. It appeared to be a makeshift silver bolt--a silver tip duct-taped to a regular one.

“Shoot him!” George said.

“I don’t want to kill him!”

“Look what he did to your partner! Shoot him!”

Angie kept the crossbow pointed at Ivan, yet didn’t fire. George understood that it would be her ass on the fire if she killed the werewolf, but Prescott was in chunks all over the ground!

His claws slashed through the net, cutting through the webbing like scissors. George’s stomach plummeted.

Ivan sat up, the net no longer covering the top half of his body. He snarled.

Angie fired the silver bolt at him. It went through his upper arm, bursting all the way through and popping halfway out the other side.

Ivan’s werewolf howl changed to a human scream as his face began to transform back.

George had attacked Ivan and been knocked aside so many times that day that he didn’t see the reason to give it yet another try. He settled for offering unnecessary advice: “Shoot him again!”

Angie snapped another bolt into the crossbow.

Ivan leapt completely free of the netting before she could fire. The tranquilizer dart dropped out where it had been lodged in his chest.

Angie still got off the shot before he reached her, but it sailed harmlessly over Ivan’s right shoulder and struck a tree. Ivan knocked her to the ground.

George went for the bolt.

Angie didn’t scream, and as George ran for the silver he thought she might be dead already. But when he yanked the bolt out of the tree and turned back around, he saw that she was very much alive. Ivan, his face still shifting between wolf and man as he stood, clutched the back of her jumpsuit with his good hand and dragged her toward the van.

Ivan slammed her into the front grille of the van, headfirst, with enough force to visibly crack her skull. He smashed her a second time with just as much impact before George reached him.

George thrust the silver-tipped bolt at him and missed. Ivan swung Angie’s corpse in front of him as a shield, and George’s second thrust plunged into her chest. For an instant he thought he was going to lose his weapon, but he pulled it out just before Ivan tossed her body aside.

Ivan took a swing at him, his claws slicing across the tip of George’s nose. The werewolf had a longer reach than George, so his own swing with the bolt missed completely.

Sizzling, foamy blood ran down Ivan’s injured arm.

Get him in the heart, George thought. One good jab to the heart and he’s finished.

He didn’t want to let go of his weapon, but there was no way he could get past Ivan’s claws. So he flung the bolt as hard as he possibly could, praying that he’d get lucky.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Swapping Roles

He did not get lucky.

Ivan knocked the bolt away. “Now, Sam!” George shouted, looking over Ivan’s shoulder.

Taking advantage of Ivan’s momentary distraction, George ran for the van. Wow. He couldn’t believe that lame-ass trick worked.

It would’ve been nicer if it were some planned-out moment where Sam really was standing there with a crossbow, ready to put a silver-tipped bolt deep into Ivan’s heart, but for now George would happily accept the extra two seconds of life he’d been given.

He scrambled into the driver’s seat with the werewolf right behind him. He scooted onto the passenger side, opened the door, and got back out of the vehicle. It was even more difficult for Ivan to maneuver in here than for the oversized thug, so George got out with just enough time to slam the door in Ivan’s face. Hopefully he’d flattened his goddamn snout.

What now?

Where was Sam? The team had to have a backup plan prepared in case Prescott and Angie got murdered, right?

George ran around to the rear of the van. Actually, that cage looked nice and safe right about now. If it had been unlocked, he might have been inclined to jump in there with Michele.

There was just enough room for him to get in the back of the van. Since there was no way he could outrun the werewolf, his best bet was to keep hitting him with doors until Sam and Lou figured out that he needed some frickin’ assistance. He got in, pressed himself against the cage, and pulled the doors shut.

Ivan was at the doors in a few seconds. George heard his claws very slowly scrape against the outside steel--even now, the prick was still trying to be spooky. George took the pistol with its mostly useless lead bullets out of the holster.

Ivan pulled the doors open. He’d changed his hands back to human for the task.

George squeezed the trigger over and over, pumping several bullets into Ivan’s chest. Every few extra seconds helped, and if Sam had somehow missed hearing Prescott’s screams, he had to hear gunshots, right?

Ivan looked down at the bleeding holes in his chest, his expression incredulous even with his face in werewolf form. It changed back to human. “Bullets. Don’t. Work.”

George shot him in the face.

Ivan ran his tongue over the new hole in his upper lip. “Did you fucking hear me?” he asked, his words kind of slurred.

“You want one in the eye?” George asked. He’d actually been aiming for Ivan’s eye with the lip shot, but didn’t tell him that.

Ivan grabbed George’s left arm, not sinking his claws in. He gave it a sharp yank and George cried out in pain. The gun fell out of his hand as George’s arm, his shoulder now dislocated, flopped uselessly next to him. Ivan grabbed George’s ankle and dragged him out of the van. He hit the ground with a painful jolt, fortunately not crushing his twisted arm underneath him.

Ivan picked up the pistol and pointed it at George’s face. “So who else is out there? Is Sam real?”

“Nah.”

“Liar.” Ivan looked around uncomfortably. “I don’t hear him. I hear pretty well when I’m paying attention. He must’ve run away when he heard me tear your buddy apart limb from limb.”

“Must have.”

“You know that with a couple more tugs I could rip your arm right off. You saw me do it back at the bar.”

“I know.”

“Why do you keep messing with me, George? You got away. Why not just leave well enough alone?” Ivan wasn’t nearly as articulate anymore, but George could still understand him.

“I wasn’t going to let you kill anybody else.” God, his arm hurt. He’d dislocated his shoulder once in high school, and twenty-seven years later still remembered how bad it felt.

“Really? So, thanks to your plan to--fuck!” He wiped some blood from his lip and then continued. “Thanks to your plan to stop me from killing anybody else, I killed two more people. That’s a very poor plan, George.”

“So am I next?”

“Maybe. Wouldn’t that just suck to get shot by a werewolf? I mean, how unglamorous is that?”

“Pretty unglamorous.”

“What I should do is rip your arms and legs off and leave you as a human torso. But you’d probably just die of blood loss, and that’s no fun. I guess you’re coming with me.”

Ivan tried to reach into his pocket, but his free arm didn’t seem to be working quite right. He cursed. “Screw it, I don’t need this.” He threw the pistol off into the swamp, then snapped off the end of the bolt. He pulled each half out of his arm and threw them aside, then got the set of keys out of his pocket and tossed them at George. They bounced off George’s chest and onto the dirt. “Unlock the cage.”

George shook his head. “No.”

“Five...four...three...”

“Okay, okay.” George picked up the keys and stood up. He couldn’t even feel the fingers on his left hand anymore.

“Do it quickly. You have ten seconds to get in that cage before I kill you.”

Ivan sounded completely serious. Despite his earlier thoughts, George really didn’t want to get into that cage with Michele, and not just because Ivan’s future plans for George probably involved something even worse than what had happened to Prescott.

Still, he’d rather risk a much worse death later than let Ivan kill him now, so he unlocked the cage door.

This would be a good time for a surprise bolt to pop through his chest...

No surprise bolt popped through Ivan’s chest. George climbed into the back of the van--an awkward process with only one good arm--and then crawled into the cage.

He slammed the door shut and scooted to the back, next to Michele.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ivan asked. “Give me the keys.”

“You want them? Bend the bars.”

Ivan let out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, that’s hilarious. Do you honestly think you’re safe in there?”

“Well, safer.”

“So you’re going to make me count again? Do you really want to make me even madder than I already am?”

“Why not? Will that make you kill me even more slowly?”

“Oh, you little shit. Good one. You’re really going to make me run over and get the gun, huh?”

“Yeah, I think I am.”

“All right. Point for you.”

Ivan ran off to where he’d thrown the pistol. George took a very brief moment to bask in the joy of pissing him off, and then prodded Michele. “Hey, you okay?”

“Leave me alone,” she said, speaking so quietly that he could barely hear her.

“C’mon, sit up. We need to work together.” He pulled her to a sitting position.

She looked awful. Her skin was pale except for dark circles under her eyes, she was sweating profusely, and her breathing was a soft rasp.

“I just...I just want to die...”

“No, you don’t. There’s help on the way. If we can keep Ivan from doing anything to us until they get here, we’ll be fine.”

“I’m sick, George. I’m just...I’m sick.”

“No, you’re fine. Just stay with me. I need you.”

She closed her eyes.

“No, no! Michele, stay awake. Think about how good it’s going to feel when we kill that son of a bitch. Imagine his face crunching underneath your feet.”

“I don’t wanna.”

George’s cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket. Lou.

He answered, watching for Ivan to return. “Lou, get over here! Now!”

“We’re--”

George hung up and pocketed the phone as he saw the bushes rustle. Not good for Ivan to know he was in contact with anybody. He wanted the werewolf to take his time as much as possible.

“Come on, Michele,” he whispered. “I really need you.”

To be honest, George wasn’t completely sure what he needed her for, but two people trying to distract a werewolf while they waited for help to arrive was better than one person working alone, right?

Michele responded by throwing up. Though she didn’t turn her head, the majority of the spew missed George’s pants. Michele let a large chunk roll down her chin, not seeming to care.

Ivan ran back to the van, holding the pistol. He pointed it at George. “Three...two...one...”

George tossed the keys out of the cage. Ivan caught them.

“Thanks.” He grimaced. “Ooooh, your girlfriend isn’t looking so good. I hope she doesn’t change into something that might hurt you.”

Ivan slammed the van doors shut.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Last of the Useless Saviors

“Holy shit,” Sam whispered as Prescott screamed in the distance. “Holy shit.”

Lou leaned forward in his seat. “Shouldn’t we go help him?”

“Are you kidding me? Do you hear that?”

“Yeah, I hear it! That’s why I asked!”

Sam violently shook his head. “No way, dude. I’ve seen Prescott get branded before, I mean with an actual red-hot cattle brand, and not make a sound. This is bad.”

“Are you an idiot? I know it’s bad! My partner is out there and so are yours, so let’s go help them!”

“Listen to that!” Sam tapped the window as Prescott’s screams continued. “I’m just the driver, dude.”

“You’re going to let a lady die and not do anything to help her?”

“Like I care that Angie is a lady! Hey, if you want to go out there, be my guest. But I’m telling you that if this guy took down Prescott, he’s not somebody I want to be around!”

“This is not new information! He’s been killing people left and right! Look at me--do you think I accidentally fell down a flight of stairs or something?”

“I’m just the driver.”

“I’m not saying you have to even get out of the van, but let’s drive closer, see if there’s something we can do to help.”

“No way. They make the big bucks. If they can’t handle it, I’m sure not going out there for what I get paid.”

“You goddamn coward.”

“Coward?” With admittedly impressive speed, Sam took out a gun and pointed it at Lou. “What do you think now? Is this gun cowardly?”

“Well, yeah, it kind of is.”

“I don’t have to take any lip from you. Do you know what your status is on this mission? ‘Highly expendable.’ We’re here to recapture the cargo that you lost, and none of us, not Prescott, not Angie, not the bosses, and definitely not me, care what happens to you.”

“Well, that’s not something I wanted to hear, what with my fragile self-esteem and all. Nice job taking me out of my bubble of comfort. Even if you don’t care about your partners, shouldn’t you at least be concerned that the werewolf sounds like he’s getting away?”

“Angie will take care of him.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she’s good, that’s how! We’re not bumbling incompetent thugs like you. We actually have a plan of action. We worked this whole thing out a little better than to just run in there and start shooting.”

“I think--”

“Enough! You can shut up, get out, or take a bullet to the head. I don’t care which one you pick.”

Lou glared at him. Sam returned to peering out the window, looking scared as hell.

The screams finally faded.

“Shit.” Sam reached for the keys in the ignition, hesitated, then lowered his hands again. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“He’s finally stopped screaming,” Lou noted. “That must mean that everything’s just fine now.”

“Are you trying to get shot?”

“I’m trying to get you to take some action!”

“One more word, dude. One more word and I’ll shoot you right where you sit.”

“No, you won’t, because for all you know everybody else is dead and you need more bait. Today I faced off a werewolf in frickin’ hand-to-hand combat--twice--so I apologize if having a little kid point a cap gun at me doesn’t make me shiver and shake.”

Sam’s walkie-talkie crackled. He pressed a button on the side. “Angie?”

“He got Prescott. I mean...I mean he really got him.”

“Aw, shit.”

“I don’t know exactly what it is we’re hunting--I guess I have to go with ‘werewolf’ even though I don’t believe it. But he’s messing with George. Throwing body parts at him.”

“Jesus Christ. That’s horrible.”

“No, it’s not. If he’s toying with his prey instead of running away, that’s a good thing for us. At some point he’s going to go directly after George. When he does, I’ll have a clear shot with the net.”

“Perfect!”

“Contact Bateman. Let him know that Prescott is down. Wait for my signal, and then drive over here as fast as you can.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam set down the walkie-talkie, then took out his cell phone.

“Mind if I call George to see how he’s doing?” Lou asked.

“Yeah, I mind! As far as Ivan knows, he’s killed the only reinforcement that’s out there. Use your brain.”

Sam punched in a number on his cell phone. “Mr. Bateman? Status report. Prescott is down. Yes, sir. Deceased, sir. I’m not certain. She used the term ‘body parts.’ Yes, sir. Lou is right here, so I can confirm his status. I believe George is still alive, too. Yes, sir, I will. Thank you, sir.” Sam hung up.

“What’d he say?” Lou asked.

“Nothing of any importance to you. He did not say to speed over there and start firing like a maniac, just so you’re aware.”

“I figured.”

“You can wipe that judgmental expression right off your face, dude. I’ve already told you that you’re more than welcome to jog over there and help your friend. Won’t bother me one bit.”

Lou liked to think that if he weren’t so badly injured, that he would run over there, guns blazing. He certainly couldn’t do it in his current condition. Of course, early on, when his only physical ailment was some extra belly fat, he’d sat in the van with Michele and patiently waited for George to retrieve Ivan from inside the doomed mother’s home. Quite honestly, he was probably giving this poor kid a bunch of crap for something that Lou himself might not do.

No. George hadn’t been screaming at all when he was in the house, and certainly not in tones that indicated he was meeting a ghastly demise. This was much different. And if the little brat would drive Lou close enough to the action, there was no question that he’d get out of the van and do what he could to help.

Absolutely.

“How good is Angie with that net?” Lou asked.

“Flawless.”

“Does she get a lot of opportunities to use it?”

“Yeah, she spends every Wednesday out on the street netting pedestrians. Don’t ask stupid questions. Trust me, she’s good. And she’s good with the tranquilizer darts. If he comes out in the open, the werewolf will be caught.”

“What kind of darts is she using?”

“Like that would mean anything to you. She’s using a Pneu-dart rifle with Zoletil. It’ll take down a lion, so it’ll sure as hell take down a wolf.”

“What about a werewolf?”

“Same difference.”

“No. You haven’t seen this bastard change. It’s not like a...you know, I don’t even have a point of reference. He can change instantly. Any part of his body he wants. It’s like frickin’ CGI effects in a movie.”

“Maybe Hollywood has taken it to the next level. The 3-D craze got out of hand and he jumped out of some computer animator’s computer.”

“What I’m trying to say is that I think there’s something more going on than just some guy who can change his body like a chameleon...no, not even a chameleon, that just changes its color...what animal am I thinking of...?”

“A butterfly?”

“No...yeah, we’ll go with that. He’s like a butterfly that can change back and forth from maggot to butterfly in seconds. Less than seconds. You can’t do that shit in nature.”

“We heard all of this on the drive over. What’s your point?”

“My point is, don’t assume that just because it can take down a bear, that your dart can take down a werewolf.”

“He’ll be in a net.”

“He has sharp claws.”

“So do lions.”

“A lion doesn’t have the rational thought to cut through a net.”

“Gloomy, aren’t you?”

“When it’s appropriate.”

“Well, you’re not exactly helping plead your case that we should go after him, are you?”

“What I’m trying to say is that your partner, the one that isn’t dead already, doesn’t necessarily have things under control. And since we have a nice big van full of weapons, we should be over there helping out.”

“I think we should be right here, staying alive. Fortunately for me, I’ve got the gun.”

Lou took out his cell phone. “I’m going to check on George.”

“Whatever. You know what, I don’t even care anymore.”

George picked up on the first ring. “Lou, get over here! Now!”

“We’re on our way,” Lou assured him. The line went dead. “George? You still there?”

“He hang up on you?” asked Sam.

“They need help,” Lou said. “Let’s go.”

“Uh-uh. What did he say?”

“He said to get over here! What else does he need to say?”

“Your partner isn’t the one giving the orders.”

“Fine.” Lou slid open the side door.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to help him.”

“No. You’re staying here. I may still need you.”

“You said I could leave!”

“Yeah, because I didn’t think you’d actually try to go out there.” Sam kept his gun pointed at Lou, but adjusted the aim a bit, as if trying to center the target between Lou’s eyes. “Close the door.”

“Just let me go.”

“Close the door.”

“You already said I was very expendable. What difference does it make?”

“If you die, it’s going to be as bait, not as a wannabe hero.”

Having a gun pointed at him was always a scary thing, despite his earlier attempt to convince Sam otherwise, but realistically, Lou knew that if Sam was unwilling to risk the ire of his boss by letting him run out and get killed by Ivan, he probably wasn’t going to just shoot him in the head. That would be more difficult to explain.

Lou jumped out of the van. After a moment of hesitation, Sam fired.

Damn. He wasn’t quite as reluctant to use the gun as Lou had expected.

Lou’s leg buckled beneath him as he stepped onto the ground but he maintained his footing and did a fast limp to the back of the van. He winced as he did so--if he’d actually had any stitches in, they definitely would have torn at that. Hopefully Sam would waste a few precious seconds trying to work up the courage to get out of the van and come after him.

He threw open the back doors and grabbed the first thing he saw. He pulled the pin out of the grenade and tossed it over the van. He’d used a couple of fragmentation grenades before, but strictly for recreational purposes out in the New Mexico desert and never in a moment of extreme urgency. He couldn’t remember how much time he had between pulling the pin and the explosion--not that it mattered, since it wasn’t as if he could leisurely stand there waiting for the optimum moment to throw.

He slammed his hands over his ears and ran.

The grenade went off. Over the explosion, Lou heard Sam’s cry.

The questionable wisdom of throwing a grenade near a van containing a wide variety of explosives was not lost on Lou, but what else was he supposed to do?

Sam lay on the ground, half of his face black and charred. Though his limbs all remained intact, the bone was visible in several places on his body. The sight was grisly and sickening enough that Lou didn’t immediately notice that Sam still held the gun.

The bullet grazed Lou’s left thigh. He clutched at the wound and dropped to his knees.

Sam shouted something incoherent that might have been “I’ll get you” and fired another shot. Thank God he’d been so badly injured--the shot missed by almost nothing, and Lou was confident that it would have been an easy kill shot otherwise.

He forced himself to get back up. At least three of his bandages turned red all at once. He quickly stepped over to the right back corner of the van, which put him out of Sam’s sight unless Sam dragged himself across the ground a couple of feet. That seemed unlikely.

Lou hastily looked over his weapon selection. He didn’t want to kill Sam if he didn’t have to, but he couldn’t have the guy shooting at the van as he drove off. There had to be another tranquilizer rifle.

There were a couple of normal-looking rifles, and a few handguns, but nothing that seemed to be a tranquilizer.

There were several more grenades. A box labeled “Dynamite.” Another crossbow.

Sam fired another shot. It didn’t come anywhere close, and he couldn’t possibly see Lou, so he was just firing wildly. Lou didn’t blame him for losing his mind.

Screw it. There was no time to make a careful selection of weaponry or mentally debate the moral elements of the situation. He had to take Sam out of the equation, get in the van, and drive off to help George.

He picked up one of the handguns, then limped the long way around the van, focusing on not passing out. He peeked around the corner, saw that Sam was still looking toward the rear, and shot him in the head.

Lou immediately dropped the gun, leaned against the van, and let out a violent dry heave.

Fuck.

He’d seen a lot of awful things today, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d never murdered a human being. Even a cowardly little shit like Sam.

Focus.

Since he’d been forced to take a life, it was very important that he not waste it. If he used this opportunity to save George’s life, things would balance out, sort of. If he let George die because he was too busy wallowing in his guilt, well, that was a pretty lousy reason to guarantee himself eternal damnation.

The grenade had really done a number on the side of the van, but the tires looked okay. He offered a silent apology to the dead kid, got in the driver’s seat, and started up the engine.

He couldn’t wait to see how well Ivan did against this arsenal.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Caged Madness

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, George?” Ivan inquired.

“Something antisocial?” George asked, trying not to give away that he was in incredible pain and was scared out of his mind. Being Ivan’s prisoner like this was bad enough, but Michele was most assuredly not doing well. Her skin color had gone from pale to looking almost jaundiced, and he thought her eyes had become a much darker shade of brown. She reminded him of a druggie having a massive overdose, except that instead of heroin coursing through her veins, she had werewolf spit.

“You cannot even imagine what I’m going to do to you,” said Ivan. “Not even in your worst nightmares can you conceive of what’s going to happen.”

“That’s pretty vague,” George noted. “I’d expect more from you. When a guy like you is reduced to threatening me in generalities, I can’t help but feel less frightened than I was before you started running your mouth.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“Then let’s just drive in silence, so you can think about what I might do to you instead.”

“That completely works for me.”

George needed full concentration for this next part, anyway. It was really going to suck. He pressed his dislocated shoulder against one of the cage bars, trying to line the ball up with the joint socket. Of course, he couldn’t see the bones inside his shoulder, so he wouldn’t know if this was correct until the unpleasant moment of truth.

Thank God Ivan couldn’t see what he was doing in the rear-view mirror. He’d purposely swerve or hit a bump.

“So what are you thinking about?” Ivan asked.

“You know, when you keep talking like this, it makes you seem insecure,” George said. “Why are you insecure, Ivan? It seems to me like you’ve got the upper hand. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Just keep talking. You’re only making it worse for yourself.”

“You’re not even listening. My point is that you’re talking too much. It indicates a lack of confidence. I’m supposed to be sitting here thinking ‘I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die!’ but when I hear all of that jabber from you I can’t help but believe that you’re worried about something.”

“Let’s say for the sake of argument that I was talking because I was worried. How does pointing that out work to your advantage? I’m curious.”

“You might get so mad that you make a mistake.”

“Like you did right before I escaped from the cage?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, Georgie, I hate to break this to you, but not only am I not going to stop the van so I can go back there and try to scare you, but you’re unlikely to do a surprise transformation into a wolfman. You’re at quite a bit more of a disadvantage than I was.”

“I understand that.”

“But if you find my chatter reassuring, hey, that’s your decision.”

“It’s not really a decision. More of a mood.”

“Fuck you.”

“Now, when I said ‘fuck you’ before, you made a big deal out of it, like it was a sign of weakness. I don’t want to be a jerk about this, Ivan, but my theory about your lack of confidence is still holding up.”

Ivan was silent for a moment. “I’m taking your eyelids first.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You wanted specifics? The first thing I’m going to do is very carefully slice off your eyelids. Then we’re going to play a fun little game where we each get one of the eyelids, and we flick them against the wall, and we see whose falls off first. It’s really kind of a fun game. You’d be surprised how long an eyelid will stick to the wall if it hits with the wet side.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Then it drops to the floor, and it’s not a very fun game at all. You have to flick it just right.”

George had nothing else to say to that. He took a deep breath, worked up his courage, and then slammed his shoulder against the metal bar as hard as he could.

He bellowed in pain. Michele looked at him with mild curiosity.

“Whoa! What’re you doing back there, George?” Ivan asked. “That sounds like it hurt.”

George flexed his fingers. His shoulder was throbbing but his arm hurt much less now. One dislocated shoulder fixed.

“You got any aspirin?” George asked.

“Sorry.”

“No problem. So where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“It’s a surprise because you have no idea.”

“Hey, George, what was that chick’s name I killed? Diane, right? Do you think her kids are home from school yet? I bet the older one got a hundred percent on his spelling test--no, let’s say a ninety-five--and he ran all the way home because he was so excited. And he rushed inside, thinking he was going to get a big hug and a kiss and maybe a new video game, and instead he just found a dead mommy.”

George clenched his fists and didn’t respond.

“What’s the matter, George? Decided to stop playing along with our clever repartee? I saw the way you looked when I cut her throat. That was a life-changing moment for poor little Georgie. If you were going to live long enough to experience nightmares again, you’d have a doozy of a bad dream over that.”

A trickle of what might have been pus was leaking from one of Michele’s eyes. She looked totally out of it.

“Still nothing to say?” Ivan asked. “You know, George, all that stuff you’ve been saying about how me talking is a sign of insecurity? That’s how I see your lack of talking. What’s the matter? Is the big bad thug all sad because of the dead mommy’s kids?”

“I’m sad about everybody you killed. It doesn’t make me weak.”

“I say it does. I think you own a vagina now.”

“Funny.”

“There’s nothing funny about vaginas. Some of them have teeth--did you know that? Whenever you’ve slipped yourself inside one and you’re thinking about how nice it feels, there’s been about a one-in-ten chance that sharp teeth will close on you.”

“What the hell are you even babbling about, Ivan?”

“Just making conversation with the dead man.”

“Well, Jesus Christ on a crutch, now you sound stoned. How did vaginas with teeth ever become part of this discussion? Those bullets in your head are starting to mess with you.”

“Aw, shit!”

The way he said those words, George knew that they were not Ivan’s response to a sudden realization that the bullets in his brain were indeed impeding his thought processes. George couldn’t get a good view out of the front of the van from his cage, but it was enough to see that the path had dead-ended in front of a small wooden house.

Now this was a development that George could get behind...unless it was a house full of innocent victims.

Ivan slammed his fist against the steering wheel. He uttered a string of profanity that made even George’s own liberal use of expletives sound like baby talk, and then put the van into reverse.

Ivan couldn’t possibly know that there was another van on the path. If Lou and Sam were following them, there’d be nowhere for the werewolf to go.

Fantastic.

The front door opened. A large greyhound bolted outside and ran at the van.

“Aw, for God’s sake,” Ivan muttered.

The dog jumped against the front of the vehicle, barking furiously. But it wasn’t a psycho-rabid dog bark; just the regular old bark of a dog that was way too excited to see strangers.

A thin man in filthy overalls came out of the house. “Roxie!” he shouted. “Get back in here!”

Ivan picked up the pistol, pointed it through the broken windshield, and shot the man in the face. His body dropped right to the ground.

Ivan turned around to look at George. “Did you see what you made me do? I had to kill somebody with a goddamn gun! Do you know how that makes me feel?”

The loud barking from the greyhound continued. Ivan held up his hand, transformed it into a wolf claw, then got out of the van. A few seconds later, there was an equally loud yip. Ivan got back inside, his claw dripping with fresh blood. The thumping had stopped.

“That’s another one on you,” Ivan told George.

If anything, this man’s death was less George’s fault than any of the other murders today, but he certainly didn’t feel any better about it.

Ivan resumed driving the van, backing it up through the path the way they’d come. “If anybody is following us, they’re dead,” Ivan said.

“Understood.” George looked back at Michele, and gasped. Her face had transformed. The change was subtle, but her jaw now protruded a bit and her fingers had grown in length.

“Michele...?”

She shifted position, and there was a loud cracking sound from her legs and back.

“Ahhhhh, shit.” George pressed himself against the other side of the cage. Though the hairs on her arms didn’t seem to be growing, they definitely seemed to be swaying in a non-existent breeze.

In terms of self-preservation, the best thing to do was reach over there, grab her head, and give it a sharp, violent twist. Break her neck.

But he just...couldn’t.

He couldn’t kill an innocent girl.

She cried out in sudden pain, revealing wolf-like fangs.

Okay, if she was about to change into a goddamn werewolf while he was locked in a cage with her, he really needed to break her neck. Morality...stupidity...it was a fine line.

He made a move for her, and she growled. Actually growled.

“Hey!” Ivan snapped. “Don’t touch him! He’s mine!”

Michele growled again, but then cowered in the corner of the cage. George found it very disconcerting that Ivan had felt the need to warn her and not him.

The hair on her arms continued to move, and it seemed to be getting thicker.

He lunged at her. She hissed and bit at him. George pulled his arm away and decided to scoot back to his side of the cage. He sure as hell didn’t want a werewolf bite that might turn him into something like that.

“George, you need to keep your hands to yourself,” Ivan warned. “I don’t want her to have all the fun, but I’m not going to save you from her. If I only get to watch you die, that’s fine, I’ll deal with it.” Ivan sounded a lot more stressed than he’d been before they realized that the path didn’t have any other exits.

Michele began to cry again. He couldn’t be certain with her cowering in the corner like that, but her arm seemed to be bent at a weird angle.

He desperately hoped that by the time this was over, he wouldn’t be jealous of Prescott and his peaceful demise.

“All you had to do was stay away,” Ivan said. “You were free! Do you really think I would have stuck around Florida, or even the United States? I would have fled. I would have been somebody else’s problem. How stupid are you?”

“You kidnapped the girl. That’s not exactly fleeing.”

“Fine. So I would have left the country with a girl that you’d kidnapped yourself, and who may very well murder you any minute now. You should have left it alone. There was no reason for you to stay involved.”

At the moment, George was more than inclined to agree with this logic. But let Ivan be the one to dwell on the past--George just needed to stay calm and hope that this she-wolf continued to listen to her master’s instructions.

Michele’s body shook and tears trickled down her cheeks but she resumed the growling.

“Michele, fight it!” George said. Yeah, it was a stupid thing to say--he wanted to think she was fighting it, but the encouragement couldn’t hurt.

The hair on her arms was definitely growing thicker and darker.

“Fight it! Don’t let him win!”

“You’re wasting your time,” said Ivan. “You might as well be saying that to a cancer patient.”

George’s father had beaten cancer a decade ago, and he credited it to his optimistic outlook on life, so George continued with renewed enthusiasm. “Michele, listen to me! I promise you that you can beat this!”

Michele shook her head and let out a miserable sob.

“You saw what he can do! He can change whenever he wants! That means that you can, too!”

“Fight it!” Ivan urged. “Use the power of love in your heart!”

“Michele! Stay with me!” George watched in horror as her index finger grew by at least half an inch, and the fingernail changed shape, becoming more like a talon.

“Michele, pray to Zeus!” Ivan said. “Accept Buddha as your one and only savior! Fight it! Fight it! Go team go!”

George wanted to punch him in the face, but had to satisfy himself with an earlier memory of punching Ivan in the face. He scooted a little closer to Michele, though he kept himself a cautious arm-length away. “You have to listen to me. Ivan retains full consciousness when he changes. He doesn’t become an animal. He’s had more practice, but you’re a lot stronger than that little shit! There’s nothing he can do that you can’t do better!”

“Leave me alone, both of you!” Michele screamed. Her low, distorted voice sounded like she’d been possessed by a demon. It was almost more unnerving than the way her fangs now protruded from her mouth.

“You heard her, George. Obey the lady’s wishes.” He chuckled. “I am so very glad you’re in that cage and not me.”

“Michele--”

“Enough!” She let out a long, piercing scream and began to rip at her hair. As her scream went on and on and on, George realized that Ivan was right; she was most definitely not going to be able to fight this.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Desire To Feed

Michele’s entire body was on fire.

Her vision was red.

She thought her flesh was going to blister and split open, sending bursts of hellfire throughout the world.

She wanted to die.

She wanted to live.

What was happening to her? Was that George? Why was she in a cage? Why was he with her? Were they lovers?

The pain was blinding.

She could feel the blood rushing through her head.

Her bones were breaking inside of her body.

“Michele...?”

She couldn’t tell who said that. Dad?

Why did her arms look like that? Were they hers? Whose were they?

Why did her teeth hurt so much?

Who was Michele?

She wanted to die.

She wanted to live.

She wanted to kill.

* * *

Ivan bit the inside of his cheek and tasted the coppery blood. He hated this. Hated losing control. Oh, he still had every intention of taking George somewhere nice and private, and destroying his body one square inch at a time. But he’d completely lost control of the situation. And if he had to abandon the van, he’d have to postpone his revenge, and possibly lose George to Michele’s newfound ravenous hunger.

That was bullshit.

He wondered why there weren’t any choppers in the air. If the news was reporting the path he’d taken, why wasn’t there a police helicopter overhead searching for him?

He wasn’t going to be able to easily back the van around this upcoming corner. He’d either have to take it really slow, or risk going off the path and getting the van stuck. Damn it.

Ivan slammed on the brakes as a white van came into view. As he saw that Lou was driving, he transformed his hand into a claw and raked his talons across the passenger seat, howling in fury even though the rest of his body remained human.

Now he had no choice. He had to cut his losses.

* * *

Lou stopped his van just a few feet away from the other one. Though he couldn’t see who was inside, he assumed it was Ivan driving.

Prescott and Angie had taken all of the silver-tipped bolts with them, but Lou had placed several grenades on the seat, ready to go. Even if it didn’t kill him, a blown-off leg would certainly slow down the werewolf.

Ivan got out of the van, transformed into a full wolfman, and darted off into the trees.

Lou got out as well, a grenade in each hand. He pulled the pin from the first one, and heaved it toward where Ivan had run. It was a good throw. Unfortunately, the blast was not accompanied by a lycanthrope scream.

He’d save the other one.

Lou hurried to the front of the van, as quickly as he was able, and peeked inside. The passenger seat was empty. George was in the cage with Michele, who was flailing around and tearing at her hair.

“Get me out of here!” George shouted. “Hurry!”

“Jesus.” Lou limped to the rear of the van and threw open the back doors. What was wrong with her?

From this angle, it was obvious: she was half wolf.

“Unlock the cage! Unlock the cage!”

Michele ripped out a huge chunk of her hair, exposing bloody scalp underneath.

Lou tugged on the cage door. “Does Ivan have the key?”

“I don’t know! Go find it!”

Michele pounced upon George. He cried out and tried to fend her off. She mounted him like a lover, slicing at him with her new claws.

“Push her over here!” Lou said. “I’ll get her!”

“Find the keys!”

Lou went back to the driver’s seat, praying that the keys were dangling from the ignition. They weren’t. Ivan had them.

He fought off a momentary dizzy spell. The loss of blood was really starting to get to him.

* * *

“Fight it!” George shouted as Michele raked her claws across his chest. He didn’t expect this to work anymore, but it was certainly better than shouting something like “Get off of me!” He punched her in the chin. Her head flew back, almost dipping back far enough that it looked like she had no neck, and then it snapped back into place.

George could see the fur sprouting all over her arms and legs. The bandage fell off her shoulder, revealing no trace of a wound underneath.

“Ivan has the keys!” Lou shouted. “Get her over on this side! I’ll take care of her!”

George threw another punch but she blocked it. Though she was a werewolf now, she was still smaller than him, and he shoved her off of him. She hit the bottom of the cage, snarled, and bit at his arm. He pulled away.

Oh, God, don’t let her bite me. I don’t want to become something like that.

What a horrible fate. Better to die at Ivan’s claws, with some degree of honor, than to become a drooling, snarling beast and have to be put down like an animal.

He screamed as she bit him.

* * *

Lou couldn’t believe how much he was being forced to move around with injuries like his. He went back to the van, climbed inside, and slammed his foot through an opening in the bars, kicking Michele in the head as she bit George on the arm.

Her mouth popped free. George had a red mark but it didn’t look like she’d broken the skin.

Now she was out of Lou’s range. He turned his attention away from the cage and opened the glove compartment. He grabbed a handful of the contents and tossed them onto the floor, flipping through random papers until he found several of them fastened together by a paper clip.

He pulled off the paper clip and began to unbend it as he returned to the back of the van.

* * *

She was almost fully transformed now--or at least appeared to be, since George had no idea how far this was going to go. She seemed to be more of a traditional wolf form than Ivan was in his changed state.

He didn’t bother asking her to fight it anymore.

Her claws sunk into his shoulder, deep, the same shoulder he’d dislocated. He grabbed her chin and slammed her head against the roof of the cage. That didn’t seem to rattle her.

* * *

Lou jammed the paper clip into the lock and jiggled it. He wasn’t very good with locks. When necessary, that was usually George’s job.

He had the grenades, but they were fragmentation grenades. They wouldn’t blow the door off a thick steel cage like this. If the paper clip didn’t work, he’d try to shoot it.

He jammed the paper clip in deeper, as George and Michele struggled, her jaws snapping shut over his face. He slammed her head against the top of the cage again, then a third time, and though it seemed to be helping she still had a hell of a lot of fight left in her.

Lou’s spirits soared as he thought he heard a click, but he tugged on the cage door and it didn’t budge. False alarm. He continued to wiggle the paper clip around in the lock, having no idea what he was doing but hoping that he’d luck out. He prayed to every god that he could think of that he’d get this right.

“Open the cage!” George shouted, unhelpfully.

This wasn’t going to work. Lou had no idea if this was even the kind of lock you could pick with a paper clip. If it was, Ivan would have no doubt figured out a way to make his escape sooner than he did. Hell, if nothing else, he could have used his talons.

Shit.

* * *

Michele was wild-eyed and scary and George had thoroughly gotten over his qualms about fighting with a woman. There was nothing left of the real Michele, as far as he could tell.

Why was Lou still screwing around with the lock? Popping that thing should have been no problem. Couldn’t he see that the she-wolf was winning?

She hadn’t bitten him yet, at least not hard enough to pierce his flesh, but not for lack of trying. In fact, her jaws never stopped snapping open and closed, almost like a slower version of a pair of chattery teeth. His hand was clamped over her throat, and he pushed up as hard as he could, trying to keep her teeth away from his face, but he wasn’t going to be able to sustain this for much longer.

“I can’t do this!” said Lou. “Get her away from you! I’ll get a gun and shoot her!”

“What? No!”

“What else do you want me to do?”

“Get the cage open!”

“I can’t get the cage open!”

“Fuck!”

“I know!”

George’s hand slipped off of Michele’s throat, but he elbowed her in the face before she could bite him. He slammed her into the side of the cage.

Her growl deepened. She seemed absolutely furious.

* * *

Rage.

Pure unrestrained fury.

Nothing else mattered.

Kill the prey.

Eat him.

* * *

Lou pulled the paper clip out of the lock and tossed it aside. He was wasting time. He took out the gun and fired two bullets into the lock, turning his head and squeezing his eyes shut in case there was a ricochet.

“Be careful!” George shouted.

Lou opened his eyes. “I am being careful!” No impact. Bullets weren’t going to do it, either. He could try to shoot Michele and see if bullets worked better on her than Ivan, but there was no way he could guarantee that he wouldn’t put a bullet in George instead.

Once again he ran to the front of the van and climbed inside.

He shoved his foot into the cage again, but this time Michele avoided his kick. She grabbed his foot and he had a momentary flash of terror as she pulled him toward her.

George slammed his fist against her arm, breaking her hold. Lou withdrew his foot from within the bars, but then braced both feet against the side of the cage, tightly held the seats of the van, and shoved as hard as he could.

He was already shot and mauled. Why not add a hernia?

The pain was intense but not quite unbearable as the cage began to slowly slide along the floor of the van. It had good traction. After everything he’d been through today, he deserved to have something work out.

Michele slashed George’s chest. It looked like a savage wound, although George had suffered so many injuries that Lou wasn’t sure if that was a brand new one or an old one being reopened.

The edge of the cage slid over the back of the van.

* * *

George cried out as Michele’s claws ripped into his chest. He’d been hit in that same goddamn spot at least two other times today. If it were on the other side, his heart would practically be exposed.

He grabbed her arm, squeezing hard enough that it might have broken a bone if she were in her human form, and tossed her to the other side of the cage. She struck the door, twisted around, and came back at George.

Lou continued to shove the cage forward. George wasn’t entirely certain that this was a good idea.

George began to frantically kick at Michele as she lunged at him. Her jaws closed over his shoe and it took three tugs to get it loose.

The cage began to tilt.

* * *

Ivan watched the struggle with a combination of disbelief and amusement. Yeah, he should’ve just run away, but he had to know what was going on. It was absolutely crazy. Lou should be sobbing over his buddy’s corpse while Michele feasted on George’s remains. He should most definitely not be pushing the cage out of the van.

Insane.

He planned to remain hidden unless it was absolutely necessary to join in the chaos, but there was no way he could turn away from the show.

* * *

There was definitely a hernia in Lou’s future.

His legs were now extended all the way. The cage wasn’t quite ready to topple over the edge, but it was getting close.

* * *

George kicked Michele for what felt like the hundredth time since she transformed. His muscles were so sore that the agony almost threatened to overpower his flesh wounds.

Michele struck the cage door again, and her weight started the point of no return. The cage did a sharp downward tilt and then slid off the edge of the van, crashing to the ground corner-first with a teeth-rattling clatter. George bashed against Michele, nearly knocking the wind out of him but hopefully hurting her just as bad.

The floor of the cage slammed down, stirring up a cloud of dirt.

Michele dove at him. Nope, the impact of the fall definitely hadn’t hurt her as much as it did him.

She pinned him down. George was having difficulty focusing his vision. A trio of she-wolf faces loomed above him.

Then she slid away as Lou grabbed her leg.

“I’ve got her!” Lou announced.

George scooted to the back of the cage. “What good does that do me? Are you gonna hold her forever?”

Lou pulled until her leg was entirely out of the cage, and then grabbed the back of her shirt, holding her tight.

“Get some silver!” George shouted.

“We don’t have any!”

“What do you mean, we don’t have any?”

“Prescott and Angie took it all!”

“Why’d they do that?”

“They didn’t think they’d get killed!”

“Well, do something!”

Lou glanced to the side. George thought he might be looking for an item that might prove to be useful in this situation, but realized he was wrong as Ivan’s werewolf form knocked Lou away from the cage.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Lou’s Decision

Lou lost his grip on Michele, who instantly pounced back upon George. Lou fell to the ground and raised his gun, but Ivan was already back in the swamp.

What was that all about?

He doesn’t know what kind of weapons we have, Lou realized. He has to play it safe.

At this point, Lou didn’t give half a crap about capturing the werewolf. Let Bateman and Dewey seek them out to the ends of the earth. If Lou had the opportunity to stuff a grenade down Ivan’s throat, he’d take it without hesitation.

He did not, however, want to spend the rest of his life in prison, and they’d made a lot of noise. Somebody had to be coming to investigate.

Lou reached his hand into the cage, nearly got bit, and quickly withdrew it. “Throw her over here,” he told George. “I’ll shoot her!”

Lou watched carefully for Ivan as George struggled some more with the she-wolf. After a few violent moments, he managed to push her to the edge of the cage.

“Hold her still!”

“I can’t hold her still!”

Lou shot her in the head. Some blood sprayed on George.

Michele howled and bled. But she didn’t flop over and die.

George scooted away as she came at him again. He kicked repeatedly, desperately trying to keep her on her own side of the cage.

Now what?

Leave George to fend for himself?

No. Absolutely not.

He wasn’t going to leave George here to be torn apart by Michele, although if they ended up in police custody, Lou thought he’d be more than justified in trying to cut a deal and let his partner take most of the fall. He wasn’t entirely certain what crimes they’d be charged with, beyond the obvious investigation into their criminal past, but being responsible for a werewolf who killed about a dozen people had to be a pretty serious offense.

Hell, even if he did kill Michele, it wasn’t as if Lou could simply load the cage onto the other van and drive away. George would be a nice little present for the cops. Or, much worse, Ivan.

He had to get George out of that cage, no matter what. Even if it meant putting his life at risk.

Concentrate. Get through this. If you pass out now, it’ll be a really humiliating and unsatisfying end to this whole thing. Think of how good a warm shower is going to feel tonight. Oh, yeah.

He went back to the other van, hesitated for a moment as he tried to figure out if he really wanted to do this, then opened up the box of dynamite. It had about ten sticks inside. He probably only needed one, but he took the whole box.

There were no lighters inside the box, which made sense for safety precautions, but a quick search of a shelf of random supplies turned up a butane lighter with a long shaft, just like the one he had for his grill at home.

George screamed.

Lou grabbed a couple more grenades and tossed them into the box, just in case Ivan came back, and then returned to the cage.

“Did she bite you?” Lou asked, taking out a stick of dynamite. It already had a short fuse attached. Perfect.

“Not hard! Hurry!”

“I’ve got this, George. Don’t worry.” Okay, if he put the dynamite right next to the cage door, George would be caught in the blast. That was no good. Three feet away, maybe? He was far from a demolition expert.

“What the hell are you doing?” George demanded.

“I’m getting you out of there!”

“Not with goddamn dynamite, you’re not!”

“It’s the only way!”

“No, no, no, no! There are millions of other ways!” George had his hands around Michele’s neck again, and his arms quivered as he tried to keep her fangs away from him.

Lou lit the fuse. “Stay at the back of the cage!”

“No! No, Lou! Fuck this!”

“Hands over your ears!” Lou grabbed the box and ran. He caught a glimpse of movement from the swamp. Ivan?

Michele snarled.

Lou grabbed a grenade out of the box, and then let the entire box drop to the ground. He pulled the pin and hurled it in what he hoped was Ivan’s direction.

The grenade went off first.

Then the dynamite went off in a nearly eardrum-bursting explosion. The entire cage lifted several inches off the ground, and toppled onto its side. Lou’s ears rang as he watched the smoke clear.

The cage door hung slightly ajar.

Victory! Lou hurried over to the cage. George lay on what was now the bottom of the cage, clearly stunned but also clearly still alive.

Michele’s legs had taken the worst of the blast. There wasn’t much left of one of them.

Lou kicked the cage door all the way open. “C’mon, George!”

George pushed Michele off of him and then scrambled out of the cage. “What the hell was that?”

“I saved your life!”

“You could have killed me!”

“So could she!”

“Don’t do things like that!”

“You’re out of the cage, aren’t you?”

“My legs are all burnt up!”

“They’re not that bad. They’re singed.”

“Look what she did to me! I look as bad as you do!”

“That’s why I tried to get you out!”

“Why didn’t you just pick the lock?”

“It didn’t work!”

“Why didn’t you just get the keys from Ivan?”

“How the hell was I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know!”

“Stop yelling at me!”

“I have to yell! I’m deaf now!”

“Just thank me, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you!”

They both looked down at Michele. She was back to human form, bleeding badly.

Lou crouched down next to the cage. “Aw, shit, I’m so sorry, Michele.”

She gave him a weak smile, revealing red teeth. “How bad is it?”

“Pretty bad,” said George.

“I don’t think I’ll die though,” she said. She turned her head and coughed up some blood. When she looked back at them, her eyes glistened. “Don’t leave me like this.”

“We won’t. I promise.”

“I mean...don’t leave me like this. Put me out of my misery. I don’t want to be this way. I don’t want to hurt people.”

George nodded. He felt absolutely terrible, but if he were in her situation, he’d feel the exact same way. “Lou, are you sure there aren’t any silver-tipped arrows left?”

“I didn’t tear the whole van apart, but I didn’t see any. George, I don’t want to be cold-hearted or anything, but we really need to get out of here.”

“Use the dynamite,” Michele said.

“What?”

“It’ll hurt less than silver, I think.”

Lou took another stick of dynamite out of the box. “Are you sure this is what you want? Maybe we can get you help.”

“There’s no help for me. I’m sorry, George. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

George almost looked like his eyes were tearing up. “I’m sorry, too. I thought I was helping you by rescuing you from those dogs. Bad call, huh?”

“Yeah.” Suddenly Michele cried out in pain. The hairs on her arm began to sway as they did before the first transformation. “Oh, God...”

Lou lit the fuse and dropped the stick of dynamite into the cage.

Michele picked it up and hugged it to her chest.

The thugs walked away from the cage.

The explosion sounded even louder than the first one.

They looked back. There was nothing left of Michele but some burnt pieces, scattered around the area.

“Shit,” said George.

“At least she didn’t suffer.”

“What do you mean? She suffered a lot.”

“Not from the dynamite, though.”

“Well, that’s lovely. If you count only that last second when she got blown to bits, she died a peaceful death. Wonderful. I guess coming into our lives was the best thing that ever happened to that young girl.”

“I just won’t say anything else.” Lou took another stick of dynamite out of the box while watching carefully for any sign of Ivan.

“Hey, Ivan!” George shouted. “Did you see that? Sorry you didn’t get to make yourself a girlfriend! She was a good choice!” George walked over to the white van and opened the passenger side door.

“Is he still around?” Lou asked. It seemed unlikely that Ivan would stay in the area having witnessed what happened to the other werewolf, but anything was possible with that cocky bastard.

George picked up the tracking device. “Yeah. He’s still close.” George pointed at the swamp in the same direction where Lou had thrown the grenade. “Do it.”

Lou lit the fuse and tossed the dynamite.

The explosion sent up a cloud of smoke and burning leaves. Lou felt too sick over what they’d done to Michele to enjoy the sensation of hurling explosives.

“Did we get him?”

“No,” said George. “Crap. He’s on the move.”

“Should we go after him?”

George stared at the tracking device for a moment. “No, he’s running. I don’t blame him. We won’t be able to catch him on foot. Let’s get in the van. When he comes out of the swamp, we’ll be ready.”

They got in the van, with George driving. Lou figured that this was around the time when several police cars would come into view, red and blue lights flashing, with a few dozen officers pointing rifles at them, but the path remained empty.

“Once again, we could just let him go,” said Lou.

“Are you kidding me? With a van full of great stuff? That furry son of a bitch is dead.”

Lou sighed. “All right.”

“You’re with me, right?”

Lou thought about that for a moment. “You know what? I actually think I am. I will be really, really relieved when he’s dead.”

“Me too.”

“So...Mexico or Canada when we flee from our former lives?”

“People are polite in Canada.”

“But it’s cold there.”

“I don’t speak much Spanish.”

“But again, it’s cold.”

“So what?” George asked. “You’ve spent the entire day complaining that it’s too hot.”

“And it is. I don’t like Florida heat or Canadian cold.”

“Which is worse?”

“I’m not sure. Florida heat, I guess.”

“Well, Mexico heat is worse than Florida heat, so I guess that settles it. Time to relearn how to say ‘about.’“

“About,” said Lou, pronouncing it a-boot. “I can’t believe Michele is dead.”

“Let’s not talk about it.”

“What if her pieces are still alive?”

“What?”

“I’m just saying.”

“You jackass. Why the hell would you say something like that? I mean, even if you thought it, why would you say it? Her pieces are not still alive, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I’m just freaked out by it all.”

“So am I, but that doesn’t mean I’m sharing ‘living hell’ scenarios. She’s dead. If we blow Ivan into a billion pieces, he’ll be dead, too. Did you see any of those pieces moving?”

“No, they were...they were pretty much just lying there, burning.”

“Right. Stop coming up with macabre shit like that.”

“Sorry.”

George looked over at the tracking device. “He’s still running. We put a nice scare into him. Let’s appreciate that instead of dwelling on horrific stuff.”

“When we catch up to him, I’m using all of the remaining dynamite.”

“That’s the spirit!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Distress

Ivan ran through the swamp, so enraged that he thought his head might explode like the dynamite.

He didn’t mind losing Michele. She was only intended to be a temporary plaything, and he probably shouldn’t have bitten her in the first place. No big deal. It was like having a child--a responsibility he didn’t want.

Losing George hurt worse. He’d really been looking forward to making the thug weep. Ivan had probably exercised bad judgment in staying around as long as he did. As soon as he saw that they had grenades, he should have gotten out of there. He was a fast healer, but not immortal, and even if there was no jagged silver involved he wouldn’t survive having his head blown off.

Still, that wasn’t the reason for his misery.

They were tracking him. George had been holding some kind of device that could follow his movements. It had to be a chip or something, like what people used for their beloved pets. That’s how those fuckers with the net and crossbow found him.

Ivan was almost in tears.

He’d stopped for about a minute to check his ears, even though he would’ve noticed a chip in there long before now. The way he healed up, they could have stuck it in him at Bateman’s place while he was unconscious and he never would have known.

Where was it?

This was awful. This was the worst possible thing. Sure, he was a werewolf, but he still had to sleep. What was he going to do, find some kind of impenetrable bunker to hide out in? Even if the chip only had a limited range, that didn’t do him any good unless he was able to jump on a plane. He couldn’t help but feel that he was going to have difficulty using air travel for the foreseeable future.

Damn them!

He could turn back, try to kill George and Lou, and steal their tracker, but that couldn’t be the only device. Ivan wasn’t good with technology and didn’t know how these things worked, but they probably even had a fucking website where they could track him.

He stopped running. He had to think. He couldn’t just let them hunt him down. Better to get blown up than to be Dewey’s little experiment, but he wanted to avoid both of those possibilities.

Where would they stick the chip?

If he were tagging a werewolf, where would he put it?

He changed back into his human form and searched his arms for scars. All of this blood wasn’t helping. A tiny incision wouldn’t leave any trace, but if they got overzealous, there might be a mark.

He had lots of marks, but they were all from today, as far as he could tell. He feverishly rubbed his arms, trying to get off as much of the dried blood as he could.

He could feel himself losing it. This wasn’t good.

If they beat him, it wasn’t going to be because of some chip. No way.

He stripped off what little remained of his pants and stood there, naked, searching his body for any scars he couldn’t identify. There had to be one. Just a faint trace.

Still too much blood.

Fine. This was the Florida Everglades. There was water all over the place. He ran for less than a minute before he found a pool of water. It looked stagnant and thousands of mosquitoes seemed to be swarming around it, but it would do.

He lay on his back in the water, splashing around, washing off the blood. He didn’t care about the bugs. Let them take his blood. They could have as much as they wanted.

Losing it...

Ivan sat up. He inspected his stomach, his legs, his feet. Nothing.

It wasn’t fair.

Where would they put it? Where the hell would they put it?

For all he knew, there was a big crooked scar across his back. He twisted himself around, trying to glimpse his reflection in the water, but the water wasn’t still enough and he couldn’t see anything.

Chill the hell out. You’re going from “losing it” to “batshit crazy.”

So they had a chip in him. So what? He’d massacred a whole bunch of people in the Cotton Mouse Tavern who’d known exactly where he was, and it sure didn’t save their lives. George and Lou had been following him, and they hadn’t fared very well. Neither had the reinforcements.

Following Ivan Spinner with a tracing device meant that you got your arms, legs, and head torn off and thrown into the air like confetti. That’s what your precious chip did for you.

If Bateman showed up, Ivan would rip his heart out.

If Dewey showed up, Ivan would make him measure his own intestines by the yard.

If George and Lou found him, Ivan would hold them in this foul water and laugh while the mosquitoes drained them.

Watch the skeeters drink until they burst. Pop, pop, pop.

Where would they put it? It had to be something relatively easy--it’s not like they would saw open his cranium and glue it to his brain. They’d want to keep it someplace simple, like his arm.

His arm. That had to be it.

Which arm?

He was right-handed, so they’d probably go for his left. That would be the best way to keep it undetected.

Where on the left arm?

They’d go for a fleshy part. Somewhere he’d be less likely to feel it. So...the bottom of his upper arm. Absolutely. That’s exactly where a sneaky bastard like Bateman would hide the chip.

Ivan transformed his right index finger into a claw. The problem with Bateman’s oh-so-brilliant plan was that he didn’t think Ivan would cut open his own flesh to dig out the chip. How wrong he was.

Ivan held up his arm, bent it at the elbow, and poked the talon through his skin. He was spilling new blood to replace what he’d washed away. Let the mosquitoes drink their fill.

He dragged the talon across his arm, cutting deep into his flesh.

He didn’t scream. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He’d felt much worse pain than this, and here he was in total control. He could stop whenever he wanted.

Ivan cut all the way to his elbow, then withdrew the talon. There was no chip on the end.

He took a deep breath to steel himself, and then slipped his middle finger into the gash, running along its length, searching for the chip. This hurt far worse than the initial cut. Worse than the bullets he’d taken today. Even worse than the process of having bullets extracted, which was something he’d been through several times before, and something else he’d have to endure in the near future. Drugs didn’t work on him anymore, so he was forced to remain totally conscious and alert as the non-licensed physician dug out the slugs with a scalpel and tweezers.

Now he screamed.

What difference did it make? Until he got rid of the chip, it didn’t do any good for him to remain quiet.

No chip.

He dug around in the wound some more.

“You can’t beat me,” he whispered. “Not a chance.”

He’d have to try the other arm.

He slapped at the mosquitoes.

Other arm. Same spot. That’s where they’d hide the chip.

He transformed his left index finger, then slit his other arm, wishing that he could just shut off all sensation. Scrape his arms down to the bone.

He probably wouldn’t heal from that.

He wasn’t entirely sure where the limits of his healing power ended. He’d certainly tested that over the years, but never to the point of skeletonizing a limb to find a hidden tracking chip.

He worked his finger through the wound, blinking back tears.

What was that?

He’d definitely felt something odd.

He poked around in there, arm twitching, the pain more intense than anything he’d ever experienced in a lifetime of pain. He could do this. He was strong.

I think the word is “insane.”

Was he touching bone?

He couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled his finger out, then kneeled back down in the water and washed off his hands.

What was he going to do?

Maybe the chip wasn’t in his arms. Maybe they’d implanted it in his heart. Or maybe it was microscopic, and it was right there on the tip of his nose but he couldn’t see it.

Pull it together...

What a horrible way to end this conflict. Sitting here in a bug-filled pool practicing self-mutilation. Oh, George and Lou would get a great big laugh at that. They’d point and take pictures. Look at the formerly amazing werewolf, reduced to a filthy animal hurting himself.

He picked up his pants--well, the pants formerly belonging to the guy who he’d killed--and slipped them back on. He needed to do that. The pain brought clarity.

He’d get the chip out before too long. He knew a “doctor” in Atlanta who could X-ray him, find exactly where it was, and cut it out. No problem.

No reason to panic. And no shame in panicking. Everybody did it.

They could follow him, but they couldn’t catch him.

Not a chance.

Ivan transformed back into a wolfman, let out a howl, and then resumed racing across the swamp.

* * *

When he emerged onto a two-lane paved road, he kept running.

A couple of minutes later, he saw a car.

There was no time for jokes. No time to mentally torment his prey before he ripped them apart. No time for fun. He needed that car, and he needed it now.

He leapt onto the front hood, opening his jaws as wide as he could. The woman shrieked and drove off the road.

He opened the door, dragged her out of the vehicle, and snapped her neck.

He checked her pockets for money, found none, and tossed her body off to the side. Somebody would find it quickly, unless an alligator dragged it away for an evening meal, but that didn’t matter. Ivan would be long gone.

He got in the car and sped off.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Hot Pursuit

“Are you absolutely positive you’re not going to bleed to death?” George asked.

“Look, I promise that if I get ready to bleed to death, I’ll give you a five minute warning, okay? How are your legs?”

“They hurt.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I apologize for yelling at you after you blew open the cage with dynamite. You have to understand why I’d be stressed out at that particular moment.”

“I do.”

George’s phone rang again. “I’d better get that or he’s never going to stop calling.” He pressed the “talk” button and placed the phone to his ear. “Yeah, Ricky?”

“Where have you been? What’s going on?”

“Rescue team’s dead. Werewolf’s still loose.”

“We know. We’re tracing him.”

“So are we.”

“I hear Bateman and Dewey are both trying to put together a new team. I mean, like, every dogcatcher from here to New Orleans. From a friend to a friend, George, I’m suggesting that you get out of the country as soon as you possibly can and don’t look back.”

“Sorry, Ricky. We’re killing the werewolf.”

“Don’t do that! Just stay out of this now.”

“Not going to happen. There’ll be bits of fur for a six-mile stretch of I-75.”

“Then we never had this conversation.”

“Fair enough. And you’re not my friend. I pissed in your coffee cup twice a week.”

“You did what?”

“Okay, that’s not true. I never did that. Take care of yourself, Ricky.” George hung up the phone. “He’s a rotten little prick,” he said to Lou, “but he deserves to enjoy his cup of coffee in the morning. How far ahead is Ivan?”

“Looks like about two miles.”

“Good.” Ivan seemed to be sticking to the speed limit. George was doing about ten miles faster and cruising along at eighty miles per hour. Neither of them could afford to get pulled over by the cops, but George was apparently more willing to take the risk.

The plan, which was straightforward and inelegant, was to catch up to whatever car Ivan was driving, and fling a stick of dynamite at him. Watching that bastard go up in an explosion would be better than every Fourth of July celebration George had witnessed in his entire life combined.

If he had a hostage in the car with him, they’d use guns instead of explosives. Either way, unless he was in a bus filled with nuns, orphans, and kittens, that werewolf was only a few minutes away from death.

They’d discussed the idea of just following behind him, out of sight, until Ivan was forced to stop somewhere to get gas. The problem with that plan was that their van was already getting low on fuel, and they had to assume that he’d outlast them in that regard. They couldn’t afford to lose ten minutes to get off and refuel. Twenty if there was another frickin’ dog attack.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t be more subtle?” Lou asked. “There are a lot of cars around.”

“If we get the opportunity to be subtle, we’ll take it. Otherwise, dynamite out the window.”

“All right. I can’t say I won’t enjoy it.”

George pressed harder on the accelerator, bringing their speed up to eighty-five. Plenty of other cars were going that fast. As far as he knew, the cops weren’t looking for a white van that said “Ray’s Air Conditioning” on the side, so they’d be okay until they started flinging explosives.

“He’s a mile ahead.”

“Cool. Maybe if we’re lucky, there’ll be a semi we can hide behind or something.”

George pressed down on the accelerator a bit more, letting their speed creep up to eighty-seven.

“Slow down,” Lou said, glancing at the speedometer. “You’re getting too impatient.”

“I want him gone.”

“So do I. Slow down.”

George relented and dropped their speed back down to eighty-five.

“Do you think he knows we’re coming?” Lou asked.

“I hope so. I don’t like the idea of an ambush, but I do like the idea of him being scared out of his mind.”

“Well, let’s not get overconfident. I don’t think we’re going to be able to narrow this down to a single car unless the traffic really clears up, and he knows what we’re driving.”

“Believe me, after the way things have gone, the last thing I am is overconfident.”

Lou rolled down his window. Several sticks of dynamite and a few grenades rested in his lap. Yesterday, that was a sight that would have made George extremely uncomfortable. Now it made him happy.

“Shit,” he said, as red-and-blue flashing lights became visible in the rear-view mirror. “Cop.”

“I’m not throwing a grenade at him.”

George slowed down to seventy and moved into the far right lane, desperately hoping that the cop was pulling over somebody else.

The police car drove ahead of the van and came up behind a brown truck. The truck slowed down and moved into the right lane. The cop followed him. As the truck pulled off to the side, George breathed a sigh of relief.

Lou picked up a stick of dynamite. “This would’ve been difficult to explain.”

“No kidding.”

They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. “Okay, start watching for him.”

There were no big trucks or other vans to hide behind. Since Ivan would’ve had no way of knowing where they were, they just had to hope that he wasn’t keeping a close watch on every single vehicle on the road.

“Up there,” said Lou, pointing at a small blue Volkswagen. “Does that look like the back of his head?”

George leaned forward and squinted. “I...I think so. No, wait, the hair is wrong. It’s not him.”

George and Lou both surveyed the cars ahead of them. “He’s got to be in one of these. Maybe in the--there! That’s him!” Lou pointed to another small car in the left-hand lane that was a darker shade of blue than the first.

Yep. Definitely him. “He’s on the wrong side.”

“There aren’t any windows in the back. You’re gonna have to throw them.”

“Aw, shit.”

“Get at least a car-length ahead of him so that when you throw it, it hits the front of his car.”

George nodded. The van began to shake, clearly not having been designed to go this fast.

They passed Ivan’s car. Ivan looked over at George and scowled. George would’ve expected a grin. Things were looking up.

“Don’t let him see what you’re doing,” said George, as Lou pulled the trigger to start the lighter. There were no cars behind Ivan. No innocent victims.

Keeping the stick of dynamite below window-level, Lou lit the fuse. George’s heart felt like it leapt into his throat, which managed to be simultaneously a good feeling and a bad one. Lou passed him the burning stick and grabbed the steering wheel.

George flung the stick of dynamite out the window.

It struck Ivan’s windshield dead center.

Then bounced off.

The dynamite sailed harmlessly over Ivan’s car then exploded against the pavement behind him. Tires squealed as a convertible swerved into the other lane.

“Grenade!”

Keeping one hand on the wheel, Lou pulled the pin out of a grenade and handed it to George. He immediately tossed it out the window.

It struck the front hood of Ivan’s car, bounced up onto the roof, off the rear, and then exploded in mid-air.

“Damn it!” George shouted.

Ivan swerved, moving directly behind the van.

George tilted the side-view mirror. “I can’t see him! Try to throw something out the back!”

“The shelf with all the weapons is in the way!”

“I know that! Knock it over!”

“It’s bolted in place!”

“Fuck!”

George slammed on the brakes. That little car would fare much worse in a collision than the van.

Ivan swerved to the right, coming up on Lou’s side.

A sign announced that the next exit was half a mile away.

“Blast the bastard!” George shouted.

Lou flicked on the lighter again, but hesitated. There was a minivan up ahead in the right lane, blocking Ivan’s potential escape. “Try to match his speed,” Lou said. “He won’t be able to pass us.”

The traffic had cleared out behind them. Apparently the other motorists wished to give some space between themselves and the explosive-hurling psychos in the white van.

* * *

Ivan couldn’t believe this. He’d taken plenty of risks in his quest for sadistic pleasure, but he’d never expected George and Lou to reach this level of fanaticism.

He was almost impressed.

* * *

Lou lit the next stick of dynamite. He held onto it, watching the flame devour the fuse.

“Throw it!”

“Not yet!”

With alarmingly little left of the fuse, Lou flung the stick of dynamite out the window. It twirled end-over-end toward Ivan’s driver’s side window, leaving a trail of smoke.

It struck the window exactly where Lou wanted it to hit. Right next to Ivan’s goddamn face.

Then it bounced off, hit the road, and rolled away.

Lou leaned out the window and watched it.

Nothing.

“It was a dud! Son of a bitch!”

“Does he look like he’s going to take the exit?” George asked.

“I can’t tell!”

“We’re coming right up on it! Make a call!”

“I think he is! Get behind him!”

George braked. At the last instant, Ivan swerved into the exit lane, going so fast that George thought he might careen right off the curve. George followed him.

“Slow down!” Lou shouted.

George braked some more as they drove onto the highway exit. Ivan’s car shot up ahead of them, but that was better than having the van fly right off the road.

“A dud,” Lou muttered. “I can’t believe it. He’s one lucky bastard.”

“Oh, no. He most certainly is not. It’s just going to be worse for him when we finally catch him.”

Having made it around the curve, George accelerated to catch up with Ivan. They couldn’t let him out of their sight, in case he decided to bring innocent people into this again. Nobody else was going to die.

“I’m just going to ram him,” said George. “Knock him right off the road.”

Before Lou could protest, George floored the accelerator again. The van rocketed forward as they pulled onto the four-lane street. There was a traffic light just ahead, showing amber.

“Cop!” Lou said.

George instinctively braked. Ivan sped through the light just before it turned red.

“Don’t run it!” Lou warned. “If we have to waste time with a cop he’ll get away completely.”

They waited at the light, hoping this particular police officer was not looking for a white van matching their description.

It was a long, agonizing red light.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” said George.

“We’ve got the tracer. We can still find him.”

George impatiently drummed his fingers on the dashboard.

“Calm down,” said Lou. “We’re still good.”

“I’m not letting him get away.”

“I know. That’s not new information.”

“I just need to say it.”

“That’s fine. Talk it out.”

The light turned green. George drove through it, careful not to exceed the speed limit. But how were they supposed to catch Ivan if they had to obey traffic laws?

“He’s not that far ahead,” said Lou. “Keep going straight.”

“How are we supposed to throw dynamite around a place like this?” George asked. “On the highway during a high-speed chase, we can sort of get away with it, but we can’t do it here. We’ll get nabbed for sure.”

“He won’t want to get out of his car, either. He’s not going to stop around here.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am,” Lou said. Then he frowned. “Oh, shit, no, I’m not. He’s over there. He’s going into that bowling alley.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Unleashing the Beast

George was not, in concept, a fan of bowling. It was pretty much just the same thing over and over, and the best you could hope for in terms of variety was that somebody in the other lane might slip and fall on their ass. Still, he actually found the “sport” kind of fun, and bowling might have been on his future list of ways to detox from the whole miserable Ivan experience.

He had a feeling that bowling was going to be forever tainted for him.

Ivan ran through the front doors of the bowling alley. He was in human form, but though he’d gotten rid of most of the blood, it was a human form covered with cuts and holes, not to mention the fact that he only wore shredded jeans. He clearly wasn’t going inside in an attempt to blend with Uncle Frank’s bowling league.

“What should we take?” Lou asked.

George wasn’t certain. They couldn’t just run in there and start lobbing dynamite. “Okay, give me two of the grenades,” George said. “I’m going in there after him, but you take the van and drive behind the building. My job will be to chase him out one of the back entrances. When you see him, let him have it.”

“Sounds good.”

“Make sure it’s him before you start throwing dynamite.”

“I can handle that.”

“If he kills me, avenge me.” George pulled the van right up in front of the bowling alley. There were no screaming people rushing out of the exit yet, so things still had the potential not to completely lose control. George took two of the grenades from Lou, slipped one into each pocket, then got out of the van and ran inside the building.

He glanced around. Surprisingly decent music played over some speakers. He could die to Guns n’ Roses if he had to. Only about five of the twenty or so lanes looked like they were being used. Obviously it wasn’t League Night. Some guy dropped to his knees and raised his hands, apparently cursing the heavens as he got a gutter ball.

Where was Ivan?

The main desk where you paid for your game and got your shoes was to the right, so Ivan probably would’ve gone in the other direction. George turned to the left and walked, bracing himself for a werewolf attack at any moment.

There he was. In the game room. Seated in a stool in front of Ms. Pac-Man. Facing George and not the video game.

Ivan held up his hands to show that they were empty. His voice sounded tired, resigned. “Why are you still following me, George?”

“We’ve already been over this. You’re a killer.”

“And I’m going to continue to be a killer as long as you follow me. How many people do you think are in this bowling alley?”

“It doesn’t matter. What you did before--it’s never going to happen again.”

“Look, George, we both have the potential to be reasonable men. This is stupid. You don’t want me to kill any more innocent people, and I don’t want you following me trying to blow up my car. Remember when you wanted to cut a deal? I’m ready to cut a deal.”

George shook his head. “We’re not giving you any money.”

“I don’t want money. I want peace. Just a few hours of peace.” He smirked at George. “Oh, by the way, are those grenades in your pocket or your testicles for safekeeping?”

“They’re grenades.”

“So why don’t you throw one at me?”

“I’m here to talk, just like you,” said George. That wasn’t even remotely the truth, but if he was going to successfully use the grenades, he’d have to catch Ivan unaware. The last thing George needed was to throw a grenade and have it batted right back in his face.

Or he could shove one down Ivan’s throat and pull the pin. That idea worked, too.

“We’re two sides of the same coin, you and me,” said Ivan.

“No, we’re not.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Forget I said it. Just trying to connect. However, I really do think we can talk this one out, because you’ve got something I want, and I’ve got something you want. Those are the two elements in a successful deal, my friend.”

“So what is it you want?” George asked. “For me to just let you go? That’s not going to happen.”

“I’m not asking for a permanent treaty. I just want you to tell me where the tracking chip is, and then I’ll leave. Nobody else dies today.”

“It’s in your leg.”

“Wrong. See, I can tell when you’re lying to me. That’s how close we’ve grown. They didn’t tell you where it was, huh?”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Figures. So my next request is to watch you smash the tracking device. Take all of your frustration out on it. Pretend it’s me. I know Bateman and Dewey can still follow me, but all I want now is to get you off my tail.”

“You don’t have a tail.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m thankful for that.”

George cleared his throat. “Well, Ivan, despite my appearance, I am indeed a businessman. You’re right, we both want something from each other. My question is, how can I trust you? You can watch us stomp on the tracer, but if we’re supposed to let you go, how do I know you won’t turn the corner and start killing people?”

“Well, that’s a tricky one. The answer is that I don’t want to kill anybody else tonight.” Ivan held up his arms, revealing a mostly healed but still hideous gash on each of them. “I’m tired. I’ve got all of those bullets in me that have to be taken out. I’ve murdered a lot of people today, more than you even saw, and it’s like an Olympic athlete setting a world record--they don’t want to jump right back in the pool and try for another one.”

“I’m not sure that metaphor is correct, but continue.”

“All I want to do is hide out and rest for a while. My promise to you is that I won’t kill anybody else. I’m not even planning to stay in the country.”

“Neither are we.”

“Well, shit, let’s just make sure we’re fleeing to different countries and everything will be fine.”

“Sorry.”

“Then how about we settle this over a game of Ms. Pac-Man? You get high score, I’ll surrender myself to you. I get high score, you leave me alone. Fair?”

“Now I feel like you’re stalling.”

“You know, George, I’ve tried to be friendly during this little discussion. Make a deal, go our separate ways, and end this in a reasonably pleasant manner. But I don’t get the impression that you want to work with me.”

“I wonder why?”

“Because you’re a fucking idiot. If they can find me wherever I go, then I have nothing to lose. Do you think I want them to hunt me down in a cheap motel and take me out while I sleep? Fuck that. If you’re not going to cut a deal, then I’m just going to go out in a big-ass blaze of glory and kill every fucking person in this place.”

“All right,” said George. “We’ll destroy the tracer.”

“Thank you. Call Lou.”

“You don’t want to see it in person?”

“I’m sure he’s got video capability on his phone. Tell him to video himself stomping the tracer to pieces and then send it to you.”

A little kid, maybe seven or eight years old, walked into the game room.

“The arcade is closed,” Ivan informed him.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Are you really going to argue this with me? It’s closed. Get out of here.”

The little kid gave Ivan the finger and left.

“You know,” said Ivan, “there was a time when kids would respect their elders. They don’t even respect their parents anymore. If I’d flipped off an adult when I was that age, my middle finger would be in a cast.”

“Mine, too.”

“It’s really sad where society has fallen. I mean, I’m not going to sit here and try to convince you that I’m helping society in any way, but compare the impact of me killing a few people to the overall damage done by the fact that our nation’s youth no longer has any shred of respect for their elders. If you could trade my killings for a generation that doesn’t give adults the finger in arcades, wouldn’t that be a good deal?”

“What the fuck are you even talking about? That’s like your whole vagina-with-teeth speech.” Either the werewolf was having a mental breakdown, or he was trying to distract George from some sneaky plan that he was working out. George needed to cut this conversation short.

He took out his cell phone and punched in Lou’s number.

Ivan seemed to visibly relax.

That was good. Real good.

George knew that Ivan could not be trusted. The second Lou trashed that tracing device, Ivan would change into his wolf-self and go on another slaughter spree, laughing the entire time. “Oooops, sorry, George! I thought you knew not to trust a homicidal lycanthrope maniac! Better luck next time!”

Let him go, even without destroying the tracer, and Ivan could rack up another twenty, thirty, fifty corpses before they found him again.

He just needed a moment to catch the werewolf off-guard.

This looked like a good one.

George did not have the advantage of being able to transform into a literal wolfman, but he’d stored up a shitload of anger today. There was absolutely no reason to try to control it anymore.

“Lou? I’m going to need you to destroy the tracer and video it. Don’t argue with me! Goddamn it, Lou, just do it! Send me the video the second you’re done.”

He hung up.

“How about a quick game while we wait?” George asked, stepping over to the video game. “I didn’t think you could find Ms. Pac-Man anymore. That’s pretty cool. I suppose you were a fan of that werewolf game.”

“Which one?”

“That one from the 80’s. With the werewolf.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s that one where--” George grabbed Ivan and threw him to the floor. As Ivan transformed, George dropped onto him, knees landing on his stomach, and pulled the grenade out of his pocket.

He slammed the grenade against Ivan’s mouth, breaking off another fang. Ivan snarled and twisted his wolf-head to the left and right, struggling against the attack, but George summoned every ounce of his rage and jammed the grenade in there.

George took a claw to the arm. He didn’t let that distract him from his purpose. Ivan was much stronger, but George only needed to hold him down for a few more seconds...

The grenade was in there deep enough for the son of a bitch to choke on it, but Ivan’s head was thrashing so violently that George couldn’t get at the pin.

He grabbed for it, not even caring if he lost a couple of fingers in the process. Ivan’s tongue slid over his hand as George’s index finger curled over the grenade pin.

He yanked it out.

And at that moment, Ivan’s rage surpassed George’s own. He pushed himself up, sending George tumbling to the floor, then spat the grenade at him.

It landed on George’s chest.

He scooped it up and tossed it. He was suddenly more concerned with getting the explosive off of his chest than taking out the werewolf, so his throw went wild. The grenade bounced against the console of a classic Centipede machine and exploded, shattering the screen and sending debris flying.

Ivan flexed his claws.

George quickly dug the other grenade out of his pocket.

Ivan ran out of the arcade.

George got up. His legs, burnt from the dynamite, now felt like they were actively on fire, but he pushed through it. He’d have plenty of time to wallow in agony later.

He ran out of the arcade after him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The Final Fight

The explosion had already started a flood of terrified people fleeing for the exit, and the werewolf running out of the arcade added to the screams. George was right behind him.

Though he didn’t want to waste his last grenade, if Ivan went for kills rather than escape, this might be George’s last chance to use it before Ivan started slicing his way through a bunch of innocent people. If he could at least keep Ivan from going out the main entrance, the werewolf might try to run out the back, in which case Lou could take care of him.

A heavyset woman nearly knocked George over in her stampede to get out of there. Ivan was not going for the entrance--he was going for a crowd of people at the snack bar.

George had only a few seconds before a grenade would cause collateral damage. He pulled out the pin and lobbed the grenade at Ivan’s back.

It came up short, but not too short. The grenade went off as it hit the floor, spraying Ivan with incendiary material. He stumbled, lurched forward, and fell.

George rushed at him.

The werewolf was back up before he got there, but Ivan changed direction, jumping down a few stairs to the actual bowling lanes. Every step felt like his legs were being pressed against a hot grill, but George continued to follow him.

George jumped down the five stairs. With the impact, he literally believed that his legs were going to collapse underneath him like an accordion, but they mercifully remained intact.

Ivan ran onto the lane.

Then he slipped.

He didn’t fall, but the slip was all George needed. He scooped up a bowling ball and did an overhead throw, hurling it at Ivan’s back.

Unlike the grenade, this throw did not come up short. The ten or twelve pound ball struck Ivan in the center of the back, knocking him down onto the shiny wooden lane.

George jammed his fingers into the holes of another bowling ball and ran onto the lane with the werewolf.

If he ever got to retell this story, George would enhance this portion, laughing gently as he told his grandchildren about how he rolled the ball down the center of the lane, bashing the werewolf in the face. And then I shouted “strike!” he’d tell them.

Instead, he adjusted his grip so that he held the bowling ball with both hands, and brought it down upon Ivan’s head.

Though Ivan’s skull didn’t crack open, the force of the blow definitely left a dent.

George bashed him again. Then once more.

The ball popped out of George’s hands and rolled into the gutter.

Ivan scrambled forward. George wrapped his arms around the werewolf’s leg, forcing him to drag George along with him. George tried to rip off chunks of fur as they moved down the bowling lane.

He was losing his grip on Ivan. He couldn’t let that happen. What if the werewolf ran back the way they’d come, rushing out the main entrance and hacking up new victims left and right?

Ivan got one of his legs free, and kicked George in the face. It definitely drew blood. George didn’t care.

Several pins fell. Was some idiot really still bowling?

No, it was Lou, coming to the rescue.

Lou kicked away the remaining pins and crawled through the back entrance to the lane. Later--again, if he survived--George would thank him profusely for deviating from the plan. If Lou had been in here and George had heard explosions, he probably would’ve come in to make sure everything was okay, too.

Lou picked up a bowling pin as he got back to his feet.

George made another grab for Ivan’s legs. Ivan caught George’s wrists and gave them a powerful tug that sent twin bolts of pain all the way to his shoulders. Both of George’s arms flopped uselessly onto the lane. He would’ve expected it to hurt twice as much as when he’d had one shoulder dislocated earlier, but it hurt a lot more than that.

Ivan ran at Lou.

Lou swung the pin, bashing it so hard across Ivan’s face that the pin broke in half in a shower of wood chips.

George couldn’t catch his breath. He felt like he might be having a heart attack. Considering the amount of pain he was in at the moment, that sounded almost relaxing.

* * *

Lou slammed the broken pin into Ivan’s chest, trying to use it like a broken bottle. The splinters wouldn’t kill him, but Lou just needed to hurt Ivan enough to make him run away. If he ran away, Lou was confident that he could get him with the dynamite that was currently wedged into the waist of his pants.

Mostly confident, anyway.

He really hoped that stuff was stable.

* * *

Ivan had no intention of running away.

He was going to fuck these guys up.

* * *

George rolled onto his side, prayed that his shoulder was in the right spot, and bashed himself against the bowling lane. He thought he might be screaming louder than the blast of the grenades, but he didn’t care. God that hurt.

He repeated the process with the other shoulder.

Lou seemed to be holding up...well, poorly. He’d gotten in some good hits, but the werewolf was nowhere near out of commission.

* * *

Lou punched Ivan in the stomach. It was a solid, powerful blow, yet it did nothing.

What if he lit the fuse? Blew them both up.

He’d kill himself, but end the werewolf’s rampage forever.

No. Fuck suicide, even heroic sacrifice suicide. He’d poke out the werewolf’s eyeballs, kick him away, then blow his ass up, after which, he and George should probably make a hasty retreat for the exit. They were having good luck with the slow arrival of law enforcement agencies today, but that winning streak couldn’t last forever.

He extended his thumb and jabbed at Ivan’s right eye.

Ivan grabbed Lou’s wrist, twisted it, and then shoved it into his mouth.

Lou shrieked as the werewolf’s fangs tore through muscle and crunched through bone.

* * *

He bit his hand off! Holy shit! He bit Lou’s hand off!

George’s arms still weren’t working right, but he managed to push himself to his feet. His partner stumbled backwards, slipped in the gutter, and landed hard, blood spraying from his arm.

Ivan gulped down his hand and licked his bloody chops.

Then he frowned.

Shook his head violently.

Gagged.

“The cross!” Lou shouted. “He swallowed the cross!”

Ivan spat out some foam and clutched at his throat. George staggered over to the werewolf. He couldn’t believe it. Lou had been right--that furry son of a bitch couldn’t deal with a cross, at least one that was sliding down his goddamn windpipe.

If that cross was burning through his insides, George had to make sure it didn’t take an efficient route.

Knowing that Ivan was an agent of Satan or something like that made George feel even better about the violence he needed to inflict. He punched Ivan in the face, sending bloody spew flying into the air. Ivan’s lower jaw went off-center. A dime-sized hole formed in his throat.

No. That wasn’t good enough.

George kicked Ivan’s feet out from under him. The werewolf fell. George got down with him. Ivan’s eyes were wide with fright as the tiny silver cross continued to do its damage.

Ivan’s entire body began to shift from wolf to human and back again, a wave of transformation that ran back and forth from head to toe.

George punched him in the face, then grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to a sitting position. He didn’t want the cross to burn out through the back of his neck.

Had to get the heart.

Ivan wailed and swiped at George, but they were weak efforts. Another spot of blood appeared on Ivan’s chest, so George tilted him, hoping that he was aiming the cross properly.

Ivan’s face became human. He tried to say something but couldn’t speak. Probably trying to get in one last smart-ass comment.

Too bad for him.

With a sudden burst of strength, Ivan leaned his head forward and bit at George’s arm. His human teeth scraped harmlessly across George’s flesh.

Then Ivan gasped, loudly.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

Blood poured from his mouth as all strength vanished from his body.

George let him drop.

Ivan, his body half-human, half-wolfman, lay motionless on the bowling lane.

Dead.

Finally.

George tore off his shirt as he hurried over and pulled Lou to his feet. He quickly wrapped the shirt around Lou’s bleeding stump, as tightly as he could.

“It’s going to be fine,” said George. “I promise.”

Lou looked like a zombie, but he hadn’t completely checked out quite yet. “Is he dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, good.”

“Just come with me,” George said. “If we can beat the cops, everything will be fine.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Wrap-Up

“The werewolf is dead,” said Bateman. The phone felt like a live grenade in his hand.

“I know. I saw.” Mr. Dewey’s tone was hard to figure out. Bateman assumed that it was “tightly controlled rage.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Bateman insisted. “The guys we hired had an excellent reputation. It was just a simple transport job. He was in a durable cage. Nothing should have gone wrong.”

“And yet we’re left with a dead werewolf.”

“I’m sorry. We did our best.”

“I have a huge amount of resources at my disposal, Mr. Bateman. Resources that are no longer of any use to me. Therefore, I’m going to devote these resources to making the rest of your life extraordinarily unpleasant.”

Bateman’s throat went dry. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yes, I most certainly am. You have just made yourself the worst, and last, enemy of your life.”

“Hey, you can’t blame me! You want revenge, blame the guys who lost him! You can’t come after me for this! I never had to offer him to you in the first place!”

“But you did, and you gave me false hope. I believe that responsibility always starts at the top. I have no interest in the lowlife thugs you hired to do your dirty work. This is all on you.”

“Let’s talk about this.”

“We are talking. It’s over for you, Mr. Bateman. Goodbye.”

Mr. Dewey hung up. “Hey!” Bateman shouted into the phone. “Hey! You can’t do this!”

He tossed the phone against the wall, shattering it. Oh, God, he was so very screwed. He threw up onto his new carpet, then ran out of his office.

“Dad, what’s wrong?” Bryan asked. The dumb-ass was playing video games, right there in the living room where Bateman could see, even though he’d been strictly forbidden to do so.

“Pack your things!”

“Why?”

“Because I said so, you stupid fuck!”

“But I’ve got a date with Mindy tonight!”

Bateman ran across the living room and kicked the widescreen TV as hard as he could, putting a huge hole in the center of the screen. The satisfaction he felt was minimal, but Bryan did get up and hurry off to his room.

Bateman threw up again, then ran off to pack.

* * *

Jonathan Dewey sat silently in his chair.

Helena put her hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be okay, honey. We’ll find another way. It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

He pulled away from her hand. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I just meant--”

“Werewolves do not die of brain tumors, Helena! I had a chance, and now it’s ruined!”

“But--”

“Shut up. Get out of here and leave me alone. I have to send some people off to bring me Bateman’s head.”

* * *

“We got ripped off, bad,” said George.

“Well, I’m sorry we weren’t given the opportunity to seek medical care that would have been covered by my insurance.” Lou poked at the heavy bandage over his stump.

“We needed that money.”

“Yeah, well, excuse me for getting my hand bit off by a werewolf. If I’d known that it would cause problems with our financial situation, I never would have let him do that. I thought you were going to donate everything to charity anyway. Become a better person.”

“I never said I was going to donate everything to charity. But I am going to become a better person. Deal with it.”

It had been a rough two days. George had thought that Lou was indeed going to bleed to death as they sped away from the bowling alley. He pulled behind the next building, made a tourniquet out of a crossbow bolt and a rag he found in the van, and got the bleeding under control.

The process of cauterization had been ugly.

After a few panicked calls, they found a doctor of ill-repute who was willing to patch up their wounds and hide them away for a couple of days, in exchange for almost all of the cash in the briefcase.

“You couldn’t have got us a car with more legroom?” Lou asked, shifting uncomfortably. “I can’t make it all the way to Canada in this.”

“Then we’ll go to Mexico.”

“Seriously, George. We need to steal something else.”

“Yeah, let’s steal a big roomy clown car with flashing lights that makes wacky sound effects. We certainly wouldn’t want to be in a non-descript automobile when cops, bad guys, and the general public are all looking for us.”

“I didn’t say it had to be a clown car. Just something roomier.”

“At least your arm takes up less room now.”

Lou frowned at him. “Are you really going to make jokes about my hand? Seriously?”

“I’m just trying to make you laugh so you don’t cry.”

“I’m not gonna cry.”

“Good.”

“Do you think I’m a werewolf now?”

“Are you bringing that up again?

“Is it really such a terrible thing if I want reassurance? I got bit. I got bit really, really bad.” He held up his bandaged stump. “See?”

“You saw how quickly it affected Michele. It’s been two days. Maybe it’s a special kind of bite. An injection or something.”

“I hope so.”

“I told you, I’m going to watch over you. You start to feel wolfy, we’ll put you in the trunk. Everything’s going to be fine. I didn’t get my throat torn out by Ivan, so I’m sure as hell not going to get it torn out by you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m feeling optimistic.”

“So am I.”

Lou turned on the radio. Some hip-hop music blared over the speakers. “Do you like this song?”

“It’s crap.”

“Good. I think we’ll listen to it.” Lou began to move his head back and forth to the beat. “Groove with me, George.”

“You look like an idiot.”

“I’m an idiot with rhythm. C’mon, groove with me.”

George watched him for a moment, then smiled. He cranked up the volume and the two thugs grooved off into the sunset.

THE END

About Jeff Strand:

Jeff Strand is the four-time Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of such insane novels as PRESSURE, DWELLER, BENJAMIN’S PARASITE, A BAD DAY FOR VOODOO, and GRAVEROBBERS WANTED (NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY). He is grateful for yet another opportunity to piggyback off of more successful authors. He lives in Tampa, Florida, and complains about cold weather in the 60’s. You can visit his Gleefully Macabre website at www.jeffstrand.com

Other Books by Jeff Strand

A Bad Day For Voodoo

Stalking you Now

I Have A Bad Feeling About This

Dead Clown Barbecue

Faint of Heart

Fangboy

The Sinister Mr. Corpse

Dweller

Benjamin’s Parasite

Pressure

Kutter

Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary)

Single White Psychopath Seeks Same

Casket For Sale (Only Used Once)

Lost Homicidal Maniac (Answers to “Shirley”)

Gleefully Macabre Tales

The Severed Nose

Disposal

Mandibles

Elrod McBugle on the Loose

Out of Whack

How to Rescue a Dead Princess

The Haunted Forest Tour (with Jim Moore)

Draculas (with JA Konrath, Blake Crouch, and F. Paul Wilson)

Suckers (with JA Konrath)

EERIE
a thriller

by BLAKE CROUCH

& JORDAN CROUCH

EERIE copyright © 2012 by Blake Crouch & Jordan Crouch

EERIE is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Blake Crouch and Jordan Crouch.

From newcomer Jordan Crouch and Blake Crouch, author of the runaway bestseller Run, comes Eerie, a chilling, gothic thriller in the classic tradition of The Shining and The Sixth Sense.

TRAPPED INSIDE A HOUSE

On a crisp autumn evening in 1980, seven-year-old Grant Moreton and his five-year-old sister Paige were nearly killed in a mysterious accident in the Cascade Mountains that left them orphans.

WITH A FRIGHTENING POWER

It’s been thirty years since that night. Grant is now a detective with the Seattle Police Department and long estranged from his sister. But his investigation into the bloody past of a high-class prostitute has led right to Paige’s door, and what awaits inside is beyond his wildest imagining.

OVER ANYONE WHO ENTERS

His only hope of survival and saving his sister will be to confront the terror that inhabits its walls, but he is completely unprepared to face the truth of what haunts his sister’s brownstone.

You don’t have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.—C.S. Lewis

OCTOBER 1980

“How much longer, Daddy?” Grant Moreton asks from the backseat of the ‘74 Impala. The boy catches a glimpse of his father’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They aren’t angry or even stern. Just tired and sad—the way they’ve looked for the past year.

“We’re five minutes closer than the last time you asked. Do you remember how long I said it would be then?”

“Twenty minutes?”

“That’s right. So what’s twenty minus five?”

Grant glances over at the girl with braided pigtails sitting beside him. He is two years older than Paige, but his five-almost-six-year-old sister already understands math in a way he never will.

“What is it?” he whispers. “What’s the answer?”

“No cheating,” their father says. “Your sister helps out too much with your homework as it is.”

Grant stares through the window as he tries to calculate the answer. There are mountains out there, but nothing to see at this time of night beyond the occasional glint of light from a distant house or a passing car.

On the radio: game six of the World Series. The Phillies are on the brink of beating the Kansas City Royals and the roar of the crowd comes like white noise through the speakers.

Grant feels a thump on the side of his leg. He looks over. Paige leans in, whispers, “It’s fifteen.”

He glances at the rearview to make sure their father hasn’t noticed this treason.

“Fifteen,” he says.

“You sure about that?”

Grant shoots her a sidelong look.

She responds with an almost imperceptible nod.

“I’m sure.”

“That’s right. Nice job, Paige.”

Grant flushes with embarrassment, but in the mirror, his father’s eyes are gentle.

“No worries, kiddo. That’s what sisters are for.”

Jim Moreton rolls down his window and flicks his cigarette outside. Grant glances back, watches it hit the pavement in a spray of sparks.

A sharp chilled blast of Douglas-fir fills the car.

They ride on in silence listening to the game.

Through the windshield, the road ahead of them winds, steadily climbing, the double yellow emerging out of nothing into the burn of the headlights.

The boy rests his head against the window. He shuts his eyes and retrieves the square of fabric from his pocket. Brings it to his nose. Breathes in the smell of his mother’s nightgown. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pull the scene together, the way it should be—her in the passenger seat, his father’s arm stretched across the back of her headrest. Grant is having a harder time picturing her face lately without help from a photograph, but the timbre of her voice retains sharper and truer than ever. If she were in the car right now, she’d be talking over the game. Playfully arguing with Jim about the volume of the radio, how fast he was driving, the graceless way he slingshots the car through each hairpin turn. Grant opens his eyes, and even though he knows she won’t be there, the shock of the empty seat still registers.

Just fifteen minutes until we’re there.

More than a year has passed since their last visit to the cabin, and so much changed it’s like the memory belongs to someone else. They had driven up into the Cascades in the middle of summer. Their family place backed up to a small pond that stayed cold even through July. They’d stayed a month there. Days fishing and swimming. Hide-and-seek in the groves of hemlock that surrounded the property. The cold nights spent reading and playing games by the fireplace. It had been his and Paige’s job every afternoon to gather sticks and fir cones to use as kindling.

Everything about that summer is so clear in his mind. Everything except for the little boy, because he had a mother and Grant doesn’t and it hurts to remember.

“All right, here we go,” Jim Moreton says, turning up the volume on the radio, the crowd-roar swelling. “Bases loaded. Come on, Phillies. Willie’s got nothin’.”

Grant has no idea who his father is talking about, just knows that he’s done little else but watch baseball this last, awful year.

“My ears hurt, Dad,” he says.

“Mine too,” Paige echoes.

Grant’s father opens the center console and fishes through its contents until he finds an old pack of spearmint gum.

“Chew this. It’ll help.”

He passes two sticks back to the children.

A moment later, he forces a yawn and unwraps one for himself.

“Pay attention, guys,” he says through a mouthful of fresh gum. “You’ll remember this game one day.”

As a man, Grant will know everything there is to know about this game. It will assume an epic aura, in particular these final moments, this last at bat—Tug McGraw throwing to Willie Wilson, Phillies up three, but the bases loaded—Kansas City one swing away from total defeat or the comeback of the century.

Years later, Grant will watch the last strike on a videotape. See Willie Wilson swing and miss, thinking how strange it is to know what was happening to that ‘74 Impala, to his father, his sister, himself, on a remote highway in Washington State at the exact moment Tug threw his arms into the air and danced off the pitcher’s mound, a World Series champion.

Riding in the backseat of the car as the world waits for the final pitch, Grant sees the headlights fire to life a sign on the side of the highway.

Stevens Pass

ELEVATION 4061

But the pitch never comes.

There is no end to the game.

Grant is trying to slide the patch of his mother’s nightgown back into his pocket when Paige screams. He looks up, a wall of blinding light pouring through the windshield. As the tires begin to screech, he’s thrown violently against his sister who crashes into the door. The last thing he sees is the guardrail racing toward them, glowing brighter and brighter as the headlights close in.

The violence of the bumper punching through is cataclysmic, and then the noise drops away.

No sound but the revving engine.

Tires spinning like mad and nothing underneath them.

Grant’s stomach lifts with the same weightless ache he experienced the time he rode a roller coaster.

The radio is still on, the airwaves now riddled with static.

The play-by-play announcer, whose name Grant will one day learn is Joe Garagiola, says, “The crowd will tell you what happens.”

Paige says, “Daddy?”

Their father says, “Oh shit.”

# # #

Grant opens his eyes.

The engine is hissing and the tires still barely spinning—above him.

The Impala is inverted. The radio gone silent. One headlight is busted; the other blazes intermittently. Through the fractured windshield, he sees the beam shining into an upside-down forest where mist lingers between the tall, straight trunks.

An image that will haunt him to the end of his days.

He calls out to his father.

Jim Moreton doesn’t answer. He’s crumpled into the steering column, the side of his face gleaming with blood and sparkling with bits of glass.

He is so terribly still.

Grant looks over at his sister. Like him, she hangs by her lap belt. Grant reaches down, unfastens his, and falls onto the ceiling, crying out as a flare of pain rides up the bone of his left leg.

Tears stream down his face.

His head throbs.

“Paige?”

She groans. He’s lying under her now. Reaching up, he takes hold of her hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Paige, can you hear me?”

It’s too dark to see if her eyes are open.

“What happened?” she asks quietly.

Something wet is dripping on his face.

“We wrecked.”

“My chest hurts.”

“It’s okay, Paigy.”

“It hurts really bad. Why are we upside down? Daddy?”

No answer.

“Daddy?”

“He’s hurt,” Grant says.

Her voice kicks up an octave. “Daddy?”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Grant says, though he has no idea if there’s even a shred of truth to the statement.

“I want my daddy.”

“He can’t hear you right now, Paige.”

“Is he dead?”

That possibility hasn’t occurred to Grant until this moment.

“Touch him,” she cries. “Make him answer.”

Grant turns his attention to the front seat. His father is upside down, still buckled in, a string of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth onto the roof. The boy reaches out, touches his father’s shoulder.

“Dad?”

His father makes no response.

Grant strains to hear if he’s breathing, but the noise of the spinning tires and the hiss of the dying engine make it impossible to tell.

“Dad,” he whispers. “Wake up.”

“Is he alive?” Paige begs.

“I don’t know.”

She begins to cry.

Hysterical.

“It’s gonna be all right,” Grant says.

“No,” she screams.

Grant leans in closer. He will never forget the smell of blood.

“Dad,” he whispers. “It’s Grant.”

His father’s hands still clench around the steering wheel. “Please do something if ... if you’re okay. If you can hear me. Just make a sound.”

He will never recover from the silence.

“What’s happening, Grant?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is Daddy okay?”

The tears are coming. Grant tries to hold back the sob, but there’s no stopping it. He lies on the glass-covered roof and cries with his sister for a long time.

# # #

The engine has gone silent.

The last spinning wheel creaked to a halt.

Cold mountain air streams in through the busted windows.

Grant has unbuckled his sister and helped her out of the seat, and now they lie side-by-side on the roof, huddled together and shivering.

The air becomes redolent of wet evergreen trees. Rain is falling, pattering on the pine-needled floor of the forest and on the Impala’s undercarriage.

The headlight dims away, now just a feeble swath of light.

The boy has no concept of how long they’ve been upended on this mountainside.

“Can you check Dad again?” Paige asks.

“I can’t move my leg anymore.”

“Why?”

“It hurts a lot and it’s stiff.”

In the darkness, the boy finds his sister’s hand and holds it.

“Do you think Daddy’s dead?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Are we going to die?”

“Someone will find us.”

“But what if they don’t come?”

“Then I’ll crawl up the mountain and find someone myself.”

“But your leg is hurt.”

“I can do it if I have to.”

“What’s it called,” she says, “when you don’t have a mom or a dad?”

“Orphan.”

Grant braces against another push of fear-fueled emotion. So many questions springing up he feels like he’s drowning.

Where will they live?

Who will pay for their food?

Their clothes?

Will he have to get a job?

Who will make them go to bed?

Who will fix their meals?

Make them eat good food?

Who will make them go to school?

“Is that what we are now, Grant?” Paige asks. “Are we orphans?”

“No, we’re brother and sister, Paige.”

“What if—”

“No matter what happens, I’ll take care of you.”

“But you’re only seven.”

“So?”

“You don’t even know how to add.”

“But you do. And I can do the other stuff. We can help each other. Like how Mom and Dad did.”

Grant turns over in the dark, his face inches away from Paige’s. Her breath smells faintly of spearmint gum. It warms his face sweetly.

“Don’t be scared, Paige.”

“But I am.” Her voice breaks.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Swear.”

“I swear to you, Paige. I’ll protect you.”

“Will we still live in our house?”

“Of course. Where else would we live? It’ll be just like it was only I’ll be taking care of you.”

She draws in a labored wheeze.

“It hurts when I breathe.”

“Then don’t breathe hard.”

Grant wants to call out to their father again, but he fears it might upset her.

“I’m cold, Grant.”

“Me too.”

“How long until someone finds us?”

“They’ll be here soon. Do you want to hear a story while we wait?”

“No.”

“Not even your favorite?”

“Which one?”

“The one about the crazy scientist in the castle on the hill.”

“It’s too scary.”

“You always say that. But this one’s different.”

Through the windshield, the beam of light has weakened such that it only offers a yellowed patch of illumination on the nearest tree.

“How is it different?”

“I can’t just tell you. It’ll ruin it.”

“Okay.” Paige moves in closer.

Outside, the headlight expires.

Pitch black inside the car now.

The rain is falling harder, and for a moment, Grant is paralyzed by the horror of it all.

“Come on,” Paige says.

She nudges him in the dark.

Grant begins, his voice unsteady: “Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Paige.”

“Just like me?”

“Just like you. And she had an older brother named Grant.”

“Just like you.”

He blinks through the tears reforming in his eyes.

Fights through the tremor in his voice.

Don’t cry.

The mantra for a lifetime.

“Yes, just like me.”

“Did they have parents?”

Everything inside the car is terribly still, but the woods around them have become alive in the silence. Rain pelts the carpet of leaves on the forest floor. Things snap in the darkness. The hoot of a lonesome owl goes unanswered.

The world outside is huge—so many things for a little boy to be afraid of.

“No. Paige and Grant lived in a beautiful house all by themselves, and they were very brave.”

THIRTY-ONE YEARS LATER

Chapter 1

“Where’d you go for lunch?” Sophie asked.

Grant shook his head as he typed Benjamin Seymour and Seattle into the Google query box.

“I’m not playing this game.”

“Come on. Don’t make me go through your receipts.”

“Will my participation in this conversation make it end sooner?”

“The Panda Express at Northgate?”

“Nope.”

“Subway?”

Grant frowned at his partner across the border fence that divided their desks into equal surface areas—two messy inboxes, stacks of files, blank narrative forms, expense reports, a shared, miniature artificial Christmas tree.

“Subway it was.” Sophie scribbled on a pad. She looked good today—a charcoal-colored pantsuit with a lavender blouse and a matching necklace, turquoise with silver fringing. She was of African and Native American descent. Sometimes, Grant thought he could see the Cherokee lineage in her dark almond eyes and hair so purely straight and black it shimmered like the blued steel of his service carry, an H&K P2000. They’d been working together since Benington had transferred to the North precinct two years ago.

“What are you writing down?” Grant asked.

“Keep in mind I haven’t adjusted for wherever you eat on the weekends, but so far this year, I have seventy-nine documented visits to Subway.”

“That’s the best detective work I’ve ever seen you do, Benington.”

“Got a few more numbers for you.”

Grant surrendered, setting his work aside.

“Fine. Let’s hear them.”

“Forty. Three hundred sixteen. And, oh my God, one thousand five hundred eighty.”

“Never mind, I don’t want to know this.”

“Forty is the approximate time in minutes you’ve waited while they toasted your sandwich, three hundred sixteen is the number of cheese slices you’ve eaten this year, and finally, one thousand five hundred eighty little round meat shapes have given their lives during the spicy Italian genocide of twenty-eleven.”

“Where did you get those numbers?”

“Google and basic math. Does Subway sponsor you?”

“It’s a solid restaurant,” Grant said, turning back to his computer.

“It’s not a restaurant.”

On the far side of the room, he could hear the sergeant chewing someone’s ass through the telephone. Otherwise, the cluster of desks and cubes stood mostly empty. The only other detective on the floor was Art Dobbs, the man on a much quieter, more civilized phone call.

Grant studied his search results which had returned a hundred thousand hits.

“Damn,” he said.

“What?”

“Getting no love on my search. Guy was pretty quiet for a big spender.”

Grant appended the word attorney to the string and tried again.

Just twenty-eight hundred hits this time, the first page dominated by Seymour’s firm’s website and numerous legal search engine results.

“Was?” Sophie said. “That’s kind of cold.”

“He’s been missing ...” Grant glanced at his watch “... forty-nine hours.”

“Still possible he just left town and didn’t feel like telling the world.”

“No, I spoke with a few of his partners this morning. They described him as a man who played hard but worked even harder. He had a trial scheduled to begin this morning and I was assured that Seymour never let his extracurriculars interfere with work. He’s one of Seattle’s preeminent trial lawyers.”

“I never heard of him.”

“That’s ‘cause he does civil litigation.”

“Still say he went off on a bender. Probably licking his wounds as we speak in some swank hotel.”

“Well, I find it interesting,” Grant said.

“What?”

“That your missing guy—what’s his name again?”

“Talbert.”

“That Talbert has such a similar work hard/play hard profile. Real estate developer. High net worth. Mr. Life-of-the-Party. How long’s he been AWOL?”

“Three days.”

“And you think he’s just off having some ‘me time’ too?”

Sophie shook her head. “He missed meetings. Important ones. We sure these guys didn’t know each other? Decide to run off to Vegas?”

Grant shook his head. “Nothing points that way, but I’m wondering if there’s a connection we’ve missed.”

The roasted earthiness of brewing coffee wafted in from the break room.

The copy machine began to chug in a distant corner.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“This is just a stab in the dark, but what sort of trouble might two wealthy, workaholic playboys such as these get themselves into?”

“Drugs.”

“Sure, but I didn’t get the sense that Seymour was into anything harder than a lot of high-end booze and a little weed. It’s not exactly a life-and-death proposition scoring in this city.”

“Women.”

“Yep.”

Sophie smiled, a beautiful thing.

She said, “So you’re theorizing our boys were murdered by a serial killer prostitute?”

“Not ready to go that far yet. Just saying let’s explore this direction.”

“And this hunch is based on ...”

“Nothing at all.”

“Glad to see you don’t let your training get in the way of your job.”

“Can’t train instinct, Sophie. You’re on Facebook, right?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you call it when you ask someone to be your friend? Other than pathetic.”

She rolled her eyes. “A friend request.”

“Send one to Talbert and Seymour. I’ll call my contact at Seymour’s office and see if they can log into his account and accept your request. You do the same with Talbert’s people.”

“You want me to go through and compare their lists of friends.”

“Maybe we get lucky and they share some female acquaintances. Facebook is the new street corner.” Grant glanced at his watch. “I gotta get outta here.”

He stood, grabbed his jacket.

“You’re just gonna leave all this to me?”

“Sorry, but I have to drive out to Kirkland. Haven’t been in six weeks.”

Sophie’s eyes softened.

“No problem. I’ll get on this.”

Chapter 2

Construction paper ornaments hung in chains along the walls of the empty visiting room where Grant sat. Every season, the patients of the acute psychiatric unit who could handle a pair of scissors without hurting themselves or someone else made Christmas decorations for the less stable residents to paint. The results were all over the map. Some were nebulous shapes with smears of color. Others possessed the compulsive detail of a Franciscan altarpiece.

Grant closed the magazine. He’d lost track of how many times he’d perused it in the last year. Judging by the dates on the stack of National Geographic in front of him, the tradition was safe for the foreseeable future.

“That article on Russian warplanes must get better and better.”

Grant looked up to find an attractive nurse about his age wheeling a man through the doorway.

“A good waiting room magazine ages like fine wine,” he said, returning it to the pile. “How is he, Angela?”

“He’s been a perfect gentleman.”

The man in the wheelchair looked older and gaunter—or maybe Grant just imagined that. His tufts of gray hair could stand a trimming. Grant noticed a bandage peeking out from beneath the nurse’s sleeve.

Asked, “He didn’t do that, did he?”

“No, we keep his fingernails trimmed now. This is from a patient who had an episode last night.”

She parked the wheelchair in front of Grant.

The man’s eyes struggled to focus on him, but they had all the control of a pair of marbles.

“Hi, Dad.”

Angela smiled apologetically. “He’s a little more sedated than usual.”

Protocol was to let them know he was coming ahead of time so they could medicate his father. Without the cocktail of depressants, antipsychotics, and muscle relaxers, his father’s outbursts were vicious. Even now as his head lolled, padded restraints kept his wrists secured to the wheelchair.

“It’s dinnertime,” Angela said. “I can bring his tray in and feed him while you visit.”

“Is it four o’clock already?”

“Early bird special. Boston clam chowder. They like their routine around here.”

“Just bring the food. I’ll feed him. Thanks, Angela.”

She smiled and left.

Grant pulled his father’s chair closer and inspected him. Decades of violent tremors had ruined his physique, the joints and angles of his body gradually becoming more dramatic, muscles ropier, until finally the fifty-nine-year-old man looked like he might have just been unearthed from a tomb.

Grant’s greatest fear had once been that he’d never get his father back. But that hope didn’t survive the first few years following the crash. Now he feared that contorted body. That his father’s mind might be a lucid prisoner inside it.

Angela returned with a rolling tray, and Grant waited until she was gone before examining the food. It was corn chowder. Not clam. And definitely not Boston.

“Well, she was right about the chowder part. Let’s see what we have here.”

Grant tasted it.

“Not bad. Your turn.”

His father’s eyes followed the spoon down to the bowl. Grant submerged it and brought it up carefully.

“It’s pretty hot.”

His father leaned forward slightly to meet it.

“What do you think?”

A dribble escaped. Grant wiped his chin with the napkin.

“They doped you up pretty good this time, huh?”

His father’s eyes were vacant and heavy.

It went on like this. The son feeding his father slow spoonfuls. When the bowl was empty, he pushed the tray aside. Through the barred windows of the visiting room, the sky was darkening fast. Grant could scarcely make out the stand of evergreen trees on the southern perimeter of the grounds.

He talked about the weather. How it hadn’t flurried yet. About the downtown Christmas traffic which he knew would be waiting for him on the drive home. He talked about work. About Sophie. A movie he’d seen last month. The World Series had come and gone since his last visit, and Grant gave a blow-by-blow of how the St. Louis Cardinals made a record-breaking comeback against the Braves in the Wild Card standings, culminating with their victory over the Rangers in game seven.

“You would’ve cried,” he said.

All the while his father watched him quietly through a glassy-eyed daze that could have been mistaken for listening.

Grant finally stood. Inevitably, in these moments of departure, the stab of loss would run through Grant like a sword. He knew it was coming—every time—but there was no bracing against it. His father had been a great man—kind and brave and a pillar of comfort to his children even through the loss of Grant’s mother, his wife, even in the face of his own private hell. Grant couldn’t help but to wonder what his life might have become if his father could’ve looked him in the eyes and spoken his mind, his wisdom? And still the question persisted that had haunted Grant since the night of the accident, that the seven-year-old boy inside of him would never let go—does something in the shell of you still love me?

He kissed his old man on the forehead. “Merry Christmas, Pop.”

Ten minutes later, he was one of thousands on the congested 520 bridge, slowly making his way home in the early December dark.

Chapter 3

The Space Needle and the cone of Christmas lights at the top made fleeting appearances between the buildings as Grant inched his way home through downtown holiday traffic. First Avenue was a parking lot. As would be the Aurora Bridge that separated him from the kitchen where an expensive bottle of scotch waited—a gift from his Secret Santa at the precinct.

Grant turned the radio off and let his head rest against the window.

Should have cut out of work earlier.

Always ended up staying late at the hospital.

As the traffic crept over Pine, he caught a glimpse of the Macy’s star, white-lit and forty feet high. Further up, the Westlake Center Christmas tree stood surrounded by glum shoppers who had been at it for too long—beat down by the eternal drizzle, Christmas Muzak, traffic noise, Salvation Army bells, and pleas for spare change.

Home was Fremont. For Grant it couldn’t be anywhere else. In a few minutes he’d be over the Aurora suicide bridge with its high iron fences and winding down the hill into that bright artsy neighborhood on the banks of the Lake Union canal. The rest of the city was a Frankenstein of retro and contemporary architecture. Charming in a schizophrenic way. But Fremont had somehow braced itself against the last thirty years of sprawl. Something timeless about it he just couldn’t get enough of.

He found a decent parking spot a block away from his building and jogged through the rain up to the front steps.

His apartment was one of ten units inside a remodeled 1920’s townhome. Like so many old houses in the city, it had been endlessly expanded over the last century, and its bloat pressed up against the property lines making narrow alleys of the space between the buildings on either side.

It looks like you’re squatting in your own apartment.

Sophie’s words on one of her few visits to his Spartan one-bedroom home.

You live like a monk.

And it was true. If he didn’t need it, he didn’t own it. There was a loveseat that had come with the place. A floor lamp in the corner. A rug—chic and clearly overqualified for the space—which had been a gift from Sophie in an effort to ease her offended maternal instinct. The only other piece of furniture was the oversized table situated between the kitchen and the dining area. He ate there, worked there, and on rain-soaked Seattle nights like this, he hung his dripping North Face coat on the back of one of its chairs on the way to the kitchen to fix a drink.

Despite his affinity for hoagies and cheap Chinese food, Grant could actually cook and often spent his evenings preparing a meal while he waited for the whiskey-glow to settle in. But he didn’t feel particularly culinary tonight. Visits with his father had that effect on him. Instead, he selected a frozen block of lasagna for the microwave, poured the last two fingers from the bottle of scotch he’d gone through in—Jesus, had it only been three days?—and sat down at the table in front of his laptop.

Dinner rotated in the irradiated light behind him.

Seven new e-mails.

All but one were spam.

The legit message was from Sophie.

Subject: Our New Facebook Friends

Guess what? Talbert and Seymour share five “lady friends.” Two of them appear to be upstanding members of the community in overlapping social circles. The other three strike me as a bit more mysterious—racy profile pics, aggressive privacy settings which keep their pages suspiciously void of detailed personal info. It’s not much, but it’s a start. I think our next step is to gain direct access to the Talbert and Seymour Facebook accounts and see if we can find anything more concrete like direct messages to these women. Hope your afternoon was OK.

Sophie

Grant clicked on one of three links that followed Sophie’s e-mail and scanned the first profile. She was right. Not much to go on. There were no posts showing and most of the privacy settings had been enabled, limiting the given data to a name (undoubtedly fake), sex, city, and a lascivious profile pic no more scandalous than what a rowdy college girl might upload after a big weekend.

The next profile lacked the same personal details, and the sole method of contact would be a friend request. Grant felt the familiar exhaustion coming on that preempts a dead-end lead.

He took a larger sip of scotch and opened the last of Sophie’s links.

Adrenaline clobbered the beginnings of the evening’s buzz.

The profile pic was only a pair of eyes—big and dark and with accentuated lashes so long they seemed almost alien—but the sickening heart-lurch of recognition was unmistakable.

He clicked on the photo album, and with each image, felt the world reorienting itself around this new knowledge.

Grant reached for his jacket on the other side of the table and dug through the pockets until he found his phone. He made a mad swipe across the screen of his contact list. Names ascending in a blur.

He hadn’t used the number in almost a year.

Worried he might have deleted it.

Should have deleted it.

There it was.

He dialed.

It rang five times and defaulted to an automated voice mail message he’d heard many times before.

“Hey, Eric, it’s Grant. I need to speak with you asap. You can reach me at the number I’m calling from.”

He let the phone clatter to the table.

Outside, the rain intensified. It wasn’t just misting anymore.

Grant downed the last of the scotch and slid the glass away as the phone illuminated with a new text.

On shift until midnight.

His coat hadn’t even begun to dry.

Chapter 4

Grant pulled his black Crown Vic past two idling cabs and parked at the entrance to the Four Seasons.

A bellhop with bad acne scars said, “You leave your car there, it’ll be towed.”

Grant was already reaching for his wallet. He held it up as he passed the kid, let it fall open, his shield refracting glints of overhead light.

The bellhop called after him, “Sorry about that, sir. It’s cool.”

Grant shouldered through the revolving doors into the lobby—sleek, modern, and minimally decorated for Christmas with only a handful of evergreen wreaths hanging from the walls. There was stone and wood everywhere, a dynamite contemporary art collection, and a long fireplace near the entrance to the adjoining restaurant and lounge flooding the place with heat.

Grant spotted Eric at the concierge desk. From a distance, he didn’t cut the figure of a guy who could stumble you into any type of recreational substance or activity in the city. Looked more like a law student—twenty-four or twenty-five, clean-shaven, hair cropped and pushed forward like classic George Clooney. Tonight, he wore a black single-breasted coat over a Carolina-blue vest and matching tie. Grant waited while Eric patiently gave an older couple directions to the Space Needle, and as they shuffled off, the concierge glanced up from his brochure-laden desk. Rising, he came around to Grant, fishing a pack of Marlboro Reds out of an inner pocket of his coat.

# # #

They stood just inside the entrance overhang, protected from the weather, watching traffic crawl down Union Street.

It was cold.

Rain collected in pools along the sidewalk and streams of it sluiced down the curb toward Elliott Bay.

Eric fired a cigarette.

Grant took out his phone—already had her Facebook profile pic pulled up on the browser, her eyes dark and popping, filling the screen.

He showed it to Eric.

“Know her?”

Eric stared at Grant for a beat.

His looked at the phone.

Nodded.

“I want you to set something up for me for tonight,” Grant said.

“That’s not going to be possible. She isn’t like the others.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just so I’m clear ...” Eric dragged hard on his cigarette. “I’m talking to you as a human being, not a cop, right? I mean, this is for you, like before.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay. Good. Look, Gloria isn’t your type, man.”

Grant smiled. “I didn’t realize you’d expanded your services into matchmaking. So now you’ve acquired some sort of insight into what I want to fuck?”

“She’s two thousand for an hour. You telling me you can swing that on your public servant’s salary?”

“I didn’t come here to see a financial advisor. How do I contact her?”

“Through me.”

“Where does she work?”

“Out of her house.”

“And where’s that?”

“Queen Anne. Look, you don’t understand. She’s referral-only.”

“So refer me.”

“She takes care of a handful of clients. A very elite club.”

“I’m trying not to get offended here, Eric.”

“Haven’t I always set you up with excellent companions? All top shelf? All Johnnie Walker? But let’s shoot straight. Call it like it is. You’re a red- sometimes black-label guy. This woman is Johnnie Walker Blue all the way. Her select group of repeat clients spend between eighty and a hundred thousand dollars a year for her company. She’s not a one-shot deal, okay? It’s like you’re leasing a Lexus. There’s a commitment implied.”

“I want to see her tonight.”

“Grant—”

“Listen to me very, very carefully. I’m going into the bar to have a drink. One drink. Before I’m finished, you’re going to come into the bar and tell me that you made it happen. You’re also going to buy my drink. If these things don’t happen, Eric, I will shut you down.”

Eric threw his cigarette into a gutter, exhaling as he shook his head. “When you first came to me, I didn’t want to work with a cop. And I told you that. There’s an imbalance of power going on right here, and it’s not fair.”

“Jesus, how old are you? There is no fair. There’s only how it is. And this is how it is.”

“I could—”

Grant stepped hard and fast into the concierge’s airspace, pushed him up against the cold brick, smelled the tar and nicotine coming off his breath, his face, his hands.

“You could what, Eric?”

“She’s not gonna go for this.”

“Then tell her a pretty story. Sell it. I have faith in you. And don’t use my real name—first or last.”

He slapped Eric on the shoulder and started back toward the hotel entrance.

# # #

Grant slid into an empty chair at the corner of the bar and stared out at the darkness of the bay. Wasn’t much to see at eight thirty on a rainy Thursday night—just the reflection of lights from the waterfront buildings.

The lounge was bustling—a small crowd mingled by the floor-to-ceiling windows, everyone clutching small, still-wrapped presents.

Was Christmas just two weeks away?

Last year, he’d dropped two hundred on a world-class single malt. Spent the day plowing through the bottle and watching the Godfather trilogy for the umpteenth time. He’d passed out during the first twenty minutes of Part III—no big loss there. Maybe he’d take this Christmas in the same direction. Might be something he could almost look forward to. The start of a tradition. Or maybe he’d put a request in to stay on-call. Get lucky, catch a juicy murder.

Didn’t really matter as long as there was a plan.

As long as he didn’t let the holiday creep up and catch him off guard. Advanced preparation was the only way somebody with nobody had a prayer of surviving Christmas.

“What can I get you?”

Grant turned his attention to the tall, pretty barkeep. Black vest. Long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. The clear fresh eyes of someone who’d just come on shift.

“Johnnie Walker Blue, rocks.”

“That’s seventy-five dollars a shot, just so you know.”

“Then make it a double.”

Halfway through the glass, he sensed the warmth coming, a pleasant bleariness settling in behind his eyes. But strangely, he didn’t feel calmer. Not at all. The only sensation was a shift in the night’s energy. The threat of being hurtled in a new, unforeseen direction.

He was down to his last few sips when Eric climbed into the open chair beside him.

“Just texted you her address.” As if on cue, Grant felt his phone vibrate. “You have a meet-and-greet in one hour. It’s no sure thing. She has to like you. If she doesn’t? That’s not on me. I told her you were an architect named Michael. You were warned she’s expensive. You better pay in full. I gotta tell you ... I’m stunned she even went for this.”

Grant slugged back the last of his scotch, stepped down off the stool, and grabbed his coat.

Eric said, “If I get complaints, if you burn this bridge for me—”

“Then you’ll deal with it, won’t you? Thanks for the drink.”

Chapter 5

He parked two blocks away on Crockett Street per the directions Eric had texted him and turned off the Crown Vic.

Rain beaded on the windshield, distorting the lights of passing cars.

Grant glanced at his phone: 9:25.

The knot in his stomach had been tightening with every mile he’d driven since leaving the Four Seasons, and now it felt taut enough to fray.

He locked his gun in the glove compartment.

Opened the door, stepped out into rain that was cold enough to leave a metallic chill where it touched his skin. Grant raised the hood of his North Face jacket, thrust his hands into the pockets, and started down the sidewalk.

It was an affluent quarter in upper Queen Anne—rows of brownstones interspersed with Victorian mansions. Streetlamps ran along the block, and between the rain falling through their illumination and a haze of mist lingering in the alleyways, the neighborhood assumed the eerie gloom of a nineteenth-century London slum.

At the next block, Grant stopped and stared cattycorner across the intersection at a freestanding brownstone. The building was three stories. It occupied a corner. Evergreen hedges rose almost to the windows of the first-level, and though the curtains were drawn, he could see light around the edges. The second and third floors stood completely dark.

Grant waited for a break in traffic and then jogged across the street, dodging a large puddle several inches deep.

He stopped at the wrought iron fence that encircled the property and leveled his gaze on the front door. The scent of wood smoke was faint in the air.

The number on the small, black mailbox beside the door matched the address he’d been given. He unlatched the gate and pushed his way through, moving along the path of flagstones, and then up the stairs. With each step, he noted a strange sensation, a pressure building in his head, his pace involuntarily quickening, as though he were being pulled toward the building.

Then he was standing under the covered stoop, his pulse at full throttle, trying to catch his breath before he knocked.

A small camera pointed down from just above the door’s upper hinge.

This was happening too fast.

His head still hummed from the Johnnie Walker Blue, and he had only the vaguest concept of what he was going to say.

Swallowing the doubt and the fear, he pressed the buzzer.

The muffled thud of footsteps—most likely barefoot—came into range on the other side of the door.

A voice crackled through an intercom under the mailbox.

“Michael, how are you?”

Grant hit the TALK button, leaned in, responded with, “Doing well. Little wet out here.”

“Then let’s get you out of the cold.”

The slide of a chain.

Two deadbolts turning.

Hinges creaking.

A blade of light cut across the stone at Grant’s feet as the heavy wood door swung open.

Top-shelf perfume swept over him.

The light was poor.

She wore a purple silk kimono with a pattern of black vines and flowers that curled down the sleeves. Plunging neckline. Her blond hair had been lifted off her neck and shoulders with a pair of black chopsticks. She stood barefoot in the doorframe, her hand still clutching the knob. Behind her, the darkened room shifted in the firelight.

Grant looked into her face, into her eyes, hoping for some unfamiliar detail, but they all belonged unquestionably to her.

Waves of horror and relief raged through his head.

She tried to shut the door, but he’d anticipated this, the toe of his boot already across the threshold.

“Leave,” she said. “Right now.”

“I just want to talk to you.”

“How dare you.”

“Can I come in?”

“You here to arrest me?”

“No.”

“How’d you find me?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I want you to leave right now.”

“That’s not gonna happen.”

“What do you want?”

“Just to see you.”

“Congratulations. You’ve seen me. Toodaloo.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you.” She was still trying to force the door closed.

Grant put his hand up and braced himself against it.

He said, “I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. That’s the truth. Then I find out you’re back in Seattle. You could’ve reached out to me. You could’ve made contact.”

“And why on earth would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because I’m your brother?”

“So what?”

“How could you say that?”

“I don’t need you sweeping back into my life for a night. Leveling your judgment. Telling me how I’m destroying my life. How I should fix it. How you’ll help me—”

“I miss you, Paige. I just want to see you. That’s all.”

“You’re melting my heart.”

“Please.”

She looked him up and down.

For a moment, there was nothing but the hush of rainfall on the street. The quiet hum of the globe light above their heads. The thunder of Grant’s heart slamming inside his chest.

She said finally, “All right, but you leave when I say.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not here to fix me. You understand that?”

“Yes.”

Paige sighed and moved back from the door.

Chapter 6

As Grant stepped inside and pushed the door closed after him, Paige turned and headed up the staircase that launched out of the foyer.

“Where you going?” Grant called after her as the steps creaked under her footfalls.

“To get decent for my brother.”

A live jazz album that sounded like Miles Davis played softly from a Bose system in the living room. He caught the scent of essential oils and candles. The air was further laced with incense and the good, spicy smell of cedar burning in the fireplace.

Straight on, a hallway ran parallel to the staircase before feeding into a kitchen. An archway on the left opened into a formal dining room whose rough-hewn table—covered in envelopes and paperwork—appeared to serve the purpose of a desk rather than a place where people actually sat down to eat.

Grant hung his coat on the rack and walked through the archway on his right into the living room. There were candles everywhere. A leather couch against the far wall facing the hearth. A bookcase. Bottles and glassware glimmered in the back corner in the light of the flames—a wet bar. Along the mantle, sprigs of garland peppered with white Christmas lights made for the only decorations in an otherwise seasonally indifferent room.

As orphans, they had gone without, but even in the leanest of times, Paige could always bring a touch of class to whatever miserable living situation they found themselves in. Wild flowers poking out of a glass Coke bottle, the walls of a motel room draped with birthday streamers cut from newspaper; it amazed him what she could do with nothing. Now, he saw the maturation of her gift in the design choices she’d made. The house was old, probably pushing a hundred years, but she had accentuated the early twentieth-century crown molding and sconces with contemporary decor. The living room furniture was upholstered in black leather and sat low to the ground. Beyond the rear doorway, white-lacquered kitchen cabinets gleamed beneath recessed lighting. The only things that hadn’t been renovated were the floors and staircase—dark walnut worn smooth from a century of use. Grant wondered what kind of money she made to be able to afford such a place. But that was Paige. Whatever she did, she threw herself into it, and as much as Grant hated the life choices she’d made, damn if he wasn’t a little bit impressed.

One of the lower steps creaked. Grant returned to the foyer as Paige appeared around the corner, now dressed in something far warmer and modest—a plaid pajama top and bottom. She had let her hair down, and it fell a few inches past her shoulders. At thirty-six, those once pure and shimmering platinum locks were showing streaks of dishwater.

She’d definitely aged in the five years since their last disastrous rendezvous—a botched intervention attempt in a Motel 6 on the outskirts of Phoenix, last in a fifteen-year string of attempts to save her life. Seemed like ever since Paige had turned sixteen and dropped out of high school, she’d been on a mission to kill herself. Frankly, he was shocked that she hadn’t finished the job by now. Despite their estrangement, the threat of that next-of-kin notification phone call was a fear that never left him.

Paige had been so scantily-clad when she first answered the door that Grant hadn’t allowed himself to really look at her. Some things, a brother shouldn’t see. But now, as she cruised toward him in wool-lined slippers into the firelight, it struck him how thin she was. Borderline emaciation. The long-sleeved pajama top seemed to swallow her, and her face tapered from her cheekbones down toward her chin at angles so sharp they didn’t seem natural—the shape of her skull shining through.

Using for sure.

“Place is incredible,” Grant said.

“The rent certainly is.”

It occurred to him that he’d missed his chance to inspect her arms for needle-marks when she’d been wearing the short-sleeved kimono.

Bad detective.

“How long you been in town?” he asked.

“A year.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“But I’ve only been in this place two months.”

Grant stepped toward the small fireplace and held his hands to the heat.

“Want a drink?” she asked.

“Love one.”

She padded over to the wet bar, moving like someone with barely the strength to stand—a nursing home shuffle.

“Still a scotch man?”

“For life.”

He watched her reach for a bottle of Macallan. The lowlight stopped him from determining the age.

“Neat? Rocks?” she asked.

“What year?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Jesus. Then neat.”

She made a generous pour. Brought it over. Out of habit, he lifted the glass and inhaled. It was a gorgeous nose but flattened by the occasion.

“Seriously,” she said. “How’d you find me?”

“Dumb luck.”

“Facebook?”

“Yep.”

“My profile is only a pair of eyes.”

“But they’re your eyes.”

Grant sipped the whiskey.

Miles Davis was blistering through a trumpet solo.

The fire popping.

He looked down at his sister, a good six inches shorter than he was.

No idea what to say.

He raised his glass. “Some of the best I’ve had.”

Paige just stared at him and nodded.

Grant looked around the room as if it were his first time seeing it.

“No tree?”

She shook her head. “Think I waited too long. You have to do that kind of stuff early in the season. Before you lose the motivation.”

It was Grant’s turn to nod.

“This is weird,” she said

“I know.”

Another sip. His cheeks flushing.

“Do you visit Dad?” she asked.

“Not enough. Every few weeks.”

“I went once when I first moved back from Phoenix. That’s all I could bear. You think I’d be used to seeing him like that by now.”

“I was just there this afternoon. They had Christmas ornaments up. Slit your wrists depressing.”

He flinched inside. Shouldn’t have put it that way.

Grant could feel the scotch already beginning to soften his knees. He moved toward the couch. A mattress and blanket had been shoved underneath it. Did she fuck her clients down here by the fireside? Right on this floor where he was standing? He pushed the thought away.

“I want you to know that I thought about contacting you,” Paige said as he lowered himself onto the cushion.

“Wish you had.”

Grant sipped his drink and watched the fire.

Through the window at his back, he could hear the rain falling on the hedges.

“I do have one favor to ask,” Grant said.

She grimaced.

“Relax, it’s not a big deal. I just haven’t eaten since lunch and this whiskey is going to my head in a hurry.”

“You want me to make you something?”

“How about I make us something. Are you hungry?”

She smiled, and for a split second, it was like a window into the Paige of old. A break in the armor. “You mean like your world famous grilled cheese?”

“I have a confession to make. It’s not actually world famous.”

Chapter 7

The square of butter sizzled as Grant guided it around the pan with a wooden spatula. Paige sat on a barstool at the kitchen island, skillets and copper sauce pans of every size dangling above her head from a hanging pot rack.

“Mild cheddar or Jack?” Grant asked.

“You don’t remember?”

“American cheese it is.”

Grant opened the door to the fridge. Not exactly a wellspring of food—just a half-empty jug of skim milk two weeks past expiration, the usual condiments, three cardboard pizza boxes, a colony of leftover Chinese cartons, and yes, a stack of plastic-wrapped slices.

He returned to the stove with the mayo and Kraft Singles, trying but failing to remember the last time he’d made a grilled cheese sandwich, even for himself. Wondered if that had been a subconscious thing. This had once been their meal of choice, if not necessity. Just the smell of browning butter conjured up that year they’d fled foster care and lived on their own in a drafty single-wide on the outskirts of Tacoma. Grant fifteen, Paige thirteen. They’d lasted nine months before Social Services caught up with them.

Cold, broke, always hungry, yet it surpassed, in every way, living with strangers.

Grant eased the sandwiches onto the skillet and left them to sizzle.

Sat across from Paige at the island.

Under the brighter recessed lighting in the kitchen, she looked even worse. What he’d mistaken for her good complexion was foundation. Her skin was sallow, eyes bloodshot and underscored with black bags that the concealer couldn’t quite conceal. The way she sat on her hands made him wonder if it was to hide their trembling.

“I’m sorry I just showed up,” Grant said.

“You mean that?”

“Yeah.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand.

“I just didn’t know if you’d see me again,” Grant said. “Considering how we left it last time.”

He pulled away and slid off the stool, headed back to the stove.

“I could never make them taste the way yours did,” Paige said as he moved the sandwiches onto plates.

“You probably missed the most important step.”

“Which one’s that?”

“You have to add a new pat of butter to the skillet when you’re halfway done. So each side gets the love.”

“Equal opportunity buttering—I like it.”

Grant watched the new square melt. He lifted the skillet, let the butter skate across the surface for a few seconds before flipping the cold sides of the sandwiches onto the heat.

“So what do you think, big bro? Your sister, the whore. That’s a new one, right?”

Grant stared down into the skillet.

She’d always liked to fuck with him, but this wasn’t even fair.

“You’re talking about someone I love,” he said, pressing the spatula into the sandwiches.

They sizzled.

Grant finally lifted the sandwiches onto the plates and carried them over to the island.

“Bon appétit.”

He was hungrier than he’d realized, and drunker too. In between bites, he caught bursts of electric clarity—he was actually sitting in Paige’s kitchen, sharing a meal with her.

As she lifted the sandwich to her mouth, the sleeves tugged back from her wrists. He glimpsed the scars from a past suicide attempt, but thankfully, no needle sores.

“How’s the sandwich?”

Through a mouthful: “Unbelievable.”

A full minute passed.

Neither of them spoke but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as before.

Jazz slunk in from the living room.

Grant watched as Paige took tiny bites. Just the effort of eating seemed to pain her.

She said, “I just assumed you were still with the PD, but are you?”

“I am.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Fine.”

“Yeah? Some interesting cases?”

“Always.”

“So you like what you do.”

“I love it. Do you?”

“Do I love what you do?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m making fat bank, Grant.”

“So I hear.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I had to threaten Eric to get a referral.”

“Not cool.”

“He made it sound like you didn’t see guys like me.”

“Like you?”

“Low net-worth individuals.”

“Wait. You’re upset I won’t just fuck anyone who slides me a couple of hundreds?”

She had a point there.

“How about a tour of the place?” Grant asked. “Love to see what you’ve done with the upstairs.”

Her eyes went wide; her breathing accelerated.

“No.”

“Why?”

“No.” She practically yelled it the second time, leaning toward him across the island, her eyes narrowing, teeth grinding together, the ugly monstrous addict rearing its head.

“Fine. Sorry I asked.”

Grant got up and walked over to the Bose—Miles Davis noodling away on the trumpet.

“Bitches Brew? Not his most popular but as good as anything he ever did. I love this part.” He turned the volume up a few decibels. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Paige pointed to the door at the end of the kitchen.

Chapter 8

Grant sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

Fished the phone out of his pocket and scrolled through the contact list.

Don McFee.

One of the first friends Grant had made after leaving the academy. One of the few who’d stuck around during those dark days after Paige disappeared in Phoenix and he’d been hell-bent on death by escorts and scotch.

Don answered on the fifth ring, a sleep-drawl in his voice.

“I wake you?” Grant asked, speaking low into the phone.

“It’s all right.”

“I’m going to owe you huge for this one.”

“Then I guess I’ll keep the tab running.”

“I’m at my sister’s place in Queen Anne. Twenty-two Crockett Street. It’s not far from your house.”

“You’re with Paige?”

“Long story. She’s not looking so hot right now. I’ve never seen her so thin. She’s wasting away.”

“Grant, we’ve been through this. You can’t fix her.”

“This isn’t like the other times. She looks like a chemo patient.”

“Let me come pick you up. We’ll get some coffee and talk about it.”

“I’m not leaving my little sister like this.”

“You want me to show up uninvited at ten o’clock so I can tell her she’s an addict? I love you, man, but that road leads nowhere. You want to do another intervention, fine, but let’s do it the right way.”

“I’m not asking you as a counselor.”

“Is her life in imminent danger?”

“No.”

“Then as your friend, I’m telling you this isn’t what she needs. An ambush will only work against you.”

“Did I mention she’s a prostitute? I haven’t seen her in five years, and now she’s fucking guys for cash.”

“Christ. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t make me do this on my own, Don.”

There was a long pause.

A blizzard of trumpet notes escalated into a wail that sustained itself for so long Grant suddenly felt the need for a deep breath.

“Have you been drinking tonight, Grant?”

“Little bit.”

“Let me come get you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry to wake you.”

Grant ended the call.

He needed a new plan.

The light above the sink flickered several times.

Went out.

Miles Davis gone silent.

Grant struggled onto his feet.

“Paige?”

The shower cut on, the cramped little bathroom filling with the noise of moving water as the pitch-black disorientation set in.

Where was the door again?

He stumbled forward into a towel rack as the toilet flushed of its own volition.

In a span of seconds, he lost all perception of space.

Need to get out of here.

He moved in another direction and ran into the sink.

The faucet turned on.

It felt like the room was closing in on him, the walls contracting, the ceiling pressing down, a completely illogical panic building, accompanied by a shortness of breath.

And then the lights kicked on.

He was staring at himself in the mirror and his chest was heaving and all that running water had silenced itself so quickly he wondered if he’d imagined the noise.

Chapter 9

Paige was at the sink when Grant emerged.

He walked over and grabbed a towel off the door to the Sub-Zero fridge.

“You lose power out here too?” Grant asked.

“Yeah. Happens occasionally. Old house, comes with the territory I guess.”

“You should get that checked. You’d be surprised how many old houses in the city burn down every month because the wiring is for shit.”

The left sink brimmed with dishes that had just begun to smell.

They fell into a familiar pattern—Paige washing, Grant drying.

Steam peeled off the surface of the murky dishwater and fogged the window behind the sink.

It felt good to have his hands doing something, and the strangeness he’d encountered in the bathroom was fading away like the memory of a dream.

As his sister handed him a plate, he said, “Can I be honest with you?”

“I hope so.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“You should have that put on a T-shirt.”

“You don’t look well, Paige.”

“Ouch.” She handed him the cast iron skillet. “Oil this for me.”

Grant grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the windowsill and sprinkled a few drops across the surface. Then he tore off a paper towel and began to massage it into the iron.

“I swear I didn’t come over to fix things, but I can’t ignore it either.”

Paige let a plate slide into the dishwater and turned to him.

“And here I was just beginning to think that maybe this was the start of something different. Good job. You really took my guard down.”

“You look terrible, Paige. You’re pale, thin, weak. You can barely walk.”

“I’m tired.”

“Are you eating?”

“Did you just see me eat?”

“Then what’s going on?”

Paige braced herself against the counter and stared at the wall. Grant recognized that stony expression. Total system failure. Whenever Paige felt cornered, she went on lockdown, and there was no getting back in.

The chime of the doorbell cut through the jazz, snapping Paige back into the moment.

She went over to the Bose, muted the speakers, and headed up the hallway into the foyer.

Grant hung back.

A client dropping by?

Paige said, “Can I help you?”

A man’s voice crackled over the intercom. “I’m looking for Grant Moreton.”

“Just a minute.”

Paige turned and stared down the corridor. Even in the lowlight, he could see the rage in her eyes.

“Someone’s here for you,” she said.

He started down the hall.

“How would anyone know you’re here?”

Grant passed the staircase and moved into the foyer.

“No idea.”

Keep digging that grave.

“Is this another cop?” she asked.

“Of course not.”

Grant slid the chains out of their guards and unlocked the multiple deadbolts.

“Don’t just open it for him,” Paige said, but he was already turning the doorknob.

Don McFee stood on the front porch, rain pouring behind him, pooling in the street, in the small square of grass that constituted the front yard.

The man’s face was half-shadowed under the hood of his Barbour coat, the jacket’s oiled surface beaded with rainwater.

“This is a terrible idea,” Don muttered under his breath as Grant let him in.

Paige said, “Who’s this?”

“Don McFee,” Don said, extending his hand. “You must be Paige.”

“What’s going on, Grant?”

Grant closed the door after them.

“Don is a friend of mine.”

Paige glared at Don.

His coat dripped on the hardwood floor.

“You better be here to take Grant home.”

Don looked at Grant and then at Paige. His head was shaved. Kind but intense eyes peered out from behind a pair of frameless lenses. He wore a calming presence that Grant could never reduce to its components or attribute to any particular quality. The guy just oozed Zen.

Don said, “I wonder if I might be of some help to you first?”

“Excuse me?”

Don looked her up and down. “I’ve been a substance abuse counselor for sixteen years.”

“Oh my God.”

“Please just hear me—”

“And what? Grant called you and told you I was using?” She looked at Grant. “Is that what you did? While you were in the bathroom?”

“Are you using, Paige?” Don asked.

“Get the fuck out of my house both of you.”

Grant said, “Paige, just talk to—”

She lunged forward, and with both hands, shoved Grant back against the door.

“I can’t believe I trusted you.”

“He can help. He’s helped me.”

“Did you hear me ask for help?”

“Paige—”

“Did you?”

“Your brother’s concerned,” Don said. “And I have to agree with him. You don’t look well.”

“Get out of my house.”

“Nobody’s leaving,” Grant said.

Paige turned away from them and moved quickly into the living room, stopping at an end table that rested against the couch.

She lifted a cordless phone off its base.

“Really want to give the cops your address?” Grant said.

Paige held the phone against her chest and shut her eyes.

When she opened them again, her body language had relaxed, as if some of the fight was flooding out of her.

She looked at Grant. “I appreciate your concern, okay? But there is nothing wrong with me, and I am asking both of you to please leave.”

Don stepped in. “Paige, I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re underweight, your complexion is unhealthy, and your hair is thin. My job isn’t to scare you, but your body can’t handle much more than it’s already been put through.”

“I’ve been clean for three years.”

Don moved slowly into the living room. “All the more reason to find out what’s going on. Wouldn’t you at least agree that your physical appearance is a cause for alarm?”

Paige stared at the floor, and for the first time since walking into this house, Grant sensed a change in her. It didn’t hold the power of an outright admission, but at least she wasn’t swinging back, trying to tear his throat out.

“How do you feel right in this moment, Paige?” Don asked.

She collapsed onto the couch. Let out a long sigh.

“Honestly? I’m tired,” she said. “I’m weak all the time.” Grant thought he registered emotion—coiled and charged—bleeding into her voice. “Even when I was strung out it never felt this bad.”

Grant hung back while Don continued toward her with the greatest care—as if approaching a wounded animal. Don unzipped his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He settled down on the couch beside Paige.

“Have you been to see a doctor?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Are you afraid to go?”

Paige had been staring at her hands. Now she looked up at the ceiling.

“No.”

“Don’t you think it would help you to find out what the problem is?”

“It doesn’t matter. A doctor’s not what I need.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not sick the way you think I am.”

Grant exchanged a glance with Don, and then said, “Paige, if you say you’re clean then I believe you.”

“I’m not talking about drugs.”

“Then I’m lost,” Don said. “What’s making you sick?”

She shook her head.

When it was clear she wasn’t going to answer, Don said, “Paige, how about we just try the hospital? You don’t have to tell them anything. Just let them examine you. Take your vitals.”

Paige sighed. “I can’t.”

“You can. I’m parked right around the block. All you have to do is stand up and walk out that front door. Grant and I will do the rest.”

Paige finally looked up, tears shining in the firelight.

Her eyes darted to the door. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know it’s diff—”

“You don’t know. You have no idea.”

“Then tell us,” Grant said.

Her eyes flicked from Don to Grant and back. “I can’t leave the house.”

“Why?”

“I get sick if I try.”

“You look pretty sick right now.”

“This is nothing compared to what happens if I go out that door.”

“Have you ever had a panic attack, Paige?”

“Yes. That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Paige.” Don touched her shoulder. “There is no judgment in this room.”

“I’m not worried about you judging me. I’m worried about you committing me.”

Grant said, “Whatever it is, I already believe you.”

She looked at Grant. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.”

“Something’s keeping me here.”

“Physically keeping you from leaving?” Grant asked.

She went silent, but her eyes were pleading, desperate. Grant came over and knelt on the floor beside her.

He said quietly, “Paige, is there something you can’t tell us?”

Those words ripped her apart.

She leaned over into the cushion, and everything seemed to release at once in a rush of tears.

Grant pushed a few loose strands of hair behind her ear.

“What is it, Paigy?” he whispered. “What’s doing this to you? Is it a client?”

She shook her head. “It’s in my bedroom upstairs. Under the bed.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know. Something that shouldn’t be.”

Grant noted a sickening chill plunge down his spine, prompted by a realization he’d been fighting against all his life: his sister was crazy.

He glanced down at the mattress poking out from underneath the couch.

“You’ve been sleeping down here, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Because you’re afraid to go upstairs.”

She nodded into the couch.

Grant looked up at his friend.

Don said, “Paige, I just want to make sure I understand exactly what you’re saying. Something under your bed is keeping you from leaving the house.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t know what it is?”

She shook her head.

“Are you talking about a flesh-and-blood person?” Grant asked.

“I told you. I don’t know.”

Don said, “Sometimes, we sink down to these bad places in our lives and we lose the ability to distinguish between what’s real and what’s—”

“I know how fucked-up this sounds, okay?”

“Do you want my help, Paige?”

“That’s the only reason you’re still in my house.”

Don said, “Then come with me.”

“Where?”

“Upstairs.”

“No.”

“We’re going to walk into your bedroom—”

“I can’t—”

“—and I’m going to show you there’s nothing in there that has an ounce of power over you. Then we’re going to do whatever it takes to get you better.”

Paige sat up. She was trembling. “You don’t understand—we can’t go in there together.”

“Then I’ll go by myself.”

Paige struggled to her feet. She said, “You don’t have my permission to go upstairs,” but the edge in her voice was ebbing.

Don said, “I fully respect how real this feels to you. But I’m going to go up there, have a look, come back down, and tell you that everything’s okay. That there’s nothing in your room. That, as real as this may feel, it’s in your mind.”

All the fight was leaving her.

She looked scattered and helpless.

Don crossed the living room, which had fallen into near-darkness now that the fire was dying.

He stopped at the bottom of the staircase.

“Which room, Paige?”

“Please don’t.”

“Which room?”

“Turn right at the top of the stairs, round the corner, and go down to the end of the hall. My bedroom is the door at the end.”

“Grant, would you come with me?”

Grant followed Don.

The staircase lifted out of the foyer into darkness.

“She’s cracked,” Grant whispered as they climbed.

Each step creaked like the hull of an old ship.

“She doesn’t look well, and this paranoid delusion about something keeping her in the house is disturbing.”

“So what do I do?”

“Consider an involuntary commitment.”

“Seriously?”

“I can help you with the paperwork.”

“Great. Maybe she can room with Dad.”

The meager light that warmed the foyer fell away behind them.

They climbed the last few steps into complete darkness and stopped, waiting for their eyes to adjust.

Grant looked over to where Don stood, but could make out nothing of his shape.

“Let’s find a light switch,” Don said.

Grant heard him shuffle over to the wall and begin feeling his way along it. Grant followed suit, groping across wallpaper but his fingers only grazed a few picture frames. He continued down the hall and then around a corner, both hands guiding him along like a caver without a light. At last, he barked his shin against the leg of a table, rattling its contents.

“You okay?” Don called from the other side.

“Yeah.”

Grant’s fingers moved across the surface of the table until they came to what felt like the base of a lamp.

He followed it up, found the switch.

Weak yellow light filled the hallway, barely enough to reach the far end.

The ceiling was high and the walls so close together it almost looked like an optical illusion. Grant was struck with a fleeting imbalance, like standing in a funhouse, the proportions all wrong.

The carpeting was thick, burgundy, and old.

The wallpaper peeled in places, the Plaster of Paris underneath far more appealing than the maudlin floral print. Along the opposite wall, a cast-iron radiator belched out waves of heat that did little against the chill. Grant had fumbled down the hallway farther than he realized. The bedroom door loomed straight ahead, its thick frame detailed with scrollwork that matched the wainscoting.

It sounded like Paige had begun to cry down on the first floor.

Johnny Cash punctuated the moment with a muffled rendition of “Ring of Fire.”

Grant’s heart jolted.

He turned to find Don staring down at the wailing cell phone in his hand.

“It’s just Rachel,” Don said.

“I think Paige is crying. I’m going to head back down.”

“Sounds good. Let me deal with this call, and then I’ll handle things up here.”

Grant walked quickly back toward the staircase, secretly glad to be leaving that drafty hallway.

Chapter 10

Paige was curled up on the couch, and as soon as she saw him, she turned away and wiped the mascara stains from her cheeks.

Grant sat down on the hardwood floor at eye level with his sister.

Laid his hand carefully on her shoulder.

“I don’t know how I got to this point,” she said. “You ever feel that way?”

“Absolutely. I’ve had my share of spinouts. All that matters is you’re moving forward. Things are going to get better.”

“I sound like a crazy person.”

“You should’ve seen me a few years back.”

She wiped her cheeks again and rolled over to face him.

“But did you ever feel like you didn’t know what was real?”

He shook his head.

“It sucks.”

“You and I have never been crybabies about anything, but we haven’t exactly lived the nuclear family dream.”

“So?”

“So cut yourself a little slack, all right?”

“I don’t want to be crazy.”

In their entire lives, Grant couldn’t think of anything his sister had said to him—even during her drugged-out ravings—that hit him so hard. It was a killshot, and he could feel his heart breaking as she stared at him. Yet another moment of Paige in agony, and not a damn thing he could do to make it better.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“I’m trying.”

“Will you let me help you get help?”

For a long time, she didn’t say anything. Just stared at him as her eyes glistened with a reinforcement of tears.

At last she said, “I will, Grant.”

He leaned in, kissed her cheek.

The room had grown dark and cold.

All that remained of the fire was a single log with glowing ember veins.

“Is there more wood?” he asked.

“There’s a wrap in the pantry.”

Grant went to the kitchen and dug three logs out of the bundle. He carried them into the living room and dragged away the screen. The bed of coals put out the faintest purple glow.

He arranged the logs on the grate, blew the embers back to life.

The new wood caught easily.

Grant turned, letting the heat lap at his back as he watched the firelight play across Paige’s face. She looked beyond tired. Like she could sleep for months.

What was taking Don so long? Had he found drugs?

“Remember when we squatted in that abandoned house for a few weeks?” he said. “No electricity. Just a fireplace.”

“Yeah. We burned wooden crates that you found behind a grocery store.”

“Things have been worse than this, Paige.”

“But I don’t look back on that and call it a low point.”

“Seriously?”

“Those were the moments when I knew we’d be okay. Life could get shitty but we were in it together.”

“We’re in this together too.”

Grant heard footsteps on the second floor.

Finally—Don on his way down.

The footfalls accelerated.

Was he running?

Grant instinctively looked up at the ceiling as if he could see through it.

Something crashed to the floor.

A door closed hard enough to shake the walls.

Grant looked at Paige.

She’d sat up, arms crossed over her chest and her face screwed up like she was going to vomit.

“Stay here,” he said.

“Don’t go up there. Don’t leave me.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Grant crossed to the foot of the stairs and jogged up as his sister called after him.

At the top, he rounded the corner.

Stopped.

“Don? Everything okay?”

The table had been knocked over and the lamp lay on its side, bulb still intact, casting an uneasy triangle of light across the ancient carpeting.

Stepping over the debris, he moved quickly down the hall, the darkness growing as he strayed from the lamp.

The door to Paige’s bedroom was still closed.

He stopped in front of it.

Tried the knob.

It wouldn’t turn.

He pounded on the door.

“Don? You okay?”

Nothing.

Grant reared back, on the brink of digging his shoulder into the door, when the bright chinkle of breaking glass stopped him.

The sound had come from another hallway.

He rushed through in near-darkness, and only as he approached a door at the end did he notice the faintest thread of light along the bottom of its frame.

He burst through into a sparse bedroom. The duvet was pristine and the air musty and redolent of a rarely-used guestroom.

“Don?”

A splash of light spilled onto the hardwood floor through a cracked door in the far wall.

Four steps and he was standing in front of it.

Grant pushed the door open all the way with the tip of his boot.

The mirror was shattered, a web of fractures expanding out from the center.

Shards of crimson glass lay in the sink.

Don sat on the floor facing the doorway, his legs spread out, back against the clawfoot bathtub.

He was staring at Grant and holding a piece of the mirror to his own throat.

“Don? What are you doing?”

Don’s eyes looked so strange—roiling with an incomprehensible intensity.

“Don.”

Don spoke softly, “All your life you believe certain things about the world, only to learn how wrong you were.”

“You went into Paige’s room?”

Don nodded slowly. “I looked under the bed.” He shut his eyes fiercely for a second and tears slipped down the sides of his face. “And now it’s in my head, Grant.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can feel it pushing me to ... do things.”

“What things?”

Don shook his head.

“Put that piece of glass down,” Grant said.

“You don’t understand.”

“I know who you are, Don. I know your kindness. Your strength. I know that you couldn’t walk into a room, see something, and decide to hurt yourself. You’re stronger than this.”

“You believe that, Grant? Really?”

“With all my heart.”

“You don’t know anything. Don’t ever go in there.”

Grant edged toward him. “Don—”

“Promise me.”

“I promise. Now give me the—”

Tension flashed across Don’s face—a burst of sudden resolve—and then he pulled the glass through his neck.

It was like a velvet curtain falling out of his throat, streams and tributaries branching down his plaid button-up and flooding out onto the checkerboard tile.

“No!”

Grant rushed toward him and ripped the triangle of glass out of Don’s hand. He knelt beside him and held his palm across his friend’s throat, trying to stem the tide, but the cut was too deep, too wide, and smiling from ear to ear.

Don’s eyes were still open but settling more and more with every passing second into a permanent vacancy. His chest barely rising and falling.

“Oh God, Don. Oh, God.”

The man’s right leg twitched.

The quantity of blood inching toward Grant was tremendous.

Don’s jaw worked up and down, but no sound issued except for a soft gurgle in his windpipe.

The change in Don’s eyes was both infinitesimal and epic.

His body sagged to the side, his chest fell, and never rose again.

“Don? Don?”

There was so much blood, and he was gone.

Grant sat down on the toilet.

He put his head in his hands and tried to think, but there was too much competition—too many questions, too much fear and sadness, and a part of him still not fully committed to believing that any of this was actually happening.

Grant shut his eyes.

Walking blindly into murder scenes was a part of his job description, and emotional survival depended upon his ability to detach, no matter how horrific the carnage.

But there was no detaching from this. From what his friend had just done to himself.

Grant stood, and as he left the bathroom, he heard Paige calling up to him from the first floor.

He walked out into the dark hallway, his boots tracking blood across the floor.

Paige’s bedroom door was still closed. Not even a scintilla of light sneaking out from beneath it. Nothing to suggest that a man had just killed himself after leaving that room.

There’s something deeply wrong with this brownstone. On some level, he’d known it the moment he set foot inside, but the knowledge was crushing him now, a wellspring of fear expanding inside of him accompanied by a burning, physical need to leave this place, to get outside. Now.

Grant walked past Paige’s room without breaking stride, turned the corner, descended the stairs.

“Where’s your friend?” Paige asked as he emerged from the bottom of the staircase into the living room. She was still sitting on the couch, her legs drawn into her chest, arms wrapped around her knees.

“We’re leaving,” he said.

“What happened?”

“Get your stuff.”

“Where’s Don?”

“Upstairs.”

“What happ— Oh my God, your hands.”

He’d been in too much of a state of shock to notice—they were covered in blood.

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

Paige didn’t move.

He pulled his North Face off the coat rack and shot his arms through the sleeves.

“Paige. Get up. We’re leaving.”

“What happened to your friend?”

“It doesn’t—”

“Is he dead?”

Grant hesitated, gave a short nod, tears misting in the corners of his eyes.

Paige brought her hand to her mouth.

“We’re not staying here,” Grant said.

“I can’t leave.”

Grant crossed to where she sat and grabbed her arm, jerking her up from the couch onto her feet and propelling her through the living room toward the front door.

“Stop! You don’t understand!”

“You’re right. I don’t understand the mindfuck I just witnessed upstairs.”

Grant opened the door and pushed her out onto the front porch.

The temperature had dropped and the steady pinpricks of rain had given way to a rare Seattle torrential.

Paige threw her weight into him, trying to claw her way back inside.

“I can’t be out here!” she screamed.

Grant pulled the door shut and held Paige so tightly by her arms that his knuckles blanched.

“We’re going to walk to my car, get inside, and drive away from this house. While we’re doing that, I’m going to call the station and tell them there’s a dead man in your bathroom. And do you know what you’re going to do while all that’s happening?”

The way she stared at him, her eyes glazing, made him wonder if she was comprehending a word.

He went on, “You’re going to sit there quietly and let me handle this.”

Paige dropped her head.

“All right,” she said.

Grant let go of her and started down the steps.

Halfway to the bottom, he heard a shuffle behind him, swung around to see Paige dashing toward the front door.

He went after her.

Paige grabbed the doorknob as he hooked his arm around her waist.

She bucked against him, jutting the back of her head into his face.

His nose and eyes burned and he tasted blood on the back of his tongue.

For a second he stood there dazed, arm encircling her midsection as she tried to wrench herself loose. He bent down, hoisted her up and over his shoulder.

She felt impossibly light.

“Stop!” she screamed, pounding her fists against his back.

Grant carried her down the steps and onto the hexagonal flagstones that comprised the walkway.

With each step, Paige’s thrashing became more violent.

A throb of pain bubbled up behind his eyes, a pressure more intense than the deepest water he’d ever experienced.

Grant stopped, the pain so sudden and vibrant it wiped his focus.

He was completely disoriented, a dull mud unfolding over his brain.

He looked around, standing in the rain with Paige’s now-limp body slung over his shoulder.

Grant took another step forward.

The pressure in his head intensified, like someone turning a crank.

A core of white-hot agony blooming in his gut.

He managed one more step before his knees buckled and hit concrete, Paige’s body thudding to the ground in front of him.

Everything buzzed, the world electrified.

He wanted to crack his head open right there on the flagstone, let the pain spill out and wash away in the rain.

Grant threw up on the stone—a violent, spewing rope of alcoholic bile—and his forehead came to rest on the wet rock. He’d let one of the beat cops tase him as a result of a bet gone wrong—this was worse by a factor of five.

Was this what Don had felt?

A whisper, barely audible, found its way to him through the downpour.

He lifted his head, saw Paige on her side, staring at him through wild, desperate eyes, her face inexplicably thinner, degenerating right in front of him as she convulsed.

“What?” he groaned.

“Get us ... inside.”

“I can’t.”

“It’s gonna kill us.”

Her words cut through the gauze that packed his head and sparked a moment of blinding clarity.

We’re going to die out here.

Grant struggled up, half-standing, hands braced on his knees.

It felt like his brain was peeling away from the walls of his skull.

“Can you stand?” he asked.

No answer.

Grant pushed Paige onto her back and grabbed her wrists.

Her eyes threatening to roll up into her head.

“Push with your feet,” he groaned.

They made it six inches on the first pull, Grant lunging back toward the steps while Paige kicked at the slick stones.

Even less the second.

It went on like this, their progress measured in inches, Grant pausing between each effort to catch his breath and wince through the pain.

The rain added what felt like pounds to her body. He could hear the thin fabric of her pajama bottoms tearing as her legs slid across the concrete.

By the time he reached the first step, their clothes were soaked and hanging like lead drapes.

“Almost there, Paige.”

He dragged her up the steps.

The last pull sent him sprawling back onto the porch, where he lay for a minute, staring up at the light, trying to catch his breath.

“Paige, you okay?”

She coughed and rolled over to face him.

“Better,” she said.

The pain in Grant’s head had relented, but the fog lingered. It suddenly occurred to him that he’d just dragged what looked like a dead body across the front yard in a crowded neighborhood at God knows what time of night. The thought was enough to give him the final shock of adrenaline he needed to throw Paige’s shivering body over his shoulder again and haul her inside.

Grant shut the door behind them and stumbled into the living room.

Fell to his knees, lay Paige on the warm hardwood in front of the fire.

He sprawled across the floor beside her.

They lay shivering in a silence broken only by the crackling logs and the ticking of rain against the windowglass.

In the stillness, Grant noticed the same pressure in his head that he’d felt at the beginning of the evening as he walked up the steps to Paige’s front door—a stuffy tightness, like sitting in the canned atmosphere of a fuselage at cruising altitude. He held his nose and tried to pop his ears but nothing happened.

Paige said, “I wanted so bad to be crazy.”

“I thought you were.”

“I know.”

“When I walked in here tonight it looked like you hadn’t left this house in a long time.”

Grant’s pulse rate was dropping out of the red.

“Not in two weeks.”

“Is that when this started?”

“No, it started a month ago, every day intensifying until I couldn’t even go beyond the front steps. Until I was confined to my house like a prisoner. You went in my room, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me, Grant.”

“I swear.”

“Then why is it affecting you?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know. Don’s really dead?”

“He is.”

“How?”

“He broke the mirror in the guest bathroom and used it to cut his throat. He was a great man, Paige.” Grant could feel the emotion pressing in. “A great friend. Oh God, his wife.” A tidal wave of grief was bearing down, but he pushed it back.

Not the time. Need to think.

Grant shuffled closer to the fire. His cold, drenched clothing still clung to him, but waves of heat were washing over his face.

“I woke up one night,” Paige said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “and it was just there.”

“What was?”

“A presence.”

“In your room?”

“Under the bed. Remember tag? How when you were it you’d sneak up on me while I was hiding? Get real close. Scare the shit out of me.”

“Sure.”

“Whenever you did that, a split second before you grabbed me, I’d get this premonition that you were there. That’s what it feels like everywhere I go in this house.” She was becoming emotional again. “Like something is right behind me all the time. I swear I can almost feel its breath on the back of my neck. I dream about it constantly.”

“You’re certain this isn’t just in your mind?”

“Are you imagining this? Was Don?”

“And you sleep down here now?”

“When I’m able to sleep at all. Whatever it is, it’s made my bedroom home.”

“You’ve never seen it?”

“No.”

“And all those leftovers in your fridge?”

“I’ve been living off delivery for two week. I’d have starved to death if I didn’t run a cash business.”

“How often do you try to leave?”

“I test it every day.”

“And the same thing always happens?”

“Yeah. In the beginning, I could make it to the street. Tonight, the pain started the moment I stepped out on the porch.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s worse than that, Grant.”

“This seems pretty bad all by itself.”

“I don’t know what it is, but I know what it wants.”

“What’s that?”

“People. My clients. And the longer I hold out, the sicker I get.”

“Are you telling me there’s more than one dead man upstairs?”

“I don’t know what happens to them.” Paige rolled over and faced him. “I tried not to. Tried to resist. But the longer I did, the sicker I got. I was dying.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I take a client upstairs. While we’re doing our thing, I black out. When I wake up, they’re gone. I have no idea what it does with them.”

“How many men have you taken up there?” Grant asked.

“Two.”

Two.

“But it wants another one. It wants it now. You’re the first appointment I took in three days, and I took it with no referral because I’m desperate and couldn’t reach any of my core clients. I didn’t want to, but this thing ... it’s killing me.”

Are these Sophie’s and my missing men?

Seymour and Talbert?

The cases that brought me to Paige’s doorstep in the first place?

Maybe better to sit on that piece of news for the time being.

Grant forced himself to sit up. “I should make some calls.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Do you understand what’s happening here?” she asked.

“No.”

“So what makes you think someone else will? You’ll just get them, or us, or everyone killed.”

Paige struggled to her feet.

“Where are you going?” Grant asked.

“My little black book.”

Grant managed to stand. He reached into his inner pocket, took out his phone.

“Are you crazy?” Paige said.

He was already scrolling contacts for Sophie’s cell.

“Grant, did you hear what I said?”

“What exactly do you propose we do here, Paige? ‘Cause I’m at a loss.”

“Call a client.”

“Come on.”

“It doesn’t kill them.”

“You don’t know what it does. Taking more people into your room isn’t a solution.”

“I’m not looking for a solution, Grant. I’m just looking to survive the night. I just want this pain to stop.”

“Paige—”

“Do I look well to you? If I don’t get someone upstairs tonight, I won’t be alive in the—”

Paige bent over cradling her stomach.

“Paige?”

As Grant moved toward her, she turned and ran.

He limped after her, shouting her name, and as he passed under the archway into the kitchen, he spotted her hunched over the toilet in the bathroom, puking her guts out.

He stepped inside and stood behind her, holding her hair back as she retched into the toilet.

Wasn’t the first time.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re gonna feel better after this.”

She shook her head. She was spitting now, her back heaving up and down as she clambered for a decent breath.

She said, “Hit the light.”

Grant did.

The inside of the toilet bowl and everything in the vicinity was dotted with specks of deep burgundy, and over the pungent reek of bile, Grant caught another smell.

Copper.

Blood.

“I’m calling nine-one-one,” he said.

“No.” Her face was still in the bowl. “They’ll try to take me to the hospital. I can’t leave the house.”

“You just vomited blood.”

“Help me get cleaned up.”

“Paige—”

“It’s either me or someone else. Do you get that yet?”

“We can’t go down that road.”

“We’re there.”

Paige sat up and fell back into the wall. She said, “It’s that white knight complex that killed your friend. Listen to me for once. Please. You and I are not in control here. I call a client, they come over, I get better. If you bring people to this house, they’re going to die. Let me handle this.”

Grant looked down at the gore in the toilet. Hard to believe that his sister, small as she was, had that much inside her. Sprawled on the bathroom floor, sheet-white and still dripping with rain and sweat, she looked like a full-on heroin addict.

“All right,” he said. “Until I figure out what we’re dealing with.”

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“So I’ll know you’re one hundred percent with me. So I don’t have any more surprise guests showing up at my door.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“After that stunt you pulled with Don?”

“I’m not giving you my phone.”

“Why? Planning on making some calls?”

“It’ll make you feel better?”

“Yes.”

He tugged his phone out of his pocket, dropped it in Paige’s lap.

“Thank you,” she said.

She tried to stand, but her arms didn’t have the strength to push her onto her feet.

Grant reached down and pulled her up by her hands.

“You know, there’s an upside to this approach,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Now that you’re here, you can see what happens to my clients after I black out.”

Paige left the bathroom, and Grant stood at the sink, holding his hands under steaming hot water while he scrubbed every last speck of blood off his hands with a furious focus.

He finally shut off the tap and looked up into the mirror.

He flinched.

Don stared back at him—his face frozen in that moment of grimacing purpose just before he’d opened his throat. His lips didn’t move, but Grant heard his voice as clearly as if his friend had been standing beside him, whispering into his ear.

You don’t know anything.

You don’t know anything.

Chapter 11

Grant changed into dry clothes—loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt belonging to one of his sister’s clients. He helped Paige clean the wet floors, the bloody upstairs hallway and downstairs bathroom, and generally return the brownstone to the jazz-brimming, candlelit brothel that had greeted him ninety minutes prior.

When the doorbell rang, Grant slipped into an empty closet beside the wet bar, pulling the door closed as Paige moved into the foyer.

She’d skimped down into something so lacy and see-through he could barely bring himself to look at her. But she’d somehow managed to work magic with makeup and foundation, upgrading her appearance from heroin addict to the sexy emaciation of a Paris runway model.

Muffled sounds reached him through the closet door.

Hinges creaked in the foyer.

An exchange of voices, barely discernible, but low and seductive.

Approaching footsteps moved into range, followed by laughter.

Grant heard the clink of ice dropping into empty glasses.

A cork sliding out of a whiskey bottle.

Liquid pouring over cracking ice.

Paige and her client stood at the wet bar, three feet away.

“You look tired, baby,” she said, her voice pure saccharine.

“Here’s to hoping you can fix that.”

Grant’s stomach twisted.

“Cheers,” the man said.

“Save any lives today?”

“No, actually. Car accident. Couldn’t find the hemorrhage in time.”

“Sounds like a bad day at the office.”

Grant had been fully prepared to despise whoever entered this brownstone with the intention of fucking his sister, but as he eavesdropped from the closet, he couldn’t find the rage. He’d stood in this man’s shoes countless times. Paid for sex with women who were undoubtedly sisters of other men. Whatever brotherly anger he felt was doomed to be laced with hypocrisy.

“I don’t know how you do it, Jude. Life and death every day.”

“The good days make it worth it. Also, they pay me a fortune which helps my fragile ego. How you doing, Gloria?”

“Aces.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause you’re looking a little peaked, as my grandmother used to say.”

“I’m fine. It’s just—”

“Eleven o’clock at night.”

“Exactly.”

They moved away from the wet bar and Grant heard the squeak of leather as they sat down on the sofa cushions.

In the darkness, he reached down, palmed the doorknob.

Waited for their voices to start up again, then turned it slowly.

When the latch had cleared the housing, he nudged the door open half an inch.

He couldn’t see them directly with the door blocking his view, but he could watch their reflection in the big mirror that hung over the fireplace—his sister cuddled into the embrace of a handsome man twenty years her senior. Even sitting, Grant could see that he was tall and endowed with the kind of longish, wavy-gray locks that were made to be windblown behind the wheel of a topless 911.

Grant listened to a conversation that could’ve unfolded in a confession box—Jude’s failing marriage, his suffocating mortgage, his ungrateful children—and all the while Paige gently prodded him along with a sincerity so genuine it made Grant simmer with jealousy. This man was closer to his sister than he was. Eric had been right. She was in a different league. Blue label all the way.

At last, Paige stood and took Jude’s hand.

“Come with me,” she said.

Jude smiled and rose. “Sure you’re up for this tonight? You really look tired,” he said.

Paige took a few sultry steps back and waved him on with a finger.

Chapter 12

Grant finally heard the floor upstairs strain under Paige’s and Jude’s footsteps.

He opened the closet door and headed to the foot of the stairs.

Climbed.

Paige had righted the table in the second-floor hallway and returned the lamp to its original place.

He stopped beside it.

Your friend is dead in a room right around the corner. You should at least put a blanket over him. Something.

Already, he could hear a collection of sounds coming from behind the closed door to Paige’s bedroom.

A wooden headboard slapping against the wall.

The low, breathless mumblings of Dr. Jude and his sister.

He involuntarily turned his head.

Despair.

Nausea.

Anguish.

How did you sink this far, baby sis?

He backed away, his eyes locking on the first door he saw, the floor groaning under his weight as he moved toward it.

Get out of sight.

The glass doorknob was freezing to the touch, and while it turned without a problem, the hinges screeched bloody murder. He stared into a linen closet—bare shelves coated with dust and just roomy enough, he hoped, for him to squeeze inside.

Grant stepped in and ducked down, his back flush against the shelves. He reached up and tugged the door shut, but his body blocked it from closing all the way.

The darkness seemed to magnify the labored breathing and muffled friction of the bed frame emanating from Paige’s room.

Paige was getting loud and so was Jude.

Grant had just brought his fingers up to plug his ears, when out in the hall, the desk lamp flickered three times.

For a microsecond, it burned as bright as a new star.

Bright enough to blind him and scald the walls with radiance.

It exploded.

The hall went dark.

The acrid stench of ozone and scorched glass filling the air.

Grant strained to listen.

Dead stillness.

His retinas slowly recovering from the overload of light.

He started to push the door open but stopped himself when the bedsprings in Paige’s room exhaled a slow groan.

No footsteps followed.

No voices.

The brownstone held its breath, and the longer Grant stood in the closet with the door pulled against his chest, the harder it became for him to move. Fear swept over him, its mass doubling with every pregnant second. He wanted desperately to call out to Paige. His legs began to tremble. A cramp shot through his quads. Sweat beaded on his forehead and slid down into his eyes with a salty sting.

The door to Paige’s room swung open.

A figure stood in the doorframe, backlit by candlelight—Jude.

Grant felt the change in his eyes, his chest, his ears—a subtle pulling from the doorway, like a vacuum seal had broken and the room itself was gasping for breath.

He squinted, searching for detail, but Jude was only a profile.

The doctor stepped out into the hall and began to walk, his pace as measured as a metronome, foot-strikes steady even as the glass from the shattered light bulb crunched beneath his feet.

In the darkest part of the corridor, Grant lost his silhouette.

His pulse rate kicked up a notch, eyes working every angle of the crack between the door and its frame for a better perspective.

Four feet from the closet door, Jude reemerged into the scraps of light that filtered up the staircase.

Grant could hear him breathing now and smell his cologne which also bore traces of Paige. Grant struggled to pull the door in with all the force he could rally but it wouldn’t close the final inch, leaving a gap that felt as big as the Grand Canyon.

Jude stood in perfect view, the doctor facing the closet door.

Motionless.

Gazing straight at the crack.

For a long time, Jude didn’t move.

When he finally stepped forward, his eyes came into the stairway light.

Grant’s first thought was that they looked dead, but that wasn’t quite right. They exuded a thousand-yard intensity he’d seen countless times during interrogations and interviews. Talking to murderers and victims’ next of kin. People who had fucked up or been fucked up and were trying to come to terms with the rest of their life.

Jude took another step toward the closet, so close now that his shadow filled the crack.

The tension coiled in Grant’s chest had maxed out its tensile strength.

His system spiked with adrenaline.

Somewhere in the distance, a man began to sing.

Jude stopped, turned his head.

The tinny, five-second refrain of “Ring of Fire” repeated itself from somewhere on the second floor.

Jude’s shadow disappeared from the crack, footsteps trailing away while Johnny crooned.

Grant pushed the closet door open.

The hallway was empty, light spilling around the far corner where it had been dark moments before.

Guest bedroom.

Grant bolted down the hall, past the stairwell, forcing himself to slow down as he rounded the corner.

The phone was still ringing, the song much louder.

Grant crept up to the open doorway.

The room stood empty, but there was movement in the bathroom.

Grant took two steps inside, said, “What are you doing?”

The phone went quiet.

Grant saw a shadow stretch across the floor, and then Jude emerged from the bathroom, his white sneakers tracking perfect bloody footprints across the floor. The man stopped and stared at Grant with an expression as lifeless and blank as a mannequin. His hands were darkened with blood, and he held something small and black in his right hand.

Don’s cell began to ring again.

Jude raised his arm above his head, and with alarming speed, pitched the phone at the floor.

It shattered against the hardwood in a debris field of glass and plastic and circuitry.

Then Jude started toward him.

Grant instinctively backed away—something in the man’s stride putting him on notice.

“I just want to talk to you,” Grant said. “I’m Paige’s—Gloria’s—brother.”

Jude didn’t stop.

Grant steadied himself, ready to intercept the man if need be, but Jude just stepped to the side and slid past him, their shoulders brushing.

Grant turned and followed him out the door.

“Hey!”

Jude was already halfway down the hall.

Grant doubled his pace.

“I didn’t say you could leave.”

Jude’s gait didn’t change, and by the time he reached the top of the stairs, Grant was on his heels.

Jude started down the staircase.

Grant put a hand on his shoulder from behind.

“I’m a cop. That means when I tell you to stop, you listen.”

Jude came to an abrupt halt two steps down.

“I want to know what happened in there. In her room.”

Jude brought his hand up to his shoulder and wrapped his fingers around Grant’s wrist.

Grant tried to jerk his arm away, but the man’s grip was a cold vise.

Jude turned and faced him, and the moment he saw Jude’s eyes, Grant’s words died in his throat.

The man’s pupils had been swallowed almost entirely by the roily gray of his irises. Only two infinitesimal pinpricks of black remained, like shrunken keyholes.

Jude folded Grant’s wrist back with ease and a lightning bolt of pain exploded up Grant’s arm, crumbling him to his knees.

Time protracted, seconds becoming eons of escalating misery as his radiocarpal joint approached its limit. A power surge illuminated the staircase for one burning second, and then everything was enveloped in darkness.

Jude released him.

Grant collapsed onto his side, cradling his hand against his chest as Jude’s footsteps continued down the stairs.

“Get back here,” he said, but neither his voice nor his heart was in it.

The front door opened and slammed shut, Dr. Jude vanishing into the rainy night.

Chapter 13

“Paige!”

Grant pounded on her door.

“Can you hear me?”

He grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it, straining with his good wrist until it popped, but nothing happened.

“Paige!”

His voice raced through the second-floor halls that wrapped around the stairwell.

Grant turned and felt his way through the darkness to the hallway table. There was nothing of use on the surface, but a brief exploration along its side revealed a drawer handle.

He yanked it open, blindly rummaging.

Mostly unidentifiable junk.

Couldn’t believe his luck when he found a small flashlight.

Please.

He twisted the end and a narrow circle of light shone on the floor beneath him.

Grant returned to the door and dropped to his knees.

Put the side of his head on the hardwood and shined the weak light underneath the crack.

Nothing.

He stood, took several steps back, and accelerated at the door, his shoulder lowered, bracing for impact.

There was as much give as if he’d run straight into a brick wall, a bright shudder of agony exploding in his shoulder and screaming down through his arm to the tips of his fingers.

But a fear that tore his guts out overrode the pain.

Something had happened to Paige and he couldn’t get to her.

He sprinted down the hall, around the corner, and shot down the stairs as fast as he could safely travel in the dark.

Need an ax, a sledgehammer, a bowling ball—something with heft.

Failing that, find a toolbox. Physically remove the doorknob.

Grant stopped at the hearth and made a cursory examination of the fireplace toolset. The heaviest thing on the rack was the cast-iron poker, but it wouldn’t stand a chance of breaking through Paige’s door.

He threw it down and ran into the kitchen.

Pulled open the door to the pantry.

The half-bundle of plastic-wrapped firewood still sat on the floor. He frantically searched the shelves, hoping for a toolbox, a hatchet, something, but the heaviest object he spotted was a thirty-two-ounce can of whole cherry tomatoes.

Think. Think. Think.

As he’d first approached the brownstone after opening the wrought-iron gate, he’d walked up a set of stairs to reach the first level.

Which means—

—there’s probably a basement.

Grant shut the pantry door and spun around.

The shock of seeing Paige standing two feet away buckled his knees as if someone had cut his ligaments.

Grant stumbled back against the door.

His sister stared at him—reeking of sex, lingerie badly wrinkled, and looking as bleary and confused as if she’d just woken out of REM sleep.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She blinked several times without answering, as if the connections between thought and speech were rebooting.

Said finally, “Did you see Jude?”

Grant nodded.

“He left my room?”

“He did a lot more than that.”

“Tell me everything.”

Chapter 14

The temperature inside the brownstone was diving.

Grant built up the fire with the remaining logs, and with Paige’s help, dragged over the leather sofa and the mattress she’d been sleeping on.

He took the flashlight upstairs, stripped the guest bed.

Hauled the pile of blankets and covers downstairs.

It was long past midnight when Grant finally eased down onto the sofa, and as his head hit the pillow, the sheer exhaustion swept through with such intensity he could’ve mainlined it.

He wrapped two blankets around himself and turned over to face the fire.

The heat felt good, and it came at him in waves.

Paige lay on the mattress several inches below.

“You getting warm?” he asked.

“Not yet. Has it been worse than this?” she asked.

“No, I think we have a winner.”

Without the central heat running, it was quiet enough in the powerless house to hear the rain and the occasional hiss of a car going through a puddle on the street, though they were driving by with greater infrequency at this late hour.

Grant pulled his arm out from under the covers and touched Paige’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe you’ve been living with this for weeks,” he said.

Tears had begun to shine in the corners of her eyes.

“Before,” Paige said, “when it was just me, I kept thinking maybe this wasn’t real. Maybe I was imagining it. Losing my mind. But now you’re here. And don’t get me wrong—I’m so glad you are—but it means this is actually happening.”

“There’s an explanation.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out.”

“You’re a detective. It’s your job to believe there are answers to everything.”

“There are answers to everything. Also, I’m very good at my job if that makes you feel any better.”

“No offense, but I think haunted houses are a step above your pay grade.”

The room undulated in the firelight, Grant so tired his eyes were lingering on the blinks.

“Do you really think this place is haunted?” he asked. “Whatever that even means.”

“I’ve thought about it a lot, and I don’t know. But if this isn’t haunted, I’d hate to see what it takes to qualify.”

“How do you sleep knowing what’s up there? Or rather, not knowing?”

“I only sleep when my body shuts down and my eyes refuse to stay open. The dreams are awful.”

“You have a gun in the house?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Where is it?”

“My coat pocket. The gray one hanging by the door.”

“Loaded?”

“Yes. Why? Planning to shoot a ghost?”

“Never know.”

“You know you can’t ever go into my bedroom. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Promise me you won’t.”

“Cross my heart.”

For a moment, Grant considered trying to leave again, but just the threat of that all-encompassing pain put a shudder through him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Paige said.

“What’s that?”

“You’re thinking when you wake up in the morning, it’ll be different. That there will be light outside and people driving around, and we’ll have somehow slept this off.”

“I don’t know what to think.”

She reorganized the covers and tucked them under her feet.

Shut her eyes.

“Don’t get your hopes up. You don’t wake up from this.”

Chapter 15

Two years ago on Thanksgiving night, Grant had questioned a man charged with manslaughter in the death of his wife and children. He’d driven them home drunk from a family dinner and veered head-on into a tow truck. Somehow managed to escape without a scratch.

Grant never forgot how the man had sat in the hard, remorseless light of Interview 3, his head buried in his hands, still fragrant with booze. He wasn’t a bad guy. No priors. Had only been moderately drunk. And up until that evening, he’d always been a model family man.

He’d just happened to make a bad choice, catch a tough piece of luck, and ruin his life.

He wouldn’t answer questions, wouldn’t look at Grant, just kept saying over and over, “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe this is happening.”

Grant had been disturbed by it for a lot reasons, but mostly because he’d driven when he shouldn’t have plenty of times.

But for the grace ...

But lying in the firelight as sleep stalked him, he realized he’d never truly understood the sentiment, the horror running through that poor man’s mind, until now.

I can’t believe this is happening.

Exactly.

It was the feeling, the desperate wish, to go back. To hit undo. To have never walked up the steps to this—haunted?—brownstone. To have never seen Paige’s eyes on Facebook. To be anywhere but here—lying on this couch in this cold house under these conditions and Don dead upstairs.

Don is dead.

He hadn’t put those words together yet. Hadn’t had a chance to.

Now, in the dark with Paige asleep beside him, they came upon him like a freight train out of nowhere, arriving all at once with a truth so big it tripped his breakers.

He felt dizzy, sick.

Don is dead.

It kept repeating in his head—such small words—and yet they were the sound of a lynchpin sliding out. Of Rachel, Don’s wife of fifteen years, washing the dinner dishes alone at night in the kitchen before going up to an empty bed.

A new gust of nausea swept over him.

He’d convinced Don to come here.

Grant couldn’t handle the stillness any more.

Needed a drink now.

He swung his legs over the edge of the sofa and leveraged his weight up, carefully stepping over Paige.

The dying fire provided just enough glow to see the flashlight on the coffee table. He grabbed it and picked his way through the living room, testing each floor plank for noise before committing.

At the wet bar, he reached for the Macallan. Pulled the cork, took a long drink straight from the bottle. It didn’t touch his ravenous thirst, but it quenched something so much deeper.

Grant moved through the living room toward the front door.

At the edge of the foyer, he stopped, turned on the flashlight.

Canvassed the room.

Everything in its right place.

Further on in the dining area, the table and ladder-back chairs made a strange geometry of shadows on the wall as the beam passed over them.

Grant stepped into the entryway.

The chill hit him flush on.

What little heat the fire still produced hadn’t made it this far.

The staircase loomed just ahead.

Pausing at the bottom, he shined the flashlight up toward the second floor. It didn’t quite reach the top, leaving the last few steps in a pool of darkness.

A wash of uneasiness turned his stomach, Grant beginning to second-guess that drink.

He moved closer to the staircase, compelled to scatter the darkness at the top, but just as his foot touched the first step, a thump like a bowling ball dropping on the floor above him shook the house.

He froze, heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Still couldn’t see the top of the stairs.

The dining room chandelier swayed in the wake of the noise, tiny glass prisms clinking.

Grant shot a sidelong glance toward Paige in the living room, unwilling to completely tear his eyes or the flashlight away from the staircase.

The firelight was too weak to see her face, but she lay in the same position.

Grant began to climb, each step groaning, and he kept climbing and kept climbing. Knew it wasn’t possible—perhaps a symptom of sleep deprivation—but it seemed as if there were twice as many steps as before.

As he approached the top, the floral print of the wallpaper slowly emerged out of the black.

He stepped onto the old carpeting of the second floor and stopped.

The beam of light just a tight circle on the wall straight ahead.

Pure darkness on either side.

He twisted the face cap, hoping for a wider coverage of light, but it only dimmed what little it had to offer.

Grant brandished the flashlight over his shoulder as he moved on and rounded the corner, the hallway illuminating unevenly.

He exhaled.

All quiet.

Paige’s bedroom door still closed.

He went on, past the cramped closet where he’d hidden from Jude several hours before, past the table, past Paige’s door, and down to the end of the hall where he turned to find the guest bedroom still open, just as he’d left it.

At the doorway, he stopped, resisting an inexplicable urge to enter.

He shined the anemic light into the room.

The stripped bed.

Bits of Don’s phone still scattered on the floor.

The bloody footprints.

Horror again at the thought of what had happened in here.

At what lay sprawled across the checkerboard floor of the bathroom.

So why was he walking toward it?

Why was he following those bloody footprints back to their source?

He wanted to stop but didn’t.

Couldn’t.

The interior of the bathroom swung into view, and he tried to look away, knowing he should just turn off the flashlight, spare himself from seeing this scene again. The images from before had already left an indelible mark. The kind of imprint that would never leave.

But he was already standing in the doorway.

He steadied the light.

The pool of blood where the man had once sat was empty and beginning to congeal imperfectly, like a cracked mirror, black in the feeble illumination of his light.

Don was gone, a sudden confluence of terror and relief flooding through him at the possibility that Don might still be alive.

Grant stepped into the bathroom and crouched down at the edge of the dark puddle.

Passed the light over it.

That’s not right, is it?

If Don had somehow gotten up or been moved, the blood would have smeared.

And let’s be honest—that is a shit-ton of blood.

Grant stood and traced the floor from the puddle to the doorway with his light. Just the one set of footprints from before—Jude’s.

He put his light on the shower curtain.

A prickling sensation dropped down the length of his spine.

Had it been open earlier?

He thought back to his first time in this bathroom, but he couldn’t recover the detail. He’d been too focused on his friend.

Grant cocked the flashlight back like a baton as he turned toward the bathtub.

No sound came from behind the curtain.

He stepped forward onto a blood-free section of tile, reached out, caught a fold of fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

He ripped it back.

An empty tub.

The bunched muscles in his shoulders relaxed, but an explosion of footsteps out in the corridor spun him around.

He stepped over the blood, bolted out of the bathroom, and shot through the bedroom toward the open door.

The footsteps pounded down the staircase, shaking the house.

Grant sprinted through the hall above the foyer, screaming his sister’s name, screaming for her to wake up.

When he turned the corner, he stopped.

Paige’s bedroom door was open.

Blackness inside like he’d never seen.

He felt the mysterious pull.

The rush of air behind him.

He needed his legs to work, to propel him in the opposite direction, but they’d gone lame, and now his knees failed him too.

He was sinking down onto the floor as the room sucked him in, but it wasn’t just a physical undertow. He was suddenly aware of something lurking on the outskirts of his consciousness. A concentrated intellect studying the framework of his mind. Searching for a way in. The intensity of its attention like a furnace.

Grant sat up on the living room couch.

His chest billowing.

It took him a moment to recalibrate.

The fire had gone out and the room was freezing.

He reached down and felt for Paige, found her back.

It rose and fell with the unhurried pace of a deep and restful sleep.

Bittersweet reality.

He lay back down and drew the covers up to his neck. The pillow was soaked in sweat and so was he.

Waking up from that nightmare into this one was a small relief, but he’d take it.

He’d take it wherever he could find it.

His pulse rate was falling back toward baseline, and sleep was creeping up on him again like a welcome predator.

No more dreams.

As if he could will such a thing away.

Grant closed his eyes, and they had been shut for less than a second when a sound like a gunshot filled the house.

His eyes opened.

He didn’t move because he couldn’t.

Frozen with liquid fear.

He stared into the ashen bed of coals beneath the grate, glowing the same subdued color as the brownish-purple dawnlight that was filtering in through the windows.

His heart banged inside his chest with a relentless fury, and he was on the borderline of hyperventilation, his vision sparkling with pulsating specks of black.

That sound.

He knew exactly what it was.

The door to Paige’s room had just slammed shut.

Chapter 16

You’ve reached Grant Moreton. I can’t get to the phone right now, but if you’ll—

Sophie Benington shelved the handset.

Her sergeant, Joseph Wanger, walked over, looking every bit like the terrifying slob he was—big and broad, his white, button-down oxford hanging out of his waistband, his collar stained with duck sauce the color of radioactivity.

He was tearing through a carton of Chinese food from Grant’s second favorite restaurant in the world—the Northgate Panda Express.

When he reached her desk, he rapped his knuckles on the particleboard.

Sophie shook her head.

Wanger sighed heavily and stabbed a plastic fork into the carton.

The rippled surface of his shaved head was sweating from the handful of hot mustard packets he’d undoubtedly squeezed onto his meal.

“I’ve been calling him all morning,” Sophie said. “It rings, but he’s not picking up.”

“You guys are close, right?” His voice pure gravitas and boom. Sophie had seen it break more than a handful suspects, blundering unis who’d muddied the chain of evidence, and even the occasional detective.

“I don’t know if I’d say—”

“Come on, Benington. What’s going on with your boy?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you do know Grant’s got a taste for scotch. I mean, that don’t require any sort of special training to deduce.”

“I’m aware, sir.”

“He’s been fine the last year or two, but he’s has not always been the straight and narrow. Any chance he’s going through a thirsty spell, and you just don’t have the heart to rat him out? It’s not a part of your job to protect him, you know.”

“I’m not protecting him.”

Wanger shoveled a pile of lo mein noodles into his mouth, his massive black mustache glistening with MSG.

“Look, I’ve known Grant for two years,” Sophie said. “He’s shown up for work hung-over a few times.”

“A few?”

“A few times a week. Rolled in still drunk once or twice. But he’s never not shown up.”

“Boy could be going through some shit not on your radar.”

“I don’t think so.”

“So you guys are all cuddly then?”

She imagined lifting the paperweight off her desk—a viceroy butterfly enclosed in a clear globe—and smashing it into Wanger’s ball sack.

“No, but I do sit across from the man every day. I wouldn’t be a good detective if I couldn’t tell if something was bothering my own partner, would I?”

“So does this mean you’re worried?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve tried him at home?”

“His cell is the only way to reach him. I also texted him and sent him an e-mail. No response. I was thinking of driving over to his apartment in Fremont.”

Wanger was already nodding as he chewed.

“Do it,” he said. “Right now.”

# # #

Sophie stood at Grant’s door on the third floor of his townhome walkup. The building was nice, but Grant had about as much design sense as a monk.

She pounded on his door again.

“Grant! You in there?”

No answer.

Turning away, she pushed the thought out of her mind that he was lying dead in there. She had circled the surrounding blocks several times, but couldn’t find his black Crown Vic. At least that was something.

Halfway down the last flight of stairs, her phone rang—Detective Dobbs calling. She answered as she moved past the mailboxes and toward the front door.

“What’s up, Art?”

“I just got a strange call. A groundskeeper spotted a man in the Japanese garden at the Washington Park Arboretum.”

“So what?”

“Silver responded. Turns out it’s Benjamin Seymour, your missing lawyer.”

“So Seymour’s okay?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just go see for yourself.”

Sophie pushed open the front door and headed down the concrete steps toward her silver TrailBlazer which she’d double-parked in front of the building.

“I’m on my way,” she said.

“Where are you?”

“Fremont. Have Bobby keep eyes on him.”

“Any word on Grant?”

“I’m just leaving his apartment. He isn’t here.”

“Your boy’ll turn up. Probably just tripped over a big night.”

“Hey, Art?”

“Yeah?”

Her car alarm chirped.

“He’s not my boy.”

“If you say so.”

Chapter 17

Grant could see that he was standing on two feet, but it didn’t feel that way. He’d had his share of I-feel-like-death hangovers in recent years, but nothing approaching this. His head felt like the Liberty Bell—deeply cracked—and a pool of something in his stomach was threatening to surface.

He stepped over his still-sleeping sister onto the frigid hardwood floor and made a mad dash to the bathroom off the kitchen.

Knees hit tile, and he just managed to throw open the toilet seat before spewing his guts into the bowl.

He flushed.

Hauled himself up.

Cranked open the faucet and rinsed his mouth and spit.

He’d had a few drinks the night before, but he didn’t deserve this.

Grant turned the water off and straightened. His back cracked. He dug the crust from the corners of his lids with a knuckle and checked his reflection in the mirror—eyes sunken and red-veined, hair like something out of an eighties music video.

He ran a hand over the scratch of fresh beard.

Something about his face seemed off. After a night of too much booze and restless sleep, he could faithfully count on swollen cheeks and puffy eyes. But this morning, nothing about him looked bloated. His face was as thin as he’d seen it in years. Verging into gaunt.

He walked through the kitchen and up the hallway into the foyer.

Unlocked the front door, stepped out onto the porch.

His ears popped from that persistent pressure gradient.

The rain had stopped and the air smelled of wet pavement. The sky hadn’t cleared, but the clouds overhead were thin enough for the incoming sunlight to burn his eyes. It was a suddenly warm Friday for December and people would be pouring out of their homes and into the green spaces with the kind of shared satisfaction that only rainy cities relish on days like this.

A woman ran by pushing a jogger-stroller.

The streets hummed with traffic.

The hedges dripped.

Wind pushed the scent of a distant coffee shop his way.

He glanced at his watch—later than he thought. They’d slept past noon.

His fingernails looked dirty, but he knew it wasn’t that.

Don’s blood.

The despair and heartache nearly brought him to his knees.

The view off the front porch was panoramic—Lake Union spread out before him, a fleet of sailboats and kayaks speckling its grey surface with color. The Cascades were still socked in. Farther up on the north bank, the hulking ruins of Gas Works Park loomed over squares of bright, rain-fresh grass like the skyline of a steampunk novel. Grant couldn’t see the people, but he imagined them on picnic blankets, children scrambling up the hill, dragging kites in the breeze behind them.

He drew in a deep breath.

Took a step down.

Then another.

As if this day was just something he could walk out into.

What had been a dull, painless throbbing behind his eyes ratcheted up a few degrees until it felt like someone was rolling his optic nerve between two meaty fingers.

He descended two more steps.

The meaty fingers became a poking needle.

His stomach contracted into a ball of molten iron, and the agony doubled him over, Grant clutching his gut as he tried to backpedal up the steps.

By the time he reached the landing, clawing desperately for the door, the pain had begun to moderate.

Grant stumbled back into the gloom of Paige’s brownstone.

His sister was sitting up on the mattress in the living room, her knees drawn into her chest.

“How far did you get?” she asked.

“Two steps from the bottom.”

Grant made his way over to the couch and collapsed onto it.

“Did you throw up yet?” she asked. “That’s how I start the morning these days.”

“First thing.”

“It’s not a hangover.”

“I know.”

“It only gets worse.”

“Is this you trying to help?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s warmer outside than it is in here,” Grant said.

“I think it’s your body temperature, not just the house. Chills?”

Grant hadn’t noticed chills specifically amid the grocery list of other symptoms, but he did feel feverish.

“Yeah. I’m gonna build a fire.”

“We’re out of firewood.”

“We aren’t out of furniture.” He sat up, wrapped the covers around his shoulders. “What’s going on in this house, Paige?”

“I don’t know.”

“No idea.”

“None.”

“Nothing weird has happened to you lately that you’re forgetting to tell me?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t desecrated any sacred Indian burial grounds lately, have you?”

“Not lately.”

“No deals with some guy in a red lounge suit holding a garden tool?”

She just smiled.

“So what then?” Grant asked.

“I don’t know. This isn’t a Halloween special.”

“You’ve been living with this thing for a month.”

“Well aware.”

“So what do you think it is?”

She shook her head.

“No matter what you say, I won’t judge you.”

“You remember going to church with Mom and Dad?”

“Barely.”

“Remember how it was only ever about Satan and demons?”

“That’s all I remember about it.”

“Me too, and it scared me atheist. When we stopped going after Mom died, I still couldn’t get that stuff out of my head.”

“I remember your nightmares.”

“Right,” Paige said. “They were horrible. I used to dream that this demon I could never see was crawling down the hall toward our bedroom. I knew it was coming, but I couldn’t move. My legs had stopped working. Its shadow—Jesus, it still creeps me out big time—would stop in the doorway behind me. I could feel it standing there, and every time I tried to sit up and turn around to see it, I’d wake up.”

“That’s pretty standard nightmare material.”

“But that’s what these last four weeks have felt like. The same kind of fear—of being alone in a house, but knowing you aren’t really alone.”

“And not being able to do anything about it, including leaving.”

“Exactly. It’s this helpless, claustrophobic feeling.”

“So you think it’s something demonic?”

“I don’t know. All I’m saying is that it feels like the kind of thing I used to be afraid of.”

“Have you called anyone?”

“Who would I call?”

“A professional.”

“You mean like an exorcist?”

“I know, I can’t believe I’m suggesting it.”

Paige cocked her head. “You think we should?”

Grant didn’t want to say it. Every ounce of training, years of collecting facts and scrutinizing them screamed that there was a corporeal explanation here that could be booked down at the station. He based his life, his choices, on empirical evidence. Aristotle and all that shit.

“It doesn’t matter whether we believe in it or not,” he said. “There’s something happening in this house and it doesn’t look like we’re equipped to deal with it. I say we bring someone in. You got a phone book?”

“In the kitchen.”

“I could use some coffee now that I mention it.”

“We still don’t have power.”

“You have a French press?”

“Nope.”

“No worries. Long as you’ve got the beans, I can save the day.”

Chapter 18

Grant opened the gas on one of the back burners and struck a match. It ignited with a whoomf and settled down into a neat blue circle of quietly-hissing flame. He set a copper-bottomed pot filled with tap water onto the burner.

“Whole bean all you got?” he said, peering into the stainless steel canister where Paige kept her stash.

“Sorry.”

He thought for a moment.

“You have anything made of silk?”

A few minutes later, Grant was pouring a handful of beans into one of Paige’s socks and beating them into grounds with a meat pulverizer.

On the other side of the kitchen, his sister was fishing through a drawer jammed to bursting with junk that either didn’t have a home or had fallen out of use—a refuge of forgotten toys.

Paige fished out the fat Seattle phone book, let it thud against the counter.

“Haven’t seen one of these in awhile,” she said.

It was waterlogged and dogeared. Grant imagined it sitting on the front steps like a lost kitten for days in the rain before Paige had finally surrendered and brought it inside.

She fanned it open.

“E for exorcist?” she asked.

“I guess.”

Grant looked over her shoulder as she thumbed back to the yellow pages.

“It’s not in the Es.”

“Don’t priests handle these things? Maybe we can talk to whoever’s in charge of whatever-the-hell parish we’re in.”

“It’s so easy in the movies,” she said, prying the pages apart. “They make it sound like there’s this whole industry. Okay, here we go. St. James Cathedral. It’s that big church on First Hill. Bunch of phone numbers.”

Grant scrolled the list with his finger.

“Not seeing anything related to exorcism. What about demonologist?” he said.

“Is that a real thing?”

“I think so.”

Paige flipped through the Ds.

“Nope. No wonder people don’t use phone books anymore.”

“You think it’d be possible for me to get my phone back?”

“Why?”

“So I can call the church. Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“Seriously. Go get my phone.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Did you turn it off when I handed it over last night?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You understand that when we run out of battery power, we’re pretty much cut off from the outside world in here.”

Paige rushed into the living room. Grant heard a drawer squeak open, papers shuffling. She came back holding his phone and hers.

“You’ve got a little less than a quarter of a charge,” she said. “And fourteen missed calls from someone named Sophie.” Her right eyebrow went up. “Lady friend?”

He grabbed his phone.

“She’s my partner.”

“Well, it looks like she cares.”

“Everyone at the station is probably wondering where I am. How much battery life do you have?”

“Half.”

“Let me have yours.”

“Why?”

He slid open the back of his phone, popped out the battery, set it on the granite countertop.

“Because people can track me to your house if this phone is running.” Paige handed over her phone. “Can you get me that number?” he asked.

She flipped back to the listing for St. James Cathedral and called it out.

An elderly-sounding woman answered on the second ring, “St. James.”

Grant put the phone on speaker and set it face-up on the kitchen island.

“Hi, who am I speaking with please?”

“This is Gertrude. What can I do for you?”

“I was trying to reach the parish priest.”

“Just a moment.”

The hold Muzak was a Gregorian chant.

After thirty seconds, a soft-spoken man answered, “Jim Ward.”

“Hi Jim, my name’s Grant.”

“How can I help you, Grant?”

“My sister and I are dealing with an issue in her house.”

As Grant listened to the long pause on the other end of the line, it occurred to him that he didn’t have the first idea of how to say this.

The priest finally nudged him on. “Could you elaborate?”

“I think we have some kind of—I don’t know—entity.”

“Entity?”

“Yes.” He hoped the priest would take the ball and run with it, spare Grant the humiliation of having to provide a blow-by-blow for something that was sounding more ridiculous every second.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

“There’s something upstairs that is … I don’t really know how to put this ... not of this world.”

An even longer pause.

Grant stared at Paige across the kitchen island.

“I know this sounds weird,” Grant said. “I promise you it’s not a joke. I couldn’t be more serious or more in need of help.”

“Are you a member of St. James?” the priest asked.

“No, sir.”

“Is your sister?”

“No.”

“What exactly is it that you would like for me to do?”

“To be honest, I don’t have the first clue about where to begin with something like this. I was hoping you would.”

“Do you believe this is demonic activity you’re dealing with?”

“I don’t know. I think it might be.”

“We’re really not equipped for this in any of our Seattle parishes, but there is a priest trained in the rite of exorcism in Portland.”

“Could you put us in touch?”

“There’s a protocol for these types of matters. It’s just you and your sister?”

“Yes.”

“And do you suspect possession?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you believe this entity has control over you or your sister?”

Grant met eyes with Paige.

“I don’t know.”

“I would be happy to meet with both of you. I’m booked up today, but you could come by my office first thing Monday.”

“What’s this priest’s name? The one in Portland?”

“The better course of action would be to have you meet with me first. Then I could make a referral.”

Grant said, “That won’t work for us. I want you to take down our address. It’s Twenty-two Crocket Street in upper Queen Anne—the freestanding brownstone on the corner. Please communicate to this priest in Portland that we need to see him.”

“If this is a true emergency, I could come by myself after I leave the office tonight.”

“Are you equipped to handle something like this, Father?”

A brief pause and then: “Well, it’s not exactly a science, but I’m not the best suited for this type of thing, no.”

“Then don’t come here alone. Give the address to the other priest or don’t do anything.”

“I’ll see what can be done.”

“Thank you.”

Grant gave him his phone number and hung up.

The water was boiling on the stove.

He walked over and lifted the pot off the gas.

“That guy isn’t sending anybody,” Paige said.

“You’re probably right.”

Grant emptied the silk sock filled with fresh coffee grounds into the hot water. He stirred them in with a wooden spoon and topped the pot with its lid.

“You’re looking pale,” Paige said.

Grant nodded. He felt dizzy too, and his headache was becoming impossible to ignore.

“It was a long night. I just need some coffee,” he said.

“Coffee won’t fix this. Should I run through the list of symptoms? I know them pretty well.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’d have to be a pretty bad detective to actually believe that.”

She was right, but he wasn’t ready to give up on the hope that his headache and sour stomach were just the parting gifts from a terrible evening followed by an even worse night’s sleep.

“This is just the beginning. You have no idea how bad it’s about to get.”

Paige walked over to the pot and lifted the lid. Pungent curls of steam made a brief appearance before dissipating. She picked up the wooden spoon and gave the darkening liquid a few stirs.

“I’ve been where you’re at,” she said. “Wanting to hold off. Thinking I could control my own deterioration.”

“I’m not sending another person up there, Paige. If that’s what you’re getting at.”

“But when it was me hurting, that was—”

“Different, yes.” Grant leaned against the counter.

“Because it’s okay as long as I’m the one needing help?” she asked.

“Because my sister was dying.”

She let the spoon clatter to the counter and turned to face him.

“It wants someone else, Grant. Do you think I can’t feel it too? Do you think it won’t bring me to my knees all over again if we hold off? You saw how I looked last night. I’ll be just as bad off, if not worse, in another twelve hours.”

“We can’t keep sending men up there. Who knows where they’re going, what they’re doing, when they leave your brownstone.”

“I don’t like it either. You may not understand, but these men are more than just clients to me.”

“I get that.” More than you know.

“Look, we can put this off now, but there will come a time—I promise you—when you beg me to bring someone over. I don’t want either of us to get to that point.”

Grant circled the island and took a seat on one of the stools. He crossed his arms on the cool tile and let his head fall onto them. Felt like his brain had been submerged in a bucket of ice water. Each thought arrived cut into slices, and as Grant struggled to assemble them, the only thing that surfaced out of his fog was that she was right—he couldn’t hold out forever.

Paige came over to him.

“You know we don’t have a choice,” she said softly. “But there’s a good reason to do it soon.”

“What’s that?” he said without lifting his head.

The room had become thick with the rich aroma of coffee. On any other day, that smell alone would have been sufficient to give Grant a pleasant dopamine pregame in anticipation of the real thing. Now it struck him as flat and unappealing.

“I just thought of it this morning,” she said. “Don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “We have a chance to learn something about that thing that’s living in my room.”

For a brief second, curiosity broke through the mounting pain. Grant heaved his head off the cool comfort of the tile.

“How?”

“It’s kept me a prisoner for two weeks, and I still don’t know anything about it.”

“Because you’re always unconscious when it shows up.”

“And when it’s all over, my client’s gone and I don’t have a clue about what happened. Tonight will be different. We’re going to make a video of the whole thing.”

“With what?”

“My phone. I’ll leave it on the dresser. There’s no reason my client will think to look for it. His mind will be on other things.”

Grant considered this. Concrete visual evidence was exactly what they needed, and not just for themselves, but for any help that eventually showed up. At the very least, it was more of a plan than anything they’d had up until now. But the idea of watching his sister with another man was beyond what he could handle. Listening to them last night had been hard enough.

“That’s good,” he said finally. “We need intel on what we’re dealing with.”

Grant struggled onto his feet, went to the stove.

“Coffee?” he said.

“Please.”

He pulled two mugs down from their hooks underneath the cabinets and slid a coffee filter over the top of each one. Lifting the pot, he poured over the paper, careful to avoid a scalding splash as the grounds collected and the holy, black liquid passed through the paper.

“Smells like coffee,” Paige said.

He carried the warm mugs over to the island.

“This is how the cowboys rolled,” he said, placing one of the cups in front of his sister.

“We even have a whorehouse.”

“Can’t stop yourself, can you?” he asked.

“From what?”

“Pressing every last button you see.”

“You do have a lot of them.”

They drank, not minding the bitter grinds that had escaped the filter.

“Not bad,” Paige said.

“It’ll do in a pinch.”

“We’re in one.”

For just a moment, the simple act of holding the steaming mug made things feel slightly better. A small, familiar thing in the midst of an alien chaos. Their world may have been upended, but he could still make a cup of coffee.

He said, “It might not work, you know. Video might show us nothing.”

“Pessimistic much?”

“I’m not saying we don’t do it. We just can’t hang our hat on one thing. We need to do more.”

“Like what?”

“There was this woman we brought in on a murder case several years ago.”

“You mean like a psychic?”

“No, she got really upset if you called her that. She billed herself as a trance medium, whatever the hell that means. And yes, she’s even weirder than it sounds.”

“Did she help?”

“I don’t know. She seemed to think so, although the case was never solved. I might call her.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re desperate.” He slugged back a big swallow of coffee. “You know, if this were a haunted house movie—”

“It’s not.”

“But if it were, our job would be to find out what happened in this house.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how some tragic event always precipitates a haunting? Like a murder?”

“I can’t quite believe we’re having this conversation. Those are film tropes, Grant. What’s happening to us is real.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

She stared at him, frustrated. Shook her head finally, said, “I don’t know.”

“Then let’s at least do something. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn’t. At least we’ll be trying. Isn’t that the whole point of your video?”

“Fine.”

“So what do you know about this house?”

“Nothing. I moved in two months ago.”

“Well, we need to find out everything we can.”

“You mean like if the prior resident was an insane caretaker who murdered his entire family?”

“Yes, that kind of thing. We’re sort of stranded here, but I have a friend I can call.”

“Who?”

“He’s a private investigator.”

“Grant, I know we need a little outside help, but this isn’t going to come back to bite me in the ass, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t have people digging into my private life.”

“Paige, this guy’s a friend.”

“Still.”

“And more importantly, the last guy in the world to cast a stone.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

“Then let’s make some calls.”

Grant picked up the battery to his phone, reassembled everything, and powered it up.

“I thought they could track you with that.”

“I just need to get those numbers for the PI and the freakshow.”

As he scrolled through contacts, the phone began to vibrate in his hand.

“Damn,” he said.

“Who is it?”

He set the phone on the tile, Sophie’s name burning across the screen.

Paige said, “You got the numbers. Turn it off.”

He shook his head.

“I’m thinking that’s not the right play. Sophie isn’t going to stop. It’s not in her programming.”

“So what are you going to do?”

He picked up the phone.

“I’m going to talk to her.”

Chapter 19

Sophie walked through the entrance gate and up the paved walkway into the garden. She’d made it a habit last summer of coming here on pretty Sundays, but despite the patches of blue sky above, in its present state, the garden felt a far cry from the lushness of July. Winter had muted its color to shades of grey and evergreen, and something inside of her hated seeing it this way—like staring down at her mother in the casket—there but not.

A groundskeeper stood under a leafless Japanese maple, a bulging trash bag at his feet. Sophie opened her wallet as she approached, but the man didn’t bother to examine her credentials.

“Detective Sophie Benington,” she said. “I understand you discovered Mr. Seymour this morning?”

The groundskeeper leaned against the handle of his rake, sweat stains reaching from his armpits down the sides of his uniform.

A tall, skinny kid with ropey dreads and gentle eyes.

“He was sitting on the bench by the pond when I got here.”

“And you’ve never seen him in the garden before?”

“No, we keep this part of the arboretum closed in the winter. We occasionally have to chase out a few homeless and freegans, but mostly this place stays dead.”

Sophie moved on past the groundskeeper toward Officer Silver. He stood fifty yards up the path in his dark blue uniform, and as the sound of Sophie’s Frye boots clicking against the pavement pulled within range, he turned and watched her approach.

The man was tall but he looked about eighteen years old, with the creamy complexion and boring good looks of a high school jock.

“Hey, new guy,” she said.

Silver smirked. He’d actually been with SPD longer than Sophie, but as bad nicknames are wont to do, his had stuck.

“Seymour’s right out there?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

Just beyond where they stood, the trees opened up. There was the pond—brown and still—with a little bridge going across the middle. Sophie could just see the back of a head poking up from behind a cluster of bushes.

“What are you gonna do?” Silver asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Something’s off with this guy. Want me to come with?”

“Not yet.”

“He could be dangerous, Sophie.”

“Jeez, he really creeped you out, huh?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Hang back, but stay close.”

Sophie followed the meandering path along the north bank of the pond. The garden was steeped in solitude, and except for the distant murmur of traffic, Sophie’s footfalls were the only noise that violated the serenity of the place.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong to be here with the trees skeletal and devoid of color. Even worse to be here on the job.

She stopped.

Ten yards ahead, past a grove of rhododendron, she spotted a pair of benches.

One was empty.

Benjamin Seymour sat motionless on the other.

He could have been a garden feature, his stillness matched by the Zen landscape. After three days of staring at photographs of him taken in better times, it was strange to see him sitting there in the actual like a statue.

She reached into her jacket and unsnapped her holster, let her palm rest on the stock of her G22. After coming on board with CID, she’d had belt loops sewn into all of her pants since the hip rig dragged them down. Much preferred the way this belted holster rode on her hips.

She hailed the man from a few paces away—better to make her presence known than risk startling him.

“Mr. Seymour?”

He didn’t move.

“I’m Detective Benington with the SPD. Everything okay?”

Seymour casually stretched his arm across the back of the bench but made no response.

“I’m coming over, Mr. Seymour.”

Sophie entered the rhododendron grove.

From a distance, Seymour could have been any park patron stopped for a contemplative moment by the pond. In proximity, the red flags began to wave. His custom-made suit was soaked through, and his hair had long since lost its gelled structure. It would have taken hours for the light Seattle rain to do this level of damage.

“Can you hear me, Mr. Seymour?”

He looked over at her and blinked, a galactic distance in his eyes.

“Where have you been for the past three days?” she asked.

“Here.”

“You’ve been sitting on this bench for over seventy-two hours?”

“The gardens are beautiful in winter.”

“They’re also closed. You’re trespassing.”

“I didn’t realize. I apologize. I’ll leave.”

He started to rise.

“Wait a moment. Just stay where you are. Are you injured?”

He sat down, looked back at the pond. “No.”

“Are you on any drugs right now?”

“No.”

“Are you carrying any weapons I should know about?”

He shook his head.

“People have been looking for you. They’re worried.”

“That’s very kind.”

Sophie ventured a step closer.

The man was shivering imperceptibly.

“What are you doing out here, Mr. Seymour?”

“Thinking. It’s a good place for it.”

“What are you thinking about?”

He didn’t answer.

The wind kicked up.

A scrap of paper in Seymour’s right hand twitched in the breeze. In his other hand, he held a pen.

“What’s that paper, Mr. Seymour?”

No response.

Sophie edged closer.

“Could I take a look?”

When he didn’t respond, she slowly reached down and eased the paper out of his grasp. Sophie took several steps away from the bench and glanced back toward the main path. Silver had moved closer, now standing only twenty yards away, watching intently.

She looked down at the crumpled paper in her hand—a receipt for a twenty-five-dollar pour of Highland Park at a downtown bar called The Whisky.

The time stamp was 5:11 p.m., three days ago.

She looked up at him again.

Seymour stared past her into oblivion.

Sophie flipped the receipt over.

In rain-smeared ink, the visage of an old man stared back at her. What the portrait lacked in artistic flair was counterbalanced by a staggering detail that reminded her of a facial composite. It was an expertly-executed sketch, but as impersonal as a mugshot.

“Did you draw this, Mr. Seymour?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see this man somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In my head.”

“Did this man hurt you?”

“No, I’ve never met him.”

Sophie slid the receipt into an inner pocket of her jacket.

“What do you remember about being at The Whisky three nights ago?” she asked.

Seymour started to rise.

She took a step back and touched her gun.

Silver shouted, “Everything okay?”

“We’re fine,” she yelled, her eyes never leaving Seymour.

Seymour buttoned his jacket.

“I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused.”

“What happened to you?”

“The gardens are beautiful this time of year, aren’t they?” he said with an empty smile that was completely disconnected from his eyes.

He started up a slope of browned grass.

Sophie followed.

“Mr. Seymour, please. You need to go to a hospital.”

The man reached the path and continued walking toward the entrance gate.

“What happened?” Silver asked.

“I have no idea. Walk with me.”

“You’re letting him go?”

“What exactly would you propose we bring him in on?”

“Trespassing.”

“Please.”

“At least you’ll get a chance to talk to him.”

“He isn’t giving anything up. I got stonewalled.”

“What do you think happened to him?”

“Nervous breakdown? Drugs? Some kind of trauma?”

“So we’re just going to watch him walk away?”

“Of course not.” Seymour passed through the entrance gate to the Japanese garden as Sophie dug her phone out of her purse. “I’m going to follow him.”

Chapter 20

“Don’t,” Paige said.

Grant touched his finger to the screen.

“We have to buy ourselves some time.”

Paige clenched her jaw.

“Fine. Put her on speaker.”

Grant swiped the screen, activated the speaker, and set the phone back on the island.

“Sophie,” he said.

“Jesus Christ, Grant. Wanger’s practically interviewing for your replacement. Where are you?”

“On my way home from the hospital.”

The words had left his mouth before he’d even given it a thought—a reflexive lie.

“Oh my God, what happened?”

The concern in her voice shot a hollowpoint of guilt through his chest. He felt it mushroom center mass. He’d never lied to Sophie before. Never had a reason to. Six months into their partnership, she’d had Grant down so cold she could have reconstructed him from junk parts. Now, after sharing a desk for two years, he could say as much. They operated on the same frequency, and that was the problem. Her bullshit meter was a finely calibrated tool. If his performance wasn’t Oscar material, she’d know it.

He glanced at Paige, her eyes gone wide, head slowly shaking like what-are-you-going-to-say-now?

“Let’s just say that the Spicy Italian is no longer my favorite sandwich.”

Something like a snort crackled over the speaker.

“Was that a laugh?” Grant said.

“No, I promise,” Sophie laughed.

“You are so cruel.”

“I just can’t believe you got food poisoning from Subway. That’s just ... wow. Do you need anything?”

“Rest.”

“You should’ve called me.”

“Kind of hard when they’re pumping your stomach.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry.”

Paige raised an eyebrow.

Grant rolled his eyes.

“Can I bring you something?” Sophie asked. “Your favorite sub? I’m sorry, that was too soon.”

“No, I’m drained. Just going home to crash. Might take the next few days off. “

“That’s not a bad idea. You sound awful.”

“Would you tell Wanger for me?”

“Sure, but you’re going to hate your timing.”

Grant looked up at Paige.

“What’s going on?”

“We found Benjamin Seymour.”

Porcelain and coffee exploded on the floor beside Grant’s feet.

Paige’s eyes filled with terror, hands still clutching the shape of the mug that lay in pieces on the hardwood.

Grant mouthed to his sister, What?

She shook her head and pointed at the phone.

“What was that?” Sophie asked.

“Sorry. Hit a pothole.”

The pool of coffee was expanding toward Grant’s socks.

Paige collected herself, grabbed the dishcloth from the oven handle, and began blotting the liquid.

“Alive?” Grant asked.

“Yes.”

“Where’d you find him?”

“At the arboretum. I’m here now. He’d apparently been sitting on a bench for days before a groundskeeper found him and called it in. I tried talking to him but the guy’s a space cadet. Virtually catatonic. Could barely respond. Just sat there staring at the water.”

“So he was on something?”

“I don’t think so. It was more like he was sleepwalking.”

“So you’re bringing him in?”

Thinking, He’ll lead them straight to me and Paige.

“No. I’m going to follow him. Something’s up. He was holding a drawing he’d done on a receipt. A hyper-realistic portrait of an old man’s face. I’ve got it with me. This thing is amazing, Grant. Our boy’s an artist.”

“Seymour drew it?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Who’s the old man?”

“He didn’t know. Said he’d never met him.”

“That sounds like eight kinds of strange.”

Paige had finished soaking up the coffee, now picking up fragments of the mug.

“Well, don’t figure it all out before I get back,” Grant said.

“I don’t think there’s any danger of that. This is a weird one. Sure I can’t bring you something?”

“No, but you’re my first call if I change my mind.”

“All right, partner. Feel better. I’ll keep you looped in.”

Grant clicked off.

His heart pounding.

Paige had opened the cabinet under the sink and was dumping the broken cup into a trashcan. She closed the door and stood, looked back at Grant, her face as white as the porcelain shards.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Benjamin Seymour is one of mine. He came here three nights ago.”

“And it went down just like with the doctor last night?”

She nodded.

“Was a man named Barry Talbert also a client of yours?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He’s missing too. I’m sure you’re aware, but these are prominent, wealthy men in the business and legal community.”

“That’s who I service.”

“SPD is looking extra hard for them. The search for these men is what led me to your Facebook page in the first place. It’s going to be a matter of time before the entire investigative division—” Grant tapped the surface of the island “—knocks on the door.”

“So what do we do if it happens? If your buddies show up?”

“We can’t let that happen, okay? Think about what it would look like to a cop walking in here, finding Don upstairs. Now think about how it would sound if you and I tried to explain any of this. I wouldn’t buy it for a second.”

“You sound scared.”

“I am scared. Of whatever’s upstairs, and what could happen if the cavalry shows up. We’re in a bad spot here.”

Grant lifted his phone and stared at the screen.

The battery meter had dwindled into the yellow.

“So what do we do?” Paige asked.

“A Hail Mary.”

He scrolled his contacts down to stu.

Dialed.

A gruff-voiced man answered immediately, “G, what’s happening?”

“Stu, need a big favor.”

“Did I miss when you called for a little one?”

Grant hesitated, fighting through the pounding headache to pin down the best way to ask.

“I need everything you can dig up on an address.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“I need it in four hours.”

“Okay, that’s not even a rush job, Grant. That’s like—”

“I don’t care what it—”

“You know my rush jobs are double.”

“Aware.”

“We’re talking triple here. At least. I’m going to have to drop some high priority cases.”

“I don’t care what it costs.”

Through the speaker, Grant heard paper ripping, the murmur of a crowd, music, a distant, mechanical grinding that could only be espresso beans on their way to a small, white cup. An image materialized—Stu at his “office.” A coffeehouse in Capital Hill.

Stu said, “What’s the address?”

“Twenty-two Crockett Street.”

“Queen Anne?”

“Correct.”

“Give me your wish list.”

“Every owner going back twenty years. Every tenant going back twenty years. Background checks all around. And finally, assuming this property was sold in the last twenty years, I want a copy of the seller’s disclosure form.”

“That last one may be impossible, Grant.”

“Just try.”

“Those aren’t public records. I can’t just go down to the clerk and recorder’s office and pull that. Now I have contacts at two of the biggest title companies in town. Assuming there was a sale, and that one of those companies issued title insurance, it’s conceivable I could get my hands on the disclosure statement. Just don’t count on it. But look, regardless, there’s no way I’ll have all this information to you in four hours. There’s only three hours left in this work week. It’s an impossib—”

“Just get me what you can get me.” Grant pulled the phone back, glanced at the time: 1:55 p.m. “I need it by six tonight. I’ll be out of pocket until then. Call me at six exactly with whatever you’ve got.”

“Grant—”

“I understand. No warranty on you delivering all of this. But please just do what you can. I’m in a jam here.”

Stu sighed heavily into the receiver.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Six p.m. exactly.”

Grant axed the call.

Battery meter in the red.

He powered off his phone and looked at Paige. Already, she was tapping at her phone.

She brought it to her ear and faced the window over the double sink, her back to Grant.

It was the voice that took him aback, his sister transforming on a dime into this other person, her voice disintegrating.

From woman to girl.

Pitch rising.

Words drawing out.

It injured his soul.

“Hey sweetie, this a good time? ... Nothing much. Just thinking about you, wondering how your week’s been. Almost over, right? ... Look, I’ve got some time after six tonight if you wanted to swing by.”

Chapter 21

Sophie crossed Lake Washington and Mercer Island, blasting east on 90 toward the Cascades as she followed the white Lexus that Seymour was piloting twenty car lengths ahead.

It hummed along at a rock-solid sixty miles-per-hour.

Douglas-firs streamed past.

The cloud deck dropped.

Specks of mist starring the windshield.

She was sixty percent focused on the Lexus two hundred feet ahead, forty percent elsewhere.

More specifically: Grant.

My partner.

Are you lying to me? Just the thought of it hurt her more than she was comfortable admitting. Like it was a betrayal on some level beyond partner. Beyond friend.

A blinking right turn signal on Seymour’s Lexus snapped her back into the moment. He was already on the off-ramp.

Sophie pressed the accelerator into the floorboard and followed him off the exit.

# # #

Two minutes later, she was rattling over train tracks into downtown North Bend, a slice of Americana so well-preserved she felt her very presence threatened its legitimacy. She rarely left the city. So easy to forget that places like this existed just thirty minutes outside of Seattle proper.

The Lexus pulled into the near-desolate parking lot of Swartwood’s Diner.

Sophie turned into the alley that cut behind the building and pulled her TrailBlazer to a stop beside a mural on the white concrete of the back wall.

Through the driver’s side window, she watched Seymour climb out of his Lexus and walk toward the entrance to the diner.

She couldn’t explain it exactly, but she felt jittery, like she’d just downed a quad-shot espresso concoction. Everything about Seymour felt wrong. He was uncharted territory, and it made her feel like a rookie again—those first days on the street and coming to grips with the utter inadequacy of textbook knowledge.

Sophie reached into her jacket and pulled her G22, checked the load.

More nervous tic than necessity.

She put the SUV back into gear.

Drove down the alley and around the block.

She parked at a better location in front of the entrance.

Seymour had taken a booth by the window. His back was to her.

Good visibility, lucky break.

She killed the engine, reclined the seat.

# # #

It got boring in a hurry.

A waitress appeared at Seymour’s table.

Left.

Returned with coffee.

Seymour never glanced out the window beside his booth. Never brought the steaming cup to his lips. He had cleaned himself up since their encounter at the park—presumably in his car considering she hadn’t let him out of her sight. But other than an argyle sweater, fresh pair of jeans, and immaculate hair, he was the same old catatonic Seymour.

The rain fell so lightly it took almost forty-five minutes to blur her view through the windshield.

When she could no longer see through it, she opened the car door and climbed out.

The smell of fir trees was overpowering.

A mountain loomed on the far side of town, faceless and void of detail, nothing but an ominous profile through the mist.

Sophie crossed the sidewalk and opened the door as slowly as she could.

A cluster of bells hanging from the inner handle jingled anyway.

Seymour didn’t look back.

Aside from Seymour and an old man eating pie at a table against the opposite wall, the diner stood empty.

A jukebox in back played fifties rock-and-roll at an unobtrusive volume.

Two waitresses chatted at the counter, and one of them—a short blonde no more than twenty—glanced at Sophie and said, “Sit anywhere you like.”

She slid into an empty booth just two down from Seymour’s. Didn’t like having her back to the door, but there was no way around it without facing the man.

He could have been asleep he sat so still, but his posture was rigid, on alert, staring straight ahead into nothing.

Sophie peeled the menu from the table and opened it more out of habit than hunger.

The usual suspects: variations of eggs and fried meat, a few burgers, a suspicious Cobb salad.

She looked out the window.

The rain had picked up.

At the intersection, a traffic light flashed red to green, but the road was empty.

“Have you decided?”

Sophie turned to find the young waitress standing poised with pad and pencil. She wore her hair in an impossibly tight ponytail, the brown of her roots clinging for dear life.

“Just a coffee.”

“That’s it?” she grieved.

“That’s it.”

The waitress let her pad drop, cocked her head, and popped a smile so enormous it seemed to exceed the square footage of her face.

“Haven’t seen you here before. Your first time?”

Sophie’s eyes cut to Seymour two booths up.

“Just passing through. Needed a caffeine fix.”

“Oh? Where you headed?”

The question boomed in the silence of the diner as if it had been channeled through a PA system.

“Portland.”

“Business or—”

“Just visiting family.”

The waitress held her smile, as if Sophie’s explanation needed more explanation and she had all the time in the world to wait for the rest of the story.

Across the diner, the old man looked up from his pie.

This line of questioning needed to end. Now.

“You know what, Jenny?” Sophie said, squinting at her nametag, “I think I will have a slice of your pie.”

The waitress somehow squeezed out more smile.

“Good choice. Best in the state. Coffee and pie coming right up.”

As Jenny headed off toward the counter, Sophie kept thinking that at any moment Seymour would suddenly turn and make her.

The waitress returned with a steaming carafe, a mug, and a slice of cherry pie.

She set everything down in front of Sophie.

Poured.

“Anything else, ma’am?”

Ma’am?

“No thanks.”

“Enjoy.”

Jenny the waitress moved on to Seymour’s booth.

Sophie straightened in her seat.

The waitress smiled down at Seymour, but the speed at which it vanished indicated there was zero warmth returned from the customer.

“You haven’t touched your coffee, sir. Can I get you something else?”

Seymour lifted his coffee and polished it off in one uninterrupted tilting of the mug.

He set it down empty on the table and looked up at the waitress.

“The coffee is excellent.”

“Um, would you like some more?”

“Yes.”

She filled his mug from the carafe.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

Sophie pulled out her phone and tapped out three texts to Dobbs.

trailed BS to swartwoods diner in north bend
he’s just sitting here being creepy
still no sign of talbert?

# # #

Sophie watched a dreary afternoon unspool through the windows.

Customers came, left.

Three times she pulled out the receipt with Seymour’s sketch, drawn to it on some frequency she couldn’t name.

The weather cleared and rolled in again.

Still, she could count the number of cars that drove by on both hands.

In the beginning, the waitress had come by every ten minutes or so, pushing the menu, pushing more coffee, more pie. But after two hours, she was completely ignoring both Sophie and Seymour.

# # #

The sun dipped behind the mountains.

Darkness roused the streetlights, the empty intersection now washed in yellow light that made the wet pavement glisten.

A neon beer sign blinked to life in the window of a bar across the street.

Fifteen minutes crawled by.

Not a soul darkened its doorstep.

Happy hour on Friday night in North Bend.

And still, Seymour hadn’t moved. Not to use the restroom. Or stretch his legs. Not even to readjust his weight on the hard plastic bench that had kept one or both of Sophie’s legs in a perpetual state of pins and needles.

Out of sheer boredom, Sophie had blazed through four cups of coffee, a mistake she’d been paying the price for over the last hour as she watched customers enter the bathroom at the back of the diner and exit moments later with what she perceived to be orgasmic relief across their faces.

By 5:55 p.m., she couldn’t hold it anymore.

Rising, she walked unsteadily down the aisle of window-adjacent booths, passing Seymour without acknowledgment or glance, and made a beeline for the doors at the back of the restaurant.

It was the first time she’d used her legs in over three hours, and they felt like they belonged to someone else.

She gave one quick look back at Seymour before disappearing into the women’s restroom.

The desperation in her bladder crescendoed as she burst through the stall door and raced to unbuckle her belt.

Epic relief.

So intense it gave her chills.

She washed up quickly, uncomfortable with leaving Seymour out of sight, even for a minute.

She turned off the tap and looked around, hands dripping.

No paper towels.

No electric dryer.

Of course.

She shook them dry, finishing the job on the sides of her pants.

When she opened the door, her stomach clenched.

Three men now occupied Seymour’s booth.

Sophie rebooted, pushed through the shock, and walked right past them, digging the phone out of her purse as she eased back into her booth.

Fired off a new text to Dobbs.

still here ... two other men just showed up ... come now

She glanced out her window, saw a black van that hadn’t been there before she’d left for the bathroom.

possibly arrived in black GMC savana

Jenny the waitress sidled up to Seymour’s booth, all smiles again.

“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

“Coffee.”

“Coffee.”

“More coffee.”

“Sure thing.”

Sophie slid across the bench seat to get a look at the faces of the new arrivals.

One she didn’t recognize—a man in his mid-fifties, ruggedly handsome, with wavy, graying curls that he kept swept back from his face.

The second was Barry Talbert, her other MIA.

Sophie’s pulse rate doubled.

Talbert was the youngest of the trio—early forties if she had to guess. He wore a crisp, pinstripe button-down, open at the collar. Hair pushed back and cemented in place with plenty of product. At least two days’ worth of stubble coming in.

Another text.

talbert just walked in with some other guy

Both Talbert and Rugged-Handsome exuded that same trance-like intensity.

No one spoke.

A minute into the silence, Talbert broke his thousand-yard stare, looked at Seymour, shook his head, and looked away again, as if he’d been offered something and were politely refusing it.

The waitress returned with two coffee mugs and a carafe.

“Anyone interested in dinner?”

Seymour seemed to speak for everyone. “No, we’re fine.”

When the waitress was out of earshot, Talbert said, “We have the van.”

Seymour nodded.

Talbert said, “Any word from him?”

“It hasn’t happened yet.”

Silence again.

Seymour looked at Talbert as if he’d spoken. He reached over and grabbed a plastic tub of creamer from a pile that filled a porcelain bowl beside the other condiments. Rolled it across the table to him.

Talbert tore off the seal and dumped the creamer into his coffee.

For a moment, he stared down into the cup, mesmerized, as if the swirls of cream were revealing the mysteries of the universe.

Rugged-Handsome said, “The children are there.”

“Full house,” Seymour said.

“He looks a lot like him.”

“So does she,” Talbert said without looking up.

The other two nodded in agreement.

“Won’t be long now,” Seymour said.

Silence descended on their booth again.

Sophie reeled.

On those rare occasions when she escaped the precinct for lunch hour, she liked to head downtown to Lola on Fourth and Virginia. She’d always take a book, intending to read, but inevitably she’d never even power it on. Instead, she’d sit alone, eating and soaking up fragments of conversation from the pleasant noise of the restaurant, reassembling them as best she could into a picture of the lives and stories of the people all around her. She was good at it too. Easy work for a detective and aspiring novelist.

But that particular aptitude was failing her at the moment.

It was different with Seymour, Talbert, and Rugged-Handsome.

Eavesdropping on their conversation was like trying to make sense of a dream. Like reading a code without the cipher. The words were plain enough, but they were fragments of a larger picture that she couldn’t even begin to guess at.

She dug out her phone and sent another text to Dobbs.

something about to happen ... how far?

Ten seconds later, her screen illuminated.

10 min

She set the phone on the table.

Seymour straightened.

So did Sophie.

His head ticked to the left, as imperceptibly as the twitch of the minute hand, but she caught it.

The other two men watched him, something like wonder and fear exploding in their eyes.

Sophie thumbed off the brass snap that secured her Glock in the holster.

“The fourth?” Talbert said.

Seymour nodded. “He just arrived.”

Chapter 22

Grant had just thrown up for the third time in the last hour, and he was still hunched over the toilet in the downstairs bathroom, gasping for breath while Paige patted his back.

“You’re going to feel better soon,” she said. “I promise.”

Grant wiped his mouth as an intense shiver wracked his body.

“How long until your client—”

“Anytime.”

“You ready?”

“Yes.”

She looked the part at least, having changed back into her kimono.

“Got your phone set up?” he asked.

“I didn’t want to go in there alone. I’ll do it when I take Steve up.”

“You be careful. Guy could flip out he catches you trying to record him.”

“I will be.”

Grant struggled onto his feet and flushed the toilet. The spinning of the water made him queasy all over again. He ran the tap, bent down, rinsed and spit until his mouth no longer burned with bile.

Already, it was dark outside and even darker in the brownstone. By the illumination of the candle on the sink, Grant studied his reflection in the mirror. The soft light should have knocked off ten years, but instead he looked worse—pallid and sweat-glazed and thinner.

Eyes as dark as pits.

The headache raged on—felt like his frontal lobe had been dropped in a food processor.

“What time is it, Paige?”

“Six fifteen.”

Through the pain and the fog, Grant registered the distant, manic anthem of an alarm, although it took him a minute to land upon the crisis that had triggered it.

He staggered out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, steadying himself against the island where his phone waited. There were candles everywhere—in the living room, dining room, at least a half dozen casting a flickering warmth across the kitchen.

“Stu was supposed to call me fifteen minutes ago,” he said, picking it up.

He held the power button down for several seconds.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, pressing harder and longer, his thumbnail blanching from the pressure.

Might as well have been trying to power up a brick.

He finally dropped the phone and put his head on the counter, the chill of the tile providing the briefest flash of relief.

“Grant, what’s wrong?”

“Battery’s dead.”

“So your friend can’t call you?”

“Right.”

“Just use my phone.”

“I don’t know his number off the top of my head, and he’s not on the Internet.”

“So what do we do?”

Grant looked up from the counter.

It felt like someone was prodding around in his head with a screwdriver.

“I don’t know. That was our best chance.”

Paige came over, laid a cool hand on the back of his neck.

“We’re gonna get through this,” she said.

A noise reverberated down the hallway—someone pounding on the front door. It seemed to shake the entire building.

“That would be Steve,” Paige said.

Grant choked down the despair, the exhaustion, the agony.

No time for pain.

He pulled himself up.

“I’ll be in the closet by the bar.”

Chapter 23

Sophie nearly jumped out of the booth when her cell began to vibrate.

She glanced down at the caller ID—Stu Frank.

It took her a moment to place the name—a semi-shady private investigator she and Grant had used once or twice. If she remembered correctly, Stu was ex-law enforcement. Six or seven years ago, he’d been thrown under the bus over a scandal involving several detectives and an ill-advised beat down of an errant CI. Even during their limited contact, she’d hated working with him. The man radiated an intense skin-crawling aura.

What the hell could you possibly want?

She answered quietly with, “Really not a good time, Stu.”

“I’ve got something for Grant, but I can’t get a hold of him.”

“I’m his partner, not his mother.”

“Be that as it may, you’re still the closest thing to a mother he’s got. Now I have some info on this crazy-urgent request he hit me with this afternoon. I’ve been trying to call him, but he’s not picking up.”

She felt her interest prickling.

Said, “When did he say he needed this by?”

“Two minutes ago. Six p.m. He was adamant. I’ve called five times, and it’s been straight to voice mail. This house got something to do with a hot case or what?”

She didn’t know how to answer that, so she just said, “Yeah.”

“Is Grant with you?”

“No, but I’m going to see him later.”

Through the window, Sophie watched the headlights of what looked like a Crown Vic whip into the parking space beside the black van.

“What do you want me to do with this file, Sophie?”

She opened her purse, dug out her wallet, threw a ten spot on the table.

“Where are you right now, Stu?”

“Cafe Vita in The Hill.”

She slid out of the booth.

“I’ll meet you there in twenty,” she said.

She met Dobbs at the entrance.

“Outside, Art.”

They stood in the drizzle.

“What’s the word, Sophie?”

Art didn’t exactly look like a law enforcement badass with his receding hairline and burgeoning paunch, but the threadbare JCPenney suit belied a damn good shot and one of the best detectives Sophie had ever worked with.

“Talbert, Seymour, and a John Doe are seated at one of the booths by the window. Stay on them.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I just got a call about Grant.”

“I thought he was sick.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“He in trouble?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll call you.”

“I had a reservation at Canlis tonight for me and the wife.”

Sophie was already moving across the sidewalk toward her TrailBlazer.

“I owe you one,” she said over her shoulder.

“Yeah you do.”

“Text me when they move. I’ll be in the city.”

Chapter 24

Grant stumbled over to the closet, slipped inside, and pulled the door closed after him.

He sat on the floor.

Drew his knees into his chest.

Buried his head in his hands.

The pain was operatic—audible through the silence like a throbbing timpani drum. He wondered how Paige had held out for three days by herself. In the years they’d been estranged, the memory of his little sister had been replaced by the image of the addict, the fuck-up, and now, the prostitute. It was easy to forget the little girl who would quietly stroke his hair when the tears he had fought back during the day finally arrived in the middle of the night. Those muffled sobs he’d tried to stifle with a pillow. She was stronger than he would ever be.

Now, with his head splitting apart in the darkness, he wished—as he had so many times before—that he could find some of her strength in himself. But he had never been the brave one.

Grant heard the front door close, followed by low voices in the foyer. Reaching up, he gently twisted the knob and nudged the closet door open a quarter of an inch.

He caught a twinkle of candlelight through the crack, and then Paige’s voice.

“I’m so glad you came, Steve.”

“What’s with all the candles?”

“You don’t like them?”

“I can’t tell if it’s romantic or if you’re about to subject me to some Satanic ritual sacrifice.”

Paige laughed, but Grant could tell it wasn’t the genuine article—too quick, too high, definitely forced.

“The boring truth,” she said, “is that the power went out.”

“Bummer.”

Their voices seemed to occupy the same airspace. Grant imagined her arms wrapped around the man’s neck.

“I’m glad you called,” the man said. “Thought you might have forgotten about me.”

“Never.”

Silence, and then the phlegmy slurp of kissing.

Grant grimaced.

“You feeling all right?” the man asked. “You look tired.”

“Nothing you can’t fix. Get us a drink?”

“Please.”

Footsteps plodded toward the closet, and in the soft candlelight, Grant watched his sister approach the wet bar.

For a split second, her eyes shot to the crack between door and doorframe.

“Power’s been out since last night,” she said, “so no rocks.” She grabbed a half-empty bottle.

I could use a hit of that right about now.

“Neat’s the only way I drink,” the man said as he emerged from the shadows and slid his arms around Paige’s waist from behind. “I thought you’d remember that.”

Steve wasn’t at all what he had expected. He’d been prepared for another Jude—tall, perfect hair, chiseled everything. But Steve was shorter than Paige. As he sidled up behind her, the profile of his face met the slope of her neck like a puzzle piece, the top of his head stopping a full four inches below her own. He was thirty-five or forty pounds overweight and the dome of his hairless skull shone like polished marble in the candlelight. Physically at least, Steve was a completely unremarkable specimen. Grant couldn’t decide if it made him feel better or worse to know that not all of Paige’s clients were demigods.

Paige poured two glasses of scotch and turned to Steve.

“Should we take this upstairs?” she asked.

“You read my mind.”

Grant listened to their footsteps trail away into the foyer.

The stairs creaked as they climbed.

Only when they’d reached the second floor did Grant ease the closet door open and step out.

The ceiling creaked above him.

He pictured Steve and Paige heading down the hall toward her bedroom.

Their footfalls stopped. The bedroom door groaned open.

As if on cue, his ears popped—like rolling down the windows in a speeding car.

Grant exhaled.

He strained to listen, but there was nothing else to hear.

Moving around to the wet bar, Grant lifted the best thing he saw—a twenty-five year Highland Park—and poured into a rocks glass.

Shot it.

The whiskey dumping into his empty stomach like a fistful of lava.

He poured another, swirled it.

No plans of stopping until the world lost its hard edge.

Grant raised the glass in the air before him.

“A toast,” he said, “to shit.”

There was a knock at the front door.

For a moment, he wrote it off as a phantom sound. A glitch in his fracturing mind. He waited for confirmation, willing the silence to continue.

Another knock, this time harder.

He set the glass on the bar and made his way into the foyer, careful to stay clear of the windows that faced the street.

Without power, the intercom and camera were useless.

He pressed up against the door, eye to the peephole.

Sophie stared back at him.

He blinked.

Still there.

He clawed his way through the pain and tried to think.

What are you doing here?

What are you doing here?

What are you—

Stu.

That was the only conceivable way. The PI had tried to call at six p.m. like Grant had insisted . But his phone was dead. So naturally, Stu called his partner.

A flare of heat rushed through his face—anger at himself. At his shortsighted plan. He should’ve seen this possible outcome a mile away. You always plan for the worst case scenario. Should’ve told Stu this research was for something on the side. Something no other person in the world—least of all his partner—needed to know about.

Goddamnit.

Sophie pounded on the door again.

Grant played the scene forward.

Open it?

What would he possibly say to her? Maybe on his best day—when a world-class migraine hadn’t liquefied his brain and he actually had time to prepare—maybe then he’d have a chance at talking his way out of this. At assuaging whatever concerns she had and convincing her to leave without suspicion. But not in his current condition. Sophie would see through the lies before they even left his mouth. Hell, all she’d have to do was take one look at his sunken eyes and know he’d gotten himself into something bad.

So wait her out.

She knocked again, and he saw her gauzy silhouette lean into the curtained window frame to the right of the door. He knew she couldn’t see inside, but still he didn’t dare move from his spot behind the door.

Sure this is the right play? To just let her leave and bring back a search warrant?

Yes. Let her go. She’ll be back, no doubt, but Steve will be gone and we’ll have bought a little time to figure something out.

Sophie appeared in the peephole again. She looked left and then right. Grant’s heart nearly exploded when the doorknob rattled. Thank God it was locked. Finally, she turned away and headed back down the steps.

Grant shut his eyes.

Lines of sweat meandered down the sides of his face and through the stubble of his beard.

He knew the pain would return, but for the moment, he basked in the numbing effect of the adrenaline rush that was ripping through his system.

If nothing else, he’d bought them a few hours.

Use it wisely.

Grant trudged back over to the bar and picked up the shot of Highland.

He swirled the amber liquid, tried to appreciate its color, its nose, but the whiskey was no match for the shitstorm on the horizon.

He downed it.

Shouldn’t have, but the best detective in town had just knocked on their door. He and Paige were going to have to deal with Don in the upstairs bathroom.

They were going to have to deal with a lot of things.

And fast.

Somewhere in the house, glass shattered. His first thought was Paige, but the sound hadn’t come from upstairs.

He stumbled into the kitchen.

Now it sounded like shards of glass were falling onto concrete or stone.

More noise erupted—furniture overturning.

Grant stood facing a door beside the hallway, which based upon its alignment under the staircase, he figured led down into the basement.

As if in confirmation, footfalls began clomping up a set of stairs on the other side.

He staggered back, ducked around the kitchen island, and lowered himself out of sight.

The basement door swung open so slowly he could swear he heard the scraping of each individual grain of rust on the hinges.

Grant peered around the corner of the island.

Knew it was Sophie before he saw her.

Black pantsuit over a cobalt blouse that fit her like a Bond girl.

Gun drawn and everything.

“Seattle Police. Anyone here?”

The heels of Sophie’s platform boots knocked against the hardwood floor. He knew he should speak up, but he couldn’t bring himself to push out that first word.

She turned and started down the hallway, her back to him.

Now.

Now.

Now.

“Sophie,” he whispered.

She stopped, spun, gun sighting down the kitchen. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Grant.”

“Where are you?”

“Behind the island. I’m standing up. You can put your gun away, or at least not shoot me.”

He struggled slowly onto his feet.

Sophie was barely visible in the gloom of the hallway. She stepped back into the candlelit kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Bad lead, long story. How’d you find me?”

She moved in closer toward the island.

“Are we safe here?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s just us.”

She holstered her Glock. “What are you doing here, Grant?”

“I don’t want you to get mad—”

“I’m not mad. I’m confused.”

“I have a contact at the Four Seasons.”

“Okay.”

“He’s a concierge. I went to him with what we had on our Facebook girls. He pointed me here.”

“To this brownstone?”

“Yes. He told me it was a high-end brothel.”

“So the food poisoning ...”

“I’m sorry.”

“And you felt the need to keep this from me why?”

“Nothing I’m proud of.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“I’ve used this concierge before.”

“As an informant?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Sophie looked at the countertop, then back at Grant. “And you thought I might, what? Judge you? Because that’s the kind of person you know me to be?”

“I don’t know what I thought. That was a long time ago, when I was in a really bad place. But still ... I was embarrassed. Didn’t want you to find out. And besides, this isn’t exactly by the book.”

“No shit. Who lives here?”

“One of our Facebook girls used to. This was her last known.”

Sophie leaned forward, took in a long breath.

“So who lives here now?”

“Some U-Dub trust funder. Definitely not a person of interest.”

“Did you not hear me knocking on the door five minutes ago?”

“I was upstairs.”

Sophie nodded. “What’s the current tenant’s name?”

“Heidi Spiegel.”

“She here? I’d love to meet Ms. Spiegel.”

It was faint—practically undetectable—but Grant heard the rhythmic creak of Sophie’s bed springs starting up on the second floor.

“She’s gone,” Grant said. “I parked on the street. Came in when I saw her leave.”

“Just let yourself in, huh?”

“Door wasn’t locked.”

“Interesting choice.”

“Says the detective who broke in through the basement.”

“I was worried about you, Grant. I thought you were in some kind of trouble.”

“I’m fine.”

“Thrilled to hear it. What’s with all the candles?”

Grant walked over to a light switch beside the sink, gave it a few flips.

“No power,” he said.

“Strange that Ms. Spiegel would just leave all these candles burning.”

“Probably means she didn’t plan on being gone long. We should get out of here.”

“You been drinking?” Sophie asked. “You smell like booze.”

What could he do? Deny?

“I had a whiskey at the hotel before I rolled up here. You have an issue with that?”

Sophie smiled a smile that wasn’t. She stared Grant down across the island and shook her head.

“What?” Grant said.

“You are so full of shit it’s not even funny.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Has one thing you’ve said to me in the last three minutes even entered the same ballpark as the truth?”

“Yeah. Everything.”

“Look at you. What are you wearing? Jeans and a T-shirt?”

My real clothes are covered in the blood of Don McFee who’s at this moment passing through rigor mortis in a room directly above our heads because of something I still don’t understand. What if I laid that on you, partner? Then what?

Grant’s headache and nausea vanished. He felt suddenly perfect, like someone had thrown a switch or hit him with a beautiful morphine push. He straightened, reevaluating everything absent the distraction of agony.

“You’re not even wearing shoes, Grant.”

Fair point.

“Where’s your gun? Where’s your shield?”

“In my car.”

“You wanna tell me what’s really going on here?”

“I just did.”

“No, you just lied to me. For the second time today.”

“Sophie—”

Heavy footsteps thumped above them on the second floor.

Sophie cocked her head. “Thought you said we were alone.”

“Listen to me.”

She turned and started down the hallway as the footfalls reached the top of the stairs.

“Sophie, come back here.”

They began their descent.

Grant moved around the island and followed Sophie down the hall.

By the time he reached her at the foyer, Steve Vincent was five steps from the bottom of the staircase and progressing at a steady, unhurried pace toward the front door, the same incomprehensible vacancy in his eyes that Grant had seen in Jude’s. Steve wore pants and shoes, but his shirt, coat, and tie he carried in a bundle under his left arm.

Sophie said, “Sir, do you live here?”

Steve reached the foyer and walked past them to the front door.

“Excuse me, sir, I just asked you a question.”

The man turned the two deadbolts and slung back the chain.

“Sir! Seattle Po—”

Grant said, “Let him go.”

Steve opened the door, disappeared outside.

Sophie looked at Grant.

“Who was that?”

Where to begin?

Sophie looked up the staircase. She started toward it, but Grant stepped into her path.

“That’s not a good idea,” he said.

The intensity in her eyes belied a card he’d never seen her play—fear.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Grant?”

Where to even begin?

“Get out of my way,” she said.

“I can’t let you go up there.”

“Grant?” From upstairs, his sister called his name.

“Who’s that?” Sophie asked.

His eyes flashed to her belt.

Back to her face.

At least he could think again.

“Grant!”

“Who’s calling you, Grant?”

With his arms already at his sides, Grant eased his left hand forward and went for it—flicked open the brass snap on Sophie’s belt and snatched her handcuffs before she had a chance to react.

He locked a bracelet around her left wrist as her right hand shot into her jacket.

Glimpsed the black composite stock of her G22 as she tore it out of the holster.

He slapped the barrel, the Glock ripping out of Sophie’s grasp and arcing toward the living room.

It struck the hardwood and slid across the floor as Grant jerked the handcuffs toward the banister and locked the other bracelet around a baluster.

It came with a vengeance—Sophie swinging with her free right arm, her fist slamming into Grant’s jaw with enough force to turn his head and kill the lights.

Grant came to on his back at the foot of the stairs, sat up punch drunk to the sound of keys clinking together.

He scrambled to his feet and lunged at Sophie, snagging the key chain out of her grasp and ducking as her fingernails raked at his face.

Grant stumbled back as she pulled against the balustrade.

The front door to the brownstone stood wide open.

He crossed the foyer and closed it, locked back the deadbolts and rehung the chain.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Sophie screamed.

His jaw throbbed, hot to the touch. Bruised but not broken.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

One of the steps near the top of the staircase creaked. Grant looked up, saw the shape of his sister descending through the darkness.

She stopped halfway to the bottom and eased down onto a step.

“What’s going on, Grant?”

“We had a visitor while you were upstairs.”

“Who you’ve handcuffed to the banister?”

“Paige, meet Sophie. My partner.”

Paige rested her forehead against her knees and said, “Oh God.”

“Sophie, meet Paige. My sister.”

Sophie glared up the staircase, and then back at Grant.

He said, “Paige, we need to talk. Could you come join me in the kitchen please?” And then to Sophie. “Give me your purse.”

She wiped the mascara-stained tears from her cheeks and threw it at him.

“I hate this,” Grant said.

He unzipped her handbag and fished out her phone. Powered it off, slid it into the side pocket of his jeans.

He set the purse on the first step and looked at his partner, asked, “Who else knows that you came here?”

Paige walked past Sophie and Grant and started down the hallway toward the kitchen.

“Fuck you.”

“Sophie, I will explain everything to you. I promise. But right now, I need to know if more people are coming. For all of our safety.”

She blinked through a sheet of tears that glistened in the candlelight and said at barely a whisper, “Just me.”

“How’s the hand? You didn’t break it hitting me, did you?”

“No.”

“The cuffs all right? Too tight?”

She shook her head.

Grant paused at the banister on his way down the hall and tested the bracelet around Sophie’s left wrist and the bracelet around the balustrade.

Chapter 25

Paige stood waiting for him at the kitchen island, her face grim in the candlelight.

“How bad is this?” she asked.

“We need to leave.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know, but more people will come.”

“From your work?”

“Yes.”

“What’s going to happen when they ...” She cut her eyes toward the ceiling.

“Nothing good.”

“Your face is swollen.”

“She hit me.” Grant glanced back down the hallway. “I should talk to her.”

“About what?”

“Make her understand what’s—”

“No.”

“No?”

“Why would you tell her about any of this?”

“Does it not look bad enough already? I just handcuffed my own partner to a staircase and took her gun.”

“How’d she even find you?”

“The private investigator I called this afternoon. My phone died, he couldn’t reach me, so he called her.”

“Does this mean she talked to your PI?”

“I would assume.”

“So maybe she has some info on the house.”

“I’ll find out. I’m going to tell her everything, Paige.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because maybe she believes me, and then it’s three of us against whatever’s upstairs.”

“You didn’t believe me until you saw your friend cut his neck open with a piece of glass.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe she won’t believe me. But she will listen.”

# # #

Grant sat down a foot outside of Sophie’s reach.

She glared at him, dark eyes ablaze with equal parts sadness, anger, and fear. In the thousands of hours they’d spent together, he’d never seen this look before. A new level of intimacy reached under the worst possible conditions. It felt unnatural, impossible that he might be the object of that intensity. That he had hurt her. In the back of his mind, he’d always thought it would be the other way around.

“I need you to do something, Sophie.”

With her free hand, she pushed her straight black hair out of her face. “What?”

“Try and remember what it felt like to trust me.”

“Are you joking?”

“Three months ago, when you had your biopsy—”

“Don’t do that.”

“Hear me out. You know I would have been sitting in that waiting room when you came out, whether you asked me to be there or not.”

Grant thought he saw the hardness in her eyes give just a little.

He went on, “Now imagine the kind of situation the guy sitting in that doctor’s office would have to be in to physically disarm you and chain you to a banister. Imagine how scared out of his mind he’d have to be.”

“I can’t if you don’t tell me.”

“I’m going to. And I hope you think about all the things you love, or used to love, about me. I hope you’ll give me the benefit of all the doubts you have.”

“Why should I?”

“Because no one in their right mind would believe what I’m about to tell you.”

It was raining again. Grant could hear it pattering on the windows. A good, rich smell wafted in from the kitchen. The soft crackle of browning butter. Paige making grilled cheese sandwiches, he hoped.

The modest heat of the day had fled and a damp, merciless chill had begun to overtake the brownstone.

“Those Facebook profiles you sent me last night?”

“Yeah?”

“One of them was just a pair of eyes, but I recognized them. They were my sister’s. What I said about the concierge was true. He told me about this place. I showed up last night, and sure enough, Paige was living here.”

“Your sister, the one you hadn’t seen in years, is living in Queen Anne and working as a prostitute?”

Grant nodded. “Maybe you can understand why I came here alone.”

“I’ll give you that.”

“She let me in, and right off, I noticed she didn’t look well. Strung out, I figured. She’s always struggled with addiction, so I’ve seen it before. But nothing like this. She looked emaciated. Pale as a ghost.”

“You should’ve called me.”

“Be glad I didn’t.”

“Why?”

Grant glanced up the staircase.

His stomach churned.

“I need to show you something. If I uncuff you, am I going to regret it?”

“No.”

Grant walked into the living room, grabbed the flashlight from the coffee table, and then retrieved Sophie’s Glock from beneath a tufted wingback chair that sat in the corner. He pocketed the magazine, racked the slide, and caught the semi-jacketed .40 cal hollowpoint in midair.

“You think I’d shoot you?” she asked.

“You ever think I’d cuff you to a banister?”

Grant dug her keys out of his pocket as he walked back over to the stairs. Unlocking the bracelet from the balustrade, he cuffed it around his own wrist and helped Sophie onto her feet.

“Can I see your hand?” he asked.

She held it up, the swelling already begun along the ring and pinkie fingers below the knuckles, Sophie’s light brown skin flashing the darkening blush of a bruise.

“Next time you hit someone,” Grant said, “keep your fist closed.”

“Your jaw’s an asshole,” she said.

“You hit like a girl.” He motioned toward the steps. “We’re headed up.”

“Why?”

“To show you something.”

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“Remember what they say about seeing?”

“No.”

“It’s believing.”

They climbed in tandem, Grant’s right hand bound to Sophie’s left. Halfway up, they lost the morsels of light from the candles down below. Grant switched on the flashlight, its beam striking the landing above them with a circle of illumination that seemed much weaker than the last time he’d used it.

He was suddenly aware of the shudder of his heart, like something shaking manically inside his chest.

“What’s wrong?” Sophie asked.

“I don’t like it up here.”

They reached the second floor and Grant led them to the foot of the corridor that accessed Paige’s bedroom.

He passed the beam over the table, the lamp, the peeling wallpaper.

“What are we doing up here?” Sophie asked.

Grant shone his flashlight on the bedroom door.

Still closed.

“We’re almost there,” he said.

They moved down the corridor. As they neared Paige’s room, Grant felt himself struggling against the same fear he’d known as a child—staring down the hall from his bedroom in the middle of the night, weighing his thirst for a drink of water from the kitchen against the knowledge that he’d have to walk past the yawning black mouth of the bathroom to get it.

As they passed Paige’s door, Grant felt that magnetic pull he’d dreamt of.

A burning desire crystallized in the back of his mind which contained all the fatal allure of a suicidal question ...

What would the barrel of this gun taste like?

What would it feel like to jump?

What if I stepped in front of that bus?

What if I just opened the door?

It would be the simplest action, one he’d done tens of thousands of times in his life.

Just turn the knob and push.

“Grant, you okay?”

He realized he’d stopped walking.

Was standing with the tip of his nose several inches from Paige’s door, his flashlight pointed at the carpet.

“Yeah, this way,” he said, pulling himself away from the door.

They moved together to the end of the hall.

Turning the corner, they came to the guestroom.

Grant stopped at the closed door.

“What now?” Sophie asked.

In all the turmoil, Grant realized he’d overlooked the fact that this wasn’t just going to shock Sophie, it was going to hurt her as much as it had hurt him. She’d known Don too, and not only in a professional capacity. During her cancer scare, Don had availed himself to her. His wife had gone through a similar ordeal the year before. His insight, coupled with an uncanny ability to demystify fear and help people stare it right in the face, had gone a long way toward getting Sophie through those excruciating days between the biopsy and the results. He had become as much a fixture in her life as he had been in Grant’s. Don was a healer, and he had touched them both in their darkest moments.

“Instead of calling you last night,” Grant said, “I called Don. He came over, tried to talk to Paige. She was acting crazy. Saying there was something upstairs in her bedroom. That she couldn’t leave the house. I thought she was psychotic.”

Grant opened the door.

“Don offered to come upstairs and walk through her bedroom. Prove to her there was nothing strange going on. That it was all in her mind.”

“Is this her bedroom?” Sophie asked.

“No. This is where I found Don. After he’d been inside her bedroom.”

“What do you mean ‘found him?’ Is Don okay?”

“No.”

She snatched the flashlight out of his hand and started into the guestroom.

“Sophie, it’s not pretty.”

She was already crying. “I’ve seen not pretty before.”

“But anyone you loved?”

She was shining the light all over the room.

“Where?” she asked.

“Bathroom.”

She dragged Grant toward the doorway.

He didn’t want to go through it again. Once in real life, once in a dream—that was all he had in him.

Sophie stopped.

Her shoulders sagged, and he heard the air go out of her, like she was deflating.

She leaned against the doorframe and put the light on Don.

She didn’t make a sound.

In twenty-four hours, the nose of the room had changed markedly, like a wine opening up. Not exactly fetid, but rich and dank—the intensity of a greenhouse with a disturbing note of sweetness creeping in.

“Oh, Don.”

“He broke the mirror and cut his own throat with a piece of glass,” Grant said.

Under the fading illumination of the flashlight, the blood on the checkerboard tile looked as black as oil. It had lost its lustrous sheen, now dulled, congealed, and spiderwebbed with cracks like the surface of a four-hundred-year-old oil painting.

Even in the bad light, the changes in Don were evident. The skin of his face looked loose and waxy and drained of color save for a few dark spots where the blood had pooled underneath.

Sophie still hadn’t taken her eyes off him.

She said, “He went into Paige’s room. Then he came in here and killed himself. That’s what you’re saying happened.”

“No, that’s what happened.”

“Have you called Rachel?”

“Not yet.”

Sophie glared at him. “You’ve let her just wonder where her husband is for the last twenty-four hours?”

“And what would you have done?”

“She must be out of her mind by now. We have to call her.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Are you?”

“And tell her what exactly? I still don’t understand what’s—”

“We have to bring some people in on this, Grant. Don’t you think it’s time for that? I mean, Jesus Christ, look at this.”

He stepped back out of the doorway, dragging Sophie along.

Said, “We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet.”

“All the more reason.”

“You don’t understand. When people set foot in this house, it changes them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Seymour? He was a client of my sister’s. He came here just before he disappeared.”

“Seriously?”

“Something happened to him in Paige’s room. You obviously saw the effect it had.”

“Grant—”

“Barry Talbert too. He was here this week. And another man came last night. Went up with Paige into her bedroom, and then walked out like a goddamn zombie. Just like the man you saw twenty minutes ago.”

“This man last night ... did he have wavy gray hair? Strong build? An inch or two over six feet?”

“Yeah, his name is Jude Grazer. He’s a doctor. How do you know about him?”

“When Stu called me, I was at this little diner in North Bend watching Grazer, Talbert, and Seymour having coffee in one of the booths.”

Grant felt a coldness move down the center of his back. He said, “These men were there together?”

“Yep.”

“Doing what?”

“No idea. But they were acting very strange.”

“What were they talking about?”

“Nothing that came close to making sense.”

“Why would they be together? There’s no connection between Seymour and Talbert.”

“Um ... your sister?”

“And you just left them?”

“Only when I thought you might be in trouble. But Art took my place. He’s there now, won’t let them out of his sight.”

Grant sat down on the end of the bed.

“What do you think would happen, Sophie, if I called in the cavalry right now?”

“The cavalry would come.”

“And then what? When I told them this crazy story I just told you. When I showed them Don. When you told them how I’d disarmed you and cuffed you to a staircase, and then to me?” He held up their chained wrists. “How exactly would all of that go over?”

Sophie stared at the floor.

Grant said, “Interrogation. Psyche eval. Suspect. And what would happen to my sister?”

“I respect you, Grant. You know that. And so do a lot of other people. Sure. There’d be questions—”

“That I don’t have answers to. I can’t explain it. Not any of it. And on top of that, I can’t leave this house.”

“What do you mean you can’t leave?”

“I can’t physically leave this house. It has some kind of power over me. I tried last night after what happened to Don. When I got to the bottom of the front porch steps, this pain hit me. I threw up. My head felt like someone was beating me with a baseball bat. I would’ve died. The only relief was crawling back inside.”

“I don’t even know how to respond to that, Grant.”

“You think I don’t get that? That I don’t fully understand that no one’s going to believe me? And does that give you some small insight into the choices I’ve made during the last twenty-four hours?”

Sophie let out a slow, trembling breath. “I want to believe you, Grant. I do.”

“I know. And I know it’s hard.”

“What exactly do you think is happening inside this house?”

“I have no idea.”

“But it’s focused in the vicinity of Paige’s room?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been in there?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone who sets foot inside comes out massively fucked.”

“Except your sister.”

“Did you just talk to Stu on the phone, or did you actually meet up with him before you came here?”

“I swung by the coffee shop. Why?”

“Didn’t he have something for me?”

Sophie’s eyes lost their thoughtful intensity. “Yeah, actually. A manila folder with some papers inside.”

“Where is it?”

She hesitated. “In my car. What’s in the folder? I haven’t looked.”

“Background history on this building. Prior residents. Ownership. Information that could possibly help us.”

“Will you trust me to go out and get it and come right back?”

“Absolutely not. Sorry.”

“It’s okay, I wouldn’t trust me either. It’s not really in my car. I left it in the basement.”

Chapter 26

The flashlight was practically worthless by the time Grant and Sophie reached the foyer. In the kitchen, Paige was flipping grilled cheese sandwiches at the stovetop. Grant swapped the flashlight for a pair of candles, and with his partner’s wrist still chained to his, he pulled open the door to the basement.

The darkness hovered as thick as water, and it seemed to push back against the candlelight with a palpable force, limiting the sphere of illumination to only three or four feet. Clearly, the brownstone’s recent renovation hadn’t laid a finger on this creaky set of stairs, each step bowing under Grant’s and Sophie’s weight.

The fifteenth step spit them out at the bottom and Grant held the candle above his head to get a better look.

Walls of crumbling brick climbed to pairs of windows—two near the top of the wall that faced the street, two along the back wall. One of these had been shattered. Shards of glass glinted on the rough stone floor.

A hot water boiler occupied one gloomy corner.

An electrical box another.

These were the only things in the basement that looked to have been built in the last fifty years.

There were mouse droppings everywhere, and the cellar-temperature air reeked of must.

Grant moved past an upright piano against the wall that stood draped in cobwebs. A third of its yellowed ivory keys were missing.

They stopped at the remnants of a work bench underneath the broken window.

The right-hand side of its surface had been smashed in.

“This where you dropped down into the basement?” Grant asked.

“Yeah.”

“Lucky you didn’t break your legs.”

“It was so dark, I couldn’t tell how far the drop was.”

Grant spotted a manila folder next to a rusty vise.

He set his candle down and opened it.

The first page was a spreadsheet entitled “Prior Tenants - 1990 to Present.” It consisted of three columns (Name/Dates of Occupancy/Contact Info) and nine rows of names.

Under the spreadsheet were a number of reports, each individually stapled, and all spring-clamped together. Grant recognized Stu’s handwriting on the first one.

6 out of 9 background checks, best I could do

Under the reports, he found one last item—a Residential Seller Property Disclosure. Across the top of this form, Stu had scrawled ...

you owe me for this one

“This everything you asked Stu for?” Sophie said.

“Mostly.” Grant leaned down, squinting at the poor photocopy of the property disclosure, but the light was bad. “I can’t make any of this out.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out Sophie’s phone. It still had a three-quarter charge.

“Grant?”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t believe I’m about to have a serious conversation about this, but I have an observation.”

“Shoot.”

“In thinking about Seymour and Talbert and the other men, there’s a common theme which you appear to be overlooking.”

“What’s that?”

“Your sister.”

“Meaning ...”

“This is her house. It’s her bedroom they’re all walking into and coming out like zombies. Or killing themselves.”

“Point being?”

“You’ve got all this background info on the house—and that’s useful—but are you sure you’re not missing something that’s staring you right in the face?”

“My sister is as much a victim—no, more so—than anyone. She’s a wreck.”

“But you have no idea what she’s been doing for the last five years. I mean ... do you really even know her?”

“You’re suggesting maybe Paige is the cause of all this?”

“I’m saying you seem to be looking everywhere but the obvious direction.”

“She wasn’t even in her room when Don went up there, Sophie. And you think she’s somehow causing me to become violently ill when I step outside?”

“Who the hell knows? Assuming everything you’ve told me is true, we’re dealing with a rulebook we’ve never seen before.”

“Yes, she’s an addict and a prostitute who has fucked her own life from every possible position, but that doesn’t mean ... what are you saying exactly? That Paige has put a—for lack of a better word—curse on this house? On me? On everyone who walks in? Does this mean she’s a witch? Come on.”

“Remember what you wrote in my birthday card last month?”

“Sure.”

“Say it back to me now.”

He shook his head.

“You forgot.”

“To Sophie. You’re the best partner I’ve ever had because you see cases from angles I could never reach.”

“Still believe that?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Still want to dismiss my input so quickly?”

One of the steps creaked bloody murder.

Grant turned and stared at the shadow of his sister.

Paige stood as still as a statue halfway down the staircase.

“Everything okay?” Grant asked.

“Dinner’s ready.” Her voice was flat, void of emotion, unreadable.

“Great.” He closed the manila folder and shelved it under his arm. “We’re coming up.”

Chapter 27

They sat at one end of the dining room table which Paige had forested in candles and cleared of the stacks of bills and junk mail. The grilled cheese sandwiches had been cut into triangles, and Paige ate quietly, eyes locked on her plate.

Grant and Sophie sat side-by-side, still cuffed together, perusing the contents of the folder. While Sophie skimmed the background reports, Grant studied the seller’s property disclosure, a form required by state law to be completed by a seller of real property in a real estate transaction. The seller was obligated to disclose the presence of any structural, water, sewer/septic, common interest issues, and the like to the buyer.

Additionally, in most states, including Washington, material facts—anything that could influence a buyer’s decision to purchase a home—had to be disclosed. This included a death on the property, particularly if violent or gruesome.

Grant flipped through the five-page document to one of the final questions:

Are there any other defects affecting the property known to the seller?

The “NO” box was checked.

Sophie said, “What’s wrong? You just sighed.”

“This disclosure form doesn’t tell me anything.”

“When did the property last change hands?”

Grant traced his finger to the bottom of the final page. The signature was indistinct, but he could read the date.

“Six years ago last March. Anything of note on your end?”

“There are actually seven background checks here. The first is on the current owner.”

“What’s their story?”

“Forty-nine year-old woman named Miranda Dupree. She’s out of state. Lives in Sacramento. Nothing juicy. Just your plain-vanilla rich bitch. She owns a bunch of properties through an LLC. The tenant prior to Paige—Terry Flowers—has had two DUIs.” She kept flipping. “Nothing else pops, but then again, Stu doesn’t have access to the major league databases.” Sophie dropped the reports on the table. “I don’t even know what we’re really looking for here, Grant.”

“You and me both. That’s how these things go, remember?”

“No, I’ve never had the pleasure of investigating a real haunted house before.”

“Resume builder.”

“Can’t wait to update mine with all this new and relevant experience I’m gaining. Promotion for sure.”

Grant grinned as he pulled out her phone and punched in a number.

“Who you calling?” Sophie asked.

“Station. You know who’s on tonight?”

“Frances, I think.”

“Good. She loves me.”

Frances answered two rings later with a voice of smoke-laced apathy. “Investigations.”

“Hi, Frances, it’s your favorite detective. How are you?”

“Well, I’m here, so draw your own conclusion.”

“Sophie and I are working on something and we’re away from our laptops. Would you mind running an address through NCIC and ViCAP?”

“Sure. One second. Okay, hit me.”

Grant stared across the table at his sister, looking for some reaction to what he was about to do, some sign of reassurance or disagreement. But she just chewed a bite of sandwich with complete absence, like she wasn’t even seated at the same table.

“Grant? You there?”

Was it worth the risk? Putting the address out there?

“Grant? Did I lose you?”

He said, “Twenty-two Crockett Street.”

He heard Frances typing.

“No love from ViCAP,” she said. More typing. “No love from NCIC.”

“Anything in our database? Maybe something that didn’t get entered into NCIC?”

Frances’s laugh sounded like rocks tumbling. “Like that could ever happen. Nothing in our database either.”

“I’m going to e-mail you a photo of a spreadsheet with nine names. I want you to run them all and call me back on Sophie’s cell with anything that pops.”

“And you need this by ...”

“ASAFP.”

“Oh good. I was going to spend the night playing Minesweeper, but this will be so much more fun.”

“One more favor?”

“This what I get for being so accommodating?”

“Can we keep this request just between us?”

A long pause, and then: “You know every search gets logged automatically. Nothing I can do—”

“I understand that.”

“Oh. You don’t want me mentioning this in passing to the big man. That what you getting at?”

“Or anybody else.”

“I won’t bring it up—”

“Thank—”

“—unless someone brings it up to me. Then you on your own.”

“All I ask. You’re the best, Frances.”

Grant snapped a photo of the spreadsheet and e-mailed it to Frances from Sophie’s account.

He suddenly realized he was starving.

Bit a giant wedge out of one of the triangles.

“This is perfection,” he said. “You okay, Paige?”

She looked up.

“I’m fine.”

Sophie’s phone vibrated—a text from Dobbs.

4th man just arrived ... how’s grant?

Grant said, “Paige. Paige, look at me.”

Paige raised her head.

“Your phone,” Grant said. “Where is it?”

His sister’s eyes looked distant and unfocused, even as she reached into the pocket of her kimono and held it up.

He said, “Sophie showed up, and I completely spaced it. We need to watch the video. The one you took of Steve.”

Paige’s eyes slammed back into the present.

“What video?” Sophie asked.

Paige said, “Whenever I take a man into my room, I always black out, and he’s always gone when I wake up. With this last guy, Steve, I set up my phone and recorded us.”

“Can I see it?” Grant said.

Paige shook her head. “I want to watch it first. Alone.”

Chapter 28

Paige took her phone into the kitchen.

She was gone awhile.

Grant and Sophie stayed behind in the dining room.

While they waited, Grant tapped out a response to Dobbs’s text:

grant’s ok, send pic of new guy

Grant showed Sophie Dobbs’s last text, said, “The fourth man has to be Steve. What do you make of it? Four men, none of whom—far as we know—have any personal connection beyond Paige. They go into her room. They disappear. Then they meet up. Why?”

“I wish you could’ve heard them talking. It was so strange.”

“How so?”

“Like there was this whole other conversation happening below the surface, but they were only verbally expressing a fraction of it. I know it doesn’t make sense.”

“What does anymore?”

As Grant reached for his water glass, he heard Paige gasp in the kitchen.

“Paige?” he called out. “Everything okay?”

The door to the kitchen swung open.

Paige stood in the threshold. Even in the firelight, Grant could see that her face had lost all color, the tremors in her hands so violent they extended up into her shoulders.

He rose out of his seat and went to her.

Paige pushed her phone into his chest.

“What happened?” he asked.

She shook her head, eyes welling.

He took her by the arm and helped her into the chair.

Grant set the phone on the table and looked at Sophie, a knot tightening deep in his gut.

He turned the phone lengthwise, revived the touchscreen.

The video was cued.

Eleven minutes, forty-one seconds.

# # #

For a second, Paige’s face fills the lens.

She pulls back, walks out of frame.

The view is level.

It shows a bedroom from a wide angle, three or four feet up off the floor.

Left-hand side of the frame: floor to ceiling drapes hide a window.

Right-hand side: double doors, presently closed, open into a closet.

The bed is centered almost perfectly in the shot.

Four posts reach for the ceiling.

The headboard is hidden behind a rampart of pillows.

Paige and Steve Vincent walk into frame, Paige holding his hand and guiding him toward the bed.

At least a dozen candles populate each bedside table, but still the light is poor and the picture grainy.

Paige unties the cloth belt and lets her kimono slide down her shoulders into a pool of silk around her feet.

Grant said, “How am I supposed to watch this?”

Sophie said, “Suck it up, you big baby.”

“That’s my sister.”

Grant looked at his sister.

Paige was staring hard into the table like it was a visual sanctuary.

In that moment, he felt the strangest mix of anger and compassion toward her.

A conflicting yet simultaneous desire to hold her, to love her, to hurt her.

Vincent begins to moan.

Grant glanced down at the phone.

Took his eyes a moment to piece together what he saw.

The man is on his back, spread-eagle, with Paige between his legs, her head bobbing up and down.

Grant shut his eyes, and Paige must have caught a waft of the heat coming off him, because she said, “What did you think happened up in that room?”

“One thing to know. Another to see.”

“Disapproval noted.”

He forced himself to look back at the screen.

Vincent on top now. Missionary. Riding hard.

Sophie said, “Oh my God.”

Grant’s eyes cut to the closet doors, but he couldn’t see that anything had changed.

“What? I don’t see it.”

She touched the screen.

At first, Grant didn’t think it was real.

A trick of light and shadow perhaps.

A byproduct of the grainy picture.

The shadow keeps lengthening, a long, thin arm stretching out from the darkness under Paige’s bed.

Vincent humps away unawares.

Faster and faster.

Getting loud.

He yells as he comes, an unmistakable component of rage in his voice that drowns out Paige.

And then ...

One minute, the man is on top of her, pounding away.

The next, Paige lies alone and motionless on the sheets as the last vestige of Vincent—his foot—slides under the bed.

For thirty seconds, the room is still.

Grant looked at Sophie, and then Paige.

“Did that just happen?”

“Yes,” Sophie said.

“How is that—”

“I don’t know.”

He looked at Paige. She finally met his eyes. He said, “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“This isn’t lightbulbs exploding or some unidentified illness. Something just dragged that man under your bed.”

“I saw it.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know!”

“It’s in your room. Under your bed.”

“Grant.” Sophie nudged him and pointed at the screen.

A hand reaches out.

Then a head emerges.

Vincent wriggles out from under the bed and struggles slowly onto his feet.

For what seems ages, he stands motionless on the floor beside the bed, naked save for his dress socks, arms hanging straight down his sides, fingers twitching. The picture quality is too poor to see his eyes with any clarity, but they resemble gaping black holes on a blank white face that has been purged of any expression.

Slowly, and with great care, he begins to pick up his clothes which lie scattered across the floor.

He sits down on the end of the bed.

Pulls on his boxer shorts. His pants.

Then he’s standing directly in front of the phone, pot belly taking up most of the frame.

Vincent leaves the room.

There is Paige, still motionless on the bed, and nothing else.

Finally, she sits up and looks around, bewildered.

Paige climbs down off the bed and walks over to the camera.

The picture swings up toward the ceiling.

The video ends.

“You okay, Paige?” he asked.

She gave a short, unconvincing nod, said, “A shame nobody from the church even bothered to call us back.”

He powered off his sister’s phone and looked at Sophie.

“What do you think?”

“I think I don’t want to be inside this house anymore.”

“Believe me now?”

“Believe what?”

“That something beyond our understanding is happening here.”

“Yeah, and I want to leave, Grant. Does that strike you as a crazy request after what we just watched?”

“No, but—”

“But you don’t trust me.”

“I feel better with you here right now.”

“And I just told you I don’t want to be here. So are you going to continue to hold me against my will?”

Chapter 29

Paige blew out the candles and cleared the table while Grant moved Sophie into the living room. It was Friday night, and outside the street was busy with traffic heading downtown for the evening.

In an hour, Queen Anne would become a ghost town.

“It’s getting cold in here,” Sophie said, rubbing her shoulder with her free hand. “I can see my breath.”

Grant exhaled and squinted into the air in front of him. “No you can’t.”

“It’s still cold.” She was right about that. The temperature was dropping fast. “Guess you haven’t seen any of the weather reports.”

“No, why?”

“First night below freezing.”

“Awesome.”

Through the window, the outline of a house appeared in soft, white Christmas lights. It was already mid-December, but the season had yet to see its first truly cold night. Terrible weather in return for a mild climate and a month of perfect summer—that was the Seattle contract. Wasn’t for everyone, but Grant grooved on it. The cloudy skies jived with his ascetic inner-monk.

He surveyed the living room, eyes coming to rest on a mission-style rolling chair parked in front of a writing desk beside the fireplace. He pulled Sophie toward it, and then dragged the chair out and spun it around to face them.

Grant fished the key from his pocket and unlocked the bracelet around his wrist while keeping Sophie’s from popping open.

He snapped it around the armrest of the rolling chair.

“Still think I’m a flight risk, huh?” she asked.

“I would be.”

“And what if I looked you in the eyes and told you I wouldn’t try to leave?”

“I couldn’t live with myself putting you in a position to betray my trust.”

She rolled her eyes and plopped down in the chair, rocked it back-and-forth.

Said, “What now?”

“I’m going to find something to burn. In the meantime ...” he tugged the afghan he’d slept under the night before off the couch and flagged it open, “... try to stay warm.”

He brought it down over Sophie.

“You’re just going to leave me here with these wheels?”

“Knock yourself out. Take it for a spin.”

Grant walked into the kitchen where Paige was still washing up.

“Can I help?” he asked.

“Water’s cold,” she said without turning around.

He walked up to the sink beside her, grabbed a plate.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said as he submerged it in the frigid water.

Paige made no response.

“You were quiet,” he said.

“Didn’t want to incriminate myself anymore than you already have.”

“Sophie’s on our side.”

“That why she’s in handcuffs?”

Silence crept in between them.

Paige turned the water on again.

Grant could feel the tension in his sister like a living thing. Could see it in the furious concentric circles she made with the sponge across the surface of the plate.

“I heard you in the basement,” she said at last.

Grant stopped scrubbing. Let the plate sink into the dishwater.

“Then you know I don’t blame you for any of this.”

“I know that if it comes down to my word against your partner’s, I’m fucked.”

“Hey, who’s chained to a chair in your living room? You’re my sister, all right? You get the benefit of the doubt.”

“Why even bother? I’m a wreck, right? That’s the word you used. A drug addict. A prostitute who fucked her own life from every position.”

He said, “I was defending you, Paige,” but it even sounded weak to him.

Her plate dropped into the water with a violent splash.

She put both hands on the edge of the sink.

“You’ve never defended me,” she said.

“What are you talking about? I raised you.”

“Not the same thing.”

“That hurts more than you mean it to.”

“Your crusade to fix me has always been about what I need, but never about what I need from you.”

“I don’t even know what that means, Paige.”

“It means that I didn’t need to be your project. I needed your support. I needed you to stand beside me.”

“All I’ve ever wanted is to help you.”

“I believe you think that. Just like any good doctor. But I’m not your patient. Want to know why I left the first time and why I kept leaving every time you found me?”

“Been asking myself that question for years.”

“That’s the problem. You don’t have the answer, but you could never see that. I left because I got tired of watching you fumble with my problems like they were yours. Like you had the first clue about how to fix them. You’re sicker than I am, Grant. All I wanted was a brother and all you wanted to be was a mechanic. We were both addicts.”

“That’s what family does. They try to help each other.”

She turned to him.

“I got clean on my own, Grant. You show up and now we have a dead body upstairs and a police officer handcuffed in the living room. What exactly have you fixed?”

He grabbed the damp dishtowel from the counter and dried his hands.

“You make it sound like you’ve got your whole life sorted out. I just watched some guy use you, Paige. Maybe you’re off drugs, but you’re a helluva long way from clean.”

The words were out before he could stop them. He was shocked by their venom, their precision. They had come from a place he didn’t know existed, a place where there was no love for his sister. Just anger and disappointment.

Utter devastation arrived on her face.

She shook her head in bewilderment. “Fuck. You.”

Chapter 30

“Everything okay?” Sophie called from her chair as Grant stormed through the foyer and into the living room.

“Fine,” he said, selecting a short, squat candle that smelled like lavender from the flickering legion on the coffee table.

Grant went back into the foyer and made his way down the hall beside the stairs, stopping at the door to the basement. The tap continued to run in the kitchen. He listened for the clink of plates and glassware but there was no other sound. Imagined Paige standing frozen by the sink, the same mosaic of hurt across her face.

During that last intervention in Phoenix, when Paige was in the throes of a spectacular crash and burn, she had leaned over to Grant with tears in her eyes and whispered that she wished the car accident had left him a vegetable too. Then she’d kissed him on the cheek. That was Paige at her worst. Paige out of her mind. It hadn’t made it any easier, but at least he’d known it wasn’t his little sister saying those things.

So what’s your excuse, pal? Around what can you hang the blame for your poison?

And yet still, it was there.

Unquenchable rage.

He stared across the kitchen at Paige’s back.

Knew he shouldn’t say it. Knew he should just let it go. Walk away. Punch a wall in private, but he couldn’t stop himself. He never could. The acid wanted out, and it was coming.

He said, “Did you ever think for a minute that maybe I needed you? That maybe I needed a sister? Instead of a train wreck of a child who has not for one single day since I’ve known her had control of her own life? Has that thought ever crossed your mind? I guess I’m lucky I’ve never really needed you.”

He opened the door and headed downstairs.

The candleflame faltered.

In the weak light, a few fragile stairs offered the way down before disappearing into darkness. Grant remembered how easily they had flexed under his weight before and placed his feet gingerly on the first step.

It bowed.

He could hear Paige crying in the kitchen. He hated it, but he wanted it.

He started down the stairs, staying at their edge and spending as little time on each step as possible without rushing the descent.

The darkness at the bottom was even thicker than he remembered. It seemed to congeal with the dank air like a viscous ether, cold and clammy on his skin.

Grant held the candle up and squinted, realizing that his eyes had already done all the adjusting they were going to do.

In the corner, the piano loomed, barely visible in the feeble illumination.

Something about its presence unsettled Grant, a part of him actually afraid that the darkness might blurt out some old rag time, the keys moving but no one at the helm. Sour notes where the hammers were missing or lame.

Grant put the brakes on that train of thought.

All those nights lying awake in bed, just a kid and no adult in the house, afraid to close his eyes—it was the same fear. He always thought he’d grow out of it. Still hoped he might. Hell, wasn’t owning that fear part of the reason he’d been drawn to law enforcement? But adulthood had a way of making him feel like more of a child than when he’d actually been one.

Thirty-eight years old and still afraid of basements.

He took a moment to gather himself, and then made his way across the uneven stones to the window Sophie had smashed.

The fluorescent orb of a streetlight peered down at him through what remained of the glass.

Hunkered in the dark below it lay the buckled mass of the workbench. It was crudely made, a sheet of particleboard nailed to a pair of wooden sawhorses. The crew who’d done the remodel had probably left it behind. When Sophie had fallen through, she’d split the table top so that the two halves now met at a ninety degree angle. He didn’t know if it would be enough, but it looked like perfect firewood.

Grant gave one of the halves a kick, hoping the wood might be soft enough to split with his foot.

The particleboard barely flexed.

A tremor of pain shot up his leg.

He turned and scanned the rest of the room for something he could use to break it up.

In the corner beneath the stairs, a cluster of long-handled tools rested against the wall.

He walked over and picked through the pile, finally selecting a sledgehammer which he hoisted and carried back to the workbench.

Grant set the candle on the floor beside him, and with his free hand, pulled both halves of the table away from the wall.

On the exposed brick in front of him, the unsteady light made his shadow tremble and curl onto the ceiling, the sledgehammer grotesquely elongated like a malformed limb.

The silhouette moved when he moved but it didn’t feel like it belonged to him.

He threw an impulsive look back over his shoulder at the piano, but it was lost somewhere in darkness behind him.

He squared himself up in front of the bench.

Got a solid, two-handed grip—right hand under the head, left down toward the end of the handle—and raised the sledgehammer over his head.

The blow fell with such force that he didn’t even feel it pass through the bench, splinters of wood exploding as the head crushed into the stone floor and sent a jarring shockwave up through his arms that rattled the fillings in his molars.

Eight more swings and the workbench had been reduced to a pile of kindling.

Panting, he leaned on the handle of the sledgehammer and examined the damage.

A good start, but not enough to burn through the night.

More importantly, not enough resistance to fill his need to destroy something.

Grant picked the candle up, threw the sledgehammer over his shoulder, and approached the corner where the piano sulked.

Up close, it was a gorgeous instrument. An upright Steinway of mahogany construction with brass gilding on the bass and treble ends. Must have been exquisite in its youth. Now, decades of exposure to the elements had stripped away most of the varnish and rusted its fixtures.

He propped the sledgehammer against one of its legs and ran his hand across the keyboard.

It was rough where the lacquered ivory had worn down to the wood beneath.

His index finger came to rest on middle C.

He pressed it.

The key sank with a gritty resistance, and for the first time in what Grant guessed might be decades, a single, decrepit note moaned from somewhere deep inside the old piano. It filled the basement, taking so long to dissipate that he began to feel unnerved at its continued presence.

It was still hanging in the air when the basement door opened and Paige’s voice came to him from the top of the steps.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Just getting some firewood.”

Silence for a beat.

The door slammed.

Grant gave the piano one last look.

The note was gone, leaving only the hush of rain creeping in through the broken window.

He lifted the sledgehammer, heaved it above his head, and sent it crashing through the wooden lid, down into the guts where it severed the remaining strings in a horrible twanging cacophony.

The resistance was glorious.

He drank it in.

Ripped the head out, swung again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Chapter 31

It took him three trips to carry up all the fruits of his rage.

As he sat on the hearth arranging balls of newsprint and kindling under the grate, Sophie said, “You’re drenched with sweat. Everything okay?”

“Not so much.”

“Paige has been crying in the kitchen.”

“We had words.”

“Yeah, I heard some of them.”

He laid two legs of the piano bench across the grate and grabbed the box of matches.

Struck a light, held it to the paper.

As the flame spread, it suddenly hit him—exhaustion.

Total, mind-melting exhaustion.

The kindling ignited.

“I’m gonna be turning in soon,” he said. “You need to use the bathroom or anything?”

“You just destroyed her in there. You know that, right?”

He looked at Sophie.

Dishes clanged in the kitchen sink.

“I know she’s hurt you,” Sophie said. “I know she’s disappointed you. I know she’s been a pain in your ass since the two of you were on your own. I get all of that. But for whatever reason, you got one sister in your life, and there won’t be anymore. I got none. I envy you.”

“Sophie—”

“I understand that I don’t understand what it’s like.”

“The things she does to herself,” he said. “That she lets these men do to her for money.”

“I know.”

“I remember when she was six years old. When she had nothing in the world but me.”

“I know.”

“And now this?”

“Grant—”

“I love her so much.”

He wiped his eyes, piled more wood onto the fire.

Grant took Sophie to the bathroom and then set her up in a leather recliner. He cuffed her right ankle to the metal framework under the footrest and buried her under a mass of blankets.

Her phone vibrated in his pocket.

He tugged it out, swiped the screen.

Art had sent another text, this one carrying an attachment.

It was a photo of the interior of a diner.

Four men seated at a booth.

“What is it?” Sophie asked.

He showed her the pic and pointed to the frumpy-looking man seated next to Jude Grazer.

“Steve Vincent,” she said.

“Yep. The gang’s all there.”

A local number appeared on the screen.

“Recognize it?” Grant asked.

“That’s Frances.”

He answered with, “That was fast.”

“I aim to please.”

“You got something?”

“Mr. Flowers has a couple of DUIs.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. No ViCAP hits. No NCIC. But ... I did run everyone through the Social Security Death Index on our Ancestry.com account.”

“Good thinking, and?”

“Williams, Janice D., died March 2, 2007. She was forty-one. I don’t know if that’s helpful. I don’t have any other information.”

“The other tenants are still warm and breathing?”

“Yes.”

“This is super helpful, Frances. Thank you.”

“I’ve got another call coming in—”

“Take it. I owe you big time.”

Grant ended the call.

Sophie looked up at him, eyebrows raised.

“One second,” he said.

He hurried out of the living room, through the foyer, and into the dining room, where he grabbed Stu’s manila folder off the table.

Through the open doorway, he caught a glimpse of Paige still at the kitchen sink.

He jogged back to Sophie and sat down in proximity to the only decent light in the house—the roaring fire—and opened the folder.

“Talk to me, Grant. What are you suddenly cranked up about?”

“No meaningful hits on any database, but Frances ran all the names to see if anyone had died. One did, five years ago.”

“Do you know how old they were at time of death?”

“Only forty-one.”

He scrolled the list.

Four names down from the top, he found Janice Williams.

“Hmm,” he said.

“What?”

“Ms. Williams died while she was still living here.”

“So? People die. It happens.”

“You aren’t a little bit curious for more details?”

“Is there contact info on the spreadsheet?”

“Just a phone number. Must be next-of-kin.”

“Call ‘em up.”

Grant dialed. “Five-oh-nine area code,” he said. “Recognize it?”

“Spokane.”

It rang five times, and then went to the voice mail of a gruff, tired-sounding man with a blue-collar twang. Grant pictured a mechanic.

You reached Robert. I can’t get to the phone right at this moment. Leave your name and number and I will call you back.

After the beep, Grant left his name and Sophie’s cell.

“You warm yet?” he asked her.

“Getting there. What now?”

“We sleep. Then first thing tomorrow, we’ll call every resident on that list. We’ll find out what happened to Ms. Williams, have Stu dig up her death certificate, whatever it takes.”

“And Rachel.”

“What?”

“We call Don’s wife. No matter what.”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Her skin was beautiful in the firelight, and in that moment, if Sophie had asked him to let her go, he probably would have done it.

# # #

Grant crawled onto the sofa and under a blanket.

He took out Sophie’s phone—the battery charge had dropped to thirty percent—and powered it off.

Then he rolled onto his side, faced the fire.

The movement of the flames was mesmerizing.

He shut his eyes for a minute, and the next time he opened them, the fire was low and Paige was lying on the mattress below him, staring up at the ceiling.

“What if she’s right, Grant?” she said.

“Who?”

“Sophie.”

“About?”

“About me.”

He wasn’t following. He’d been sleeping too hard.

“What are you talking about, Paige?”

“About all of this having to do with me. What if it’s not the house that’s haunted?”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Because you don’t want to?”

“Look, I don’t know what this thing is, but I do know you, Paige.”

“Do you really?”

Chapter 32

It is the strangest sensation, the closest thing to a lucid dream she’s ever experienced.

She is aware of herself asleep on the recliner.

She feels the leather cushions beneath her but also the sensation of existing outside of herself. Like being in the audience of a play while she’s also onstage.

There is another, more ominous sensation.

Someone standing over her.

She can feel their presence.

Hovering.

Watching.

She wants to turn her head but won’t, thinking that whatever is standing next to the chair is waiting for her to look, and that as soon as she does, it will do the thing it wants to do so badly.

This must be limbo, she thinks.

This is what forever is going to be like for me.

But that idea is somehow worse, and she’s already turning her head.

Sophie looks up and opens her eyes.

The fire is so low that the room stands in virtual darkness.

Rain drums against the windows.

It stands beside the chair, staring down into her face.

Not Paige. Not Grant.

Just a pure black shadow shorter than either of them, with long, skinny arms that nearly touch the floor.

She tries to speak, but her mouth won’t open.

Tries to turn away, but she has lost the mobility of her lucid dream, now locked in a stare with the shadow.

That she cannot see a single detail of its face is somehow worse.

Her mind runs in terrible directions.

The next time she blinks, the shadow has changed.

Replaced by a profile she knows.

The dying fire even lends this face a glimmer of color.

Paige Moreton says, “Why won’t you talk to me?”

Her eyes are shining, and she is smiling.

Chapter 33

Grant woke from a troubled sleep to the sound of someone whispering his name.

It was still night.

The fire had burned itself down to a bed of embers, and despite the blankets that covered him, he was shivering violently.

“Grant.”

It was Sophie.

He pulled the covers tighter around his neck.

“What’s up?” he whispered.

“Come here.”

“Something wrong?”

“Just come here.”

Grant kicked back the covers and swung his legs off the sofa.

The hardwood floor was ice under his feet.

He moved quietly over to Sophie’s chair which he’d positioned at the foot of Paige’s mattress.

Knelt down beside her.

“I had a dream,” she said.

“A nightmare?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“I was sleeping in this chair, and there was this presence beside me. I could feel it so clearly. It’s like I was half-awake. I tried not to look, because I knew that’s what it wanted me to do, but I finally gave in. It was just a shadow and I couldn’t see its face. Then suddenly Paige was standing there instead.”

“Paige was in your dream?”

“And she was smiling. Something about it was off, though.”

Grant glanced back at his sister sleeping peacefully in the ember light.

Sophie said, “She asked why I wasn’t talking to her. Then I woke up. What do you think?”

“Honestly? Sounds about right considering the day we’ve had. My dreams sucked too.”

“It was more than a nightmare, Grant. I know what a dream feels like.”

“What was it then?”

“Communication.”

“Oh. You think our friend upstairs wants a word?”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I promise you I’m not, but would we be having this conversation if it had told you to come up and crawl under the bed?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s what it wants.”

“How do you know?”

“Because that’s what I see in my dreams. It wants me in that room. Under the bed.”

“So it’s talking to you too.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. But I’m not going in there to find out.”

“We don’t have to. What if we just stay in the hall? Try to talk to it through the door.”

“You really think that’s a good idea?”

“What’s the alternative? Do nothing while our little world in here continues to fall apart?”

“We’re not doing nothing, Sophie. Tomorrow, we’re gonna track down Janice Williams and find out what happened to her. Maybe that blows everything open for us.”

“And maybe it doesn’t. The clock is ticking. It’s a matter of time before you and I are officially MIA. And what about Don? You know Rachel has already reported him missing.”

“Look, I’m aware of the stakes, okay? But I’m not ready to start chasing dreams. I say we stick to whatever shreds of reality we still have left. That’s where we’ll find our answers.”

“You don’t know the first thing about what’s going on here so don’t pretend you can tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not.”

“Fine,” he said. “What if it is trying to talk to us, and all it really wants to say is ‘I’m gonna torture and kill you assholes.’ Then what?”

“Then we confirm what we already know. And I’d rather know—good or bad—than remain in this state of total darkness we’re in right now.”

She had a point.

It wasn’t the first time.

Their options were exhausted, and the idea of waking up in this house, of spending another day in this prison, was more than he could face. A time would come when it would be too much. When it would break him. He could feel that moment fast-approaching.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll wake Paige.”

“No.” Sophie grabbed his arm.

“Why not?”

“Just let her sleep.”

“This is a big decision. She deserves to be involved.”

“Let’s just you and I go up.”

“Is it because of your dream? Because you think she’s playing some part in this?”

“I don’t know. Just a gut feeling that it should only be you and me.”

# # #

Grant unlocked the bracelet around Sophie’s ankle and gave her a hand up out of the chair.

“No cuffs?” she said.

“No cuffs.”

She lit a pair of candles while he went to the sofa and pulled the Glock out from between the cushions.

He waited until they’d reached the foyer before digging the magazine out of his pocket, driving it home, and jacking a round into the chamber.

Sophie went up first, the steps creaking under her bare feet.

It was ungodly cold and the chill intensified the higher they climbed.

By the time they reached the second floor, it was freezing, their exhalations pluming white in the candlelight.

They rounded the corner and stopped.

The door to Paige’s room stood shut at the far end of the corridor.

Grant could hear the rain drumming on the roof.

The elevated boom-boom-boom of his heart.

Nothing else.

He was wide awake now, operating on sensory overdrive—everything heightened but his diminished sense of sight.

Sophie headed down the hall and he followed.

They passed the small table at the midpoint and continued on until they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, the door looming three feet ahead.

Grant kept swallowing, trying to make his ears pop, but they wouldn’t.

Sophie whispered, “Go ahead.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know. What are you waiting for?”

“This is weird.”

“Aren’t you used to weird by now?”

“Should I knock?”

She shot him a look. “Take it seriously.”

Grant cleared his throat and took a step forward.

“Is anyone in there?” he said.

They barely breathed.

Thirty seconds passed in silence.

“Guess we have our answer,” Grant said, turning to leave.

“Try it louder.”

“I feel like I’m just talking to a door.”

“Don’t you ever pray?”

“Not anymore.”

“Pretend there’s something on the other side that can hear you. Show it respect.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Get closer.”

He turned to her. “You want to do this?”

Grant stepped up to the door again, so close he could feel the icy draft issuing from the crack at the bottom. He braced himself on either side of the frame.

“This is Grant Moreton. I’m Paige’s brother. She’s the woman who lives here.”

He looked back at Sophie.

She nodded him on.

“Can you tell me what it is you want?”

He put his ear to the door.

Silence again.

No sound on the second floor but the rain striking the roof.

“This is Ouija board shit,” he said.

“Keep going.”

“What do you want?” Grant said, louder.

No answer.

“What. Do. You. Want.”

Grant felt Sophie’s hand touch his shoulder. He was beginning to churn with the first bubblings of rage, a mad impulse creeping in to kick the door in, Glock drawn. Shoot the room to pieces.

“Why won’t you let us leave?”

Nothing.

Yelling now—”Why are you here?”

Sophie grabbed his arm but he ripped free and beat his fist against the door.

She said, “Maybe you’re asking the wrong questions.”

“Are you asleep? Are we disturbing you? ‘Cause you’re sure as hell disturbing us.” He punched the door. “Wake up and talk to me.”

He turned away and started back down the hallway.

When he reached the table, he glanced over his shoulder and stopped.

Sophie still stood facing the door which was bathed in the light of her candles.

“Hey,” Grant said. “You’re my light source. Come on. We’re done here.”

She didn’t move.

“Sophie?”

She looked at him, and then back at the door.

When she shouted, it startled him so much he flinched.

“What are you?”

Her voice raged through the second-floor corridors, and its echo had not quite faded into silence when every light in the hallway blazed on with a retina-burning intensity.

The building rumbled as the central heating kicked.

A ceiling fan above Grant’s head began to whir.

The phone in his pocket vibrated to life.

Sophie faced him, shielding her eyes and squinting against the sudden onslaught of light.

She had just opened her mouth to speak when a noise from below rushed up the staircase and drove a spear of terror through Grant’s heart.

A scream.

Paige.

The Glock was in his hand and he was running before he’d even thought to react, socks sliding across the carpet as he turned the corner, his shoulder crashing into the wall.

He righted himself and bolted for the stairs.

Took them two at a time, his footfalls pounding down the steps.

Five from the bottom, he jumped.

His sock-feet hit the hardwood floor of the foyer and he skidded to a stop under the archway that opened into the living room.

Paige stood beside the recliner holding Sophie’s purse.

She looked bleary-eyed and horror-stricken.

Grant said, “What happened?”

Sophie came tearing off the stairs into the foyer.

She stopped beside Grant, said, “What are you doing with my purse, Paige?”

“What is this, Sophie?”

Paige shook a scrap of paper in her right hand.

Grant walked over. “What is it?”

She handed him a badly-wrinkled receipt from The Whisky, brittle from water damage.

Paige said, “Other side.”

Grant flipped it.

“It was in her purse.”

Grant stared at Sophie.

“Why do you have this?”

“That’s the receipt I found in Seymour’s hand. I told you about it on the phone, remember?”

“Benjamin Seymour was holding this?”

“Yes, at the Japanese garden in the arboretum. What am I missing? Why is your sister going through my purse?”

“This is our father.”

“What does this mean, Grant?” Paige asked.

Grant stared at the portrait. “I don’t know.”

Sophie said, “I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. I had no idea.”

The cell in Grant’s pocket vibrated.

He jammed the Glock into the back of his waistband, grabbed the phone, swiped the screen.

A series of texts from Art Dobbs had just uploaded.

10:06 p.m.

diner closing, they’re leaving

10:13 p.m.

they went across street to bar

12:01 a.m.

still here, you so owe me

2:02 a.m.

last call, they’re leaving

Grant glanced at the current time—2:37 a.m.

Paige said, “Sophie, I can’t explain why I even opened your purse. When the power came on, I woke up and I was just standing here. The receipt was already in my hand. I wasn’t snooping, I swear. What were you guys doing upstairs?”

Grant said, “I heard something. We went up to check.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know. The power came on, you screamed, I ran back down.”

Sophie’s phone buzzed again.

Grant glanced down—Dobbs calling.

“Here.” He tossed Sophie her phone.

“He’s gonna be pissed,” she said. “Probably thinks I just bailed on him.”

“Blame me.”

Sophie answered on speakerphone: “Hey, superstar, what’s up?”

“Oh, not too much. Just doing your job at two thirty-seven in the morning when I should be home in bed with my wife. Hope I didn’t interrupt your beauty sleep.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m at Grant’s. He’s having a real hard time. Major bender.”

The sarcasm vanished. “Sorry to hear that. I don’t mean to be an asshole. I’m just exhausted.”

“What’s the news?”

“You see my texts?”

“No.”

“Our boys are on the move. They left a bar in North Bend about thirty minutes ago after sitting at a table for four hours, drinking nothing but water and barely even speaking to each other. Grazer and the new guy arrived separately, but they all left together in a black GMC Savana. New model. In all my free time, I ran the plates. Car was rented yesterday morning in Bellevue on Talbert’s Visa.”

“Where are you right now?” Sophie asked.

“They just turned north onto the four-oh-five.”

Grant looked at Paige.

He could see it in her eyes. She’d made the connection too.

“Thanks, Art. Keep me posted.”

When Sophie had ended the call, Grant said, “I know where they’re going.”

“Where?” Sophie asked.

“Kirkland.”

“What’s in Kirkland?”

Grant held up the receipt.

“Our father,” Paige said.

Chapter 34

For ten seconds, no one spoke.

Sophie finally broke the silence, “Are you sure?”

“A hundred percent? No. But his hospital is in Kirkland.”

“Why would they be going to see your father?”

“I couldn’t begin to answer that.” Grant pulled out Sophie’s Glock, crossed the room, gave it to her. “He’s at Evergreen Psychiatric Hospital. His name is James Moreton. Call Art on your way, tell him what’s going on. Please stop whatever is about to happen, since there’s not a damn thing I can do, stuck in this house.”

Sophie went to the chair and pulled on her boots and jacket, took her purse back from Paige.

“Let me have your phone,” Grant said, the helplessness and frustration beginning to ferment into rage.

She handed it over, and he typed in a number.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Programming my sister’s number so you can reach us.”

At the front door, Grant unlocked the dead bolts and the chain.

It couldn’t have been more than a few degrees above freezing, their breath steaming as they stepped out onto the porch.

At the bottom of the steps, Grant felt something like a shiv slide in at the base of his skull.

Sophie said, “The pain’s back?”

“I’m not going to be able to leave. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Then go while you can.”

She embraced him.

“I’ll call you. Be careful, Grant.”

“You too.”

She rushed off into the rain and turned left when she hit the sidewalk. Grant watched her cross the empty street and climb into her TrailBlazer.

The engine growled to life, the tires screeched against the wet pavement, and Sophie roared off down the street.

He forced himself to take another step.

Pain ignited in the pit of his stomach and flashed through the rest of his body with the velocity of a shaped charge.

He doubled over.

Only when he staggered back did the agony wane.

In its place, that molten rage poured in.

By the time he reached the top of the steps, Grant had gone supernova.

He moved through the door, back into the house.

Paige stood in the foyer, arms crossed as if they were the only thing holding her together.

She was crying, trembling.

She said, “Now what?”

He went past her into the kitchen, liberated a knife from the cutlery block.

Rushed back down the hallway.

Up the stairs.

Paige calling after him.

He didn’t answer.

As he reached the top, he heard her footsteps climbing toward him.

He rounded the corner.

Turned down the hallway.

Wasn’t that he didn’t care or feel the fear. But as had happened a handful of times in his life, everything—absolutely everything—had been overridden by a pure and blinding need to break something. To destroy. There was something inside of him that had formed when his mother died and grown when his father was incapacitated, and had just kept festering and rotting through his orphaned childhood, while he struggled to provide for and raise Paige, into adolescence as he watched his sister derail, into adulthood when their estrangement solidified. It was the rage of a life frustrated, lonely, unfair, and devoid of anything approaching a single stroke of luck or good fortune.

It was why he got blackout drunk.

Why he went to bars in the sticks to get in fights.

Why he fucked prostitutes.

And why he was about to kick in the goddamn door to Paige’s room and once inside, tear whatever he found apart with his bare hands.

“Grant!”

He stopped halfway down the corridor, looked back at his sister.

She said, “Don’t do this.”

“Why? Because something bad might happen to me? That’d be a real change of pace, wouldn’t it?”

“Please. Come downstairs. We’ll talk this through. We’ll figure out our next step. I need you.”

Grant smiled. He felt electrified. Amped on methamphetamines. Like he could punch through brick.

He said, “I’m done talking.”

Then he turned and ran at Paige’s door, the pressure mounting in his head, a small voice asking if he was sure he wanted to do this but it was too late.

Inside of three feet, he raised his right leg and snapped his heel into the center of the door.

It exploded back.

Paige screaming his name.

His foot throbbing.

He crossed the threshold, and the moment he was standing fully inside, the door slammed shut behind him.

Chapter 35

The pressure in his head was enormous. Like sitting at the bottom of the ocean.

He couldn’t hear Paige anymore.

Couldn’t hear the rain on the roof.

Not even the mad thumping of his heart.

There was a single source of illumination—a salt lamp resting atop a chest of drawers at the foot of Paige’s bed. The fractured crystal put out a soft orange glow that failed to reach the corners of the room.

Grant’s vision doubled.

The lamp split into two orbs of light.

He blinked and they came back together.

The pressure swelled inside his eyes, his lungs struggling with each breath to inflate.

A stabbing pain thrummed through his inner ear in time with his pulse.

Fighting the disorientation, he tried to tune back into the rage that had brought him here.

He grabbed the salt lamp and tightened his grip on the knife.

A dust ruffle skirted the bed, an inch of blackness between the hem and the floor.

Grant stumbled toward it and dropped to his hands and knees, the fog in his head thickening fast, thoughts and intentions flattening under the pressure.

He put the side of his head on the floor and reached for the dust ruffle.

Some remote part of his brain screaming at him to stand up, turn around, get out, but its voice was growing quieter every second.

Under the bed.

He was staring under the bed.

He’d walked into his sister’s house thirty hours ago, and since then he’d been fighting this moment. Why had he resisted?

The light in his hand spilled into the darkness.

Dusty hardwood floor.

A pile of blankets.

Grant pushed the light forward, dragging himself behind it.

As his head passed beneath the bed frame, he registered a peculiar smell.

Vinegar and electrical burn.

The blankets shifted.

Grant reached out, took hold, pulled them aside.

The light eked onto two sacs of spider eggs—rust colored clusters that resembled the overripe drupelets of blackberries.

As Grant stared at them, a translucent membrane slid over one, and then the other, and retracted simultaneously.

The pressure in his head vanished. He dropped the knife.

Not spider eggs. Eyes. He was staring into a pair of eyes.

From behind the blankets, a long, slender arm shot out, and fingers encircled his neck.

# # #

It is dark and he is not alone.

There is nothing before, nothing after.

It is all and only now.

The floor beneath him rushes away. His stomach lifts. He’s gripped with the sensation of falling at an inconceivable speed, hurtling through darkness at what has been pulling him toward this room since he first set foot in the house.

He crashes into a terrible intellect.

For the first time in his life, he is aware—truly aware—of his mind. Its weakness and vulnerability. His skull is a pitiful firewall. The invasion effortless. Everything he loves and hates and fears is unhoused, his private circuitry torn out and laid bare.

Before Grant can even wonder what it wants, it is unrolling his mind like a parchment.

He feels the synaptic structure of his brain changing, being rebuilt, reprogrammed.

The tingle of neuron fire.

Thoughts he’s never had materialize as if they’ve always been.

A sequence of directions take shape.

Right turns and left turns.

Street names.

All at once, his mind cauterizes shut, and he is left with the absolute knowledge of what he must do next.

The eyes blink again.

The floor returns.

He is no longer under the bed but standing beside it and cradling something in a tangle of blankets.

Chapter 36

At three o’clock in the morning, Mercer was empty enough for Sophie to burn through red lights at full speed.

She hit the I-5 and screamed north to 520.

Dialed Art halfway across Lake Washington and stuck him on speaker so she could keep two hands on the wheel while she did ninety-five over wet concrete, the windshield wipers frantically whipping across the glass.

Art answered with, “Hey, Sophie.”

“Where are you?”

“Still on the four-oh-five, couple miles south of Kirkland.”

“They may be going to the Evergreen Psychiatric Hospital.”

“How do you know that?”

“Long story, but I’m on my way, about five minutes behind you.”

“Why are they going to this hospital?”

“No idea, but Grant’s father lives there. Seymour had drawn a weird picture of him on a receipt. Didn’t connect the dots until a few minutes ago.”

“And you think they’re going after him?”

“Possibly. I’m calling the hospital right now and putting them on notice so they can scramble security.”

“I’ll call for backup.”

Sophie depressed the brake pedal as she veered onto an exit ramp, nearly lost control of the TrailBlazer at the end as she whipped it around, tires skidding on the wet road, the SUV tipping up on two wheels for a terrifying instant.

She managed to right the car and stomp the gas, now accelerating north up Lake Washington Boulevard.

The city just a foggy glow across the water.

“Art,” she said. “I have no idea what these men are all about.”

“You and me both.”

“So do me a favor, huh?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t get yourself shot.”

Chapter 37

Grant opened the door and walked out into the corridor.

Paige stood several feet away, tears streaming down her face.

“I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. I thought something had—”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

She looked down at the blanket in Grant’s arms.

“Is that what I think it is?”

He nodded.

She brought her hand to her mouth.

When she reached toward the blanket, Grant took a step back.

“I just want to see,” she said.

She took hold of the end of the blanket.

Raised it.

“Oh my God.”

Chapter 38

The Evergreen Psychiatric Hospital on the outskirts of Kirkland was a four-story brick monstrosity that stretched across twenty acres of conifer-studded lawns.

Sophie’s TrailBlazer raced up the narrow drive.

The buildings appeared in the distance.

Through the rain-streaked windshield, she could see a smattering of glowing windows, but most of the facade stood dark.

She whipped into the circle drive at the front entrance, killed the engine.

3:13 a.m.

She pulled her Glock, checked the load.

Out into the cold and pouring rain.

She jogged over to Art’s Dodge Diplomat—a pimped-out relic from the old days. The driver’s side door was open, the interior dome light on, but the car empty.

Just prior to the roundabout, the driveway had branched into a vast parking lot, and on the far side, under the dripping branches of a Douglas-fir, she spotted the black van.

She ran toward it. The rain had escalated from a drizzle to a downpour since she’d left the house, gusting sideways across the desolate parking lot, the light poles swaying.

She moved along the edge where the eastern perimeter of Douglas-firs offered cover from the streetlights.

Twenty feet away, she came out of the trees.

The van wasn’t running.

The front seats were empty, but from the side, with its deeply-tinted windows, she couldn’t see anything in the back.

She approached it head on, Glock aimed through the windshield.

No lights on inside.

No movement.

She tried the driver side door, but it was locked.

By the time Sophie had returned to the main entrance, she was soaked. She climbed the stone steps and pushed through the front doors and, finally, out of the rain.

In the vestibule, she stopped, jacket dripping on the linoleum, and took out her phone.

Tried Art for the third time in the last five minutes.

Same result.

It rang four times and dumped her into voice mail.

Sophie pushed through the inner doors into a large reception area bathed in the punishing glow of high-wattage fluorescent lights. Moved quickly toward the front desk where a nurse in blue scrubs was scribbling on a patient chart.

The smell of the place was insidious—notes of Clorox, Lysol, stewed green vegetables, desperation.

Sophie had her shield out by the time the woman looked up.

Mid-thirties, attractive despite the total absence of makeup, and surprisingly clear-eyed for the late hour.

“Detective Benington, Seattle PD. Did another detective come through here? Fifties, little overweight, balding—”

The nurse was already shaking her head.

“Nobody but you has walked through those front doors since I came on shift at midnight.”

“His car’s out front.”

“Well, he didn’t come this way.”

“You didn’t hear him pull up?”

“Kind of been busy.” She held up a folder. “Thirty-five patient charts to complete before eight a.m.”

“I spoke to your head of security about five minutes ago, told him there was a possible threat to one of your patients. Jim Moreton.”

“I don’t know anything about that. I’m sorry, but without a signed release I can’t discuss any patients or even confirm that the person you just mentioned is actually a patient here.”

Sophie leaned in. “Is there another entrance to this facility?”

“On the north side, but it’s only open and staffed during visiting hours.”

“I need you to take me to Jim Moreton right now.”

“Ma’am, HIPAA is pretty clear on the protection of patient privacy.”

“How about the protection of their physical safety?”

“Ma’am, I—”

“Do you understand what I’m telling you? Men may have come here to kill Mr. Moreton.”

The woman stonewalled.

“Tell me you understand what I just said,” Sophie pushed.

“I understand.”

“And you’re refusing to take me to him so I can check on his welfare? You believe the intent of HIPAA is to prevent a law enforcement officer from checking on the welfare of a psychiatric patient who may be in grave and immediate danger?”

Two gunshots erupted, muffled and distant.

The nurse’s eyes grew big.

Sophie pulled her Glock. “Where is he?”

“Acute unit.”

Another gunshot, different caliber.

“Tell me how to get there.”

The nurse rose from behind the desk and came around to Sophie.

“I’ll have to take you. It’s like a maze, and doors don’t open without an ID badge.”

Sophie followed her out of reception and down a long corridor.

“Are more police coming?” the nurse asked.

“Yes, on their way. What’s your name?”

“Angela.”

“I’m Sophie.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“Forget it.”

They picked up the pace, now moving through a series of intersecting short corridors that Sophie would have never been able to navigate on her own.

Straight ahead, the way was blocked by a pair of double doors, each with a square of glass inset at eye level.

Angela unclipped her ID from her scrubs and reached for the card-swipe.

“Hold that thought,” Sophie said, waving her off.

She leaned into the glass window and stared through. The hallway on the other side ran perpendicular to this corridor, and her field of vision only extended for several feet each way beyond the doors.

Sophie strained to listen—nothing but Angela’s elevated respirations and the ever-present hum of the lights overhead.

“All right,” Sophie said. “Go ahead and swipe it, but I want you to hang back until I give the all clear.”

The internal locking mechanism buzzed.

Deadbolts retracted.

Sophie pulled open one of the doors, stepped over the threshold.

She poked her head out into the corridor and glanced both ways.

Nothing but miles of empty linoleum.

Sophie whispered over her shoulder, “All right, come on.”

Angela led her down a corridor that shot between two larger buildings.

The windows on either side were barred, rainwater streaming down the glass.

“What’s going on exactly?” the nurse asked.

“I’m not a hundred percent sure. Have you worked with Mr. Moreton?”

“Yes.”

“Is he locked in his room each night?”

“And medicated. He’s a threat to himself and others.”

The corridor banked into a building, and they arrived at another pair of doors, these windowless and steel-reinforced.

“What’s on the other side?” Sophie asked.

“Acute.”

Sophie put her ear against the door. Over the clamor of her own heart, she thought she heard voices, though she couldn’t be sure.

“Angela, give me your ID.” The nurse handed it over without hesitation. “Now I want you to run back down the corridor as far as you can. Find a room without windows and lock yourself inside. Go now.”

The nurse turned and hurried off down the hall, the soles of her Keds sliding across the linoleum as she turned a hard corner and disappeared.

Sophie waited until the echo of her retreating footsteps had almost faded away. Then she turned the card over, lined up the magnetic strip, swiped it through.

The sudden buzz of the locks retracting unleashed a new belt of adrenaline.

She shoved the card into the inner pocket of her jacket, tugged open one of the doors, and got a solid two-handed grip on her Glock as a quiet voice in the back of her mind whispered, You’ve never even drawn your weapon in the field, much less shot it. ‘Lil bit different than the range.

Straight ahead, a nurses’ station.

Two corridors branched off behind it on either side.

She heard that noise again—what she’d thought were voices from the other side of the doors.

Crying.

Someone whispering, Shut up.

The stifled, high-pitched hyperventilation of a person in hysterics fighting to hold it back.

It was all coming from behind the nurses’ station.

Sophie sited it down the barrel of her G22 and announced herself, “Seattle PD. Who’s behind the desk?”

A deep, male voice said, “It’s three of us. We work in this unit.”

“I need you to stand up for me. One at a time, very slowly. Keeping your hands interlocked behind your head.”

“We can’t.”

“Why?”

“They tied us up.”

“Who did?”

“Four men.”

“Are they still on this wing?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did they want?”

“They asked where Jim Moreton was. They took my ID card and my key ring.”

Sophie moved forward toward the nurses’ station.

When she reached it, she rose up on the balls of her feet and peeked over the edge of the desk. Two orderlies and a nurse lay on their stomachs on the floor, wrists and ankles bound with Zip Ties.

The smell of gunpowder was strong. It competed with the sweet bite of urine. The nurse was lying in a pool of it, her scrubs around her crotch darkened.

“Anyone injured?”

Headshakes.

“I heard gunshots. Were they armed?”

The nurse’s mascara had run all to hell, her black-rimmed eyes swollen with fear.

She nodded. “Yes, two of them.”

“Where did they go?”

“Jim Moreton’s room.”

Sophie kept scoping each corridor and glancing back at the double doors she’d come through moments ago. Tactically, this was a dangerous spot—centrally located and vulnerable to multiple points of attack.

She said, “Did another police officer come through here?”

“I think so.”

She yelled, “Art!”

There was no response.

The nurse continued, “I didn’t see him—we were already tied up—but I heard him yell ‘police’ and then the shooting started.”

“What room is Jim Moreton in?”

“Seven-sixteen. Down the hall to the right.”

Sophie started toward the corridor.

“You’re just leaving us here?” the nurse cried.

“Backup’s on the way. Stay quiet.”

“Please!” she begged. “Don’t leave us!”

“Shut up!”

A door slammed somewhere on the wing.

Sophie exploded down the corridor, the heels of her boots pummeling the tile.

Room 701 blurred past.

Full sprint now.

702.

Heart thudding through the slats of her ribcage.

706.

707.

Her elbow clipped a rolling IV stand that toppled hard and went skating across the floor.

713.

714.

715.

She slowed to a stop a few feet away from Moreton’s room. The door was cracked, but no light escaped.

Her lungs burned.

Somewhere on the wing, a patient banged against the inside of their door and warbled incoherently.

Sophie leaned back on the wooden handrail that ran the length of the hallway and inched forward. The smell of gunpowder was strongest here, and under the fluorescent glare, something glinted on the floor—a .40 cal shell casing.

One of Art’s.

Deep breaths.

716.

A small pane of reinforced glass looked into the room.

She peered through the bottom corner of the window.

A little light bled through a curtain on the far side of the room, but it only brightened several tiles on the floor. Everything else lay in shadow.

She eased the door open.

It swung on its hinges without a sound.

Light from the hallway spilled across the floor.

Reaching in, she palmed the wall, running her hand along the smooth concrete until it grazed a light switch.

She hesitated.

Glanced up and down the corridor.

Nothing moved.

That nurse was crying again and the patient beating his door even harder, but she relegated these superfluous distractions to background noise.

She hit the switch—two fluorescent panels flickering to life—and then dug her shoulder into the door and charged.

The door crashed hard into the rubber stop on the wall and bounced back, but she was already past and swinging into the bleak little room.

There was a single bed lined with metal railing and occupied by Jim Moreton.

The man lay on his side under a white blanket, his back to her.

She cleared the far side of the bed and then opened a door beside a dresser, groping for the light switch.

A small bathroom appeared.

She stepped in, swept back the shower curtain.

Cleared the toilet alcove.

She was breathing so hard her vision had begun to populate with throbbing motes of blackness.

She went to the closet, opened the sliding doors.

Ten pairs of identical khaki slacks. Ten long-sleeved button-down shirts—all variations of blue. Three pairs of Velcro shoes.

Otherwise, empty.

She turned her attention to the bed. The wrist she could see wore a padded restraint that was attached to the railing by a leather loop.

“Mr. Moreton?”

As she moved toward the bed, the face on Seymour’s receipt flashed through her mind.

Sunken cheeks. Frown lines like canyons in his forehead. Wild, stringy hair.

The hairline on the back of this man’s head was cropped, and it ran back to a patchy area at the top of his scalp where it had begun to thin.

She knew that bald spot.

Sat behind it every day at the precinct.

Sophie rolled Art Dobbs onto his back.

The left side of his face resembled an eggplant, swollen and shiny. His eye had disappeared into it and the other was turned up into its socket like a cue ball.

“Art.”

She shook him.

Then ripped back the covers.

No blood.

“Art, can you hear me?”

A gurgling noise issued from his nose as air struggled through the grotesque new angle of his nasal cavity.

He was out cold, but at least he was breathing, and he wasn’t shot.

She dialed 911, held her phone between her shoulder and ear as she headed out of the room.

“Nine-one-one, where is your emergency?”

“Evergreen Psychiatric Hospital in Kirkland. This is Detective Benington with the Seattle PD.” Sophie edged out into the corridor. “Shots fired, officer down. Art Dobbs is in room seven-sixteen in the acute unit.” Started moving at a jog. “Four suspects. Armed. Driving a black GMC Savana. They may have kidnapped Jim Moreton, a patient here.” She was approaching an intersection, the floor up ahead smeared with what appeared to be blood.

“What are his injuries?”

“I have to go now—”

“Ma’am, please—”

Sophie ended the call, slid the phone back into her jacket.

The blood smear wasn’t isolated. Footprints—the tread of a dress shoe—continued on.

She swung around the corner and sited down the corridor.

The prints trailed off after a few steps, but the blood trail didn’t.

There was a man sitting against the wall under an exit sign that burned red at the far end—didn’t look like Moreton, but she couldn’t be sure from this distance.

Sophie called out, “Seattle Police! Get on your stomach and spread out your hands!”

The man was fifty feet away.

He turned his head and stared at her but failed to move.

“Did you not hear me, sir? Do you want to get shot?”

He said, “I’m already shot.”

As Sophie moved forward, she saw that he wasn’t lying. The man held his right leg with both hands and he sat in a small, dark pool that reflected the fluorescents redly.

Good for you, Art.

At thirty feet, she recognized him.

Seymour.

He said, “I need a doctor.”

“Do you have a gun?”

He shook his head.

She stopped in front of him.

“Where’d your buddies go?”

“I don’t know.” He was grunting through the pain and blood was still trickling through his fingers. Sophie unsnapped her handcuffs, knelt down, and popped a bracelet around Seymour’s left wrist. The other cuff, she locked to the handrail.

He groaned. “You have to help me.”

“Help’s coming. Keep pressure on that wound. You’ll be fine.”

Sophie grabbed Angela’s ID badge from her pocket and swiped it through the card reader.

The door buzzed and she shouldered her way through into the blinding illumination of a floodlight.

Started jogging along a walkway between the dark buildings.

She was disoriented—no idea of her location relative to the main entrance—and she couldn’t hear a thing over the sound of rain beating down on the grass, the pavement, her head.

She accelerated.

In the distance, she spotted a row of streetlights.

The parking lot.

She was sprinting now, the rain driving into her face, boots streaking through pools of standing water that had collected in the grass.

She broke out from the buildings, crossed a sidewalk, and blitzed into the parking lot. She was panting, years since she’d run this hard.

Wiping rainwater out of her eyes, she spotted the van in the distance. A trio of dark shapes jogged toward it, carrying something wrapped in white.

Sophie reached a gray Honda Accord and took shelter behind it, rain pouring off her face, lungs burning as she gasped for breath.

Where is my backup?

She glanced through the windows.

The van was fifty feet away.

Three men struggled to carry what appeared to be another man over their heads. They looked like errant pallbearers moving across the barren parking lot.

She got to her feet, and over the roof of the Accord, sited down the men and the van.

Water streamed off the slide, the Glock’s polymer frame beaded with rain.

It was harder than she had imagined—much harder—summoning her voice.

“Stop! Seattle Police!”

The men didn’t flinch, didn’t react.

She yelled it again at the top of her voice.

They were almost to the van. In unison, they dropped to their knees and set the man in white on the wet pavement. One of their number rushed forward to the sliding door, fumbling with a set of keys.

His partners turned.

“Get on the ground!” Sophie yelled.

Never saw them draw.

A pair of muzzleflashes bloomed and the windows exploded.

She squeezed off six shots—no precision aiming, just panicked, general direction, not-wanting-to-die chaos fire—and then ducked behind the front passenger door.

The cold, wet pavement soaking through her pants.

Four gunshots echoed off the buildings, the rounds chinking into the metal of the Honda. Her ears still ringing, she peeked over the jagged range of glass sticking up out of the bottom of the door.

Grazer and Vincent had returned to the van where they were helping Talbert lift Moreton off the ground and stow him inside. She drew a bead on one of them, but she didn’t trust her aim with Moreton in the mix.

Two of the men disappeared with Moreton into the van and the last one—Grazer?—turned and fired three shots at the Accord. Sophie took cover behind the door again as air rushed out of the front tire on the other side, the car sagging forward and away from her.

She heard the van’s sliding passenger door ram shut.

Popped up, double-tapped at Grazer as he rushed around the hood of the van and piled in behind the wheel.

The engine started, and as Sophie ran out from behind the car, the tires spun on pavement for a split second, caught, and then launched the van across the parking lot.

Planting her feet shoulder-width apart, she aimed at the right, rear tire.

It was the only moment since rolling onto the hospital grounds that she’d possessed a shred of self-awareness. She made herself breathe. She saw that micron of space beyond the night sights that she knew was the tire. Saw the white puff of air as the bullet pierced the tread. Saw the van spin out of control. The cavalry arrive. Jim Moreton saved, his kidnappers in cuffs on the ground.

She fired.

She fired again.

And again.

And again and again and again.

The next time she squeezed the trigger, the slide locked back, smoke coiling off the exposed barrel of the Glock.

The van turned hard out of the parking lot, tires fully intact and squealing across the wet road. It straightened and accelerated, the engine winding up, RPMs maxed.

She’d missed.

Seven times.

And now Jim Moreton, father of the man she might possibly love, was going to die.

She stood in the rain, stunned by her failure.

Here came the sirens.

She started running toward her car.

Chapter 39

Grant started down the stairs, the blanket jostling in his arms. He could feel the creature wrapped inside vibrating like a tuning fork. It put out so much body heat that the blanket could have just come out of a dryer.

“What’s happening?” Paige asked, a few steps behind him.

“It’s ready to leave.”

“It told you that?”

He reached the bottom of the stairs and made his way across the foyer to the front door.

“Grant.”

He stopped.

“What?”

“Talk to me.”

“I have to take it somewhere.”

“Where?” she asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

He turned and stepped into his boots. With his free hand, he grabbed the North Face jacket off the coat rack and draped it over his shoulder.

Paige arrived at the bottom of the staircase. She clutched the banister, panic and a profound sadness in her eyes.

“It’s in your head now,” she said. “You’re like the others.”

Grant shifted the weight from one arm to the other and looked back at her.

The blankets moved in his arms.

A translucent appendage emerged.

Paige recoiled, placed a foot on the step behind her as Grant covered it back with a loose fold.

“I don’t understand it all, but I’m still Grant,” he said, though he only half-believed.

“You went upstairs to kill that thing.”

“I have to go.”

“This is insane. You don’t even know what it’s telling you to do.”

“You’re right. But it won’t be in your house anymore. It’ll be out of your life.”

He saw the early shimmer of tears in her eyes.

“What happened in there?” Paige asked.

He looked at her. What could he possibly say? That even though he’d never been a father, he felt like he was holding his child in his arms? That with every passing second, that feeling was growing stronger? On the verge of eclipsing the protective instinct he’d felt toward his own sister when she was five years old and all he had in the world?

“It’s not something I can explain,” he said. “I just don’t have the words.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Me either.”

“So what now?”

“I put this thing in the car and start driving.”

Paige released her death-grip on the railing. She wiped her eyes. Her shoulders relaxed.

She went to the rack and grabbed her jacket—a charcoal gray peacoat with wooden toggles.

“We can take my car,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll drive. You navigate.”

“Paige, this is my thing now. My burden. You’ve carried it long enough. You don’t have to come.”

She put the coat on over her plaid pajamas, stepped into a pair of black Uggs.

“We’ve had enough of leaving each other, don’t you think?”

# # #

Excluding two brief excursions that had nearly killed him, it had been almost a day and a half since Grant had been outside, and the feeling of moving down the steps without an onslaught of debilitating pain bordered on surreal. Like walking out of prison. He didn’t entirely trust it, still half-expecting the blinding migraine to T-bone him at any moment.

The rain was torrential, huge drops smacking the flagstones beneath Grant’s and Paige’s feet as they headed toward the sidewalk.

“Where’d you park?” Grant yelled over the rain.

“Around the corner.”

They walked up the sidewalk, Grant holding the blanket tightly in his arms, grateful for the warmth.

Turning the corner, they moved alongside the wrought-iron fence.

Paige reached into her pocket.

Up ahead, the car alarm on a black CR-V chirped. Paige jogged ahead and opened the curbside rear passenger door.

Grant ducked in.

She shut him inside.

The car smelled new.

Rain pounding the roof and the windshield.

Paige climbed in behind the wheel, cranked the engine.

“Five-twenty,” Grant said.

“Across Lake Washington?”

“Yep.”

“That’s toward Kirkland. Toward Dad.”

“I know.”

Paige buckled herself in and put the car into gear. Pulled out of the parking space. There was no one on the street—pedestrian or vehicle. They cruised past rows of streetlamps, rain pouring through the spheres of light.

He blinked and Paige was accelerating up the I-5 onramp, merging onto the empty interstate.

He lost time again.

Falling inward.

Then they were several miles down the road, alone on 520, barreling east across the floating bridge as the toll cameras flashed blue above them.

Grant felt intensely purposeful. As zoned-out and deep as if he were under the influence of a psychotropic drug, and yet still in control of his faculties. The strangest paradox—complete self-ownership but on a new plain of awareness.

As if all his life had been leading toward this moment.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t think.

Just clutched the blanket to his chest—was this what it felt like to bring your newborn son home from the hospital?—and watched the sleeping city out his window.

# # #

“Grant.”

He returned to the moment.

Lake Washington still out the window.

Paige was reaching into the backseat, her phone lighting up in her hand.

She said, “It’s Sophie.”

He took the phone.

“Hello?”

“Grant?”

“Are you with my father?”

“They took him.” Sophie was crying—he could hear it in her voice.

“Is he alive?” Grant asked.

“I couldn’t ... stop it ... from happening.”

“Is he alive?”

“I don’t know.” She was becoming hysterical. He could barely understand her. “I’ll find him, Grant. I swear to you.”

“I know you did everything you could. I don’t blame you for anything.”

“Are you and Paige okay?”

“I have to go now.”

“Grant, what’s wrong? Are you still at the house? Did something happen? Grant?”

He powered off the phone.

Paige said, “What happened?”

“They took Dad.”

“Who? My clients?”

“Sophie lost them. They got away.”

Paige began to hyperventilate.

“I need you to calm down,” Grant said. “You have to get us there safely.”

“Explain to me what happened.”

“I don’t fully understand.”

“Then call her back!”

“It doesn’t matter, Paige.”

“They took our father!”

“Are you still okay to drive me?”

Page relaxed her grip on the steering wheel.

“Yeah.”

She settled back into her seat.

“I’m trusting you, Grant.”

“Thank you.”

“I need to know that you know how this is going to end.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what are you trusting?”

Chapter 40

The sky over the gas station parking lot where Sophie sat with the engine cooling was just beginning to brighten into a flat gray. She ended her fourth and final call to Paige’s cell and let her head fall back against the headrest. Like every other attempt, straight to voice mail.

—Where are you? An APB went out half an hour ago, and a van fitting the description was just spotted in Bothell. I’m on my way. Call me.

—Almost to Bothell. Call me.

—I’m pulling into the gas station where the van was spotted. Where are you?

She had gotten the clerk inside to replay the footage—van pulls up to the pump, glare on the windshield too severe to ID who’s at the wheel, but Vincent—unmistakable—exits from the sliding passenger door five seconds later. He walks around the hood of the van and stops in front of the pump where he digs a card out of his wallet and feeds it to the machine. Three unbearable minutes of waiting while he gasses up, the man staring dead into the camera the entire time. Finally, he caps the tank, returns the nozzle, and climbs inside. A few seconds later, the van rolls out of frame.

From the angle of the camera, it was impossible to tell which direction they had turned as the van left the parking lot, and no amount of coaxing could jog the cashier’s memory.

Sophie had spent the next forty-five minutes canvassing the area, checking motel parking lots, restaurants, and drive-thrus, her strategy ultimately disintegrating into blind Hail Mary turns down empty side streets.

She’d finally pulled back into the gas station and parked in the spot where she now sat, staring up at the ceiling of her car as if someone had scrawled the answers there.

Sophie shut her eyes.

The rain had tapered off into drizzle again, padding softly against the windshield.

Her phone rang beside her in her passenger seat.

She grabbed it.

Not Grant.

Officer Silver.

She answered, “Hey, Bobby.”

“I’m just leaving the brownstone in Queen Anne.”

“And?”

“Nobody home.”

Sophie’s heart lurched.

“You’re sure?”

“Empty as the warm, comfy spot beside my wife where I was soundly sleeping thirty minutes ago.”

“Did you go inside?”

“No. Just banged on the front door and then peered through the windows. Lights are on downstairs but it’s a ghost town.”

Sophie exhaled.

“Thanks, Bobby. I owe you big time for tonight. Apologize to Lynette for me.”

For a long beat, all she could hear was the acceleration of Bobby’s engine bleeding through the speaker.

She said, “You there, Bobby?”

“You know I got your back, right?”

“I know that.”

“There anything you want to tell me?”

She could feel the corners of her mouth beginning to quiver, her eyes blurring with tears. In this moment, there was nothing she wanted more in the world than to tell everything.

“Sophie?”

She squeezed the phone.

Steadied her voice as best she could.

“Everything’s fine. Go home, Bobby.”

The frequency of passing cars was increasing—early commuters heading toward the interstate to beat the rush into Seattle.

It felt like years since she’d seen her last clear day, one of those rare cloudless beauties when every horizon looms with mountains and the Puget sparkles and Rainier threatens to the south like the badass stratovolcano that it is.

What had she really seen, really experienced in Paige’s brownstone?

Grant had told her some whacked-out things. He’d certainly acted crazy.

But ...

What had she actually experienced that verified a goddamn thing?

A bad dream and a power surge.

That was it.

Hadn’t seen any creepy twin girls who wanted to play forever.

No one crawling across the ceiling.

There had been the phone video from Paige’s room, but it was just that. A video.

So let’s talk about what you did see. Something you could actually write down in a report that wouldn’t get you laughed at and fired ...

—Her partner had lied to her repeatedly about his whereabouts and absence.

—When she finally found him, Grant had overpowered her, taken her gun, cuffed her to a banister.

—She’d been held against her will in what was for all intents and purposes a modern-day bordello.

—A good man had died violently more than thirty hours ago in a bathroom upstairs, and her partner, as of yet, had failed to report his death, even to his wife.

—And when the shit really hit the fan with Art and their father at the asylum, brother and sister had vanished.

Yes, things had felt off inside the house, but now, with a little distance and perspective, the cold, dispassionate facts were rising out of the mire. And when it came time to sort things out—the actions of Paige’s clients, of Paige and Grant themselves, the death of Don—it was only those facts that would matter.

You covered for them, Sophie.

Lied for them.

And maybe she would’ve continued to. Maybe she would’ve extended her partner’s credit just a little longer, given him a chance to sort things out ... but for Don.

Don overshadowed all.

Because when you stripped everything away, the simple fact of the matter was that a good man was dead. And his memory, his wife, deserved an accounting.

She scrolled through contacts.

Sorry, Grant.

Pressed dial.

It only rang once, and the voice of the woman who answered sounded a far cry from the person Sophie knew.

All she said was, “Hello?” but it carried the ragged weariness of a soul in torment.

“Rachel?”

“Yes?”

“This is Sophie Benington.”

“Are you calling about Don?”

Sophie could feel the tears coming, the emotion dislodging in the center of her chest like a giant piece of ice calving off from her berg of grief.

“I’m afraid I am.”

Chapter 41

Dawn.

They were in the clouds, moving along wet pavement, the fir trees rushing past.

Occasionally, he glimpsed a mountain—dark, wet rock, swaths of snow across the higher terrain.

There was no more rain, only mist, but it was thick enough at this elevation to keep the windshield wipers in perpetual motion.

Grant swallowed.

His ears popped.

The engine groaned, the CR-V struggling up the steepest pitch of road so far, the double yellow winding endlessly ahead of them.

His right hand was inside the blanket, as it had been for the last hour, a tiny, warm appendage gripping his pinkie finger. He stared out the window. Saw everything and nothing. A kind of dual consciousness.

All up the mountainsides, the clouds were catching in the branches of the dark, epic trees. Their sharp, clean scent so strong he could smell them through the glass.

Paige watched him in the rearview mirror. He could feel her stare. The intensity of it.

He said, “We’re almost there.”

She said, “I know.”

# # #

They turned off of Highway 2.

A gravel road shot ahead through the forest, badly overgrown, but still navigable.

Just ahead, recent tire marks made paths through the undergrowth that peaked up through the loose rock.

They rolled slowly between giant hemlocks, the CR-V tilting and swaying across the uneven ground.

Grant could feel the blanket growing hotter, the shuddering intensifying, its grip around his finger tightening.

It was a minute past six a.m.

In the narrow corridor below the trees, Paige had punched on the high beams.

After a quarter of a mile, they broke out of the forest.

He had come here once since that last family vacation when it had been the four of them. Several years ago, a case had taken him out to Nason Creek, and he’d stopped by the old homestead; driven in as far as the clearing, but he’d never shut the car off, never even gotten out. Just sat in his Crown Vic for five minutes, hands clenched around the steering wheel, knuckles blanching, as if he could steel himself against the storm he’d been fighting all of his life.

So much pain caught. So much joy missed.

And there was no better embodiment than this decrepit place.

The cabin stood in the middle of a small clearing that had become considerably less clear in the years since his last visit.

It was a log-frame house, single story, with a steeply-sloping roof of rusted tin.

The front porch was covered, and even though the light was bad, Grant could make out Vincent, Talbert, and Grazer sitting in the rocking chairs.

Paige pulled into the grass beside the black van and cut the engine.

“Are we safe?” Paige asked.

“Why don’t you wait in the car for a minute,” Grant said.

He opened the door and stepped out.

It was freezing, the forest dripping, everything wet.

The hemlocks leaned in above them.

Their smell like a time machine.

He saw Paige—a little girl—running across the sunlit clearing on a summer day. Their mother reading on the porch. His father chopping wood. Their own private oasis.

The smell of Talbert’s cigarette dragged him back to this cold, gray morning.

Grant moved through the waist-high weeds and stopped at the foot of the steps.

Talbert stood.

Dropped his cigarette on the rotting wood of the porch.

Stamped it out.

Vincent and Grazer rose to their feet, the chairs rocking in the sudden wake of their absence. Their suits mud-stained, torn in places, sodden. Dried blood down the front of Talbert’s pinstripe shirt.

Grant said, “Where is he?”

“Inside.”

Grant nodded and Talbert moved across the porch, came down the steps with his cohorts in tow.

He stopped in front of Grant.

Put a hand on both shoulders, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“We’re glad you made it,” Talbert said. “It’s almost over.”

Pats on Grant’s back as the others passed.

Talbert released his shoulders and continued on.

Grant turned and watched them climb into the van.

Vincent in the driver seat.

Grazer rode shotgun and Talbert disappeared through the sliding door.

The engine cranked and the van circled through the clearing and headed back toward the road.

A hundred feet in, it vanished into the darkness between the hemlocks, nothing but a pair of brake lights dwindling into the gloom.

Paige got out of the CR-V and walked over.

“What’d he say?”

“That it’s almost over.”

Grant heard the distant revving of the van’s engine as it pulled out onto the highway. Within ten seconds, it was out of earshot. The only note left was the wind moving through the top of the forest and the hemlock branches groaning against its force.

Grant and Paige climbed the steps to the porch.

There were beer bottles and cans strewn across the floorboards. Empty packs of cigarettes. Rounds of Skoal dipping tobacco. Old and shriveled condoms. Spent twelve gauge shells. A Penthouse magazine, waterlogged and faded.

Their old vacation home had become a Friday night hangout for teenagers from the surrounding towns.

The front door stood ajar and sagging, attached to the frame by its lowest hinge.

Grant reached for it with his free hand.

It swung inward, arcing toward the floor until it came to a scraping halt after two feet.

He glanced at Paige. “Hang back a second.”

Grant turned sideways with the blanket and stepped through the narrow opening.

The air inside was redolent of pine and smoke and mildew.

There was a small fire in the hearth, illuminating the room with a pulsating light that made the rafters cast a ribcage of shadows on the vaulted ceiling.

Graffiti covered the walls.

Dates and genitalia.

Names preceded by fuck or love.

In the back corner, rotten railing separated the rest of the room from what had been the kitchenette. It was now unrecognizable, buried under the debris of a failed roof, cabinets and counters long-since disintegrated under seasons of rain and snow. Nothing to suggest its prior status beyond a doorless refrigerator peppered with buckshot.

Grant walked over to the fireplace, the glass-littered floor crunching under his boots.

Two generations’ worth of faded Bud Light cans lined the railroad tie that served as a mantle. It was the only place in the cabin that seemed to command some level of order and respect, if nothing more than a nod by the collective consciousness of those who came here to the passage of time.

He stared at the bare wall above the mantle where a painting of his mother’s—an acrylic of the pond out back—used to hang three decades ago. He could still see the nail hole in the cracking drywall that the picture frame’s wire had rested upon.

He reached up and touched it, then turned and leveled his gaze on the two doors in the wall across the room.

The first led into the bedroom he and Paige had shared as children, but Grant made his way through the detritus of a thousand Friday nights toward the second.

Their parent’s room.

He pushed it open, the hinges screeching.

Could no longer feel the heat of the fire, and its glow didn’t come close to lighting these walls whose wood-paneling had buckled and peeled like the diseased bark of a dying birch tree.

He stepped inside.

All the furniture was gone save for a single mattress pushed into the corner.

His father lay on it, writhing in a straightjacket.

Grant crossed the room and lowered himself slowly to his knees. When he set the blanket on the filthy mattress, his father became perfectly still, lying on his stomach, his back heaving as he panted for breath.

There were four straps going across the back of the straightjacket. Grant reached over and unbuckled them.

Then he turned his father onto his back.

His old man’s eyes were huge. They stared at the ceiling, blinking several times a second.

Grant pulled his arms out of the straightjacket sleeves and arranged them at his sides.

He was coming out of himself, out of that deep well. Felt strange to be in proximity to his father, unrestrained and unmedicated. More so to see him lying still, not thrashing around.

Grant unwrapped the blanket, the heat becoming more evident with each layer.

As he peeled back the last fold, he could feel it lapping at his face like a hot breeze.

Its eyes seemed to catch light that wasn’t even in the room. They had changed—now infinitely-faceted, and with the wet sheen of a river-polished stone.

His father’s respirations slowed.

Grant lifted the creature, set it on his old man’s chest like a newborn.

As it began to sink into him, he turned away and walked out of the room.

Paige was by the fire, holding her hands to the heat.

The sound of the door shutting pulled her attention to Grant.

He moved across the room and stood beside her.

“Is Dad in there?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did they hurt him?”

“No.”

“And he’s in there ... with it?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“I have no idea.”

“Just doing what you’re told, huh?” She didn’t say it maliciously.

“Something like that.”

“God, it feels so weird to be here.”

Grant went to the only piece of furniture in the room—a sofa covered in shredded upholstery.

The springs groaned and the cushion released a mushroom cloud of dust as he sat.

He swatted it away.

Old chimes clanged on the back porch.

The walls of the cabin strained against a blast of wind.

Being indoors somehow made the cold feel colder.

Paige looked around the cabin.

“Haven’t thought about this place in ages,” she said. “It’s like something from someone else’s life. I do love what they’ve done with the place.”

Grant glanced at the ceiling.

The names Mike + Tara stared down at him in faded, billowy letters.

“I always thought the ceiling was so much higher,” Grant said. “I think I could touch the rafters now if I jumped.”

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Grant tried to hear any noises coming from the room, but the only sound in the cabin was the brittle crackling of the fire. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was slowly waking up, the last several hours steadily descending into a subconscious fog like the memory of a dream, or a nightmare. The taste of it fading. Fragments gone missing or out of sequence. The flat-out strangeness of this moment, and all that had come before, beginning to register.

At first, he thought it was the work of the wind—something blown loose and knocking against the cabin. But as it continued, he identified the noise as footsteps on weakened floorboards.

The door to what had been their parents’ room creaked open.

Paige had already turned away from the fire.

She drew in a sharp breath.

James Moreton stood barefoot in the doorway wearing the same light blue pajama bottoms and button-down shirt he had been drugged and put to bed in by the hospital staff. It looked as though he’d attempted to smooth down the chaos of his hair, but most of it was still frazzled, sticking out to one side in wild tangles of white. A boney shoulder peaked through where the shirt slipped down.

Standing under his own steam, Jim Moreton looked impossibly frail.

A lifetime in the acute ward had aged him well beyond his fifty-nine years.

Grant stood up.

Paige said, “Daddy?”

Jim was looking right at them. Even from across the room, Grant could see the bright clarity in his father’s eyes.

And their focus—

His father hadn’t looked him in the eye with anything approaching recognition since he was a child.

Jim smiled, said, “My children.” He looked at Grant. “You did great, kiddo. Come on back now.”

It was like being pulled from deep water. Grant’s ear popped, and he was suddenly keenly aware that he was standing in the old family cabin with his sister nearby and his father upright and alert in the doorway. His recollection of Paige’s room, the car ride, unwrapping the creature—it all retained its vivid detail, but held no immediacy. As if the last three hours were something he’d seen on a TV show.

Jim took a wobbly step forward but then clutched the doorframe.

Grant rushed over and grabbed his father under his arms, kept him upright. He could feel the tremor in his old man’s legs—atrophied muscles already maxed. He reeked of the hospital.

Jim said, “Been a little while since I stood on these feet.”

Two days of strange happenings could not compete with the shock of hearing his father speak. Not groans or sighs or the ravings of a man whose mind was gone, but the sound of his actual voice powered by lucid thought. It contained the soft, raspy element of an instrument that hadn’t seen use in decades.

“Son, would you help me over to the sofa?”

“Yes, sir.”

Grant let his old man lean against him for support. He was light as paper. They took slow and shuffling steps together, Grant doing his best to guide him around the broken glass.

When they reached the sofa, Grant eased his father back onto the center cushion and took a seat beside him.

“Hi, princess.” Jim was smiling up at Paige. He patted the cushion beside him. “Come here. I want to be near you.”

She walked over and sat with him, wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered as she buried her face into his shoulder. “You have absolutely no reason to cry.”

Jim looked down at his hands. Turned them over. They were long and gnarled, the joints swollen, nails trimmed to nothing.

“How old am I?” he asked.

Grant answered, “Fifty-nine.”

Jim laughed. “So this is what old age looks like. God, I could use a smoke.”

For a moment, the cabin clung to the stiffest silence.

Nothing but Paige’s muffled sobs.

Even the wind had died away.

“Dad,” Grant finally said, “I’ve been visiting you every two weeks for the last twenty years. They keep you drugged and restrained. The few times they haven’t you’ve injured others and yourself. They said your brain suffered so much trauma in the accident that you barely retained cognitive function. Said you’d never recover.”

“I’ve been gone,” Jim said.

“I know.”

“No.” His father’s lips curled into a small smile that Grant hadn’t seen in thirty-one years. “You don’t.”

Jim raised his arms and put them around his children, pulled them both in close.

He said, “You cannot imagine what it feels like to touch you again. To speak to you and hear your voice. To see the color of your eyes. I’ve seen so much, but nothing can touch this.”

“What do you mean you’ve seen so much?” Grant said. “You’ve been confined to a psychiatric hospital since the accident.”

Jim shook his head.

Again with that sly little smile.

“I’ve been everywhere, son.”

Paige lifted her head off Jim’s shoulder.

“What are you talking about, Daddy?”

“How much do you kids remember about the night of the accident?”

Paige said, “I was five, Grant was seven. He probably remembers more than I do. For me, it’s just a few images. Light coming through the windshield. The guardrail. And then after ... you not moving.”

“I remember a lot of it,” Grant said. “Most clearly talking to Paige when the car was upside down and she was hurt and scared.”

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to help you,” Jim said. “Not only for that night, but for every moment of your lives leading up to this one.”

“It’s okay,” Grant said. “You were hurt. There was nothing you could do.”

“I wasn’t hurt that night.”

“Of course you were. I can rattle off ten symptoms and behavioral manifestations associated with your traumatic brain injury.”

“What you visited in the hospital wasn’t me. It was just my hardware.”

“What are you talking about?” Paige asked.

Jim sighed.

“That night, we were on our way here. It was late. I was tired. Lights blinded me—I thought it was a semi. I over-steered, took us through the guardrail. We were in the air forever. You guys weren’t screaming and I remember thinking how strange that was. I guess you didn’t understand what was happening. We hit the side of the mountain and rolled and rolled and rolled.

“When we finally stopped, I knew I was bad-off. I could feel my ribs in places they shouldn’t be. Breathing was excruciating. I couldn’t move. Neither of you were making noise in the backseat and the rearview was busted so I didn’t even know if you guys were alive. I called out to you, but you didn’t answer. I just hung there from the seat and cried. I don’t know for how long.

“At some point, I realized I had missed the end of the game, and somehow I convinced myself that if the Phillies had won, you kids were alive. I can’t explain it. It just made perfect sense in the moment. I’m sure the blood loss had gone to my head. So I started praying, ‘Dear God, let the Phillies win.’ Not ‘Dear God, save us’ or ‘Dear God, please don’t let my kids be hurt.’ The Phillies were our ticket out of there.

“The pain grew unbearable—the physical, the psychological, worrying about the two of you. I remember seeing a light coming through the trees. At first, I thought it was our rescue party, but the light kept getting brighter. It wasn’t a solitary beam or even a collection of them, but all-encompassing. It intensified until everything—the car, the trees—was bathed in a blinding white radiance. My pain vanished, and everything I am—my consciousness, the unbreakable essence you would think of as a soul—was taken.”

A long, breathless beat of silence.

The fire had burned itself out—the blackened log venting smoke up the chimney and the early morning cold flooding in, driving out what little warmth the flames had given.

“At first, I thought I had died. My spirit cut loose, adrift in the emptiness of space. But then ...” he drew a trembling breath, “... those first moments. The stars moving. Inconceivable velocity. The knowledge that I wasn’t alone.

“They took me through the pinnacle of a young nebula whose light won’t touch earth for another million years. A spire of dust and hydrogen gas four light years tall.

“We traveled, my guides intent on my reaction to things. To understanding my attachments—the constraints of emotion—which they perceived as weakness. Barriers to advancement. These beings were pure mind, stripped of emotion, evolved beyond the need to wrap themselves in matter. They were benevolent, but their intelligence was terrifying. They exist outside the jurisdiction of space and time.

“I saw stars born. I watched them die. I saw things that will never have names in our lifetimes. That Shakespeare and Van Gogh couldn’t have begun to do justice. Sun-sized worlds patchworked with bioelectric grids more intricate than the human eye. I witnessed the shockwave from a supernova destroy a solar system, and then stood on the surface of what was left—a neutron star no bigger than Manhattan. They took me to the brink of an event horizon, let me gaze into the abyss while it devoured a sun. Even as I say the words, your mind attempts to draw a picture, but it can’t. Whatever you imagine fails.

“They wanted to purge my humanity with the sheer grandeur of things, but it persisted. The resilience of my hope and love and fear fascinated them. They asked what I most wanted to experience. I told them ...” here, his voice broke, “... my wife. They took me to a place where your mother never died. Where we never went off the side of a mountain. Where we never knew separation. You both brought your children to this cabin. I chased them through the meadow. We swam in the pond. I got drunk with your wife, Grant. And with your husband, Paige. We all sat on the front porch of a summer evening and filled this clearing with our laughter. I was holding Julia’s hand. To breathe the air of a world where our family thrived, where we were happy ... it was something ... and I could have stayed, I could’ve stayed forever ... but it wasn’t mine.

“No matter where they took me, no matter what I saw, my heart was here. This cabin. This world. This reality. The two of you. They couldn’t grasp it. They’d chosen me for this revelation. The universe unveiled. They had undocked my mind from this frail shell so I could become like them—pure conscious energy—and I wanted to come back.”

“Why?” Grant asked.

“Why.” His father laughed. “‘Why?’ asks a man who has never had a child. Because I’m tethered to you. To both of you, as you exist right here. You’re the only thing that’s real to me. That gives my existence meaning.”

Grant motioned toward the bedroom.

“What’s in there?”

“Nothing now. I absorbed it.”

“What was in there?”

“Returning, inhabiting my physical form—” Jim opened his hands and stared at them “—this antiquated piece of engineering ... was an uncertain proposition. It’s not as simple as just plugging back into my old body. That thing in there was created to serve as a conduit, a flash drive for lack of a better analogy. But it needed to make physical contact with my body to effect the download.”

“What if you’d been killed in the wreck?”

“They would have taken me just the same. I just wouldn’t have been able to come back and make contact with the two of you.” He turned to Paige and patted her knee. “My darling, you wore that same look on your face when you were five. I see you’ve not let it gather dust.”

“What look, Daddy?”

“Like I’m bullshitting you.”

“You’re saying that was you under my bed?”

“Something went wrong on my return. It was my fault. I let myself get drawn to your energy instead of my shell at the hospital. I came to consciousness in your backyard. That thing is barely mobile, ill-equipped for earth’s gravitational and atmospheric demands. It was all I could do to crawl up the steps of your brownstone. I hid under your bed while you slept. The weeks I spent there, I was slowly dying. Desperate to find some way to reunite with my earth form.”

“I thought you were a ghost. Or a demon. Do you have any idea of the hell you put us through?”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you pain. I couldn’t communicate with you, Paige. At least not like this.”

“But you had this incredible power. There were times you were in my head. In my dreams. I couldn’t leave the house.”

“I was trying to talk to you. I couldn’t let you leave. I needed you. I reached out to you the only way I could, but it was awkward—like riding a bicycle backward and blindfolded. In that form, the one Grant carried in here, I was so weak, so vulnerable, and running out of time.”

“What did you do to those men?” she asked.

“Think of it as installing a program. You see why I needed them.”

“Will they have any memory of this?”

“I imagine their experience will be similar to Grant’s.” Jim glanced at his son.

“Like waking after a dream,” Grant said.

“Exactly. And as time passes, the memory of it will fade away.”

“You had them break into a hospital,” Paige said. “There will be—”

“Consequences?” He smiled. “Are you really going to ask me if I’m concerned that four men who have been using my little girl will have some explaining to do? I would’ve done anything to be with the two of you again.”

“A good man died,” Grant said. “Don.”

“I know, and I’m sick about it. The others were vulnerable. Their guards were down when I broke inside their minds.”

“What do you mean?”

“The region of the brain behind the left eye—the lateral orbitofrontal cortex—shuts down during orgasm. This is our center for reason and behavioral control. It gave me an opening.”

Paige blushed deeply and stared at the floor.

Jim’s eyes darkened. “I don’t know what happened with your friend. He was suddenly in the room. He saw me. I tried to make him leave, but I could barely get inside. It was just a handhold, but it devastated him. None of this has been easy or gone like I’d hoped. But we’re here now, aren’t we? Together again.”

“You still have this power?” Grant asked.

“Only to an extent. I’m still adjusting to life back in this skin. It’s awkward.”

Paige held her head in her hands.

Still staring at the floor.

“But how do we know?” she asked.

“Know what?”

“That this is really you? Our father. We’ve been through hell the last two days. For me, it’s been even longer. Scared out of my mind. Thinking I’m going crazy. And then suddenly this?”

“I know it’s difficult, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. But you know it’s me, don’t you? Can’t you feel it? Haven’t you, in some way that maybe you only now recognize, known it all along?”

“Assuming everything you’ve said is true, what did you think? That after all this time, all you say you experienced, you could just come back and it would all be okay again? You were gone for thirty years.”

“And yet to me it was only a month. I didn’t know what to expect, Paige. That’s the truth, and I didn’t care. I just wanted to be with the two of you. To make things right for us again. I know it’s been hard, darling.” He reached out, touched his daughter’s face with a trembling hand. “This isn’t the life I wanted for you.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn’t look away from him this time.

“You could’ve been anything you wanted, Paige.”

He turned to Grant. “And you’re coming apart on the inside, son. I felt it under the bed. Your rage. Your loneliness. The urge you sometimes have to just end it. You’re still that little boy and girl to me, and now to see you both grown and struggling like this ... it kills me.”

“It hasn’t been easy,” Grant said. “We had no one.”

“So what now?” Paige asked. “As you say, nothing went as planned. We’re in a big mess here, Daddy.”

“I know, but I have a way to fix things.”

The sound had been slowly building in Grant’s subconscious, and for the first time, he was aware of its presence.

Jim had started to say something, but he stopped when Grant rose to his feet.

“What’s wrong?” Paige asked.

Grant moved quickly across the room to one of the windows that looked out across the porch into the meadow.

The sound was the crunch of tires rolling over gravel.

Sophie’s TrailBlazer emerged out of the forest and moved through the clearing toward the cabin. A few seconds behind, he spotted a white Chevy Caprice topped with a light bar.

Didn’t even need to see the emblem on the doors.

“What is it, Grant?” Paige asked again.

“Sophie. And she’s brought along a Statie.”

Chapter 42

Loose gravel pinged the undercarriage of Sophie’s Trailblazer as it slid to a stop next to a black CR-V.

A derelict cabin loomed straight ahead, surrounded by hemlocks.

Front windows busted out.

Too dark to tell if anyone was inside.

Sophie killed the engine and watched the Caprice approach in the rearview mirror. When she’d asked for backup, she’d envisioned more force than one lonely Statie. Then again, what could you expect in the sticks?

The Caprice pulled up beside her.

She grabbed a fresh magazine from the glove box and climbed out.

Slammed her door as the trooper stepped out of his cruiser.

Crisp blue suit.

Flat-brimmed hat.

Tall, rail-thin, blinding smile.

“Sophie Benington,” Sophie said. “So it’s just you?”

“Trooper Todd. But Bob’s plenty. What’s the dealio?”

“There was supposed to be a black van here. Three men abducted a fifty-nine-year-old patient from a psychiatric hospital in Kirkland. He’s violent. They brought him here was my understanding.”

“In the black van?”

“Exactly.”

“And how did you come by this information?”

“One of the other suspects called me when they arrived. That’s her car.”

“What’d she do?”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“We gonna go say hello?”

Sophie studied the cabin.

Curls of smoke plumed out of the chimney and up into the branches.

“I am.”

“I got a shotgun in my trunk.”

“This isn’t gonna end that way.”

“No offense, ma’am, but that’s not always up to us.”

“Why don’t you go around back. Make sure the van’s not there. Cover the back door.”

“When do I bust in?”

“You don’t. Not unless you see my gun. We clear on that, Bob?”

He released the button snap on his holster, grinned.

“It was a joke.”

Bob high-stepped his way through the overgrowth and disappeared around the corner of the cabin.

Sophie thumbed off the snap on her holster and started toward the covered porch.

Mist was forming across the clearing.

She’d been drive-off-the-side-of-the-road tired just moments ago, but now she was fully awake, all systems go.

As she climbed the steps onto the porch, she remembered Grant telling her about this place. It wasn’t the rose-tinted family retreat she’d expected. Or the weekend fixer-upper Grant had played it off as. If it hadn’t been in the middle of nowhere, the county would have condemned it years ago.

The front door stood open a half-inch, but she knocked anyway, her palm resting on her Glock.

“Seattle Police.”

She heard footsteps approaching.

They stopped on the other side, but the door didn’t open.

“Sophie?”

He sounded so tired.

“It’s me, Grant. Everyone okay?”

“We’re fine. How’d you find this place?”

“Who’s in there with you?” she asked through the door.

“Just the three of us—Paige, me, my father.”

“What about our other friends?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yeah, they left a little while ago.”

“Would you open the door please?”

Nothing happened.

“Grant.”

The door swung open, but it caught on the floor and stopped after only a foot.

Grant looked burnt-out, confused, on edge.

The dim interior trembled in the firelight behind him. Sophie craned her neck to see inside, but he blocked her line of sight.

“Gonna invite me in?” Sophie asked.

Grant took a step back.

She squeezed through the opening.

Eyes slow to adjust.

Paige by the hearth.

Old man who was a dead ringer for Seymour’s receipt portrait sitting on a disgusting couch.

“This your father?” she asked.

“Yeah. Hey, Dad, meet my partner, Sophie Benington.”

Jim Moreton said, “A pleasure.”

“Are you injured, sir?”

Jim shook his head.

“I was at the hospital,” she said. “I tried to stop those men from taking you. I’m sorry I couldn’t.”

“It’s quite all right. I’m with my children now. How could things get any better?”

“Your condition isn’t exactly what I expected,” she said.

“He’s had a remarkable recovery,” Grant said.

“I’m sorry, I’m just confused. Those four men kidnapped you from the hospital just to bring you back to the old family cabin. Didn’t harm you in any way. And once they delivered you here ... they just left?”

Grant said, “Sophie, relax—”

“I’m all done relaxing. I’m ready for answers now.”

She moved past Grant into the gloom of the cabin, fixed her stare on Paige, said, “You called me here, honey, said—”

Grant fired a look at his sister.

“—you were scared. That the van was here, and you didn’t know what was going to happen. You asked me to come. I came. So could you or somebody at least extend me the courtesy of explaining what the fuck is going on?”

Paige said, “Grant, I’m sorry, I didn’t know what was waiting for us in this cabin. You weren’t talking to me. Those men were here. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Grant turned back to Sophie.

“I wish she hadn’t done that.”

“That’s all you got for me, partner?”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin ...”

She’d been simmering since her epiphany in Bothel, but with that, she felt it all boil over.

“You asked me to trust you. I did. Now Art’s in the hospital with a concussion. Seymour’s injured. I’ve been shot at. You kidnapped me. And Don ...” She felt a tremor enter her voice, steadied it. “Just so you know, I called Rachel. Forensics is at Paige’s house right now.”

Grant’s jaw had gone slack.

“How is she?” he asked.

“How do you think?”

“I’m glad you called her. So ... what? You’re here to arrest me?”

“I came first and foremost to make sure you and Paige were safe.”

“And after that?”

“To make sure you do the right thing.”

“Which is ...”

“Let me bring you in.”

“Bring me in.” Grant smiled. “And how exactly do you see that playing out?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. People are dead. Hurt. Missing loved ones.”

“Face the music time, huh?”

“Tell the truth. Tell your story.”

“Nobody wants to hear my story. I’ve sat in that interview room for thousands of hours. I can’t ever remember wanting to hear someone’s story, whatever that even means.”

“Grant—”

“I wanted to hear something that would help me make a case. You look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong.”

She couldn’t.

He continued, “Our job is not about finding the truth. We want someone we can hand to the DA so they can throw them under the bus. Order restored. Citizenry comforted. I know how this will go down, and so do you.”

Grant looked over her shoulder through the space between the door and the doorframe. Of course he’d seen the highway patrol cruiser.

She said, “I know you’ve been through a lot. I know you’ve seen things that don’t make any sense. I don’t even dispute what you’ve said. But it’s time. You know that, don’t you? And don’t you also know that I will do everything in my power to support you?”

Grant looked at Paige, at his father.

“I want this to be over as much as you do,” he said.

“Then let’s end it.”

“Not happening.”

Everyone in the room turned to Paige.

She stepped toward Sophie, away from the hearth. “Walk me through this, Sophie. You show up at the precinct with the three of us in tow. We roll up to the front desk where some tired kid who drew the short straw is half-asleep because it’s Saturday morning. He looks up from his Sudoku puzzle and sees you standing there with three suspects in handcuffs. Are we in cuffs? I don’t know how this looks in your head. And then Grant steps forward and says, ‘I’m here to turn myself in for the crime of’ ... what? What does he confess to? What’s he guilty of?”

“Nobody said he, or you, or your father are guilty of anything.”

“Then why are we with you?”

“Because a man died. In your house. Because shit happened that has to be answered for.”

“What if there are no answers? At least none that fit neatly into your playbook?”

“Like I just told your brother, you will have my full support.”

Paige was still moving toward Sophie, now reaching into her gray coat.

“I’m sorry,” Paige said, “but that’s just not good enough for my family.”

It was the last thing Sophie had expected, and she was utterly unprepared to react.

One second Paige.

The next second Paige with a gun pointed at her face.

Grant spoke first.

“Paige—”

“She thinks you did it. Or I did.”

“Did what?”

“Killed Don.”

“Of course she doesn’t think that. Put the gun down.”

“I certainly don’t think that,” Sophie said, her heart rate escalating, the back of her throat threatening to close.

“I don’t believe you.”

Grant caught Sophie’s eye. “Please don’t do anything. Just give me a minute to shut this down.”

He took a step toward Paige.

“We’re leaving, Grant.”

“Paige—”

“I’m done. Two weeks a prisoner in my own goddamn home to have it end like this? To be treated like a criminal?”

“Put it down.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jim Moreton had begun the long, painful journey to his feet.

He said, “Not this way, Paigy. It’s my fault.”

“Stop it, Daddy. Grant, go take her gun away from her,” Paige said.

“Paige, you draw down on law enforcement, you get shot. Put—”

Sophie saw it a split second before everything went to hell.

Everyone frozen.

A tableau of ruination.

Grant intense, lips together forming the P in “put” and leaning toward his sister, already on the balls of his feet, like he might be on the verge of making a play to stop this.

Jim standing by the sofa, eyes on Paige.

And Sophie herself, tongue grazing the roof of her mouth as she began to scream the word “no” because of what she had just glimpsed out of the corner of her eye—a tall, slim streak of blue standing in the kitchen behind the muzzle flash of a Smith & Wesson M&P40.

Sophie was too late.

Paige still had the gun trained on the center of her chest, eyes averted to Grant, and her face just beginning to screw up in pain as the bullet punched through a rib on her right side.

The sound of the trooper’s gunshot filled the cabin.

She smelled gun smoke.

Paige dropped her gun and stumbled sideways.

Her legs buckled.

The trooper screaming at everyone to lay down, spread out their arms.

Paige sat on the floor, her eyes narrowed, a perplexed expression expanding across her face like she was trying to come to terms with what had just happened.

Grant knelt beside his sister. He was saying her name over and over as she lay across the rotting hardwood, eyes open, blood already beginning to pool beneath her, a line of it running a meandering course over the uneven floor toward Sophie.

She hadn’t drawn her gun.

Hadn’t moved.

Todd started across the cabin toward the chaos, pushing Jim Moreton back down onto the sofa as he passed.

There was a lot of blood.

Too much.

Oh God.

The trooper coming around the sofa.

Screaming at Grant to get down, screaming he was about to get shot like his sister.

Grant’s arm came up.

This time, she saw it happening. What was about to happen. Could have stopped it. Maybe. No. For sure. She could have stopped it by shooting Grant. She eased her Glock an inch up out of her holster, finger in the trigger guard, but she didn’t draw.

Just stood there watching as Grant shot the trooper and charged, crashing into him like the vengeance of God.

She did nothing.

Not as Grant straddled the trooper.

Not as he beat his face in with the butt of Paige’s revolver.

Three devastating blows.

But he didn’t kill him.

Grant struggled onto his feet, his face dotted with blood.

He turned and stared her down.

She thought she was dead, but still she didn’t pull.

Jim Moreton already struggling to move around the sofa to his daughter, and when Sophie blinked, Grant was at his sister’s side again.

Paige was moaning and he was telling her everything would be okay but there was so much blood.

Grant lifted Paige in his arms.

Sophie heard herself say, “I’m so sorry.”

She felt out-of-body.

Immoveable.

She had responded to the fear at the psychiatric hospital, but this was something else entirely.

Paige shot.

A trooper shot.

She was paralyzed.

Too much to process.

Grant was standing now, holding his sister, blood running down his arm and dripping off his elbow onto the floor.

He said something to his father that Sophie missed completely.

She called his name, and for a split second, he looked at her, his eyes so troubled, so distant.

She said, “Let me help.”

“Either shoot me or get out of my way.”

He pushed past her.

Ripped the door open a few more inches, worked his way through the opening and out onto the porch.

Jim Moreton shuffled after him.

They were already climbing into the car by the time Sophie stepped onto the front porch—Grant in back with Paige, his father struggling to install himself behind the steering wheel.

The engine cranked and roared, tires slinging gravel as Jim whipped the CR-V around and floored it down the road into the trees.

Sophie sat down on the weathered steps.

Her hands shook so badly she could barely pull the phone out of her jacket.

A single bar of 3G.

Her voice sounded so calm, so even making the report. Like she was giving her social security number to her credit card company.

“Do you know where the suspects are going?” the dispatcher asked.

“A hospital I would assume.”

“One moment ... Closest is in Leavenworth. It’s a level five trauma facility. Thirty-five miles east of your location. I’ll alert the local police department.”

“Thank you.”

“And I can tell them you’re en route?”

“Yes.”

She slipped back into the cabin and checked on Trooper Todd. He was still unconscious, but there was very little blood—the bullet had just grazed him.

Back outside, she hustled down the steps toward her car.

On some level of consciousness, she was becoming aware that everything about her life had just changed. That from this moment forward she would be a different person. That her only hope of survival lay in finding a way to live with the fact that she had utterly failed everyone in that cabin and probably cost Paige her life.

She should’ve stopped the trooper.

She should’ve stopped Grant.

She sped down the one-lane road between the hemlocks.

Turned out onto the highway.

Accelerated through the freezing fog.

Her eyes kept filling up with tears and she kept blinking them away.

The fir trees looked like somber ghosts streaming past on the shoulder of the road, and she couldn’t see anything beyond three hundred feet.

The road was climbing now.

The fog thickening.

She punched on the headlights.

The clock read a little past seven a.m., but it didn’t feel like morning.

It didn’t feel like any time she had ever known.

Her phone vibrated.

She didn’t answer.

Her ears popped.

She steered through switchbacks and there were reefs of dirty snow on the sides of the road that grew taller the higher she climbed.

The road straightened out.

One last burst of optimism and purpose.

She was going to Leavenworth. Grant would be there. Paige was going to be okay. She would do what she had to, and no one else would get hurt.

She was nearing the crest of the pass when she saw it. Her foot came off the gas pedal, and she brought her TrailBlazer to a stop in the middle of the road.

“Oh, God,” she said. “Please, no.”

Chapter 43

The CR-V barreled through the overgrowth while Grant cradled his sister’s head in his lap. His father could still handle a car, hooking it around potholes and dead logs while the meager headlights illuminated a solid wall of fog that was always just ahead of them.

Jim called back, “How far’s Leavenworth?”

“Forty-five minutes,” Grant said, dropping Paige’s phone on the seat.

“We’ll make it in half the time. And they have a hospital?”

“Barely.”

The headlights dipped suddenly as the SUV bottomed out with a sharp metallic scrape.

Paige’s head lifted and fell back into his lap.

She moaned, clutching her side.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Jim said. “Didn’t catch that one in time.”

Grant could see the worried creases above his father’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“How we doing back there?” Jim asked.

“We’re doing great,” Grant said.

Paige mouthed, “Liar. It really hurts.”

“I know.”

“I can barely stand it.”

He held her hand and let her squeeze it.

The trip back to the highway took only half as long as the drive in.

Soon, they were speeding east on smooth pavement.

Grant pushed his fingers through Paige’s hair.

She stared up at him, cheeks pale, eyes heavy. Her skin felt cool and clammy.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice just a whisper now.

“Don’t. Just relax. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

“I made you hurt someone.”

“That man shot my sister. He got off easy.”

Paige’s smile showed dark-red blood between her teeth.

Grant’s stomach tightened.

A liver hit.

“Are you cold?”

She nodded.

He slipped out of his North Face and draped it over her.

They rode on.

Climbing.

Paige’s breathing growing faster, more shallow. Beads of sweat forming on her face.

Her eyes had become slivers of white.

“Stay with me,” Grant said, squeezing her hand.

She gasped and cut loose a rattling cough.

Red foam appeared at the corners of her mouth.

Her lips moved.

“What was that?” Grant brought his ear so close to her mouth he could hear the bloody vibrato in her lungs.

She drew a tiny breath, let it escape in the smallest whisper: “Bad sister.”

The words detonated inside of him.

Grant brushed a few strands of hair away from her face.

“Stop it.”

He could feel her blood soaking through his pants. There was too much of it.

Grant looked up.

“Hey.”

Caught his father’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

They were hauling ass around a sharp turn, the tires just beginning to screech.

“How much longer, Dad?”

“I don’t know. Twenty? Twenty-five?”

“We’re gonna be pushing it.”

Jim’s eyes took on a shadow. He focused back on the road.

Grant looked down at his sister.

He smiled through a sheet of tears.

She said, “I heard what you just said.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t hurt much anymore.”

“That’s good.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“We’ll find some water for you.”

“Everything looks grey. And I think ... that might be the end coming. I can hardly see you, Grant.”

“I’m right here, Paige.”

“I’m thirsty.”

“I’m so glad it was you,” he said.

“What?”

“Can you hear me?”

It was a splinter of a nod.

“I know we hurt each other, but I wouldn’t have traded you for anything. Do you know that? I need you to know it in your heart.”

The edges of her mouth curled.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

Jim said, “Grant.”

“Yeah?”

“How we doing?”

“She’s bleeding to death, Dad. We’re not gonna make it.”

Grant looked up, saw a new intensity enter his father’s eyes.

Jim Moreton said, “There’s another way.”

Chapter 44

There was a distant squeaking sound, but otherwise the world stood silent.

The highway was empty.

Streamers of fog swept across the pavement.

Sophie drifted over the double yellow to the other side of the road. Doesn’t mean anything, she told herself. This could have happened two days ago. Two weeks ago.

On the shoulder, her boots crunched through a crust of blackened snow.

She climbed carefully over the ragged metal and stared down the side of the mountain.

Her breath caught.

An upslope breeze carried the strong scent of gasoline.

Several hundred feet down the mountain, barely visible through the trees and the fog, she spotted Paige’s CR-V. The vehicle had come to rest on its backend, the undercarriage propped and teetering against a fir tree, its headlights still blasting twin tubes of light up through the fog.

The squeaking she’d heard was the sound of one of the front wheels, still turning.

Steam or smoke poured out of the crumpled hood.

She counted four bare spots on the snowy hill where the car had struck ground, scoured out the snowpack, and flipped.

“Grant!” Her voice echoed off invisible mountains. “Can anyone hear me?”

She dialed 911 and then started down.

The slope was steep, at least thirty degrees, and a good two or three feet of snow covered the ground, the tops of evergreen saplings just poking through.

She descended as fast as she could, but she kept falling, and the snow was going down her boots with every step, her clothes and hair becoming powdered with snow.

The wheel had stopped turning by the time she closed in on the CR-V and the stench of gas was potent. The snow wasn’t as deep in the trees, only coming to her knees.

She passed a handful of smaller evergreens that had been broken in two as the car crashed through them, the smell of splintered wood and fresh sap mixing in with the gas.

Sophie stopped twenty feet away.

She was shivering, her hands numb, legs burning with cold.

The engine hissed.

Through the driver-side window, she could see Jim Moreton. Because of the angle of the car, he was lying back in his seat, still strapped in, his head resting unnaturally against his left shoulder.

“Mr. Moreton.”

He didn’t move.

She stepped closer to the car, now peering in through the rear passenger window. The backseat was empty, the seats soaked with blood. She looked at the windshield—a gaping hole, exploded from within.

Sophie turned and studied the hillside. The twisted guardrail seemed a thousand miles away.

From this perspective, she could see the path the CR-V had taken, punching through the guardrail, then plunging a hundred feet before it hit.

At the second point of impact, she glimpsed a smaller path that branched off and carved down the slope.

It appeared to terminate fifty yards from where she stood at the forest’s edge.

She waded through the snow, using the saplings and branches in proximity to keep her upright. Every step was a struggle, and she was sweating after only a minute.

Ten feet out, she spotted the gray of Paige’s coat.

She was lying facedown in the snow and there was blood all around her. Sophie bent over and dug two fingers into her carotid.

Twenty feet deeper in the woods, she found Grant.

He was lying on his back.

Eyes open. Not breathing.

Sophie sat down beside him in the snow.

“Look at you,” she whispered.

She took his left hand into hers and leaned over and cried.

There would be times in the coming weeks when the numbness would subside and Sophie would remember a cool night in June when she had driven a slightly-too-drunk Grant home from the Stumbling Monk. It was an office party, someone’s birthday, and they had spent the evening talking with their knees nearly touching and sometimes touching underneath the bar while the rest of the precinct roared at each other in the booths behind them. This was the night she had surprised herself with her own feelings. After everyone left, she drove him home and they sat in the car outside of Grant’s house, their hands so close that the summer breeze coming in through the open windows could have blown them together. She had wanted nothing more than to slide her fingers into his. To hold them. Let them take her inside. But she didn’t. And neither did he. That would be the ritual they shared. Two years of walking right up to the door that held everything they wanted, but never opening it. So there would be times in the coming weeks when she would think back to that first moment in the car and how she had been too scared to reach for his hand, and then remember this last one, sitting beside him on a cold foggy morning, when she did.

She had put her job before her love. Before her happiness. Betrayed Grant and herself. She saw it now. Saw it with the kind of scorching clarity that comes like a storm when it’s too late to take cover. When there’s nothing to be done but face your failing, take the pain, and push on.

Sirens pulled her back into the moment.

They were still miles away, and wailing through the mountains like a tragic anthem.

Sophie started to rise.

At first, she thought it was the light from the rescue party, but it couldn’t be with the sirens still too far out, and besides, this light was coming from the sky. From straight overhead. A blinding luminescence hovering just above the trees. Brighter than anything she’d ever witnessed and yet there was no pain, no urge to look away.

As it descended toward her, she lay back in the snow, still holding Grant’s hand.

Closer and closer, but no fear.

Only mystery and peace as it finally enveloped her in a sphere of pure light which held some component of familiarity that broke her heart.

Where are you going, Grant?

I don’t know yet.

I want to come with you.

It’s not your time.

I want to be with you. I always wanted it, but I was too afraid.

I know. I was too.

I’m so sorry.

Have no regret.

Please. I see now. I see everything.

There’s still time for us. This is not the end.

She blinked and the light was gone.

Sophie sat up.

She was alone in the forest and her heart was pounding.

That rush of euphoric joy was fading, and she was still holding her partner’s cold hand. Time had passed—more than felt right. Up the mountainside, she could see the schizophrenic flashing of the light bars, and there were EMTs and lawmen halfway down the hill.

Already she could feel Sophie-the-skeptic muscling in to discredit what she had just experienced, to undermine it, to subject it to the rigid empiricist that had governed her life up to this moment.

And her first instinct was to listen, to carry on as before.

What has your lack of faith ever done but cause you pain and keep you from the man you love?

No.

Something had happened in these trees.

Something beyond her experience.

Something magic.

She could choose to believe.

EPILOGUE

Paige is dying.

Paige is five, chewing a piece of spearmint gum.

He’s in the CR-V.

His father’s ‘74 Impala.

It’s day.

Night.

“Pay attention, guys, you’ll remember this game one day.”

The guardrail rushes toward them through the fog.

The play-by-play announcer says, “The crowd will tell you what happens.”

Paige says, “Daddy?”

Paige moans, “Daddy?”

“Oh shit.”

The engine revving.

Grant bracing, realizing neither he nor Paige is buckled in and wondering does it even matter at this point.

Jim says, “Everything will be—”

Straight through.

The engine redlines, goes silent.

Grant can hear the tires spinning underneath him. He and Paige lift off the seat and his head bangs into the ceiling as they plummet. The urge to hold onto something is overpowering, but he just squeezes Paige, her eyes gone wide.

Don’t be scared, Paige.

But I am.

I won’t let anything happen to you.

You promise?

I promise.

Swear.

I swear to you, Paige. I’ll protect you.

Through the windshield, the white mountainside is screaming toward the front of the car which is now pitched earthward, nothing but g-force pinning Grant to his seat.

He looks down into his sister’s eyes a half second before they hit.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Paige.

Just like me?

Just like you. And she had an older brother named Grant.

Just like you.

Yes, just like me.

Did they have parents?

No. Paige and Grant lived in a beautiful house all by themselves, and they were very brave.

The sound of metal crumpling.

The shock of snow tearing into the car.

Grant, still clutching Paige, accelerating through the windshield.

And then he is outside, the car flipping beneath him down the hillside in a spray of snow and safety glass.

Paige no longer in his arms and still he’s climbing skyward, as high as the tree tops now, the forest falling away beneath him.

The light starts as a pinprick, peeking through the forest below.

It begins to grow.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

Consuming everything it touches like a fire burning its way through the center of a movie screen. The trees and the fog and the SUV still cartwheeling down the mountain all disappear into its edges, and it seems to Grant that the world is just a shroud for this blinding molten light behind it.

Except for one thing.

Her.

She is below him, crying in the snow.

He is being pulled, but he resists, fighting to descend.

And then he is with her.

The most sensual moment of his existence.

Effortless communication.

Mind to mind.

There is not enough time, but he makes every word, every second count.

He is ripped away.

And then...

Dad? Are you there?

I’m here.

It’s so bright.

Don’t close your eyes. Look right at it. No matter what.

I can’t feel anything.

That will pass. Just keep watching.

The light is everywhere and it touches everything. He feels his body blown away from him like sand. Old and new pain leaving.

The light begins to splinter. To condense into pinpoints. Beyond counting.

Are those stars?

It is Paige. Not her voice. But her.

Some of them.

Is that where we’re going?

If you want to. We can go anywhere you want.

Can we see Mom?

Yes. And others.

I don’t understand.

You will.

Then all at once, those pinpoints of light stretch toward them, as if they’ve been summoned.

The children hesitate, the stars streaming past like whitewater.

It is their father who pulls them forward.

Come on, they’re waiting for us.

There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore.

The End

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

BLAKE CROUCH is the author of ten novels and numerous short stories, including Run, Desert Places, Stirred, and the Serial series. His website is www.blakecrouch.com.

JORDAN CROUCH was born in the piedmont of North Carolina in 1984. He attended the University of North Carolina at Wilmington and graduated in 2007 with a degree in Creative Writing. Jordan lives in Seattle, Washington. EERIE is his first novel. His website is www.authorjordancrouch.com.

Blake Crouch’s Full Catalog

Andrew Z. Thomas thrillers

Desert Places

Locked Doors

Break You

Stirred

Thicker Than Blood
(compilation)

Other works

Run

Pines

Eerie with Jordan Crouch

Draculas with J.A. Konrath, Jeff Strand, and F. Paul Wilson

Abandon

Snowbound

Famous

Perfect Little Town (horror novella)

Bad Girl (short story)

Serial with Jack Kilborn

Serial Uncut with J.A. Konrath and Jack Kilborn

Killers with Jack Kilborn

Killers Uncut with Jack Kilborn and J.A. Konrath

Serial Killers Uncut with Jack Kilborn and J.A. Konrath

Birds of Prey with Jack Kilborn and J.A. Konrath

Hunting Season with Selena Kitt (short story)

Shining Rock (short story)

*69 (short story)

On the Good, Red Road (short story)

Remaking (short story)

The Meteorologist (short story)

The Pain of Others (novella)

Unconditional (short story)

Four Live Rounds (collected stories)

Six in the Cylinder (collected stories)

Fully Loaded (complete collected stories)

COMING SOON

Pines by Blake Crouch

Sunset Key by Blake Crouch

Wolfmen by Crouch, Kitt, Konrath & Leather

A man channels his dead wife during a paranormal conference, disturbing demons at a haunted hotel where even angels can’t be trusted.

SPEED DATING

WITH THE DEAD

By Scott Nicholson

Copyright 2010 Scott Nicholson

Published by Haunted Computer Books

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For my #1 fan and #1 stalker…you know who you are.

Speed Dating with the Dead

Chapter 1

“And here’s our most haunted room, Mr. Wilson.”

The brass name plate over the hostess’s breast read “Violet,” an old-fashioned name that didn’t match her JC Penney pants suit. Early twenties and attractive, the make-up failed to hide the hard years around her eyes. But Wayne Wilson had logged his own hard years, and he hid them in the coffin of his heart.

“Call me ‘Digger,’” he said.

“‘Digger’?” Violet said.

“I have this little undertaker thing going on,” he admitted, feeling a bit sheepish under her blue-eyed stare. “The top hat and Victorian coattails. Part of the gig.”

Wow. Beth, if you really are here, you’ll see what a cartoon I’ve become.

But the dead stayed dead, and the best thing about them was they weren’t in a position to second guess. But the worst thing about them was they weren’t around when you needed them.

“So, have you ever had any experiences here?” Wayne asked, eyeing the décor and fighting the rush of memories.

“I’ve never had a honeymoon, and I would choose somewhere a little more exotic than the North Carolina mountains. Like maybe Dollywood or Paris.”

“I meant ‘supernatural experiences.’”

“Just those brain-dead zombies who hit on me at the bar.”

Wayne was only half listening. The master bedroom of Room 318 had changed little since his stay 17 years earlier. The roses on the wallpaper had yellowed, and each wall held an autumnal mountain landscape. Imitation Queen Anne furniture, chipped and scarred by cigarette burns, a plush purple carpet in which rodents could reproduce, and the king-size, four-poster bed were the same as his honeymoon night.

Even the throw pillows appeared unchanged, skinned in greasy satin and leaning against the headboard the same way his and Beth’s heads had leaned on a cold autumn night. Before they opened the door.

“The manager’s pleased you chose the White Horse for your conference,” Violet said.

I didn’t choose. I was chosen.

“You have quite a reputation,” Wayne said. “Nobody keeps their ghosts secret for long.”

“Ghosts are good for business. Especially in the off-season.”

“It should be good for both of us.”

“We booked about 50 for the weekend.”

“Too bad you can’t charge your invisible guests. You’ve got at least three here in 318.”

“Ah, you’ve been browsing the Ghost Register,” she said, referring to the journal at the front desk where guests and staff had faithfully recorded their encounters.

One of the victims had been a stock broker who had suffered a heart attack during his honeymoon, and though the urban legend maintained he’d died on top of his new wife, the Rescue Squad report said he’d been discovered on the floor with half a corn dog in his mouth and an empty bottle of champagne sitting in a tin bucket of water.

The second was a jumper, a documented death in which a distraught tool fabricator had launched into a frothing rant about a two-timing, backstabbing bitch before launching himself off the balcony in a fall that would likely have resulted in nothing more than a few fractures if he’d have missed the lamp post. You could call it coincidence, you could call it bad luck, but it made for a better campfire tale if you called it “the Wicked Hand of Evil.”

The third victim was the most interesting to Wayne, because it didn’t have the glib familiarity of the other deaths, which were not much different than those suffered at any of America’s century-old hotels. As the manager, a powder-dry walking mummy named Janey Mays, had put it, any building with a few generations behind it would end up with a slate of strange happenings.

Janey hadn’t recognized him from his long-ago visit. But why should she? He was young and happy then, a clean-shaven newlywed and 100-percent demon free.

“What do you know about Margaret Percival?” Wayne asked Violet.

“Just the stuff in the register.” Violet opened the television cabinet as if to make sure the maids hadn’t stolen the TV.

“West Virginia woman, checked into this room in February, 1948.”

“I don’t think the color scheme has changed since then.” She whacked the dark floral pattern on the velour curtain, and a lazy haze of dust spun in the sunlit window.

Margaret was a war widow, in town for a reunion of the Camp Creek Sisterhood, a collective of well-to-do white teenagers who spent the summers of the Great Depression in their one-piece, baggy swimsuits, canoeing, singing “Tomorrow” around the fire, and talking about boys, when they weren’t sneaking off in the dead of night to meet them at movie theaters and fumble in the dark.

Perhaps the reunion was an opportunity to recapture the lost innocence of youth, or perhaps Margaret was seeking a veneer of respectability after a notorious past. But she never made it to the reunion luncheon, because between the hours of 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. early one Sunday, she vanished from the face of the Earth. Police reports hinted that she might have been in the “family way,” and a single mother and alleged prostitute might sneak across the border to get rid of the problem.

Hotel management built their businesses on reputation, and mysterious disappearances were the kind of publicity they wanted to avoid. It was a measure of how far the White Horse Inn had fallen that it was now cashing in on its seedier, supernatural side.

Just like me. We’ve both been ridden hard since our paths last crossed.

And there was a fourth case study, totally off the record, one that Wayne carried in his guts like a latex glove full of broken, bloody glass. He’d delayed his return as long as he could, but Beth might not wait forever.

Violet moved over to the bedside dresser, where the alarm clock was blinking. “Old wiring,” she said. “The radio cuts on by itself, too.”

“Let me guess. I’ll be awoken at three every morning by the theme song from ‘The Exorcist.’”

The room’s angles, like those of the rest of the inn, were off by two or three degrees in every joint. Sagging floors and ceiling joists, warped window casings, and uneven spaces between cracks in the crown molding projected a sense of decay and despair.

The unease came from an expectation of order, and the skewed geometry made a distinct impact on the brain. It added a pressure that caused skin to tingle and lungs to stutter, all tricks the mind played on the body. Combined with the out-of-whack wiring that scrambled the electrical signals of the brain, the structure made a wonderful laboratory for the living.

And a fun playground for the dead.

Violet reset the clock while Wayne examined the size of the room, calculating how many hunters the place would hold. He could have booked the room in private, set up some gear, and conducted his own private little tea party, but hosting a paranormal conference gave the necromancy the sheen of respectability. Plus it offered the fringe benefit of not facing his demons alone.

But he should have left her out of it.

He peeked through the curtains. Below, Kendra was perched on a concrete bench, pencil flying, lost in her own little fantasy world. She was portable and self-sufficient, and Wayne not only encouraged those attributes, he took full advantage of them.

“You don’t believe in ghosts?” Wayne asked.

“Do you?”

“Depends.”

“Talk to the maids. They know it all.”

“The honeymoon sheets keep no secrets, they say.”

“Depends on the secrets,” she said, opening the closet door.

There’s more to you than meets the eye. Too bad. This could have been fun.

He followed her, trying to detect her natural scent beneath the various aerosols the housekeepers had used to refresh the room. He kept a prudent distance, though the closet opening was tiny, and the best he got was a whiff of something that smelled like it had a celebrity’s name on the bottle. He had no intention of being one of those aforementioned losers, but he wanted to stay in practice in case he ever felt romantic again. Since Beth, the means and motive had rarely coincided.

Violet pointed to the closet ceiling, where an access panel was cut into the gypsum board. “You get to the attic here,” she said. “Miss Mays said you had all access for the weekend.”

Wayne passed up the chance for a lame double entendre, and he couldn’t recall the access from his previous visit. But they’d spent more time in the bed than in the closet. “Was this access in existence back in 1948?”

“You’re thinking Margaret Percival slipped though here, found another way outside, bypassed the front desk and her security deposit, left her Packard in the parking lot, and hitchhiked away to start a new life?”

“It’s one theory.” Wayne noticed black streaks on the wall, probably made by the shoes of people who had scrambled upward in search of the missing woman’s spirit. Margaret was an Internet urban legend, and Wayne had researched more than a few sketchy photos on various paranormal sites.

“The service stairs run along the back, to the kitchen and laundry rooms. Margaret could have used the side doors, except those were kept locked because the manager didn’t want the hired help to sneak out, either. This was back before excessive fire and safety regulations.”

“I noticed the sprinkler system was an add-on,” Wayne said, indicating the sprinkler system that hung suspended six inches below the ceiling. “These pipes don’t do a whole lot to promote elegance.”

“The White Horse gave up on elegance in the 1960s,” Violet said. “Since then, we’ve been selling ‘quaint.’”

“With appropriate rate increases along the way.”

“A hotel is like a woman, Digger.” Violet made a sudden turn and her face was eight inches from his, but for only a moment, and then she flitted back to the dresser, where the alarm clock was blinking again. “She not only gets better with age, she makes it an asset.”

“But her wiring gets a little more temperamental,” Wayne said. Blinking lights and power surges gave a thrill to those who accepted them as proof of visitation. If they needed so little to believe, then who was Wayne to question their faith? It was no different than seeing the Virgin Mary in buttered toast or the devil’s face in the smoke of a terrorist attack.

Or believing in the face that stared back from the mirror. Where was the proof in that?

“We undergo our annual inspections, and our hotel is up to code,” Violet said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have guests waiting.”

Wayne stepped into the bathroom, where a cast-iron, claw-foot tub sat off the floor. He and Beth had played there, soap bubbles, laughter, candles, and champagne. The dripping faucet, inaudible in the bedroom, echoed with a stony resonance. The bad lighting and the rippled, frosted mirror over the vanity would give suggestible people plenty of shivers.

“This will do,” Wayne called. “But I’ll need a cot brought in for my daughter. And some paranormal activity for my customers.”

“Sorry, we don’t have any Indian graveyards,” Violet said. “No axe murders, no hung preachers, no hillbilly vampires.”

Thunder rolled down the hall, accompanied by giggles of mirth. Wayne frowned. The hardcore purists didn’t like busy, noisy traffic that contaminated their evidence, and children were the worst. He didn’t recall anyone registering children for the conference, and while he didn’t forbid it, the ghost-hunting crowd generally followed an adults-only rule. After all, they tended to miss bedtime.

“I thought the hotel was blocked off for the conference,” Wayne said, tightening the faucet handle to no avail. “I didn’t know there would be small children here this weekend.”

“The children are always here,” Violet said, and by the time Wayne entered the bedroom, she was gone, out the door with not even a whisper of its closing.

Nice exit line.

Children underfoot or not, Wayne had picked the perfect place to stage his traveling freak show. But he’d already known that, because of the promise he’d made 17 years ago. Much had changed since then, including his view of promises.

He went downstairs to retrieve his gear and his daughter, dreading the weight of both.

Chapter 2

Maybe ghosts are like clouds on a windy day. The ether merges in tapestry—then is torn away, and all you were is never again. A memoir writ in invisible ink.

But that was the sky and dreams and imagination, Emily Dickinson crap, and this was the real world. Real, real, real, no matter how deep inside your head you hid or what games you played.

Kendra Wilson ran her pencil lead across her sketch pad, threading spidery gray lines over the paper. She roughed out the hotel’s main entrance, a set of double doors featuring large oval windows. The glass was beveled and tinted, so she drew them as if they were dewy eyes, complete with pupils. It was the kind of doorway that looked right back at you, just what you’d expect from the most haunted hotel in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Kendra wasn’t sure what was spookier: the idea that dead people might still be checked into the hotel’s many rooms, or that the structure itself might have taken a life of its own, sucking in the dust and detritus of the years and imitating the breath of those who had passed through its halls.

Dad would laugh at either notion. Then again, Wayne “Digger” Wilson had built a cottage industry on such lame curiosity, and he had a lot of money riding on the White Horse Inn’s reputation, whether it was “the most haunted” or merely grim and gray and in serious need of a makeover. But Dad was busy scoping out the cold spots, or else the blonde bimbo who headed up hospitality, so Kendra couldn’t get his opinion on the matter.

Which left her by herself, alone with the creatures she set down on paper and the games inside her head.

And they wonder why I don’t play well with others. At least the ones I can’t erase.

Kendra let the pencil tip float over the page, eyes almost closed. She’d read in one of Dad’s books about automatic writing, or “ghostwriting” as some called it, where psychics supposedly tuned into voices from the other side. They’d drift into a trance and scrawl out messages from beyond, whispering exactly the types of sweet nothings the living wanted to hear.

I’m fine over here on the Other Side. It never rains, the flowers are always in bloom, and even the old folks are good-looking. It’s sort of like Southern California without the smog and plastic surgery.
Come on over when you get a chance, but don’t forget the cheese dip.

Her art induced an equivalent trance, but despite being dragged along to a dozen of North Carolina’s darkest destinations, she’d yet to witness so much as a stray bit of cigarette smoke. So she wished herself into dreams and nightmares, summoning up specters that delighted her fellow sophomores and horrified Bradshaw, the guidance counselor.

Yet even with her obvious talent, she was going nowhere. Her high school art teachers summed up her ouvre as “comic-book doodling,” and even though coffee-shop geeks and Hollywood producers read nothing but books that were mostly pictures, if you wanted to be serious, you had to render nudes and faded roses and geometrically precise duplications of European townscapes. Or close your eyes and pee on the canvas a la Pollock.

Even her pencil was ludicrous, the Big Fattie, the kind favored by kindergarteners with stubby fingers. Never mind that her mother had given her a box of them before leaving her with the Digger and six billion other people who would never understand.

Thanks, Mom. Preesh that whole abandonment thing.

So forget fitting in the real world. Instead, she was developing an imaginary milieu for Emily Dee, her time-traveling Victorian heroine who was half steampunk, half literary hero. The trouble was that a fictional character based on Emily Dickinson didn’t get into a whole lot of graphic action, unless Kendra copped out and threw in a vampire and let the eternal maiden have some sexual intercourse. And all she knew about either of those subjects was the stories she’d read in books.

“Whatcha drawing?”

She almost snapped her pencil lead because the voice was unexpectedly close to her ear.

Whoa. Survival mechanisms failing. Must reboot.

Kendra looked up from her sketch pad into the round, freckled face of a boy maybe 11, with plum-colored eyes sunk in the dough of his skin. His red mop of hair seemed too big for his skull. A vague fishy odor permeated the air around him, though his breath smelled of licorice.

“Just some stuff,” she said, not interested in twerp pesterage at the moment.

The boy peered over her shoulder, and his hoarhound-flavored panting nearly curdled the yogurt in her stomach.

“That looks like the door,” he said.

“Bingo, Biscuit Head,” she said.

“Except it looks creepy. Like it’s going to eat you.”

“It is going to eat you,” she said in her most matter-of-fact voice.

The doors parted, glass rippling with the reflection of clouds and blue sky, and a pudgy, middle-aged man stepped out of the darkened lobby. He was dressed like a Salvation Army bell-ringer, in a uniform that would have looked official if not for the threadbare elbows and the creases in the bill of the service cap. The ruddy cheeks suggested either a fondness for the bottle or a Northern European bloodline. “Bruce,” he shouted, just another cranky parent.

“Gotta go,” the boy whispered.

Kendra nodded, not wanting to give the twerp actual acknowledgment by speaking. She concentrated on her drawing, visualizing the bellhop as a shimmery Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.

“How many times do I got to tell you not to bother the guests?” said the Marshmallow Man, and Kendra imagined his voice echoing inside a wavy dialogue balloon.

“Sorry,” Bruce said.

“I’ll make you sorry.”

“I was just–”

“Just nothing. Get in here.”

Welcome to reality, Bruce. You got a sucky name and a dorky dad and you’re about to get reminded that children should be seen and not heard.

She just had time to sketch the Marshmallow Man’s outline before he stepped back into the shadows, letting the doors swing closed in a flash of silver and azure.

“It already did,” Bruce whispered, as if he were still at her ear. She glanced up from the page, expecting the boy to swing the doors open again, but he was already inside.

The twerp moves fast to be such a chunky monkey. Already did what?

She shrugged down into her coat so that the fleece liner covered her neck. Despite the brightness of the day, the November wind carried the promise of winter and the air was a good 15 degrees colder than in Raleigh. According to Dad, the White Horse had been the summer retreat of governors and industrialists at the turn of the previous century, when the state ran on tobacco and denim instead of education and research. Apparently the wealthy elite had enough money and sense to climb back off the mountain when the leaves fell. Now the trees were knobby old crones and the slopes were nothing but brown and gray, the colors of dookie and death.

Only Dad would pick such a dumb season to host a conference, but he said the rates were cheaper and fewer Normies would be around to spoil the fun and mess up the readings.

Kendra parked her pencil between her teeth and rubbed her hands together, trying to flush some feeling into her fingers. The wrought-iron bench was cold and hard, corroded with age and centered on a little flagstone semicircle away from the main walk. It was surrounded by the bones of rose briars and stunted boxwood, and across the lawn a few skinny ornamentals leaned like sickly witches. A mottled concrete statue of a generic angel knelt in the grass, the Matron Saint of Lost Causes praying for a Clorox makeover.

The hotel itself was three stories of skewed architecture, peeling paint, and sagging green shutters. A veranda ran the length of the bottom floor, and the entrance featured a stack of gabled arches that peaked fifty feet up with a small cupola that resembled a bell tower. The roof line was uneven, the forest-green shingles cracked and buckled. The whitewashed siding was faded and scabbed with flakes.

An extension had been tacked on to the eastern wing, with little attempt made at matching the materials and style. A wooden fence surrounded the pool, but the gaps in the boards were wide enough to allow passage to any small children willing to drown, though she guessed the pool was either emptied for the season or frozen over.

A narrow strip of crumbling blacktop led through the woods from the main highway, and the dense, tangled hardwoods hid the nearby town of Black Rock. Isolated by the surrounding forest and perched on the edge of the ridge, the hotel seemed forgotten by the world. The place probably made a lovely postcard in the summer, but right now the White Horse looked ready to gallop off to that Great Glue Factory in the Sky.

Which made it perfect for Dad’s little enterprise.

Speaking of the Digger, it’s about time for him to pretend he cares whether I’ve been abducted for sex slavery yet.

Kendra blew into the cup of her drawing hand and continued the sketch. Usually she created a creep factor by warping the angles just a little in her architecture, aiming for a Gothic flavor, but in this case the reality was almost weirder than her fantasized depiction.

All she needed was a shadowy figure to appear in one of the second-floor windows.

The late-afternoon sun glinted off the glass as she surveyed the hotel’s one hundred eyes. A curtain billowed inside one of the rooms. She fleshed it out as a spirit in her workbook, knowing she could fine-tune it later, move in with erasers before applying the ink and making the ghost permanent.

She glanced up again and saw someone standing beside the curtain. She nodded and smiled. The figure stepped back into the darkness of the room. She silently counted over three windows from the middle balcony, planning to verify the room number later and deduce the identity of the occupant. Probably one of them was trying to spook her. Dad’s events brought out the crazies, those who believed in things they couldn’t see.

But maybe she was just as unhinged, believing in things that didn’t exist until she put them on paper. Dreams, lies, memories, games. All the same. Ether.

A memoir writ in invisible ink.

“Hey, Buttercup.”

He was somewhere up there. She peered into the shadows of the upper balcony. He wore the darkness like his out-of-fashion tailcoat, a stage prop that was as hokey as his act.

Kendra bent to her sketch pad again.

Children should be seen and not heard, but grownups should be seen and heard only when it’s time to dole out some allowance.

She had no problem drawing him as a ghost. He’d been dead to her for years, deader even than Mom, who was really dead.

“Up here, Buttercup.”

A pet nickname, copped from William Goldman’s “The Princess Bride.” She sighed and let Big Fattie fall from her fingers. It rolled across the pad and fell to the ground, bouncing off a flagstone.

“They say one of the guests jumped from this balcony,” Dad called, with a pleasure in his voice that approached glee. “Got skewered on that lamppost.”

His arm came out of the shadow and pointed to one of the tall metal spires that girded each side of the walk. Kendra pictured a shish kebab of writhing arms and legs, red sauce spurting out like a busted ketchup pack at a greasy roadside diner. The image would have been gross if it weren’t so comical. Compared to the modern teenybopper slasher movies, Dad’s attempts at shock were like Casper the Friendly Ghost on a sugar high.

But he’d been polite on the drive up the mountain, even letting her pick the music, and she’d been working him for a new graphics program, so she could spare a little feigned affection.

“Nothing like a suicide chump to get the Groovy Ghoulies riled up,” she called to him.

“That’s my girl,” he said, stepping back inside the inn.

If Digger Wilson actually believed in evil spirits, he had no problem leaving her to deal with them on her own. Then again, she’d learned at an early age that everyone had to face their demons alone.

Whether the demons are real or just drawn that way.

Kendra continued her work superimposing a set of human features over the entryway, not realizing until she was nearly done that the eyes she’d drawn in the glass were her mother’s.

She got busy with the eraser.

Chapter 3

J.C. hated the goddamned basement.

The rusted cast-iron pipes that hung suspended from the floor joists dribbled black goo, and old fiberglass insulation hung down like rotted cobwebs. The dirt floor was cluttered with broken chunks of concrete, dusty bottles, short lengths of pipe and copper wire, and a clutch of three-legged chairs. A brass bed was set up along one cinder-block wall, no doubt erected as some sort of joke, because the mattress was fuzzy with mildew. A plastic red rose lay where the pillow would have been, the kind of punch line his dick-headed supervisor Wally Reams would think was hilarious.

The breaker box for the hot water heaters had been on the blink, and Reams had filled out a work order and put J.C.’s name on it. J.C. always got the crap jobs, but since the White Horse maintenance staff consisted of three other guys, one with a V.A.-approved wooden leg compliments of Saddam’s little poke in George Bush’s eye, then the odds were against J.C. anyway. Besides, every fix-it call was a crap job in a place as ancient as this.

The place smelled of rotted newspapers and mouse turds, and the dirt floor was packed to mud. The coal-burning boilers that had once heated the inn were now corroded shut, miles of pipes carrying their filthy air.

J.C pulled a flashlight from a loop on his overalls and flicked it on. The breaker box was on the far side of the room, and screw-in glass fuses were scattered across the dirt, glinting in the flashlight’s beam. He could be across, check the fuses, and be done in less than a minute. If the problem lay with the main circuits, then Reams would have to call in a real electrician. J.C. was a licensed plumber but he could barely twist a bread tie, much less mess with 220 volts of juice.

It was probably the goddamned Mexicans’ fault. They’d punch the buttons on every washer and dryer at the same time, speeding things up with nary a thought to the power drain. Most people, all they wanted was to flip a switch and have the light come on. Not many cared about the complex science of electrons. J.C. didn’t blame them. All he wanted was a fast paycheck, so maybe he wasn’t that different from the Mexicans after all.

But the job wasn’t as simple as the work order made it sound. For one thing, the breaker box was in the darkest part of the basement, behind a row of support beams and a couple hundred feet from the rickety wooden stairs. For another, the basement always gave him the willies.

He’d heard the stories, and once in a while a shadow shifted out of the corner of his eye, but nobody in his right mind paid attention to the corners of his eyes. Pegleg had sworn to an encounter with The Jilted Bride, a woman supposedly abandoned at the altar a hundred years back and killing herself as a result. Of course, in Pegleg’s version, he’d done her seven ways to Sunday on the rotted mattress, adding a few more stains to the canvas and leaving her with a smile on her face as she vanished. The vision of Pegleg in the buff, flashing all his nubs, was more frightening than any ghost. But alone in the basement, with the pipes groaning, the wood creaking, and the raw sewage plop plop plopping, the blood ran a little faster and the short hairs tingled a little.

He flipped the switch to trigger the set of bare bulbs that dangled from the floor joists. Dead.

Shit fire, Miss Mays. Somebody better call maintenance.

He tried to laugh but the dusty air clogged his throat.

Despite the flashlight, he was reluctant to leave the foot of the stairs, where light leaked from the doorway above. The darkness had a border, and stepping over it would mean hostile territory. The laws over there were unknown, and you could break them without even knowing you had trespassed. But the laws on this side, with that bitch Janey Mays holding the purse strings and his parole officer marking time, were just as cruel.

Life was full of choices. Walk through shit and black hell and check the goddamned breaker box or stand in the unemployment line with the rest of the garbage Janey had tossed over the past year.

He put one toe to the edge of the darkness. He could have sworn the line of blackness oozed forward a couple of inches, and his leg shivered as if a frosty mouth had exhaled over his Wolverine work boot. The basement was always 10 degrees colder than the building’s interior, but the place was so drafty the temperature fluctuated anyway, no matter the season. That’s why guests were always bitching about the ventilation, which caused Janey Mays to chew J.C. a new asshole, and he’d run around with duct tape, weather stripping, and nails, but all the patchwork did was send the drafts to new locations and start the merry-go-round all over again.

The air in the basement, though, was still and dead. J.C. had failed science in the seventh grade, but he remembered the teacher droning on about the moon and how you couldn’t breathe there, and in the pictures of astronauts they all had on those bozo helmets with the black masks and lots of tubes running into different parts of the white suit. J.C. had never wondered about their breathing. He’d been more curious about where all the piss and shit went, and the teacher said they ran their piss through a filter and drank it again. And people called them “heroes.” J.C. called them “dumbasses.”

“A small step for man and a big step for mankind,” he whispered, mangling the astronautic catchphrase.

He thrust the flashlight in front of him and entered the darkness. The dirt floor was as slick as a plastic sheet covered with Crisco, but he didn’t look down at it. His focus was on the breaker box, which seemed to have moved farther away from him. Something rustled to his left, and he flicked the light over to the boiler.

The damned thing grinned at him with those rusty metal teeth, the old valves glittering like eyes that had been snapped open from a long sleep. The blacker darkness inside it quivered, a tongue of coal ash and cinders. Decades ago, men like J.C. stood down here half-naked, shoveling coal into that beast’s belly as it spit glowing embers onto their sweaty flesh. Compared to that kind of work, J.C.’s little mission was a tiptoe through the tulips.

And if he didn’t get the hot water going soon, Janey Mays would blow her smoke in his face and flash that wrinkled, mummified grin.

As he crossed the room, stubbing his boot on a busted cinder block, he fished in his tool belt for a screwdriver. He would need it for the breaker box, he told himself, though he held it like a weapon and the job would more likely require pliers than a sharp blade.

Flup flup flup.

The sound came from the boiler, which was now 20 feet behind him. J.C. had been called on to exterminate bats before, but they hung out in the attic and were easy to catch in the daytime. The White Horse had enough mice, rats, and possums living within its walls to pick up the place and carry it away, but those rodents made sharper, scurrying sounds. Flup meant wings.

J.C. moved faster, and he was almost to the breaker box when the boiler clanged. To hear Pegleg tell it, the thing hadn’t been fired since 1962, but Pegleg had only worked the White Horse for two years and he could create facts on the spot, anything to keep his jowls flapping and his hands idle. Of course, Pegleg’s war wound made a trip down the stairs too risky, and his arthritis hated the damp, and his eyesight was gone to hell since Saddam’s boys had let loose all them chemicals, but at least the important equipment still worked and you could just ask the Jilted Bride, because he’d done her seven ways to Sunday and–

The bed creaked.

J.C. knew that sound as well as any man, because he’d gone through two wives and had screwed his way down a whole trailer-park row during his teenage years, and a fuck squeak was a fuck squeak.

Most likely it was a couple of them ghost hunters. They were a weird enough crowd, probably liked to bang in graveyards and haunted houses and coffins. He cleared his throat, but they didn’t stop like normal folks would. Maybe they wanted an audience.

A couple of the check-ins had been hotties, and he wouldn’t mind getting a late-night plumbing repair call from them, because he’d sure fix their leak.

But no way was he going to swivel the light over to the bed. He might see the Jilted Bride laying there getting drilled by something black and oily and monstrous, maybe something with giant, raggedy wings that went flup flup flup as its hips rose and fell.

The creaking fell into a rhythm, along with the flupping, but J.C. zeroed in on the breaker box and he could see the problem–somebody had unscrewed the fuses and left the holes empty.

One of the ghost hunters might have snuck down here and tried to kill the lights. Maybe even the people on the soggy mattress. Just the kind of thing to add a little shock to the system. But not knowing how the place was wired, or that the main breaker box had been moved to the ground floor during the last overhaul, the dumb shits had just gone for the only fuses they could find. Except a couple of the fuses were still intact, buttoned up across the top row.

Creak flup creak flup creak flup.

If it was fucking–and J.C. would bet a case of Busch Lite on that–then the ride was going slow and steady, the kind women always said they liked until you actually did it and then they got all impatient.

He didn’t want to play the light on the ground and look for fuses because he was afraid of what he might see. He fumbled in his belt pouch for new ones, but when he started screwing the first one in, the one above it gave a half turn counterclockwise.

All by itself.

Creak flup creak flup creak flup.

J.C. gulped and twisted the fuse home, then plugged the five other holes. Lastly, he secured the top one again, screwing a lot more frantically than the things–people, it’s people–on the bed.

Finished, he back-pedaled, the rectangular light from the basement door spilling down like the stairway to heaven. Not so far, not so dark, though the basement air smelled like sulfur and smoke, as if the boiler was fired up and gasping. And the air that had been cool was now stifling and thick, the darkness like a cloud of ash.

All he had to do was breathe and walk, though, and he’d have a story that would top anything Pegleg had to offer. All he had to do was put one Wolverine in front of the other, eyes straight ahead, and–

CREAKFLUP CREAKFLUP CREAKFLUP.

The bed rattled with urgency, and the creatures–ghost hunters, it’s just freaky ghost hunters–appeared to be speeding up for liftoff.

Despite himself, J.C. turned toward the noise, though he kept the flashlight beam ahead of him. The sounds had been joined by wet sloshing, like somebody had dropped six bags of pea soup on the party. Porn flicks were ten bucks a pop down in Fantasy Land Books, a corrugated, windowless warehouse on the backside of Black Rock that had no books but plenty of magazines, plus some video booths in the back corner that J.C. wouldn’t have entered on a dare. But J.C. wasn’t much of a peeper, and his last three-way had ended in a divorce and a confrontation with a .38 revolver, so the group scene wasn’t his thing, either.

But he was feeling braver now that he was closer to the stairs and could chalk it all up to his imagination. Here was a chance to make the story even better. A ringside seat at a ghosthunter orgy. Pegleg could gnaw his fucking shin to splinters in jealousy

The boiler clanged again, and J.C. shifted the light toward the bed, getting a glimpse of something slick and red tangled in a foggy spiderweb.

Creakflupcreakflupcreakflupcreakflup

The red thing was pulsing like a raw heart, and J.C. squinted, backing toward the stairs, wondering if a pack of possums had given birth all at the same time, or if–

His flashlight blinked dead.

He banged it once against his hip, but it was still dead, and the creak flup creak flup grew louder like–

The BED is walking.

He flung the flashlight toward the noise and fled for the stairs, boots slipping in the mud as he threw himself on its rough wooden planks, dust flying in his face. His knees throbbed where they’d banged and one fingernail had been ripped to the quick, but that was okay, the light was waiting above, and the ground floor, and cool air and sunshine and ghosthunters in clothes and the three cans of lukewarm Busch Lite in the maintenance shed.

He wriggled halfway up, his hips rising and falling like he was creakflupping the steps, unable to get traction. He could taste the sweet hotel air with its rug cleaner and cigarette smoke and—
creakflupcreakflupcreakflup.

The basement door slammed shut and darkness draped him like a thunderstorm.

Pegleg playing a gag, pulling my leg, that’s all...I’ll yank HIS fucking leg off and beat him over the head with it.

A molten band of iron girded his ankle, yanking him back down into the basement.

The creakflup had given way to raspy boiler breath, the hungry panting of a pulsing red thing.

Chapter 4

Kendra wouldn’t look there.

No, not a glance, he doesn’t exist, he’s Ghost Boy to me.

He’d jumped out of the van with its stylized “SSI” logo on the panels and cut across the lawn, grinning above that Brad Pitt soul patch that hadn’t quite filled out. The Future of Horror had his own Web site, Internet radio show, and fan club, and it didn’t hurt that he looked drop-dead hot in his black jump suit. At 17, he was in the range as a lust object without it being sicko, though Dad had already given her the lecture about “boys like Cody McKenzie.”

He was headed for the door and the adulation of the ghost hunters, who were all certain he’d have his own television show in a season or two. Kendra would ignore him. That was the best strategy, and if nothing else, she’d sleep better tonight. Fewer bits of Cody roiling in her fevered brain.

But he wasn’t headed for the door.

Kendra glanced into Cody McKenzie’s eyes. Mistake.

They were the green of oceans and Lime Jell-O and other things that could drown you, salty or sweet.

She kept her sketch pad by her side, not hiding it exactly, but not shoving it in his face, either. She was simply offering him the opportunity to express curiosity if he wished. She didn’t have much in the boob department, not yet, but her art was weird enough to be awesome.

“How ya doing, K-Babe?” he said. “I haven’t seen you since the Carolina Inn.”

“The inn was lame,” she said. “That was urban-legend crap. The armchair ghost of an eccentric professor who smoked a pipe and occasionally ruffled the pages of the New York Times. Hardly what you’d call ‘bone-chilling terror.’”

Cody grinned, like she knew he would, like she was afraid he would. Those big, brilliant Chiclet teeth were the stuff of Hollywood. He probably had groupies all over the country mailing their panties for autographs. Even the boys.

But she could out-cool him any day. She just needed to keep her head, which was hard to do when he leaned close and his breath moved across her cheek like a warm sea breeze. When–

Enough. Emily Dee died a virgin.

“Yeah, it’s a high-priced gig, all right,” Cody said. “What was your dad charging for that one, $400 for an overnight?”

“Basic package. And an extra hundred to go in with the team and hold an EMF meter.”

“My thermograph got nothing,” he said. “I think that place is deader than Bob Dole’s dick.”

Kendra teenybop-giggled despite herself. “You’re the only person alive who thinks a place is dead if there are no dead people banging around.”

“Besides your dad.”

Kendra rolled her eyes and immediately regretted it. That’s sooo Hannah Montana. I need to bring my Megan Fox moves or he’ll ignore me.

“Maybe this place will be luckier,” she said.

Cody looked away from her for the first time and took in the ramshackle, sprawling structure. “It’s got game, for sure.”

The rear door to the van opened and a rotund man in a black jumpsuit like Cody’s–but not nearly as attractively packed–shouted at him. “Come on, Cody, this stuff don’t unload itself.”

“Better go be part of the team,” Cody said in a conspiratorial whisper she found dead sexy. He swiveled and gave a mock salute to Jonathan Holmes, the overweight, bearded man with a dramatic bald dome and a Fu Manchu mustache. “SSI or die,” he shouted.

“Get over here, Future,” Jonathan grumbled. “I better get some work out of you before the cameras show up.”

“Catch you later,” Cody hollered to Kendra, and she imagined his tone meant “Let’s hook up” instead of “Down the road, kid.”

She tried one bit of spunk. “So, how’s that ‘Future of Horror’ thing working out?”

It got him to turn and flash another smile.

Worth it, worth it, worth it.

“The future’s dead ahead,” he said.

“You can do better than that. How about ‘The future’s so dark, I gotta wear night vision’?”

“Sweet. Can I use it for my Web site?”

“Sure. But you’ll owe me a cut of the T-shirt sales.”

“You’re just like your dad. Got that entrepreneurial spirit.”

“Cody!” Jonathan called again, wrestling a metal strongbox from the van.

“Hey, Holmes, that’s my MAC Attack. You break that and I snap your cinnamon twists.” Cody launched into a run, and Kendra couldn’t help ogling those muscular buns in action.

Two middle-aged women came up the walk, flanked by brittle shrubbery that was more twig than foliage. They looked like school teachers who’d taken their Thanksgiving break early.

Séance junkies or psychokinetic spoon-benders? Plain old ghost-chasers? Or maybe they’re in that special class of versatile wingnuts who embrace the alphabet soup of the unknown, from the Abominable Snowman to X-ray vision.

Whatever their specialty, they fell into that category Dad liked to call “paying customers.” Kendra shot one more wistful glance in Cody’s direction as he loaded his MAC Attack on a dolly, then she headed inside to the registration desk.

Time to pass out tickets to the freak show.

Chapter 5

“How bad do you need the money?”

Janey Mays leaned back in her cracked leather chair, a cigarette dangling from her lips. The office was hazy with smoke, and the hotel’s owners had been pushing for a tobacco-free policy, but they’d only bought the overgrown outhouse six months before. Since they lived in Florida and Janey had worked her way up over forty years from laundry maid to manager, she felt more attuned to the hotel’s needs and more qualified to set the ground rules.

“I’m in for a couple of grand,” Violet said, fidgeting on the edge of the metal folding chair.

Janey made sure the employees were uncomfortable in the office. It wasn’t difficult, since the philodendron had long since choked to death and the potted fern was curled and brown. The office was ensconced behind the front desk like a secret catacomb, with no windows and a bare bulb for light. Two rusted filing cabinets were packed with moldering guest registers, and a pile of outdated menus threatened to topple from above them. Janey’s desk bore a computer that barely had enough memory to type a letter, but it cast a sickly green glow on her wrinkled skin, so it was worth keeping around for visual effect.

“A couple of grand,” Janey said. “Barely a felony.”

“Please,” Violet said.

Violet Felkerson was one of the pretty ones. Hospitality hostesses fared better when they were pretty; the guests were more forgiving of cold water, dirty sheets, and overpriced room service when the apologies came from pert, smiling, submissive lips. And Janey enjoyed this part of the job more when they were attractive. They deserved to meet the ugly inside.

“Normally, one strike and you’re out,” Janey said. “This hotel was built on tradition and dedication and honesty, and anybody who doesn’t buy into that has no place at the White Horse.”

Violet’s thick eyelashes descended and fluttered. She was about to cry. Janey had chosen well, because this only worked on those who couldn’t afford to walk away.

“I’ve got a reputation to uphold,” Janey said. “They don’t call me ‘Battle Ax’ for nothing.”

Actually, “Battle Ax” was only one of her nicknames. She’d overheard “Horse’s Ass,” “The Mayflower Madame,” and “The Warden” as well, and no doubt plenty of other, cruder ones had made the rounds over the years.

She drew in smoke and let it tumble out of her mouth and across Violet’s blinking face. “Tell you what. I think we can cover that, move around some money from the maintenance budget. An unexpected leak in the boiler system, maybe. Chad and Stevie will fall for that.”

Violet angled forward even more, hands clasped as if Janey were the ghost of Mother Teresa. Janey jammed her cigarette into her mouth to stifle a chuckle.

“Thank you,” Violet said. “I can replace it in six weeks.”

“You won’t tell anyone?”

Said the spider to the fly.

Violet almost stuttered. “Will you?”

Janey stubbed out her cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, one of the lipstick-stained butts rolling free and bouncing to the floor. “I think we can work something out.”

A few thousand, Violet had said. According to Janey’s reckoning, the actual amount of the embezzlement had been somewhere around four thousand dollars, give or take a few hundred. Janey had noticed because she was constantly calculating how much she could steal for herself. After all, a woman had to rely on her own devices. When looks faded, all you had left was cunning. It was a lesson Violet was still at least two decades away from learning.

Chad and Stevie would never notice the parched till. They’d bought the hotel as an “investment” that was actually a tax loss to offset the millions they were making in Palm Beach condominiums. The one time the couple had actually visited the property, they’d decided to book a room at the Courtyard by Marriott in neighboring Boone rather than sleep under their own leaky roof. So Janey’s accounting was a like a whore’s career in a seaport—tight going in and loose going out.

Violet looked so exuberant that Janey wished she’d played a little longer. But Janey tended to burn them out too fast, and with the hotel’s new billing as “the Blue Ridge Mountain’s most haunted hotel,” the job had been getting harder to fill, despite the recession and the fringe benefit of occasional free drinks at the bar.

“We can stick some extra charges on Wayne Wilson’s bill.” Janey stood, the chair creaking with a metallic brittleness that befit the hotel’s reputation. “A set-up fee here, a maintenance surcharge there. We’re giving him the hotel for the weekend, so he shouldn’t be surprised by a few surprises.”

Janey made a slow, stately trek across the floor, which was difficult because of the travel magazines, electric heater, broken lamp, and mop bucket that created an obstacle course on the floor. She made a ceremony of opening the door, which gave a gratuitous creak. She’d instructed maintenance to quit oiling door hinges. She also added extra mirrors in the hall and reduced the wattage of the light bulbs. All to create atmosphere.

Stroke of genius, marketing the hotel as a ghost hunter’s getaway. Hype your cobwebs.
It’s easier than dusting.

“Make sure Mr. Wilson gets what he needs,” Janey said. “He’s talking about making this an annual event.”

“He’s kind of creepy,” Violet said.

“Play along. Act scared. Let him believe what he wants to believe.”

“He asked me if I’d ever had any ‘experiences’ here.”

“A little white lie never hurt anybody,” Janey said, appreciating the irony. She’d busted Violet for embezzling, but here she was promoting dishonesty as simply good business.

As Violet exited in a waft of lavender and apples, Janey smiled, the parchment of her cheeks crinkling. The pleasure was still spreading across her face when the phone rang. Cell phones rarely worked here on the carapace of the Eastern Continental Divide, another advantage to the new marketing angle. The jangling phones and crackling lines added to the mystique.

“Janey, it’s Stevie.”

“Hey, good news. We booked it full for the conference.”

“Good,” Stevie said, though his tone was ambivalent.

“Something wrong?”

“This isn’t easy for me. You know how I much I love the place.”

Janey didn’t fall for it. Instead, her gut tensed in paranoia. “Yes.”

“Chad and I had an offer.”

“An offer? I didn’t even know you were selling—”

“Two mil an acre. Condo project. They’ll knock off a little for the demolition costs, but they want it fast to catch the good interest rates. We couldn’t pass it up, not the way the hotel has been bleeding red ink.”

“How soon?” Janey said, skin tingling, hoping she’d have a good half a year or so to rob the till. Early retirement wasn’t so bad.

“Sunday.”

Sunday? Two days from now.

“I don’t—”

“We’ll be down next week to deal with it. Don’t worry, Janey, you’ll get a nice severance package. Chad and I aren’t monsters.”

“What about the staff?” Janey said, not that she cared. She was buying time to give her racing mind a chance to settle down.

“Don’t say anything so they don’t walk out. Give the ghost hunters their money’s worth. One last hurrah for the old White Horse, eh?”

You can bet your sweet little tush on that one, Stevie.

“Farewell, love.” Stevie hung up.

The hotel was her life, her identity, her playground. She’d imagined keeping her room on the second floor until they wheeled her out in a zippered bag. Janey gripped the dead phone, unable to face the void that loomed in front of her.

“Two days.”

Had she said it aloud?

She had the acute feeling that someone was watching her.

Janey turned. Nothing.

Paranoia.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t watching.

She wondered if they’d overheard.

Two days.

Chapter 6

Smells like pigeon poop and mummies up here.

Wayne played his flashlight beam along the narrow strip of decking that served as a crawl space. The attic was insulated with shredded newspaper, so it was a miracle the White Horse hadn’t long since burned to the ground, especially given the shoddy state of the wiring. The rafters were crisscrossed with cables and pipes, evidence of the hotel’s attempt to change with the times. The upgrades had been haphazard, and the tangles created the suggestion that monstrous, hairy spiders would come creeping out of the shadows at any moment.

He planned to make the attic a hunt location, but he couldn’t picture running a bunch of forty-something TAPS wannabes up the ladder and through the cramped quarters. One of them might wander off the decking in the dark and plummet through the gypsum ceiling. Even though Haunted Computer Productions was a limited-liability company that owned nothing besides its namesake computer, Wayne didn’t want the hassle or legal fees involved with getting sued. Hunters were required to sign waivers, but a waiver would be nothing more than Exhibit A in a court case that could drag for years.

He backtracked to attic access, deciding to use the main one off the hall closet instead of the one in Room 318. He yelled down through the access hole to the hall. “It’s a no go up here.”

“How about a couple of IR cams?” answered Burton Hodges, the former rock ‘n’ roll roadie Wayne had recruited as SSI’s tech specialist.

Infrared cameras would allow people to watch the attic on monitors. Every waft of dust or wind-blown shadow could become proof of the afterlife. The unbelievable became more real if it was on television, and he could edit together clips to create a commemorative DVD and rake in some extra cash on the side.

The only thing better than sending customers away satisfied is sending them away broke.

“Sure, let’s rig it with audio, too.” Wayne figured the eaves had enough cracks and gaps to allow moaning breezes, and with any luck the place was infested with bats.

Wayne sent his flashlight beam bouncing deeper into the attic. Specks of dust swirled in the orange cone, creating the illusion of a thousand floating fairies. Any digital flash photographs taken up here would result in generous orb phenomena, something the armchair spiritualists accepted as paranormal activity.

Wayne had always wondered why a ghost should choose to inhabit a fuzzy white space the size and shape of a billiard ball when presumably it knew no bounds of time and space. Every professional photographer insisted orbs were the result of lens flare arising from reflections of dust or water droplets, and in the era of Photoshop programs, no digital image was trustworthy anyway.

That didn’t stop the proliferation of “authentic” photos of ghosts, and Wayne himself had included orb photos taken at the White Horse Inn with his promotional materials. He did add a disclaimer at the bottom, stating, “Orb photography is a controversial field and opinions vary on its research validity,” but it was like a beer-can label that warned alcohol could impair your motor skills. The warning itself was good publicity.

As Wayne scanned the crawl space, looking for good locations to post the cameras, the shadows shifted at the far end of the attic. A wall vent covered with wire mesh and wooden slats allowed air to circulate in the attic, and thin slices of sunlight leaked through. Passing clouds could cause a change in brightness, altering the quality of light in the entire attic.

Groovy effect, now all I need is a ragged sheet on a coat hanger...

The shadows shifted again, though the air was still.

Wayne crept forward, keeping his head low so he wouldn’t bump it on the rafters. The flashlight’s globe bobbed in front of him and the boards creaked beneath his boots. The hairs on his neck tingled–the wiring, it’s an EMF effect on my brain circuitry–and the air seemed charged with an expectant weight. A papery rustle in the walls, probably the migration of disturbed mice, sounded almost like a whisper.

Cumulatively, the various phenomena could be called an “encounter,” but Wayne knew them for what they were. Suggestion, a mild alteration in the physical environment, and cultural folklore meant that if it walked like a ghost, talked like a ghost, and shat like a ghost, it was ghost. The image of ghostly turds made him suppress a grin.

Then the shadow moved again.

Mice.

A chunk of darkness pulled itself free and moved near a crusted brick chimney. Wayne flicked his beam toward it, and the black outline grew more vivid.

It was a human form.

A brittle, high frequency pierced his ears and his teeth jolted as if he were chewing tin foil.

The whisper came again, and this time the wind was quiet and the words were clear and in a language mice never spoke outside of Saturday-morning cartoons: “You’re blinding me.”

Wayne retreated a step and his skull knocked against a support post, sending squiggly lime sparks across the backs of his eyelids. His flashlight bounced to the decking and went out. He wobbled and hugged the post for balance.

The temperature in the attic dropped 10 degrees and the electrical surge rippled from his head to his toes.

The wind, dummy, it’s November. And mice. Yeah. Mice.

He squinted into the darkness, orienting himself by the distant square light of the access door and the zebra-striped vent. The dark form now blended into the black space of the attic, and it was easy to believe he’d imagined the whole thing.

But that didn’t stop his heart from hammering like a man trapped in a coffin.

“Wayne?” Burton called.

He swallowed and his throat chafed as if the air had turned to sawdust. “I’m okay,” he croaked.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“I heard a couple of bumps.”

“I dropped my light.” Wayne reached out with the tip of his boot, probing for the flashlight, wondering what he would do if something grabbed his foot.

Burton’s head poked up through the access opening and he swept a flashlight across the attic until Wayne stood in its spotlight like a cabaret dancer on stage. He blinked into the light–You’re blinding me–and then glanced toward the chimney.

The shape was gone, just as he knew it would be.

Because it had never been there.

We made a promise, Beth, but neither of us believed it. And lying gets easier as you get older.

He stooped and gathered his flashlight from its bed of shredded paper. He tested it and found it still worked. “Okay, pass me a couple of the cameras,” Wayne said, pulse returning to normal.

He was a little embarrassed at his suggestibility. He’d never considered himself a skeptic, and he wasn’t interested in all the physiological changes that caused people to hallucinate. Ghosts were good business, from campfire storytelling to blockbuster horror movies. With thousands of people running around chasing them with fancy electronics, the poor souls were probably hiding safely under ground instead of rattling chains and slamming doors.

Burton set a plastic case on the decking and slid it toward Wayne. “Two Sony DVMs,” he said. “Hey, it’s cold up here.”

“November in the mountains,” Wayne said. “What do you expect?”

He mounted the first camera so that it would catch the main section of the attic, though one wing of the hotel would not be visible.  He aimed the second camera so it would take in the chimney. He connected the cables that Burton had snaked toward him, and then used the viewfinder to test the chimney cam. As he zoomed in, the camera’s auto focus fixed on a hand print in the chimney’s soot and grime.

Made by a worker’s glove, probably.

He zoomed out and duck-walked over to the chimney, keeping his head low. He ran his flashlight over the bricks and masonry joints. The hand print was gone.

He went back to the camera and set it to record, the satellite hard drive in the control room capable of recording an entire weekend’s worth of footage. “Come on out and play,” he called into the dead air of the attic.

“What’s that?” Burton called from below.

“Nothing,” Wayne said.

What was he expecting? Beth?

Nothing.

Just like always.

Chapter 7

Nailed him.

These New Age flakes were too busy smoking fairy dust, drinking koo-koo Kool-Aid, and gazing into crystals to peek behind the curtain.  Which gave Ann Vandooren all the power of the Wizard of Oz, and by Sunday, Digger Wilson and his band of merry pranksters would wish they’d never left Kansas, or Pluto, or wherever the hell these losers came from.

Ann had hidden a closed-circuit television camera in the corner of the attic two days earlier, renting Room 306 so she could be across the hall from the infamous Room 318. She’d drilled a hole through her closet ceiling and surreptitiously ran two cables into the attic. One cable connected to her multiplexor to store video footage on a hard drive, while the other cable allowed remote operation of a pocket-size projector. She’d borrowed the gear from the Optical Sciences department at Westridge University, where she was a tenured professor of physics.

The trick had worked better than she had imagined. With Duncan’s help, she’d collected footage of herself in a black gown and stage make-up, dancing and cavorting in front of a sheet while floor-level spotlights blazed up from below. In the editing process, she’d turned the image into a reverse negative, so that her body appeared almost translucent. She’d then dubbed the footage in slow motion, creating a rippling, almost sensuous ballet. It had taken an hour to aim the projector lens so that the image appeared to float across the attic, and the dust and sweat had been worth the result.

Ann figured Digger would squeal like a pig on a hillbilly honeymoon, run from the attic, and cry “Wolf,” giving her an opportunity to retrieve her gear and let the mystery drive SSI batty for a few days. Then, after all the conference attendees had marveled over the “evidence,” Ann would come out with her own version of the facts, backed by a video recording of the hoax.

But Digger had actually approached the image, more startled than afraid. She could almost respect him for that. After all, his sick obsession was a close cousin to her own scientific curiosity. A pity he wasted his energy and resources on bunk.

“What did you get on him?” asked Duncan Hanratty, her graduate assistant and temporary lover. He was on the bed, propped against pillows and reading the latest issue of Popular Mechanics.

“I’ll show you the clip later,” she said. “When the phonies stand up and start blathering, I’ll roll this out and dash ice water in their faces.”

“You’re sexy when you’re mean.”

“Lucky for you.” She wondered if Digger had reported the incident to his team. She might not get an opportunity to sneak back into the attic, especially if SSI got their cameras hooked up. For space cadets, they sure knew their stuff when it came to high-tech gear.

“What do you have against these guys, anyway?” Duncan said, tossing the magazine aside and rubbing his tousled hair in that sleepy, Teddy-bear manner that made him so adorable for minutes at a stretch.

“This pseudoscience gives real science a bad name,” she said. “We’re planning the first mission to Jupiter, we’ve mapped the human genetic code, and we’re making major breakthroughs in nanotechnology. But there’s no sense of wonder in it. People would rather engage in make-believe.”

“Still seems like a waste of our weekend,” Duncan said. “We could be logging some lab time.”

“You’re too young to understand.” It was her favorite taunt, though he was in his mid-twenties and only 15 years younger than she.

“I understand perfectly,” he said. “You need to know you’re right, and you need other people to know they’re wrong.”

Ann checked her laptop and made sure the other pieces of bait were ready. She’d planted a few digital recorders around the hotel, triggered by wireless remote signals. The recorders contained cryptic sound bites such as the one she’d broadcast for Digger in the attic. “You’re blinding me” was one of the most obvious, given that ghost hunters tended to work in the dark and carry flashlights.

“The trouble is they don’t know they’re wrong,” she said. “They’re trying to prove a negative.”

“Well, your scientific method is suspect, too,” Duncan said, with that infuriating smugness. Or maybe Ann was only infuriated because he had a point. “You can hardly consider your approach methodical and objective, because you hold the belief that ghosts don’t exist. Therefore, you are trying to prove a foregone conclusion rather than collect data in an impartial manner.”

“What’s your point?” It was the common response of those in a weak position. But at least she had the authority to stop sleeping with him if necessary.

“You’re in high dudgeon,” he said.

“I have no idea what ‘high dudgeon’ means.”

“Me, either, but whatever it is, you’re in it.”

Ann scrolled through some programs on the laptop. She wasn’t in the mood to argue or play, which were usually the same when it came to Duncan. She’d seduced half her male assistants, and one of her female assistants, since securing her Ph.D., and Duncan was the first she’d actually almost loved. “You know what’s ironic?”

“You as a NASCAR queen?” he said, his hand creeping toward his belt.

She was wearing blue jeans and a Dale Earnhardt sweatshirt, her hair tied back in a pony tail instead of flaring in the usual defiant and deranged curls. The biggest insult was the Carolina Panthers ball cap clamped down on her forehead. But the disguise had worked when, during her preliminary scouting expedition, she’d blundered into a cramped rear room where the hotel staff sat sullen and tobacco-soaked. She didn’t quite have the wrinkled, defeated look of the permanent underclass, but she had passed for some sort of laborer, because she’d given a conspiratorial wave that said, “This place, what can you do?” One of the maids had even directed her to the service stairs, where traffic was minimal.

“Shut up and listen for a change,” she said. “I’m trying to be objective here.”

“Shoot.”

“Assuming 50 people are here focusing their energy on ghosts, what if the combined electromagnetic force of their brain circuitry slightly altered the normal EMF state of the hotel? And subsequently that alteration led to hallucinations, feelings of disorientation, and a sense of being watched or touched?”

“You mean the power of wishful thinking?”

“Or maybe just projection or self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“That’s the whole trouble with the supernatural,” Duncan said. “It’s beyond the laws of nature and, as such, can’t be measured, quantified, or compared. It’s like arguing religion. Say a child is swept away in a flood but gets snagged on a tree branch and survives. The rescue is called miraculous proof of God’s mercy, but what about the people who drowned?”

“They come back as waterlogged ghosts?”

“Have you noticed,” he asked, “that most of our conversations are in the form of questions?”

“And this is a bad thing?”

“You love to be bad.” Duncan rolled off the bed and stood behind her. He kissed the back of her neck and then peered over her shoulder at the computer screen. “Hey, did the light level just change in the attic?”

“What if we accidentally discovered irrefutable proof of the afterlife while trying to debunk it?”

“It would be a miracle,” he said.

Ann clicked through the files on her computer. She had five more doctored videos and a folder full of superimposed still images. She’d spent one on Digger, but she could use that one again. Maybe she’d wait until several true believers were around to witness proof of the impossible.

She switched to the view from the hidden spycam in the attic. Light fluctuated and she wondered if Digger had returned for a second look, but the shadow fell still. She smiled. Such imaginative impressions would have sent the average ghost hunter into a paroxysm of bliss.

“We’ve got a few hours to kill before showtime,” she said, turning to meet his kiss.

“Want to continue this conversation in bed?”

“Will you shut up already?”

Chapter 8

People called him The Roach.

Rodney Froehmer wasn’t sure whether it was because he could fit through impossibly tight crevices or because he was likely to survive nuclear winter as the last living human in a post-apocalyptic world. Either way, he embraced the role, from the rubber gloves dangling from his belt to the mini MAG light clipped on the bill of his black baseball cap. He only had one antenna, unlike his insect namesake, and it extended from a two-way radio headset. His night-vision goggles completed the bug-eyed appearance, but at the moment, they were draped from his neck.

All of the Spirit Seekers International crew were hooked on technology, but The Roach was in his own special class of geek. His equipment dangled from loops and straps or bulged from the cargo pockets in his jumpsuit. While the SSI uniforms made all of them easily recognizable, The Roach particularly loved the attention from the paranormal community. He didn’t have Cody’s looks or the artistic flair of Digger Wilson, but he’d carved out a niche and been photographed with plenty of ghost-hunting groupies. The coup de grace was the silver crucifix that dangled down his chest.

Since Kendra was running the check-in table and the rest of the crew was setting up gear in the control room, The Roach figured he could loaf by the front desk and serve as advertising. Besides, there were forces at work that merited a little surveillance, even if those things couldn’t be seen at the moment.

A couple who appeared to be husband and wife came down the hall, the husband carrying a glass that contained either red wine or grape juice. He was balding and flushed, seeming to fade into his wife’s ample shadow. She was one of those overweight women who didn’t seem comfortable in her own skin, because she kept tugging at her lime-colored blouse and suit jacket as if somehow she could disguise the extra eighty pounds. She was formidable and brassy, her perfume running interference. She grinned at The Roach, her heels hammering as she increased her pace.

“You’re one of the ghost busters.” she practically squealed with delight.

“We don’t bust anything, ma’am.”

“You’re on the team, right?”

“Spirit Seekers International, at your service.” He touched the bill of his cap like a jet pilot about to embark on a flight. Digger had taught them the importance of showmanship.

By this time, the husband had caught up. The glass definitely contained alcohol. “Don’t you try to catch the ghosts, tell them to ‘Go toward the light’ or whatever?”

“That’s a misconception,” The Roach said, leaning forward to read the name badge on the woman’s generous breast. “We can’t vacuum them up into glass jars and release them in the woods like a raccoon trapped in a henhouse. For one thing, we have no idea where a ghost is supposed to be. For all we know, it might go toward the light and discover the light is caused by the flickering flames of hell.”

The woman, Amelia G. according to her name badge, chuckled. “Religion and the afterlife shouldn’t mix.”

“The television shows treat ghosts like they are a problem to be solved. The last thing a dead person needs is a ghost whisperer trying to psychoanalyze them.”

“Well, I’ve had some success with that,” Amelia said.

“She has an Ouija board,” said hubby, Donald G.

Kendra, who had finished registering a couple of women, said, “You shouldn’t mess with those things.”

“Young lady, I’ve been communicating with spirits since you were in diapers,” Amelia said.

“I had a friend who tried to commit suicide after a midnight séance.”

“Not everybody can handle messages from beyond.”

“It’s not the messages that are the problem. It’s the kind of people who need to hear them.”

“Come on, Kendra,” The Roach cut in. “You know the rules of the road. There is no right or wrong in this field, only theories.”

Kendra could never resist tweaking those who took the dead too seriously. A little humor was one thing, but nobody wanted to be around a sarcastic brat. The Roach didn’t like parenting Kendra, but Digger was doing a lousy job of it. And Digger didn’t realize how much danger his daughter was in.

“All I’m saying is that it’s just a piece of pasteboard with some letters on it,” Kendra said. “But you better check your spiritual condition before you play.”

Amelia sniffed. “The dead can tell who’s playing for keeps.”

“Tell them about the Commodore,” hubby said.

“That’s for the beach house,” she said. “I’m here to channel Margaret Percival.”

“Why don’t you come say hello?” Kendra said, pointing to the wall. A portrait of a woman with short, curly hair and sad eyes hung above an antique tea table.

According to hotel legend, the portrait had been found at a 1950’s flea market by a maid, and she’d sworn it bore an uncanny resemblance to the vanished Miss Percival. Taking it as a sign from God, the maid had purchased it and given it to the hotel. The Roach figured it was just another flea-market hype job, since the hair style was wrong for the era, but the hotel had gone so far as to attach a copper nameplate beneath it that read “Margaret Percival.” The nameplate appeared much newer than the ornate but chipped wooden frame.

The Roach was about to give his opinion when the portrait fell from the wall, the glass shattering.

“I caused that,” Amelia said. “With my mind.”

“I wouldn’t admit it,” Kendra said. “The hotel might stick damages on your bill.”

The Roach examined the wall where the portrait had been. A tiny hole was ringed by plaster dust. The picture hook had apparently lost its grip.

She’s got a mind like a claw hammer, then.
Bet she uses the head of the hammer on hubby.

“She’s a demonologist, too,” hubby said.

The Roach shot her a glance. She was too young to know better. Anyone claiming to be a demonologist was worth avoiding. The real ones, like him, worked best in secret. It was an unfortunate calling, not a hobby.

“Among other things,” Amelia said with pride. To hubby she said, “You’d best notify the hotel staff before someone gets cut.”

“Why bother?” Kendra said. “A little blood is just what we need to get the party started.”

“Blood magick,” Amelia said to her. “Are you a virgin, dear?”

“Excuse me?”

”Are you familiar with Aleister Crowley?”

“Come on, Kendra,” The Roach said, ferrying her away. “Some more guests are checking in.”

“Cool,” Kendra snapped. “Maybe they’ll be old perverts, too.”

Amelia glowered at the teen. “I would hate to fetch a demon on you.”

“You don’t want one of her demons,” her husband said, arching his eyebrows into arrow tips. The Roach wondered how many demons he’d been subjected to during the course of the marriage. Plenty, by the looks of it.

“Why don’t you two come to the medium parlor?” The Roach said, appealing to Amelia’s ego and letting her assume her presence was awaited with all the anticipation of a visiting queen’s. “Wayne Wilson is expecting you.”

“I hope it’s in one of the haunted rooms.” Amelia G. stepped over the broken glass and followed The Roach down the hall, hubby trailing and sipping his drink.

“I believe they’re all haunted,” The Roach said.

“Got any demons here?”

“Only the ones you brought with you,” The Roach said, wishing it were true.

The hall was buckled and warped, the angles slightly skewed by decades of wooden bones shifting on concrete footing. The scarred oak floorboards creaked under their feet, and mirrors placed at strategic angles suggested subtle movement at the edges of the shadows. The Roach had been in a number of reputedly haunted structures, and most of them had age and faulty architecture in common. It was another of those contrived truisms of the field: ghosts avoided clean, well-lighted places.

They were heading up the stairs to the second floor when a brittle crash sounded on the landing above. The Roach looked back at Amelia, whose plump face bore a look of childish pleasure.

“Sometimes I don’t know my own power,” she said.

Either that, or the game has already begun.

“I’ll inform the front desk,” hubby said, as if pleased at a chance to escape, lest Amelia’s glare turn him to glass and then shards and slivers.

“Wayne’s going to love you,” The Roach said.

Amelia beamed, though The Roach was sure she’d completely misinterpreted his statement.

Too bad you’re not clairvoyant, because if you could see the future the White Horse demons have in mind, you’d be swallowing that smile.

Chapter 9

“How’s it going?” Wayne said, patting Kendra on the shoulder and looking at the check-in sheet.

“Forty-three so far,” Kendra said.

“We’ll put you through college yet.”

“Unless I run away from home and join the circus.”

“You’re already in the circus, honey.”

“Well, they’ve certainly sent in the clowns. You’ve got psychics, remote viewers, a couple of cranky quantum physicists, and a woman who claims to be the reincarnation of Madame Blavatsky.”

“As long as she didn’t pay in rubles.”

“I’ve got a feeling she’ll probably add a hillbilly to her past-life collection by the time the weekend’s over,” Kendra said, rolling her eyes to indicate the surroundings.

The hotel had given them its “history room” for registration, the walls replete with old photographs, door handles, wallpaper samples, and other relics of the building’s past. A glass case held an ancient Royal typewriter, its black ribbon cracked and curled. Beside it was a tattered copy of “The Yearling,” and a placard explaining author Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings had stayed at the hotel in the summer of 1936, taking breakfast in Black Rock and dinner in Boone. The glass case also held Southern Appalachian artifacts like corn-husk dolls, a dulcimer, a ceramic moonshine jug, furrier’s tools, and a hand-stitched quilt that looked as if it has been pieced together with dust. The room smelled of linseed oil and old paper.

“It’s all about presentation,” Wayne said, imparting a basic business principal disguised as a parental lecture. “Give them a little atmosphere and let their imaginations do the rest.”

Kendra rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. ‘People don’t buy products, they buy emotions.’ Jeez, Dad, why don’t you get out of the ghost game and launch a political consulting firm?”

“There’s not much imagination in that. Plus you’re on the losing team half the time.”

A tall man with a dramatic swoop of gray in his dark hair entered the room. He wore a rumpled tan blazer and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the wiry hair on his chest. “Is this where we register?” he said, in a low, mellifluous tone.

“Step right this way,” Kendra said, motioning him to the table.

“I paid in advance,” he said. “Martin Gelbaugh.”

As Kendra checked his information and gave him his badge and packet, Wayne lifted the lid on the ancient piano in the corner. He poked the lowest C, and as the note reverberated against the room’s wooden surfaces, he tapped a note higher up the register. The two harmonics clashed, horribly out of tune even to Wayne’s untrained ear.

“The upper C is about eleven vibrations per second flat,” the man said.

Wayne looked at Gelbaugh, studying the hands that appended the badge to his suit jacket. The fingers were gaunt but graceful, like those of a musician or fine craftsman. “Perfect pitch, huh?”

“I’m not convinced that ‘perfect’ exists,” he said, smiling at Kendra. “Unless perhaps it’s the angelic demeanor of this lovely young lady.”

The gallant attempt at flattery would only enrage his daughter. She was convinced that every man over the age of 20 was a hopeless perv, and Wayne endorsed that sentiment. But she disguised her grimace so that it could be mistaken for a shy smile.

The customer is always right, even when he’s an asshole. I’ve taught her well. The Digger’s daughter.

She’s your daughter, too, Beth, but I hope your lessons have ended. Everything we knew might have been wrong.

“She could be the only angel here, Mr. Gelbaugh,” Wayne said, falling into a dinner-theater role to match that of the guest’s. “I’m Wayne Wilson, your host.”

“I’ve read a lot about you.”

“Half of it is true, but nobody knows which half, not even me,” Wayne said. Kendra shot him a look that said Don’t pile it on too thick. Or maybe Lame-o-rama. He wasn’t so good at teen translation these days.

“Is it the half that says you’re a huckster who doesn’t even believe in the afterlife and is only in it for a fast buck?”

Wayne felt his face shift into a cold mask. He studied Gelbaugh’s eyes, looking for a twinkle of mischief, but all he saw was an inquisitive challenge. The tension was heightened by Kendra’s expectation of a response. Maybe he could surprise them both.

“It doesn’t matter what I believe, or what you believe, or what anyone believes,” Wayne said. “All experience is subjective, and no one’s yet to offer irrefutable proof of life, much less the afterlife.”

Gelbaugh touched his forehead in a mock salute. “So you’ve been reading about me, too.”

“Sure. I subscribe to Fate Magazine and hit the paranormal blogs like everybody else. Unless a dozen people are out there pretending to be Martin Gelbaugh, you get around.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t come to crash the party. I’m just an innocent bystander.”

“Nobody’s innocent,” Wayne said.

A group of four came to the table, drawing Kendra’s attention. Wayne moved closer to Gelbaugh, not sure whether he welcomed the man’s presence. Gelbaugh was a famous critic of the paranormal, but instead of debunking its science, he challenged the foundation of consciousness. The Gospel According To Gelbaugh went something like, “You can’t prove one plus one is two, because you can’t even prove what ‘one’ is. And if you show me a mathematical formula, all you are showing me is a piece of paper with strange markings on it, and I have no way of knowing not only whether the markings are actually there, but whether the piece of paper exists.”

Wayne had to admit, as radical theories went, Gelbaugh’s was pretty unassailable. The man had published a book called “God Equals Absolute Zero,” and it created a brief buzz before its convoluted logic bored even the fickle pop-psychology crowd.

Gelbaugh’s reputation had decayed from metaphysical whiz kid to cranky nay-sayer in the space of a decade. Now he was trading on the last of his reputation, hanging around the fringes, finding new purpose in the paranormal fad. And he’d paid his registration in cash, too far down the ladder to request free admission in exchange for a panel appearance.

“Come now, Mr. Wilson, if we’re going to debate guilt and innocence, you should at least join me at the hotel bar,” Gelbaugh said.

Wayne licked his lips, the bittersweet bite of whiskey aroused from its slumbering tomb in his memory. Sure, he could have one drink. Just one. This time, he could manage it.

Then, in a flash of prescience that could have convinced him of psychic ability if he were so inclined, he saw himself sitting on a bar stool, elbows riding the oak railing, head tilted into the gray fog of cigarette smoke. Glass tinkling, murmurs of conversation spiked with occasional cracked laughter, the TV set tuned to championship poker or semipro boxing, the drinks coming faster and faster until it was morning and he would awaken against the toilet,  vomit and apologies burning his throat, Kendra forced into playing the grown-up of the family once again.

You want to talk about horror...

“Maybe later,” Wayne said. “I’ve got to check on the control room and the hunt schedule.”

Gelbaugh gave a knowing nod, and Wayne wondered if his drinking habits had been part of Gelbaugh’s homework. “Sure. How about after tomorrow’s panel? ‘The Nature of Spirits.’ One could take a number of meanings from that title.”

“It’s supposed to be open-ended,” Wayne said.

“Naturally,” Gelbaugh said. “What better way to kick off a paranormal conference than to turn on the metaphorical fog machine and cloud the collective consciousness?”

“My panelists have credentials that–”

The walkie talkie on Wayne’s belt squawked, and he retrieved it, glad he didn’t have to defend the reputations of people he’d drafted because they were willing to jabber for free.

“Excuse me.” He pressed a button and said into the mouthpiece, “Wayne here.”

“We got a problem, Boss.”

Burton had a flair for understatement. His “problem” was another man’s “life-and-death crisis.” At best, he’d run into a wiring problem. At worst, the whole telecomm system had melted down.

“On my way,” he answered, brushing past Gelbaugh and heading for the stairs. “What you got?”

“In the medium room.” Burton responded. “They were playing around with automatic writing, and a woman fainted.”

“Christ,” Wayne said. His first thought was not of the woman’s well-being, but of his liability insurance. He almost wished he believed in God so he could pray the victim was diabetic or had some other chronic ailment instead of suffering emotional trauma.

All conference attendees were required to sign waiver forms acknowledging the physical and psychological risks of ghost hunting, but his attorney had said the papers were little more than good publicity. A lawsuit was a lawsuit, and in a courtroom, everybody lost but the lawyers.

There was one more possibility, one he wasn’t yet prepared to face. But she would wait for an intimate moment to make her appearance.

You and me, just like the old days. Just like we never have before.

He was leaping up the winding stairs three at a time when Kendra called after him from below. “Something wrong?”

Wayne peered over the railing. “An Elvis sighting.”

“Dad,” she groaned, but he was already thundering to Room 218 and whatever unpleasant surprise awaited.

Chapter 10

Amelia appeared to be breathing normally, but her fluttering eyes gazed past Burton’s shoulder to a point on the ceiling.

“She’s up there,” Amelia said.

Burton, checking her pulse, put his head to her chest, but her heartbeat was lost in the pillowy softness of her breasts and he wasn’t willing to burrow in for better audio. If she were having a heart attack, she was having the most blissful cardiac arrest ever recorded, because her smile stretched across her rounded face.

“Dearheart,” said the thin man Burton took to be her husband. He was excited but his voice projected no life-or-death anxiety. “Are you stepping through?”

The other three people in the room were frozen around the glass coffee table that held an Ouija board. All three wore white badges that featured their names and the cute little ghost logo Wayne used for his Haunted Computer Productions trademark. They were paying customers, which made the situation more controllable. Paranormalists were used to drama queens and catatonia, and sometimes a gathering of like-minded seekers led to a game of one-upmanship that had the clairvoyants and sensitives quivering in the throes of unseen forces. Their performances could make an orgasm-faking porn actress proud.

But Amelia had dropped like a sack of flour, with a limp-boned surrender that would have been difficult to fake. The human body had a number of involuntary defenses, including the instinct to brace for a fall. Burton, watching the session on one of the control-room monitors, had taken her flop for the real thing. Overweight people were more prone to health problems, and in stressful environments the pressure on bodily systems naturally increased.

After calling Wayne on the walkie-talkie, he’d raced to 218 and arrived less than a minute after her collapse. Amelia’s husband Donald didn’t even ask Burton to call an ambulance. Apparently he was used to her spells, or what he had called “stepping through.”

“Angel in the clouds,” Amelia said.

Burton lifted his head from her breasts and studied the swirled gypsum patterns in the ceiling. With a little imagination, or the appropriate hallucinogenic drugs favored by visionaries around the world, then the random patterns could be fitted into whatever shapes the viewer desired. Might as well be angels as anything.

“What’s her name?” Donald asked, edging closer.

Amelia lifted a trembling arm and pointed to the table. “Ask the board.”

A yellow legal pad was on the table beside the Ouija board. Now that Amelia had stabilized, Burton turned his attention to the words written there.

“Nancy. 1922. In the stone garden.”

It was like a supernatural game of “Clue,” only instead of the butler in the study with a candlestick, it was Nancy in the garden, from an era long enough ago that she was almost certainly deceased. However, Amelia hadn’t addressed the angel as “Nancy,” so her dream image must have been someone else.

“Help me lift her,” Donald said, and Burton took one shoulder and arm while Donald lifted her head. They were struggling to get her into a sitting position when Wayne came panting through the door.

“How is she?” Wayne asked.

“We had an episode,” Donald said, full of pride.

Wayne visibly relaxed. He glanced at the three guests, who kneeled around the coffee table like adolescents who’d been caught playing Spin the Bottle.

“Your medium room is above average,” Amelia said, and the bad pun broke the tension. Burton had heard it before but laughed anyway.

“The planchette,” Donald said.

Amelia reached forward, her hands still shaking, and cupped the wheeled triangular device. The three guests knelt at the coffee table, penitents before a shrine, though they must have sensed that Amelia would be flying solo on this particular ascension to the Great Beyond. Burton found himself kneeling as well, though he’d never ascribed much mystical power to a concoction of cardboard, glue, and ink manufactured by Parker Brothers.

Still, intention was a powerful thing.

Wayne approached the table, eyes shining as if infected with the contagious enthusiasm that filled the room. Burton knew Wayne also put little stock in the Ouija board, but his boss believed in giving the people what they wanted. If they paid good money to sit in a room and consult a trademarked oracle, then more power and Godspeed to them.

“Are you here, Nancy?” Amelia said.

The surrounding observers were silent as the planchette gave a squeaky roll toward the “No” corner of the board. Burton’s take on the divination tool was that the operator unconsciously manipulated the wheeled mechanism. It was difficult to tell fakery, but if you believed all of it was fake, then you didn’t have to waste time detecting sleight of hand.

“If you aren’t Nancy, then who are you?”

Burton met Wayne’s glance. No doubt Amelia had researched the hotel’s history and knew all about the legend of Margaret Percival, the suicidal Frederick Weinstein, and the honeymoon heart-attacker Erwin Henderson. Since Margaret was the most notorious of the cases, Burton expected the planchette to slide toward “M.” Donald squatted beside his wife, pen poised over the note pad to record the letters.

Amelia closed her eyes and allowed the planchette a visible tremor. Then it slid toward the “O,” hesitated a moment, and settled on the “N.” “N,” Donald called out, scribbling it down

“Nancy,” whispered one of the bystanders, a pinch-faced man with an oily strand of hair plastered across his bald spot.

The planchette rolled again, locking on the “O.”

“N-O,” Donald said. “ ‘No’ the slow way.”

“Not Nancy,” whispered Baldy.

Amelia’s face was calm but her eyelashes fluttered as she concentrated. Burton noted her breathing was deep and steady again. Whatever spell she had suffered, she appeared fine now.

The planchette eased back and settled on the “O” again. Donald called out the letter as he wrote it.

The bystanders gathered closer around the table, straining forward to see which letter the planchette would select next. The metallic tang of tension hung in the air, mixing with the air freshener that the maid had used to cover the room’s must.

The plastic squeak of the planchette was brittle in the room’s silence.

Donald announced the next stop: “N.”

Burton smiled. Amelia had read the same books he and everyone else in the field had read. She was serving up the identity of “No one.” It was the perfect riddle, used by Ulysses to trick the Cyclops in “Odysseus” and used in a variation by Captain Kirk in “Star Trek” to outsmart an evil computer. Of course, in the paranormal world, “no one” could be anyone, even the Prince of Lies himself, or Prince Albert.

“Noon?” Baldy said.

“Shh,” said a red-haired woman. “She’s not finished.”

Wayne’s expression had shifted from curious mirth to one of concern, his brow furrowed. Burton figured he was putting on a show.

Amelia pushed the planchette to the “I.”

“I,” Donald asked. “Are you sure?”

Amelia, whose eyes were closed, gave a slight nod. A pendant on her bosom caught the faint golden glow of the lamplight.

Wayne’s face was nearly white, a shade of pallor that Burton didn’t think could be faked.

The planchette moved again, skidding across the slick cardboard.

“E,” Wayne said, flatly.

As if obeying his command, the planchette rested on the letter. Amelia took her hands from the device and opened her eyes.

“Noonie?” Donald said.

“Wayne?” Burton asked. His boss looked as if he had swallowed a live snake.

“Is that all?” Baldy said. “What does ‘Noonie’ mean?”

“I don’t know.” Amelia said. “I saw an angel.”

Several of the bystanders nodded as if that was a perfectly obvious explanation.

“Let’s keep going,” Donald said. “Maybe we can flush it out. Might be a poltergeist at play.”

“You sure you want to mess with a poltergeist?” Baldy said.

“That’s why we’re here,” Burton said, checking his EMF meter. The baseline reading hadn’t changed, suggesting no spirit had visited the room and nobody’s cell phone was close to the meter.

Wayne turned away, and Burton saw his face in the mirror. Wayne was pale, as if he was going to throw up, and he staggered to the door. The group of necromancers didn’t notice, too intent on Amelia’s wielding of the planchette. Burton clicked off his EMF meter and left the room.

Wayne was slumped against the wall, eyes staring straight ahead.

“Did you feel something, Digger?” Burton asked, annoyed because his FLIR thermal imaging system might have recorded any temperature fluctuations in the room if Wayne had actually spoken while the trail was still warm. Or cold, in this case.

“Noonie,” he whispered.

“Yeah, keep them guessing, right?”

“No guess. It’s her.”

Burton tried to square the nonsense word with the known historical hauntings but came up empty. “Which ‘her’? Margaret?”

“My wife.”

Burton inhaled sharply. It always came to this. Most people became interested in the paranormal to deal with a personal loss. Maybe the Digger was human, after all.

“She’s dead, Wayne.”

“She promised.”

“I don’t—”

“She promised to meet me here.”

Chapter 11

Janey Mays walked through the kitchen, past pots and pans dangling from hooks, a wooden rack of overpriced wine, stainless-steel tables covered with cabbages and yellow squash, a cart loaded with dirty cookware, and a large sink where Irish potatoes were soaking. The music from the bar was piped into the kitchen, and at the moment a growly hard-rock tune was blaring loudly enough to shake the utensils by the grill.

One of the legends Janey had concocted was that a cook had died of a heart attack in the kitchen and, since that fateful day, cutlery rattled whenever his spirit returned. No one had ever challenged her for a name in order to check the story’s historical accuracy, but after the rumor had taken root, it spread throughout the staff. In five years, seven reports of rattling cutlery and the specter of a funny little man in a chef’s hat had been written down in the ghost register, one by Janey herself but the rest by people who were unwitting accomplices in her deception.

Now, with the place on the verge of closing, the effort seemed silly. It was already a museum despite the activity. Soon enough, it would be rubble fit only for the landfill. So much for forty years of dedication and faith.

A sullen teen, whose name she hadn’t bothered to learn, was chopping barbecue, wielding a heavy cleaver and sending bits of baked pig flesh flying in the air.

“Nice stroke,” she said, but the remark passed unnoticed.

Dinner was still two hours away, but with 50 or more people expected for the conference, the kitchen was clanging. Vincent, the head chef, worked the gas grill as if he were forging mystical swords for the Roman fire god Vulcan. Phillippe, the new guy who actually wore a silly, poofy chef’s hat and had a culinary degree, browsed the spice rack as if filling a life-saving prescription.

Janey resisted an urge to dip a spoon in a bubbling cauldron of something that looked like pumpkin stew. Much like a captain going down with the ship, she wanted her guests to enjoy their last meal. Despite her impulse to poison it.

“Smells yummy, Phillippe,” she shouted over the clangor.

“Mal appetit, mademoiselle,” he said.

“And a Chucky Cheese to you.”

She made her way to the laundry area that was appended to the back of the hotel. The narrow cinder-block alley that was so plain and familiar now took on a surreal quality, as if it were already becoming dust and air. The squeaking hum of the washing machines reverberated along the walls, growing louder as she entered the wash room.

Rosalita, whose brown, leathery face was unreadable at all times, was folding table linens. Rosalita had started working in the laundry room at the same time as Janey, but she had the disadvantage of being Hispanic in a conservative rural area. In four decades, she’d missed only three days of work, each of them to bear a child. Janey had reported her once because Rosalita was running her cloth diapers through each load of sheets, a snitch that had moved Janey another rung up the laundry-room ladder. Janey had learned early on that by ratting out the hired help to the pinch-pennies and bean-counters who kept hoteliers around the world rich, she’d soon be management material herself. The trick was not in being moral and scrupulous, it was in not getting caught.

But Rosalita had never shown any antagonism toward Janey. She’d also never shown any deference or friendliness. She might have been a carved Mayan idol for all the emotion she projected.

“Good evening, Miss Mays,” the laundress said in her mild Spanish accent, not pausing in her routine of folding. Her spidery hands creased the fabric with geometric precision as she stacked the linen in a basket. The wash room had bare, gray walls and a concrete floor, with no heat besides that generated by the machinery. Janey still carried those long, late hours in her bones.

“Are all the rooms ready?” Janey said, not bothering with a return greeting.

“Yes, and we’ll have the dining room set in an hour.”

“Have you noticed anything funny?” Janey asked.

“Funny, ma’am?”

“Unusual. You know. Have your people said anything?”

Rosalita was so wary that she even hid her wariness. “Nothing. Steady business.”

“The guests are looking for ghosts, and we wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”

“We show them ghosts?”

Janey gave a cracked laugh. “We don’t have to do any showing. Just let them see what they want to see.”

“Ah. Even if they can see through them.”

“Right. So please instruct the staff to play along. Let them share stories and the hotel history. All those deep, dark secrets you guys talk about behind my back.”

Rosalita’s stony facade didn’t yield a crack. “Yes, ma’am.”

Janey took one of the folded linens, flapped it open, and flung it over her head. She let it settle about her shoulders and feigned a ghostly moan. “Whooooo.”

She yanked the tablecloth off her head and tossed it down for Rosalita to fold again. Rosalita’s black eyes were as cold as the room.

“And make sure nobody walks off with any towels,” Janey said, heading for the cluttered service alley that led to the dining hall.

“Or diapers,” Rosalita said.

Janey turned, but the face was impassive. Janey had enjoyed the gradual oppression of Rosalita, a slow grinding under the heel that had stretched for delightful decades. Come Monday, Rosalita would be out of a job but Janey would lose much more—the joy of domination and manipulation.

“I don’t think there will be any babies at the conference,” Janey said. “I’ve seen a couple of teenagers running around, but it’s not the sort of event for child’s play.”

“Except for those dead ones that run and laugh on the second floor?”

“That’s the spirit,” Janey said with an exaggerated wink.

As she navigated the mop buckets, broken chairs, and filthy rolls of carpet in the service alley, she met one of the black-uniformed members of Digger’s crew. He was young and handsome, projecting an air of cockiness. He had some type of electronic gizmo in his hand that looked like a cross between a laser gun and a flashlight.

“Excuse me,” Janey said. “This area is off limits to the public. As you can see, it’s unsafe.”

If Chad and Stevie get sued in the final hour, that might cut into the severance package.

“Digger said we had an all-access pass,” said the young man, whose sea-green eyes twinkled as if they could get him into any door he wanted. “I’m just grabbing some baseline readings.”

He kept on with his instrument, waving it around and studying the digital information on its screen. Janey fought an urge to grab him by the ear and drag his insolent ass out of there. She looked at the name stitched above the SSI logo on the breast of his jump suit.

“Cody,” she said. “I’m sure Mr. Wilson impressed upon you the importance of following rules.”

Cody clicked off the instrument. “Ghosts don’t follow the rules, so why should I?”

Janey gave a brief, dry burst of applause, and the sound was swallowed by the confined space. “Bravo. I’m sure you’re Digger’s star pupil.”

“Look,” he said, thrusting the meter toward her. “You’ve got EMF fluctuations all along here. I’m thinking it’s the wiring behind the walls, or maybe water going through old copper pipes.”

He pressed a trigger on the meter and a row of LED lights flashed red across the screen. He waved the meter in an arc so she could see it, and the line of LED’s surged and disappeared.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“Maybe nothing,” Cody said. “Get the readings now, before all hell breaks loose. Then get readings later, and you can measure hell.”

“Ghosts come from hell?” She’d always thought of them as trapped spirits killing time, watching as she went about her business. More like deadbeat tenants than anything.

“There are different types. You have your residual haunts, sort of like a film projector stuck in a loop. Then you got your actives, what some call the ‘intelligent’ haunts because they interact with the real world. They might talk or touch you, and sometimes express confusion about why things have changed.”

“That doesn’t sound so scary,” Janey said, though she shivered at the thought of a ghost touching her. They could watch all they wanted, and whisper things, and move objects around, but they could damn well keep their hands to themselves in her hotel.

“Poltergeists tend to play little pranks, rap on the walls, and toss things around. They’re usually associated with adolescent girls getting their first period, psychokinetic powers, that kind of thing.”

“No wonder. Turning into a woman would make anybody unstable. If you had PMS, you’d throw things around, too.”

“Then you got your demons,” Cody said, with a mischievous grin.

Klonggg.

Janey jumped at the metallic, grinding noise behind her that might have been the snapping jaws of some flesh-eating spawn of Satan.

Then a buzzer sounded, and Janey realized one of the ancient, commercial-sized dryers had ended its cycle. She pictured Rosalita waiting patiently for the next load, alone with whatever spirits of cotton and dust lay gathered around her.

“Demons constitute less than 1 percent of all activity,” Cody said. “But it’s the kind of activity that can mess you up.”

“Mess you up?”

“I’ve had them throw me across the room. But the real risk is to your noggin. They can plant ideas and make you see things that aren’t exactly family-friendly viewing. And if you get possessed, well, the party really gets out of hand.”

“And you believe this stuff? What are you, some kind of Bible thumper?”

Cody moved past her to take another set of readings. “God versus the Devil would be a clean fight. But demons aren’t really interested in either. A boss is a boss, right? They tend to do their own thing.”

Janey had images of red, pointy-eared creatures fluttering around in caves of fire.

“You’re looking pretty clean so far,” he said. “We’ll do a complete sweep and get a better idea. But you can never tell what’s going to come out and play in the dead of night.”

“When things get quiet,” she said. “I wouldn’t–”

“Whoa.” The row of LED lights on the meter filled and faded in the rhythm of a slow heartbeat. “This is freaky.”

He moved the meter close to an old cherry wardrobe. The piece wasn’t classy enough to be an antique and wasn’t rustic enough to pass off as primitive handicraft. One splintered door sagged from its hinges while the other door was warped and buckled from dampness. The base of the wardrobe was nicked and scarred, and a strip of trim was missing from the crown. The LED bar continued its steady blinking.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

Cody eased the meter through the gap between the doors and Janey cringed, half expecting something to grab his wrist and drag him into the darkness.

“What’s the story on this?” he asked.

Janey couldn’t remember where the piece had come from, but she’d been walking past it for many years, cursing its obstruction of the hallway. She wasn’t even sure why she’d never had the wardrobe hauled away. Perhaps she thought it might be restored, so she could concoct a receipt for a new wardrobe, dump the furniture in one of the larger suites, and stick the cost difference in her pocket.

“Just a pile of junk,” she said.

“Here, hold this,” Cody said, thrusting the meter into her hands. She gripped it gingerly, as if it were a loaded gun. Cody parted the doors and the dim light of the service alley spilled into the interior. The wardrobe was empty.

The meter stopped pulsing and the LED’s went dead.

“It stopped,” Janey said.

“I think we’ve got us an anomaly.” Cody made notes in his pocket-sized composition book.

“Haunted furniture?”

“You need a lot more than an energy fluctuation to make that conclusion. But it’s a data point. I need to check for electrical outlets or pipes behind it.”

While Janey studied the meter’s display, Cody put his shoulder against the wardrobe and scooted it sideways. Despite her cynicism, Janey found herself craning to see the hidden section of cinder block wall. A frayed sheet of plywood was propped against the wall and cool air oozed from the dark gaps around it.

Cody plucked the plywood away, revealing a hole about the size of four cinder blocks. A rank, earthy odor oozed from the opening, and the blackness inside was almost palpable, a solid mass that threatened to spill out like stuffing from a torn sofa.

“I don’t remember that hole being there,” Janey said, relishing a last scolding of Wally Reams.

Cody squatted, fished a penlight from his pocket, and speared the thin shaft of light into the darkness. He stuck his head into the opening. “Sweet.”

“What is it?” Janey asked, shuddering at the thought of rats and other vermin having a free run to the kitchen.

“Looks like some kind of repair access. For pipes and heating ducts.”

As Janey leaned to peer over Cody’s shoulder, the EMF meter began blinking again, this time in a staccato frenzy. She almost dropped it.

“Whatever it is, it’s in here,” Cody said, taking the meter from her.

“Great. An evil spirit is just what we need.”

Cody shook his head. “I doubt we’d get that lucky. I meant that the source of the fluctuation is down there. Wires, pipes, maybe some kind of heat or water pump. The first job in this line of work is to eliminate all the possible solutions until you get to the impossible.”

He turned and looked up at her, his cheek smudged with a cobweb. “People think ghosts are everywhere, but the truth is they’re pretty damned rare. You have to cut through a lot of noise to get to the real deal.”

Janey handed Cody the meter and straightened her jacket. “Well, don’t be crawling down in there without written permission. Mr. Wilson’s contract limits the hunts to the public areas.”

Cody did the Charm School bit, dimples and all, and one eyelid fluttered in a conspiratorial wink. “I wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am.”

She didn’t know whether to spank him or kiss him, and she tightened her lips so she didn’t appear flustered. “And don’t be summoning any demons to my hotel.”

“You don’t have to summon demons. If they want to be here, they already are.”

Janey left Cody to his meter and note pad, acutely aware of the subtle noises of the hotel: air sluicing through the central ductwork, the distant creaking of the old elevator, the muted music from the kitchen, the rumbling of washers and dryers. She had a sense of the hotel as an organic, living thing, with its own circulatory system, breath, and skeleton.

And its own memories.

Its own desires.

And perhaps a will to live.

She hurried to the dining room, a chill settling on her skin. She kept her eyes dead ahead.

Chapter 12

This was exactly what he’d wanted, the main reason he’d set up the ghost hunt. He’d even prayed for it, in such awkward fashion as he could undertake that act of humility. But maybe it wasn’t so wise to ask God for things, because He might deliver them.

Wayne had brushed Burton off with a mumbled story about the Ouija session reminding him of his wife because they’d played the board game together in college. Burton hadn’t bought it completely but hadn’t pressed for more details.

We played, all right. Only it wasn’t in college.

Wayne checked the monitor system. The guests who had signed up for early hunts were already making the rounds of the most notorious rooms, led by members of the SSI team. Wayne and Burton had charted out the rotation schedule to ensure that everyone would be able to spend time in 318, 202, and 218, with the dining room optional. Little history had been gathered on the dining room, though supposedly a spirit dubbed “The Waiter” still offered service in the wee hours of night.

Wayne turned to the group of six that had assembled for the next hunt. Two were old ladies who looked wiry and clear-eyed, knotty hands clutching meters labeled “Ghost Detector.” Such devices were usually sold on the Internet by enterprising paranormal sites, run by entrepreneurs who bought basic EMF meters at wholesale and decked them out with a few stickers and a marketing image at double the cost.

A younger couple, who appeared more interested in each other than in Wayne’s explanation of the hunt logistics, carried no equipment besides digital cameras. A balding man in a plaid jacket projected an unhealthy eagerness, as if ghosts were the only entities that could endure his company for long. Martin Gelbaugh, the final member of the group, hovered around the edge like a wolf waiting to cull the weakest from the pack.

“Okay, folks, here’s the drill. We have one hour in 202. First I want to give you a little history on–”

“Excuse me,” Gelbaugh said. “Wouldn’t it be preferable to go in with a blank slate rather than a head full of suggestions?”

“Not necessarily,” Baldy said. “If you know the stories, then you know what to look for.”

“Exactly,” Gelbaugh said. “You find what you’re looking for.”

Baldy wasn’t sharp enough to pick up on the sarcasm, but one of the old ladies said, “If there’s a ghost in the room, I want to know before I step foot in there.”

Great, Wayne thought. A hunter afraid of ghosts.

“For the record, 202 features anomalies such as tobacco smoke from nowhere, an alarm clock that turns on and off by itself, and a moving cold spot,” he said. “The EMF levels are fairly stable and consistent with the room’s wiring. Multiple reports suggest an entity lingers in the room, but I won’t go into details. You can read the Ghost Register at the front desk if you want to know the rest. Now let’s head out so we can stay on schedule.”

One old woman, the one whose slumping posture made her resemble an undersize Quasimodo, said to the other, “Maybe the ghosts wait until after bedtime.”

Wayne led them down the hall, where they passed a group led by The Roach. Wayne gave a casual salute, impressed by the military precision The Roach had drilled into his charges. The small MAG lights clipped on the bill of his cap gave him credence and furthered his insectile demeanor. Wayne was glad they’d selected the black jump suits as uniforms, because they conveyed organization and competence and also a slight suggestion of danger.

Spiritual storm troopers, armed and ready.

The door to 202 was open, with wires running along the baseboard of the hall and feeding into the room. Burton had rigged surveillance cameras in each of the hunt locations, arranged to capture evidence but also help Wayne track the progress of the various groups. Any guest that wanted to drop out and conduct armchair hunting could sit in the control room and get their money’s worth, imagining shadows on the tiny monochrome screens.

Room 202 was a honeymoon suite, with a renovated kitchenette and a spacious bathroom with a sunken tub. The windows faced east, and dusk was already settling on the rippling hills in the valley below. Night came suddenly in the mountains, especially in November with the solstice approaching. Wayne had almost forgotten the magical aura of the Blue Ridge, with its gray shroud of fogs and ancient, mute granite slabs.

“Okay, folks,” Wayne said, instinctively lowering his voice as the group entered the room. Hunters whispered on a scene, and they assembled with all the reverence of devotees entering church. After all, this was a mystical act of faith and belief. They came to see the unseen and know the unknowing, and they were eager to eat the invisible wafer.

“Can we take pictures yet, Mr. Wilson?”

The woman, whose name tag read “Ann,” projected the air of a tourist. Up close, she looked a little older than her companion, Duncan, and Wayne figured her for a rich cougar who’d netted a hunk in the twilight of her hotness. Nothing was sadder than a woman fighting the losing battle with time and growing desperate and scared as her feminine vanity fought the truth.

I never got to go through that with Beth.
And she was braver than I could ever be. She would have kicked Father Time’s ass if she’d had the chance to meet him.

“Take all the pictures you want,” Wayne said. “You never know which one will catch the evidence.”

“You make it sound so random,” Gelbaugh said.

Wayne ignored him and clicked on his digital voice recorder. “White Horse Inn, Room 202, November twenty-first, 6:30 p.m. Six people present. Room temperature is 72 degrees.”

Wayne put his recorder on the coffee table in the middle of the bedroom. The two elderly women settled into arm chairs, Ann and Duncan sat on the bed, and Gelbaugh took up a post by the window. Wayne turned off the lights and closed the door, then returned to the center of the room. Gelbaugh’s silhouette was clear, but the others blended into the twilight.

“Is anybody here?” he said, in a stage voice.

No answer.

“Show yourself.”

Nothing.

“We would like to meet you.”

The bed squeaked a little as someone changed position.

“Audible bed squeak,” Wayne said, wanting the comment on record to account for the stray sound.

“Did you hear that?” Gelbaugh said.

“Bed squeak,” Wayne said, annoyed that Gelbaugh seemed intent on ruining the hunt.

“Not that,” Gelbaugh said. “Something else.”

They all listened for a moment, but only their shallow breathing disturbed the silence. A flash went off near the bed, illuminating the room like a lightning strike, freezing Gelbaugh as he moved away from the window. Ann had taken a digital photo.

Wayne resumed his summons. “Can you say ‘Hello’?”

The huncher gasped.

“I heard it, too,” said the other.

Wayne hadn’t heard anything. He pressed the glow button on his wristwatch. “6:33 p.m.,” he said for the benefit of the recording. “Report of auditory anomaly.”

The notation would help him review the data later and examine the sound waves to match them with the subjective reports of the people in the room. He didn’t expect the recorder had captured much of anything. Gelbaugh was along to cajole and smirk, and the two old ladies were suggestible enough to turn a whistling wind into the keening of a rabid banshee. Ann and Duncan were the anchors of the group because of their apparent open-minded skepticism.

“Are you with us now?” Wayne said.

Nothing.

“If you’re here, can you move the recorder on the table?” Poltergeists were reputed to respond to challenges on occasion, though Wayne had never witnessed such behavior. He’d seen things fly across the room before, and books and knickknacks fall from shelves, but nothing to convince him the incidents weren’t due to telekinetic powers rather than mischievous spirits. In fact, if the recorder had actually moved, he would have attributed it to floor vibrations caused by the heating system.

The bed squeaked again.

“Audible bed squeak at 6:36,” he said.

“Something touched me,”‘ Ann said.

Wayne squinted into the darkness and made out her shape. She was sitting in a lotus position, with her legs folded under her. If the touch had startled her, it wasn’t reflected in her tone or posture.

“Can you describe it?” Wayne asked.

“I feel it, between us,” Duncan said, showing more excitement than Ann.

“Is it there now?” Wayne said, keeping his voice flat. If the two old ladies started twittering, any auditory evidence would be lost.

“It’s cold,” Ann said.

Wayne slid a digital thermometer from his pocket, but before he could move to the bed, a red dot appeared on the blanket. “Sixty-seven degrees,” Gelbaugh said.

Infrared temperature gun. To bother reading surface temperatures at a distance, Gelbaugh must have had a deeper interest in metaphysics than he’d implied. Or maybe he was trying to stay one step of Wayne, proving the superiority of reason over faith.

“Invalid,” Wayne said for the benefit of the witnesses and the recording. “You have no baseline for comparison.”

“I’ll get my baseline afterward,” Gelbaugh said.

“It’s sitting here beside me and you two are bitch-slapping?” Ann said.

“What is it?” said the hunchback. “A demon?”

“There’s a ghost here,” Baldy said. “I can sense it.”

Gelbaugh snorted in derision.

“Shh,” Wayne said. “You’re contaminating the evidence.”

“Never mind,” Ann said. “Whatever it is, it left.”

“I felt the mattress sag when it sat down,” Duncan said.

“Are you still with us?” Wayne said, hoping the rest of the hunts had a better mix of personalities. An investigation was difficult enough for a trained team of hunters to collect any useful data, but it was nearly impossible for a group of strangers.

“Yes,” Gelbaugh said. “I am.”

“What’s with you?” Baldy said in the dark.

“Nothing’s with me. In fact, I am utterly alone. Despite your collective wishful thinking.”

“Sorry, folks,” Wayne said to the others.

“Bummer,” Duncan said.

“What is it?” asked the hunchback.

“A party crasher,” Baldy said.

“They call it ‘pragmatist’ where I come from,” Gelbaugh said.

Wayne was mentally charting his course across the dark room to the light switch when a thunking sound was followed by a brittle crash.

“Who did that?” Ann said.

Gelbaugh flicked on a pen light and the small, bright beam settled on a shattered lamp that had fallen from a bedside table. “Well, I’m way over here, so it wasn’t me. Which of you is playing ‘Poltergeist’?”

Gelbaugh’s beam bounced from face to face, each of them grim, before fixing onto Wayne’s. He squinted against it, annoyed at the damage.

“I didn’t touch it,” Ann, who was the closest, said.

“Ladies and gentlemen and all you dead people,” Gelbaugh boomed. “Honesty is the best policy. If you broke this, just admit it and be forgiven. Don’t carry the sin with you.”

“Stuff it, Gelbaugh,” Wayne said, flipping the light switch and exploding the room into painful brightness. After the hushed, almost sacred atmosphere of minutes before, the space now seemed desecrated and cramped. The occupants, besides Gelbaugh, began rising and stretching, the elderly ladies confused by it all.

“Investigation ends at 6:44 due to human interference,” Wayne said into the recorder before shutting it off.

“Come on,” Gelbaugh said. “Don’t tell me you can’t stand up to someone poking a stick at your invisible friends. That’s hardly sporting.”

“We paid good money for ghosts,” Baldy said to Wayne. Ann and Duncan had already left the room.

“We’ll get you on another hunt,” Wayne said, collecting the largest shards of the lamp.

After the group exited, Baldy grumbling aloud, Wayne faced off with Gelbaugh. “You’ve made your point, now stay out of the way.”

“You should work on your technique,” Gelbaugh replied. “Take some acting lessons.”

“Some of us have to fake it, but you’re a natural-born asshole.”

Gelbaugh laughed. “Will the last one leaving please turn out the lights?”

The room went dark.

“Nice trick,” Gelbaugh said. “Too bad your audience is gone.”

Wayne, ten feet from the light switch, said nothing. He stood there with the yellow orb of light burning its blurred images behind his eyelids—along with a face, yawning black mouth and vacant eyes riding behind the glow like a red scream.

It was a face he’d kissed and loved and married once, long ago.

It wasn’t so pretty these days.

Chapter 13

The Roach was down on demons.

Raised a Catholic, he’d first sensed evil at the hands of a priest, who had touched him in ways that made him sick and tingly all at the same time. Nothing too overt, nothing that would have merited a civil suit in the “Pope Versus Lawyers” landscape of the 1990’s, but enough to instill an unsettling view of sacred rituals.

During puberty, he’d felt the shadow latch on him as he’d explored the natural wonders of masturbation. Figuring it for a textbook case of guilt, he’d offered his Hail Marys and continued indulging. But the shadow deepened, insinuating into his heart like an autumn whisper, and one night the shadow appeared at the foot of his bed and said, “We’re ready to play.”

He’d passed that night with the light on, flipping through his Bible without seeing the words, mumbling catechisms and the Lord’s Prayer. He’d tried to speak to his priest about the incident, but the modern church was more interested in pop psychology and public relations than battling ancient evil, and so little Rodney was left on his own. Fortunately, the Internet and a New Age bookstore had provided an armchair education, and soon he was secreting away holy water in preparation of the coming Armageddon, when the Fallen would have their day.

The Roach had become an informal demonologist, working outside the church, moving in a world that bordered between low-budget horror movies and La-La Land. He’d taken up ghost hunting almost as a cover, since the equipment reassured many of the clients who consulted him. The Roach never charged for his work, believing it a calling from God, and he’d joined Spirit Seekers International because the group would provide more opportunities for service.

Only problem was, these days, he wasn’t so sure which side he served.

God promised eternal peace and joy, but it was a delayed gratification. Lucifer and his gang gave you everything you wanted, and right now.

But Lucifer played a game of bait-and-switch, with the catch being you only thought you wanted something, and when you got it, you realized it wasn’t so good for you. And when you wanted another person, and consumed her against her will, then it wasn’t so good for her, either.

Eat her like a cracker. Bread of life, bread of death, it all comes down to crumbs floating in the chalice.

“You picking up anything, Roach?”

Cody gave his sparkling gaze, and The Roach was nearly disgusted by the innocence and light that swam in The Future of Horror’s eyes. Angels weren’t born, they were made, and they pissed him off royally.

There but for the grace of God go I. Maybe you’re taking my dance card on the head of a pin.

“There are five here,” The Roach said. “Two of them are the bad-ass variety. The rest are impressions that don’t even know they’re dead.”

“We’ll slap the MAC Attack on them and pin them down.” Cody was rigging motion detectors in the large dining hall to work in sync with the cameras, all linked to a couple of eight-gig hard drives that could store two days’ worth of data. Audio, thermal image, spot temperature, electromagnetic activity, all measurements were recorded and correlated with the exact time so that anomalies could be cross-referenced. Cody’s MAC Attack did everything but give the ghosts an anal probe, and The Roach was sure that feature would be added once he patented his system and marketed it to the UFO crowd.

“You were right about the crawl space,” Roach said. “That entity’s so old it doesn’t even have a name.”

“I’m just afraid of what’s going to happen once all these paranormal tourists start stirring things up.”

“Come on, Cody. You’re not afraid of anything.”

Cody flashed his smile, and heavenly light practically sparkled off his teeth. No wonder Kendra was sweet on him. If Wayne didn’t watch it, he’d be raising an extra generation, and it wouldn’t be a virgin birth, either.

“Nothing sticks to you that you don’t invite, right?” Cody said.

True dat, little friend. “But you can be tricked.”

Cody perched a tripod in the corner of the dining hall. “Other people can be tricked. Not me.”

“You just haven’t been presented with the right temptation yet,” The Roach said, thinking of Kendra.

“Oh, I’ve had a few,” the teen responded. “Jesus wandering in the desert and all that. Keep your heart pure and you’ll be okay.”

Cody reeled out some black, plastic-sheathed cables, keeping them out of the traffic areas as he set up his sophisticated data-collection system. The paranormal field had exploded with technical gear in the last decade as profit margin sparked its own brand of ingenuity. While a few technogeeks had invented tandem devices to combine various measurements, Cody had developed software that charted information from multiple sources. All the MAC Attack needed was a marketing push and Cody would be set for life.

“We’ve got a visitor,” Roach said. A shadow shimmered in the cut glass of the ornate dining-room door. The round tables were bare, covered by white linen and an air of expectation, as if invisible diners had eaten and were now waiting for dessert.

The door creaked open and in came Kendra. “You guys ever heard of a light switch?”

She flicked on the electric chandeliers, but an incipient gloom still clung to the corners like a permanent stain.

“Ghost hunters do it in the dark,” Cody said.

“Yeah, yeah, and all night long, too. I’ve heard it before. When you going to come up with some new stuff?”

Cody looked past the camera he was mounting to Roach. “I’ve got to get this lady on my payroll.”

“You don’t have any payroll,” Roach said. “Remember, you’re the ‘future of horror.’ You ain’t happened yet.”

As Kendra approached, Cody made a show of swiveling his camera toward her, as if recording her walk. She immediately broke into a stilted, filly-like strut, like a model on a runway. She was overdoing it, a little uncomfortable in her flirting.

“I’m too sexy for my shoes,” she rapped, in a send-up of the old Right Said Fred song.

“Paranormal poster child,” The Roach said. “You’ll be ready to take over for Digger any day now.”

“Cool it, Roach. I’m not legal yet. Besides, I’m going to art school.”

Cody propped a ladder against the wall. “You don’t believe in any of this stuff, do you?”

Kendra sat down on one of the tables, and it wobbled, throwing off her calm insouciance. “Nothing personal, Cody. But I’ll believe it when I see it, and you haven’t shown me anything yet.”

Whoa, she’s good. Roach ogled her as much as he could get away with, noticing how much her figure had filled out in the past year. The pesky little brat was swelling into a full-blown tart. If I were 10 years younger and had a shred less morality...

“What does Digger think about having a heathen in the family?” Cody climbed the ladder to tape a remote thermometer to the wall.

“I don’t think he’s noticed,” Kendra said. “But I talk to my mom all the time.”

“Communing with the dead?” Cody said.

“I call it praying,” Kendra said. “Your mileage may vary.”

Roach checked the electromagnetic levels in the room and marked them down. While Cody’s program would record the data automatically, Roach still found comfort in pen and paper. He’d seen computers go dead along with other equipment, especially when demons needed a handy power source while entering the physical realm.

“Better watch your aura,” Cody said. “Roach says there are some Dark Ones here.”

“I don’t get it,” Kendra said. “If God has the power to throw angels out of heaven, why would He allow them to hang around down here and tempt people with evil, possess them, or whatever?”

“God needs somebody to do His dirty work,” Roach said. “Keeps his hands clean.”

“What do the demons get out of it? I mean, Lucifer got tossed out on his buns because he wanted to be top dog, and now he’s sitting around plotting his comeback?”

“That’s what the Book of Revelation is all about,” Roach said, though that biblical text was clouded by metaphor and poetic nonsense. “The Fallen go for it, they get Earth for a thousand years, just enough for them to get a taste, and then–whammo–God yanks the bone out of their mouths.”

“Okay, so they’re waiting for their day in the sun,” Kendra said. “Then why are they messing around in the meantime? If demons walk among us, how come none of us are possessed?”

The innocence of youth. Where do you think your own sins come from, Digger Junior?
And you don’t even have to rely on evil’s influence spreading from within, because sooner or later the Devil’s hammer is going to hit you from the outside.

“Demons can’t work without invitation,” Roach said. “So it’s a choice. That’s what the whole heaven-and-hell thing is all about.”

“Lighten up,” Cody said. “You’re going to give the paranormal industry a bad name. I’d rather be seen as a bunch of opportunistic flakes than Gloomy Doomies.”

“What good are numbers in matters of faith?” Kendra said. “You can pile up specs until the end of time and never come up with an answer to the big question.”

Cody grinned a little at the compliment, but uncertainty clouded his features. “What’s your point?”

“You’re trying to prove the unprovable, Dad’s trying to know the unknowable, Roach is trying to defeat the invincible. We’re all just going through the motions and it all comes out the same in the end.”

“Whoa,” Cody said. “I didn’t realize you were an existentialist.”

She slid off the table, mussing the linen, and headed for the door. “Nah, I’m just a cartoon character. Don’t mind me.”

Roach watched Cody’s eyes as they consumed every detail of the girl’s movement. Confident she was being watched, she gave a flip of her hair, blending shadow and light, and lapsed into a subtle imitation of her catwalk strut.

Yes, he’s watching, you little vixen. But he’s not the only one.

The demon in the corner, which had not yet given itself a name, nodded in agreement.

Chapter 14

“You shouldn’t have tipped the lamp so fast,” Duncan said.

Ann, aiming her digital camera into a mirror so that it caught a slanted view of the third-floor hall, said, “It wasn’t me, it was that cranky old cynic, Gelbaugh.”

“You’re the cranky old cynic. Besides, he was all the way across the room.”

The hall was buckled, the decades warping the wood beneath the frayed gray carpet. The skewed geometry no doubt contributed to paranormal delusions, and Ann figured to play it to her advantage. Using the mirror, she was able to distort the architecture even further. She clicked, and the flash illuminated the grim passageway.

“I wouldn’t put it past Digger Wilson to rig it himself,” Duncan said. “Maybe a thin fishing line tied to the lamp cord.”

Ann took another photo. “Doubtful. He would have played the crowd a little, let the drama build toward a satisfying climax. He’s a showman if nothing else.”

A small group turned the corner at the far end of the hall, led by a middle-aged man in an SSI jumpsuit. While some of the hunters were solemn and had haunted looks about their eyes, this group was boisterous and laughing.

“No respect for the dead,” Duncan said.

“Judging from the roster, most of these people are from established groups,” Ann said. “I guess they all want a paranormal show on the Sci Fi Channel.”

“Light on the ‘science,’ but heavy on the ‘fiction,’” Duncan said. “But I doubt if there’s a lot of demand for the ‘Skeptic’s Channel.’”

“Skeptic? I’m not a skeptic. Skeptics are still open to possibility.”

Ann and Duncan pressed against the wall to allow the group passage. The jump-suited group leader smiled at them and glanced at their name tags. The walkie talkie on his hip hissed and squawked, and Digger’s voice rode a wave of static: “We’ll have to regroup, folks. Please return to the control room.”

Jumpsuit groaned and banged his clipboard against his hip. “This is no way to run a railroad.”

As he herded his group toward the stairs, Ann grabbed Duncan’s sleeve and went in the opposite direction. “Come on, handsome, time for a little game.”

“We just did that. You know it takes me a couple of hours to recover.”

“Not that kind of game. This is for keeps.”

“Where we headed?”

“I saw on that guy’s clipboard that they’re headed for 302. We have time to give them a little show.”

“What about all the cameras they’ve got rolling?”

“We’ll use them.”

After the turn of the corridor, they reached a set of stairs that squeaked with every step. Ann admired the cleverness of the maintenance staff. From the mirrors on the walls to the careful disrepair, a Hollywood construction team couldn’t have concocted a better stage. The hotel even had a chilly draft snaking through the hallway.

They found 302 unlocked, as Ann knew it would be. All the hunt locations were guaranteed to be open around the clock, just in case some hardcore spirit junkies needed a late-night fix.

“So what’s the plan?” Duncan asked.

“There you go, talking in questions again.”

“I have a probing mind.”

“And probing other things. But once in while you should just shut up and follow my orders.”

“What do I get out of that deal?”

“My undying gratitude. Now go to the window and wrap yourself inside the curtain liner.”

“Nobody’s going to fall for that.”

“I’m going to flash the lights. Anyone standing outside will see your silhouette but won’t have time to observe any definite features. So you’ll become a ‘sighting,’ and everyone will want to run in here with their instruments.”

“I still don’t get it.” Even as he was expressing doubt, he headed for the window, and Ann smiled to herself. She knew how to get what she wanted, and he likely had a few good months left before she burned him out.

“If 302 becomes a hot spot, then we have time to set up stuff in the other rooms.”

“What stuff?” The woman coming out of the bathroom surprised Ann, and Duncan was already untangling himself from the curtains.

“Uh, sorry. Didn’t know anybody was in here.”

“Yeah, our group hunted here and I had to….” She rolled her eyes into the bathroom. “Darned thing didn’t flush.”

“We were just goofing off,” Ann said.

“You said something about a sighting.”

Ann had been thrown off her game with Duncan witnessing. The woman looked to be in her 30s and was attractive, but had none of the spaciness of the other hunters, that vacant-eyed desperation that made them so easy to fool. “I heard this room was haunted.”

“It is,” she said. “I’m Tonya, by the way. Tonya Townsend.”

“I’m Ann, and that’s Duncan.”

Duncan moved away from the window and pretended to investigate the closet, going so far as to flick his flashlight on and peer into the corners.

“Nothing in the closet,” Tonya said. “It’s gone. I felt it.”

“You’re a...what do they call them, a ‘sensitive’?” Ann figured the woman would be flattered.

“I’m a hairdresser,” she said. “The head is a powerful place for spiritual energy and when you’re styling someone’s hair, you’re messing with the crown chakra.”

Ann had heard of the seven-point energy system derived from a Hindu-based healing tradition, but she wasn’t sure it held any more validity than ghosts and goblins. But she nodded, more to distract Tonya from her suspicion than because of any interest in the subject. “And you know when ghosts are around?”

“Yes,” she said, eyeing Duncan, who was now peering under the bed. “I can feel them. Sort of like the static before a thunderstorm.”

Or maybe exactly like that. One of Ann’s theories was that minor electromagnetic fluctuations could lead to disorientation and hallucinations, and people who were hard-wired to be susceptible were also more likely to report paranormal experiences.

“Did you sense one here earlier?” Duncan asked. His eyes met Ann’s, and she saw a conspiratorial glimmer in them. He was changing the subject.

“Yeah. It was the suicide guy. The one who jumped from the third floor and got skewered.”

“I thought he jumped from 318,” Ann said. She was losing track of the haunted rooms.

“He wanders from room to room. No need to worry about walls, right?”

“I guess not,” Duncan said.

“He has a sad energy. I’ve encountered ghosts that had post-traumatic stress disorder, and they usually don’t know what happened. This guy acts like he knew he made a choice and now he regrets it.”

Ann bit her lip to keep from grinning. Tonya’s face was so earnest that Ann almost believed her, except the part where the guy was many years dead and she was talking about him like he’d just returned from a vacation.

“Do you think he’ll come back around?” Ann said, pulling a Flip video camera from her breast pocket. “I would love to get some footage for my YouTube site.”

Tonya narrowed her eyes. “You can’t see him. He’s an energy spirit. He doesn’t draw enough charge to become substance.”

“Sort of like a battery that’s gone weak?” Duncan asked, trying to impose a plausible science.

“You’ve heard of auras, right? The energy rings above people’s heads? It’s sort of like that.”

“Cool,” Ann said. “Can you see them?”

“I see them with both the living and the dead. That’s how I can tell their moods.”

“What color is mine?”

“Orange, the color of fire and passion.”

Ann felt a small surge of pride, despite not believing a word of it.

“What about me?” Duncan asked.

“You’re a greenie. Earthbound and bright.”

Ann couldn’t resist. “And the dead guy?”

Tonya closed her eyes. “You’re not going to believe this.”

You can say that again. Ann felt her flesh tighten as the room temperature dipped noticeably.

“He’s here,” Tonya whispered.

Duncan, who had sat on the bed, looked around the room. Ann found herself pulling out the pocket-sized video camera. “Where?”

“Right behind you.”

Ann’s heart skipped a beat despite her doubt. As she turned, she imagined a slow exhalation of breath drifting along the back of her neck. She wondered if she were beginning to suffer a peculiar version of Stockholm Syndrome, only as a willing hostage of the paranormal community. She was more than a hostage; she was a spy.

Ann saw nothing but put her hand out. The air in front of her felt cold and her fingers tingled with a faint trickle of electricity.

“His aura is gray,” Tonya whispered. “With a little bit of purple, like clouds at sundown.”

“What’s he want?”

“I can’t tell,” she responded. “I don’t think he knows.”

“Come on, Ann,” Duncan said. “This is getting a little silly.”

“Shh,” Ann said. She pressed the button on her Flip cam and held it in front of her. Perhaps Tonya’s hallucination was a bit of reflected streetlight or a prismatic effect from the bedside lamp. The cam also had an audio track so she could monitor Tonya’s remarks.

“Can I talk to it?” Ann asked Tonya.

“It’s a he,” she said. “You can try. But I don’t think he’ll stay long.”

Ann had studied investigation techniques and knew some hunters took a provocative approach, on the belief that ghosts were like caged tigers and only needed to be poked a little to growl.

“Why did you kill yourself?” she asked, the words coming out louder than she had intended.

The heating system kicked on, the hum accompanied by a mild vibration in the floor. So much for a simple answer in English.

“Maybe you should have it sing the ABC’s,” Duncan suggested.

“The aura is changing,” Tonya said. “Now it’s like a dark cloud.”

Ann waved her hand at head height before her, imagining the aura dispersing like so much mist. The air before her was now frigid, despite the ventilation system pumping warm air into the room. A pungent aroma assailed her nostrils, as if a rat had died in the air duct and reached a ripe state of corruption.

“Do you see anything?” Ann asked, intending the question for Duncan.

Tonya answered. “The aura is getting bigger.”

Ann took an involuntary step back and the pillar of cold air seemed to expand to meet her. Tonya’s steady, calm voice was somehow more chilling than if she’d gone for a dramatic stage whisper. Ann kept the Flip cam as steady as she could in her now-trembling hand. The tension in the room swelled and the overhead light dimmed.

“It’s drawing power,” Tonya said.

“Electrical surge in the wiring,” Duncan said, but Ann wasn’t so sure science was behind this little display. She knew most of her experience was subjective, and that the visual and auditory record would reveal nothing unusual, but she found herself glad for Tonya’s steady presence.

As the light grew bright again, the room warmed. Tonya exhaled as if she’d been holding her breath since exiting the bathroom.

“What was that?” Duncan asked.

“It’s gone again,” Tonya said.

“He’s gone,” Ann added, realizing that the force had projected a definite masculinity. But that was absurd. Even if the various experiences could be corroborated, physical events by their nature were indifferent and neuter. Science was marked by gender, not sex.

“Come on,” Duncan said, taking her arm and leading her to the door. “You need some rest.”

Ann was listless, as if the entity had drained power from her as well as the light bulb. As Duncan guided her from the room, he whispered, “Good show.”

He must have thought she was faking the performance, both to assuage Tonya’s suspicions and raise expectations among the hunters. But Ann wasn’t quite sure how to assess the experience. The various phenomena combined to create a cumulative effect that left her wondering what had happened.

As they reached the door, Tonya said, “Your aura.”

Ann turned, though Duncan frowned.

“The black is in yours now.”

Chapter 15

Lame-o-rama. Ain’t that right, Momma?

Kendra had lowered her expectations for her dad, but this was a little embarrassing. She would have just given the two ladies their refunds and sent them on their way, but Wayne Wilson never let a dollar slide out of his pocket without a fight. Even the little melodrama with the fainting fat lady had turned dull. This whole conference was shaping up as nothing more than another wasted weekend.

The control room was in chaos, with the hunt schedule already thrown off barely two hours in. A dozen people were complaining about their groups, and one woman said her butt had been fondled in the dark. Wayne had tried to appease her by suggesting she’d been touched by the spirit, but apparently the woman’s feminist ardor trumped her belief in the paranormal.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll get back on track in just a minute,” Wayne shouted in his best barker’s voice, momentarily quelling the rebellion. The room smelled of menthol and stale tobacco smoke, with a faint tinge of body odor. As he huddled with Burton over a clipboard, Kendra sidled through the murmuring crowd to Cody, who was rattling the keys of his laptop.

“Hey, Future,” she said. “Got any goods yet?”

Cody’s brow furrowed as he studied the computer, which was perched on a card table and wired to a bank of video monitors. “Check this out,” he said without looking up.

He tapped some keys, bringing one of the video thumbnails to full size on his screen. The video began playing, and Kendra leaned over Cody’s shoulder to look. His neck smelled clean, with an outdoorsy freshness that made her a little light-headed. She debated brushing her chest against his back, but decided he was too deeply into his work to notice, and she didn’t want to waste ammunition.

She smirked to herself. Tiny bullets.

“The attic,” Cody said, stating the obvious as he pointed to the screen. The image showed rafters, dusty boards, a crumbling brick chimney, and fluffy piles of old insulation.

“Creepy.”

“No more so than any other dark place. Now look.” Cody pressed a key and the video began streaming.

Kendra saw no movement on the screen and couldn’t tell whether the image was a still photograph until a moth finally fluttered past the camera. Her dad, like most hunters, spent more hours poring over potential evidence than they did hunting, one of the mundane and overlooked aspects of the field. Ghost-hunting shows on television didn’t show the tedious research that went into gleaning the oddities; the audience would be clicking away to reality shows and other forms of instant gratification. Cody was as impatient as any teen, so he didn’t bother building suspense.

After 20 seconds, Wayne appeared on the screen, crouching and walking awkwardly toward the chimney. He placed his hand on the bricks as if sizing something up, then he retraced his steps.

“So, it’s just Dad being dorky,” she said. “Nothing special about that.”

“Wait.”

Five seconds later, a faint image of a person appeared against the bricks. The image had no movement, but appeared to fade in and out. Just as the woman’s features became distinct, showing her flowing dress and long hair, it blinked out.

“Whoa,” Kendra said. “Did I just see that?”

Yep.” Cody let the footage continue as Wayne herded the groups together and began sending them out of the control room. Cody stopped the streaming video and backed it up, then replayed the segment. This time, he zoomed in and increased the screen resolution so that the image was revealed in large rectangular pixels.

“Here’s the weird part,” Cody said, touching the screen with his finger. “See the digital information on the regular image?”

“Yeah. It’s pixelated.”

He froze the image just as the shadowy figure appeared. “Now look how fuzzy the blocks are.”

Kendra wondered if he was testing her skepticism. She couldn’t decide whether to call his bluff or act ignorant. “Well, if it’s a ghost, isn’t it supposed to be fuzzy?”

“It’s sort of like when you keep making photocopies of a photocopy. Pretty soon the image degrades.”

“You’re saying Dad rigged a fake image?”

“No. This is my personal video. I would know if somebody hacked it. He didn’t even know I’d set this one up because I did it before the rest of the crew hit the attic.”

Burton’s group was the last to leave, and Wayne came over to the monitor desk. Kendra was about to ask if he’d seen the video when Cody shot her a “Cool it” look and minimized the screen.

“Murphy’s law,” Wayne said. “The group hunts always work on paper, but people don’t hunt on paper.”

“Got it sorted out?” Cody asked, bringing up the split-screen view that showed small versions of all the live camera images.

“Trains are back on schedule,” he said. “Kendra, can I talk to you a sec?”

She rolled her eyes just enough for Cody to notice, and his lips pursed in sympathy. “Sure.”

Wayne escorted her to the hall and faced her, lowering his voice so Cody couldn’t hear. “You know I trust you and give you lots of leeway, and maybe that comes across as being inattentive, or ‘spaced out,’ as you like to say. And I’ve never worried about bringing you along on my hunts because you’ve always been so mature.”

Because when Mom died, somebody had to be the grown-up. That was the kind of response that would require years of psychotherapy, so she merely nodded.

“But this time I want you to stick close to me,” he said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.”

“It’s just a creaky old hotel,” she said.

“Don’t be so damned hardheaded.”

“Is this about Cody?”

Wayne’s eyes narrowed and flicked back into the control room. “What about Cody?”

Dad was so shut off from his emotions that he couldn’t recognize teen lust when he saw it. Not that she was quite sure what to make of it herself, or how far she wanted to go, but if two heterosexual teens were stranded on a desert island, somewhere along the way things would get natural.

“Nothing. He’s just a tech geek.”

“Cody can take care of himself. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Like I can’t take care of myself?”

“Look. Some stuff is happening, okay? Things I can’t explain.”

“I thought that was the point,” she said, then slipped into a mocking delivery of one of his marketing slogans. “‘All the shivers you can stand, or your money back.’”

“That was show biz, but this is real.”

“Digger Wilson calling something ‘real’?”

“Honey.” His features curdled, his pretense of patience drained dry.

“You said I was mature for my age, but I think you just forced responsibility on me so you wouldn’t have to bother with me.”

Digger slammed the bottom of his fist against the wall, the suddenness causing her to jump. “Damn it.”

“Great, a few more punches like that and this whole place is liable to collapse.”

Digger walked away just as Cody poked his head out of the control room. “Something fall?” Cody asked.

“Just my high hopes,” Kendra said. Dad had already turned the corner. Kendra was still flushed with the thrill of cheap victory. In younger days, she would cry, her tears driving him into helpless rage. She’d grown a little subtler since then, but he was just as vulnerable to his anger. The violence was a new manifestation, but nothing she couldn’t turn to her advantage.

“Thanks for keeping our little secret,” he said.

“Hmm?” She was only half listening, thinking of Dad.

“The superimposed image. I need to break it down a little to see if it’s legit.”

“And if it is?”

“Then somebody’s trying to set us up.”

“What’s the third alternative?”

“I don’t believe it’s an intelligent haunt. No interaction.”

“Well, you believe in demons, right?”

“Yeah, but–”

“Why couldn’t a demon superimpose an image, or manipulate your video data, if they’re so powerful?”

“It doesn’t work that way.” Cody looked a little less certain than he sounded.

“You have rules for everything, but not everything follows the rules.” The combative mood still lingered, and she couldn’t shake it, even though Cody had done nothing wrong. To her horror, she felt a surge of heat in her self-righteousness, and wondered if she had inherited the Digger’s anger issues.

She needed to get away before Cody wrote her off as a bitchy lunatic. A little down time with some paper and pencils was the cure for her mood.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m starting my period.”

Cody grinned, which she took as a sign of forgiveness. “My deepest sympathies.”

“Good luck with that image thing. Gotta run.”

“Later.”

Kendra headed for her room, yearning for escape into two-dimensional worlds and cartoon ghost faces, where the characters behaved the way she wanted.

Chapter 16

The Psychic’s Room was set up in 131, and Cristos Rubio was holding court in style.

When Wayne entered the room, Rubio was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees with his palms turned up. He wore his signature purple cloak, a silk cord holding it around his neck. His wrinkled brown face was etched with secrets, and his skin looked as if it were flaking. His eyes were small, dark, and reptilian.

A young man sat in front of Rubio, a deck of playing cards on the floor between them. The man pressed one of the cards against his chest.

“The card you’re holding is the seven of diamonds,” Rubio said in his rich Spanish accent.

The man turned the card over and flipped it to the floor, where the half-dozen onlookers gaped at it. It was the six of spades.

“Three out of eight,” the man said.

Rubio opened his eyes. The left one wandered, swiveling toward the corner of the room. In the Middle Ages, those with wandering eyes were considered seers, and the lucky ones managed to earn their bread by telling fortunes, preferably good ones. The rest were burned at the stake or exiled.

“Cut the deck,” Rubio said.

The man did, and Rubio touched the top card. The onlookers fell silent, as if they were also trying to tune into the card. Wayne admired Rubio’s sense of drama, letting the moment play out. Rubio took his fingers off the card and the man picked it up.

“It feels like the jack of hearts,” Rubio said.

The man turned the card over, revealing that Rubio had predicted it correctly. Or else examined the marks hidden in the patterns on the back of the card.

“Four of nine,” the man said, with a slight bit of awe.

“Is he cheating?” whispered a woman in the back of the room.

“Probably,” said a man in a black turtleneck. “But it’s a good act.”

“I checked the cards myself,” Wayne said. “He’s legit.”

As far as I know.

Wayne had found Cristos Rubio through an Internet search, figuring a psychic would round out the conference and give some of the low-energy types a reason to skip out on the hunts.

“One more,” Rubio said. “I should be good to pick at least 50 percent.”

The man went through the routine again and this time Rubio correctly guessed three of clubs. This elicited a few “oohs” and “aahs,” as well as a little muttering. Gelbaugh, leaning against the wall wearing his patented smirk, offered, “Hardly a controlled experiment.”

The man who was dealing the cards, whose face was pointed like a weasel’s, though he had gambler’s eyes, said, “Why don’t you try one?”

Good theater, Digger thought. I might have to make this a regular part of Haunted Computer Productions.

Gelbaugh eased his way through the crowd, strolling like a motion-picture sheriff headed for a showdown. “Let’s try my deck,” he said, fishing inside his sports jacket. “Then we’ll know it’s clean.”

Unless you two varmints is in cahoots.

Gelbaugh pulled out a deck with an elaborate, mystic design on the card backs, replete with stars, moons, comets, and other celestial bodies against a midnight-blue background. He set the deck on the coffee table, cut it, and said, “Try the top one.”

Rubio touched the deck, closed his eyes, and frowned, the deep creases of his forehead as eroded as the Andean Mountains of Peru, his country of origin. His thick, dark eyebrows worked up and down in concentration. “These are not playing cards,” he whispered after a moment.

“Sure, they are,” Gelbaugh said. “We’re playing a game, aren’t we?”

“Don’t push it,” Wayne said.

“What’s the matter?” Gelbaugh looked around at the assembled audience, several of whom appeared to be silently supporting him. “You don’t want anyone to peek behind the curtain?”

Wayne was resigning himself to another verbal shootout with Gelbaugh when Rubio cut in with renewed strength in his voice. “I see.”

Gelbaugh’s smile dropped into an O of surprise, and Wayne’s pulse leaped at the cheap victory. If Gelbaugh were left dead in the street, his trigger finger cold and limp, then the conference attendees might be able to relax and enjoy themselves.

“Okay,” Gelbaugh said. “Wing it.”

“Is Tarot,” Rubio said.

Gelbaugh’s face went impassive. “Obvious,” he said. “The design gives that one away.”

“From India.”

“Wrong. These are from Poland.”

“Designed in Poland. Printed in India.”

Gelbaugh remained inscrutable. “Much of the world’s printing is done in India.”

“It’s moving to Hong Kong and China,” said a man in a tie that featured a ghost drinking a martini and bearing the logo “Blithe spirit.” “I’m in advertising. All those crazy chemicals and no regulations, plus there’s more merchant ships.”

“Thank you for the trivia quiz,” Gelbaugh said. “But I’m sure you folks want to get back to chasing figments of your imagination, so let’s get this over with.”

“Fool,” Rubio said.

“Sticks and stones. But don’t let your name-calling break your concentration.”

“The Fool. Turn it.”

Gelbaugh gave a deft flip and the card showed a dancing jester who wore an idiot grin. “Ah, nice work. Odds are one in 70, so you should head for Vegas after the conference.”

“It is upright, meaning the beginning of a journey. Spiritual, emotional, or physical. Decisions and unexpected occurrences await.”

“As vague as any daily horoscope or fortune cookie. Does that apply to me or to you?”

“Me. You have the down side: Rash choices, impulsive actions, reckless behavior.”

Gelbaugh grinned and look around the room. “Any ladies in the house want to see how reckless my behavior can be?”

One woman blushed, but most of them scowled. The energy in the room was taking on a brittle edge, the anticipation melding into impatience. Wayne didn’t want to interfere, but he felt obliged to play the tolerant host.

“Next card,” Wayne said. “If he can get two out of 70, then Cristos–and clairvoyance–wins.”

“The senor just called me a gambler,” Gelbaugh said. “Anyone want to put $500 on the next guess?”

Rubio shook his head in dismay, but the advertising executive raised his hand as if he were a bidder at an estate auction. “I’m in, asshole.”

“You heard the man,” Gelbaugh said to the room, cutting the deck again and sliding the Fool card to the side.

Rubio reached out a hand and placed his index finger on the deck. One corner of his mouth twitched. The room was so silent that Wayne heard the distant elevator grinding toward the bottom floor.

“Pull something melodramatic like the Hanging Man,” Gelbaugh said. “Or the Devil.”

“Please no joke about these things,” Rubio muttered through tight lips. The finger on the card trembled. “Knight of Cups.”

Gelbaugh turned the card and was grinning before he laid it on the table for all to see. The ad man drew in a deep breath. “Seven of Coins. Guess that means coins for me.”

“Okay, he’s batting .500,” Wayne said with feigned joviality. “What say we cash in our chips and move on?”

“Double or nothing,” the ad man said.

“Please,” Rubio said.

“Fine, I could use a grand, considering how expensive these conferences are,” Gelbaugh said, splitting the deck once more. “Maybe I can afford an autographed publicity shot of Digger Wilson.”

Rubio, resigned and slumped, put his palm over the deck and closed his eyes. His dark complexion had gone pale and sweat beaded his forehead like jewels. The people in the room shifted uncomfortably.

“No good,” Rubio said after a strained moment.

Gelbaugh, without looking, held his hand out toward the ad man. “Sucker’s game.”

“Wait,” Rubio said. His shoulders shook, as if low-voltage electricity were flowing through him. Two women, who had been whispering to one another, leaned toward the table. The entire group had crowded together so that the air around the table had become stale and warm.

“I see a curving shape,” Rubio said. “An ‘S.’”

“Swords, coins, cups, wands, empress, priestess, sun, star, strength...have I forgotten any? Ah, yes, justice. That hardly narrows it down much.”

The man knew his Tarot, Wayne had to admit. Gelbaugh was well-read on any subject he sought to ridicule.

“No, no, this is a different card,” Rubio said.

“Something in the major arcana?”

“Are those the cards without Roman numerals?”

“Nice. Pretending ignorance.”

“I don’t know these cards well. It is not good to know the future.”

Gelbaugh winked at the ad man. “Especially if the future sucks.”

“The shape moves against a field of green.”

“Could be the sun,” one of the onlookers said.

“Shh,” said another.

“It’s not going to help,” Gelbaugh said. “Any guess has the same odds as any other.”

“Snake,” Rubio said with force.

“Ha. Your odds just went from long to zero. There’s no snake in the Tarot.”

“Snake,” Rubio insisted, his eyebrows lowering and his face setting in hard resolve.

“Final answer?”

“Snake.”

Gelbaugh turned the card, revealing an illustrated snake that curled up from a meadow and into a tree. It was done in the same art style as the other cards, though Wayne had never heard of such a card in the Tarot.

Gelbaugh’s grin had frozen on his face, as if he had tasted live worms and found them bitter. “A trick,” he said.

“No trick,” Rubio said. “Your deck, remember?”

“That card’s not part of my deck.”

Rubio turned the card over, face down. “The design matches.”

“I’ve had this deck for years. That card isn’t in it.”

Wayne wondered who would go to such lengths for a prank. Gelbaugh was genuinely angry, overlooking the fact that Rubio had made a correct guess. Or perhaps “guess” was the wrong word. The wizened Peruvian had delivered his earlier readings with a studied equanimity, but his insistence on the answer of “snake” had projected passion and pride and a little bit of fear. Now Gelbaugh owed acknowledgment but all he had was rage.

Gelbaugh drove the bottom of his fist onto the table top, shaking the remaining cards. “Someone’s been in my room,” he said. “I had the deck locked away.”

“Only the hotel staff has room keys,” Wayne said.

The ad man slapped Gelbaugh on the back and said, “Even Steven.”

“He cheated,” Gelbaugh said, furiously counting the deck. “There should only be 70 cards.”

“Maybe he changed the card with his mind,” said a woman in a rumpled silk jumper.

Wayne moved closer to examine the card as Gelbaugh picked it up. The wax had the same amount of wear as the other cards and was clearly not new. It matched the other cards in all other aspects besides its depiction. Wayne wondered what the snake would mean if it were one of the arcana. Probably would imply all the historic and psychological metaphors of serpentine behavior—temptation, poison, and cold-bloodedness, with the flip-side attribute of shedding old skin. And, of course, there was also the Freudian interpretation of male genitalia.

Cristos Rubio leaned back, weary and slumped. “Snake,” he whispered with finality.

“...thirty-seven...38...39....” Gelbaugh counted.

“He pulled it from the bottom of the deck,” someone said.

“I don’t trust either of those guys,” said another.

“Cristos helped me find my car keys,” said a woman who now stood over the self-proclaimed psychic as if she wanted to market his movie rights.

“...sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine.” Gelbaugh touched the snake card, which still rested on the table. “Seventy. Somebody swapped one out.”

“It’s your deck,” Wayne said.

Gelbaugh stood, the Tarot cards in disarray in one hand. “All of you are in on it,” he said. “You, too, Digger.”

“Hey, you didn’t even sign up for a reading,” Wayne said.

Gelbaugh pointed an indignant finger at Rubio. “If you can read minds, then you know what’s coming.”

Gelbaugh grabbed the snake card and fled the room. Rubio smiled, and Wayne noticed for the first time that the seer’s head resembled the blunt, reptilian shape of the snake.

Chapter 17

Janey despised how shabby and cramped her suite was.

Or maybe it just seemed empty and was occupied by things beyond her vision.

She’d taken 226 at the end of the second floor as a fringe benefit, telling the owners she’d keep a better eye on the place if she were on site around the clock. She told herself she wanted to save extra money for retirement, but the real truth was that she had no real place in the world outside the hotel grounds. With the curtains drawn, old photographs gathering dust on the dresser, and the drab royal purple carpet beneath her feet, she could have been in a museum. Or a tomb.

The hunting groups occasionally passed in the hall, but they were much quieter than the usual convention crowd that drank and cavorted on corporate expense accounts. Janey found little comfort in the hunters’ mouse-like passage, as if they were nocturnal creatures who wanted to go about their business undisturbed. Though Janey had sold the owners on promoting the hotel’s supernatural reputation, the shrewd calculation now seemed silly. Dozens of adults were taking it seriously.

And Janey didn’t suffer fools gladly, most of all because she now felt like one. Chad and Stevie were cashing in their chips, and she’d never know if all her hard work would have paid off. This suite that had been her home for nearly half her life would join the rest of the inn under the weight of the wrecking ball. And beyond its walls lay a world she didn’t understand.

Janey found herself glancing into the shadows that clung to the corners of her bedroom. She’d never noticed how long and angular they were, or how they seemed to shift despite the fixed location of the bedside lamp. Janey’s paperback romance, which was so ordinary she couldn’t recall the title, couldn’t dull her into sleep.

She touched the phone, considering a call to the kitchen. The boys would be cleaning up, probably smoking marijuana with rock-n-roll blasting from their CD players. She occasionally placed a special order after hours, partly to check up on the progress and partly to flaunt her power. A couple of fried eggs would be just troublesome enough for both a cook and a dishwasher, a last command from a fading queen.

She dialed the kitchen, keeping one eye on the closet, thinking of young Cody’s suggestion that demons might live in the hotel. Obviously, it was the invention of an imagination fueled by comic books and science fiction, and probably a few sniffs of rubber cement, but the notion chilled her all the same.

“Yullo,” said a male voice she didn’t recognize.

“This is Janey. Just checking to see if the kitchen is still serving.”

“We closed it down 15 minutes ago.”

“Oh.” She affected a disappointed whine. “I was really hungry.”

“We could make you something. No problem.”

She gave a breezy, cheerleader giggle. “You’d do that for me?”

“Sure. Anything for you, Miss Mays.”

“Wow. Who is this, so I can be sure to put a check mark in your personnel file.”

“It’s me, Battle Axe.”

“What’s that?”

The voice grew deeper and sounded as if it had doubled itself. “The thing under the cellar.”

Janey sat up, letting the paperback fall to the floor. “That’s not funny. I’ll have you fired–”

“Two days, Miss Mays,” the strange voice taunted. “Let them believe what they want to believe.”

She recognized the line she’d delivered to Violet earlier in the day. So the hired help was gossiping. She’d have to clean house the hard way, forcing Violet to finger this impetuous cook before Janey bounced them both out on their asses.

But how had they known the hotel was closing? She’d not told anyone.

“You’re fired,” she said into the phone, barely controlling the tremor of rage in her voice.

“Fired by the forge below, Miss Mays. The sweetboy tried to tell you, but you only believe what you want to believe, right?”

No one else had been around when Cody had mentioned demons to her. She gripped the phone and glanced into the closet. The shadows had crept closer to the bed.

No, not possible.

She was letting Cody’s imagination get to her. If she believed the shadows belonged in the corners of the room, then they had to stay there.

Paranoia. Pending change. Fear of the unknown.

It all boiled down to loss of control.

“I’m coming down,” she said. “You better be clocked out and gone or else I’ll have you arrested for trespassing. And there better not be so much as a teaspoon missing or you’ll be up for embezzlement, too.”

Embezzlement was a simple threat. She could alter the hotel inventory and hold any employee accountable: Violet for petty cash, Rosalita for sheets and towels, and this nameless crud for kitchenware. And just like an accused child molester was ruined whether the charge was bogus or not, an employee with such a black mark would never work in the area again.

“A little white lie never hurt anybody,” said the voice on the phone. Except the voice sounded like voices—a chorus talking in unison.

The shadows now covered the floor. Janey eyed the bedroom door. Even if she made it, she’d still have to cross the rest of the way to the hall. The floor no longer looked solid, the carpet roiling and undulating.

“Come on down, Miss Mays,” said the voices. “What are you waiting for?”

She let the phone drop onto the bed. The darkness on the floor was like an abyss of ink, and she expected the bed to sink into it at any moment. Instead, the ink began to rise like a tide.

Janey clicked the phone signal dead and punched the extension for maintenance. The phone rang twice, and then the line crackled.

“Maintenance.”

“J.C. Thank God.”

“Nobody’s ever said them words together before, Miss Mays.”

“There’s a leak in 226,” she said. “Hurry.”

“What kind of leak?”

Sewer? Water? A crack in hell?

“It’s staining the carpet,” she said.

“You know that boiler in the basement?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I think that’s the problem.”

“What’s that got to do with a leak on the second floor?” The leak was rising fast, at least a foot above floor level.

“It’s stored up a whole lot of dark over the years, and it finally blew a gasket.”

“When can you get here?”

“Oh, two days or so.”

”J.C.?”

“That’s one of our names.” The voices had blended together again. Janey cut the connection.

The dark, oily shadows were now a couple of feet from the bottom of the mattress. She imagined how cold the water was–no, it’s a shadow, not water–and what it would be like to wade across it to escape. Assuming the floor was still there beneath it. The shadows had also swelled out from the corners and were closer now, as if forming solid columns of darkness.

She was afraid of what the phone would do to her next, but she couldn’t release the handset. Risking her balance, she leaned over and reached into her night stand drawer. She tried to keep her eyes away from the darkness, but she couldn’t help glancing down. The shadowy sea robbed her of her focus, and she recalled that saying about staring into the abyss until it stared back. Finally she blinked and realized her hand was inside the drawer.

She felt past the paperbacks, vibrators, jewelry, and cigarette packs until she found the gun.

Its cool grip gave her comfort, and she drew the weapon into the room. It was a .38 revolver, simple to load and use, but she couldn’t remember if she’d put bullets in it. She fished several from the drawer and laid them on the night stand. One rolled free and fell into the black haze. It didn’t hit bottom.

Janey shoved a couple of bullets into their round slots inside the cylinder, and then clicked the weapon closed. She wasn’t sure what she would shoot, though. She played the gun around the room, hoping a real target would emerge. After all, what good would a bullet do against the absence of light?

The ink was now six inches from the top of the mattress. It made neither a gurgling sound nor the hiss of escaping air, and its silence was more terrifying than an odd liquid noise would have been.

Feeling a little safer with the gun in her hand, she dialed the in-house connection again. Rhonda was at the front desk, smacking and chomping her gum.

“Ya?” Rhonda said, in her usual distracted fashion.

“Janey here. Everything okay?”

Because if it is, then I’m the one who needs a little rewiring.

“One of the guests walked out of the bar and took a whiz in the potted plant, but other than that, nothing unusual for a Friday night with a special on Coronas.”

The shadow was lapping at the top of the mattress, its persistent tide working the edge of the bedspread. She smiled. This couldn’t be happening, because things like this were impossible. And in the world of Janey Mays, the impossible had no place.

And—

Drugs.

It would be just like those vengeful, snot-nosed slaves to spike her coffee with LSD or Ecstacy or whatever mindblower the kids used these days. And that would make every cracked piece of the puzzle fit. Hallucinations, disorientation, paranoia, cold sweats, heart palpitations.

“Do you know what happens in two days?” Janey asked as a test.

“Sure, I’m off, but then I’m scheduled the rest of the week until Friday.”

“Good,” Janey said.

“The only trouble is the goddamned hotel is going to be bulldozed,” Rhonda said. “What’s going to happen to me then?”

“How did you—”

“I know everything.” The voices blended into the unwholesome chorus. “Battle Axe.”

Maybe the hotel wasn’t a living thing, with its own memories and desires. Maybe those belonged to something deeper, something that dwelled in the basement.

“That’s one of our names.”

Maybe more than one thing lived in the basement.

Janey let the phone slip into her lap. She leaned forward and gazed into the abyss. Now it was staring back.

One last try, one last test, one last link to the sane, real world.

She dialed 9-1-1.

The phone made a strange noise and she looked at the digital readout on the handset. 6-6-6.

She punched the “9” and the “6” appeared.

Janey giggled, pointing the gun across the room as the shadows crept over the edge of the mattress. A little inner voice–remarkably similar to that of the demented kitchen worker–whispered “Swim for it, Janey.”

She let out a cracked laugh and rose on the bed, the bedsprings groaning beneath her. She took a long step, the cold gelid blackness oozing around one ankle, and then she launched herself, a crippled swan dive, the gun clenched in one fist.

She hit without splashing, flailing her arms for traction, but there was nothing to push against.

Nothing.

And then she was under.

Chapter 18

Dad would never find her here.

He probably wouldn’t even notice she was missing until it was Sunday afternoon and time to pack up. That took some of the steam out of her anger. No need to waste a good temper tantrum.

She wedged into the tiny break room, plopping her sketch pad on the scarred wooden desk. A glass ashtray overflowed with wrinkled, yellowed butts. A stack of magazines leaned precariously—Sports Illustrated, Motor Racing Digest, People, magazines for people who couldn’t read. An auto parts store’s calendar on the wall was three years out of date, and a shelf was piled with cleaning supplies, oily hardware, and dented cans of paint.

Mom, looks like we’ve painted ourselves into a corner.

It was an old game, one they played in those early years when “Mommy was okay, but the doctors just want to make sure.” They’d get out the color pencils, oil pastels, and watercolors, create strange houses and gardens, and then work all the way up to one corner of the page. When only a little white was left, Mom would give the trademark “Looks like we’ve painted ourselves into a corner. Two choices: stay stuck, or more paper.”

Kendra opened her pad. No choice. Only more paper.

“Hey.”

Kendra nearly knocked over the magazines. She calmed herself, because she didn’t want the little twerp to know she was startled. She remembered the name his dad yelled at him.

“Bruce, don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on people?”

“I didn’t sneak up. I was already here.”

Now she smelled the licorice, so powerful that she didn’t know how she missed it. Probably because of the rank, tarry odor of the cigarettes. Bruce sat on a worn plaid couch, cotton oozing from its arms like clouds exiled from a summer sky. He had a black eye, and the eyeball surrounded by the puffy skin was bloodshot and dewy.

“You bump your head?” Or did your daddy bump it for you?

“Yeah. On Rochester’s fist.”

“Rochester?”

Bruce shrugged. “Ah, he’s a big bully. Never mind him.”

“This place looks like a good hideout,” she said, her annoyance subdued by sympathy.

“Well, the only folks who know about it are those who been around a while.”

“How long have you been here?”

He shrugged again. “I’m a kid. It feels like forever.”

“Does your dad work here?” She couldn’t believe she was actually tolerating the twerp, much less making conversation. But after being around grownups for so long, the change was a little refreshing. Plus he looked like he could use a friend.

“Yeah. My mom’s dead, too. How come you draw so much?”

My mom’s dead, too? “It’s what I do. Everybody’s got a gimmick, right?”

“Can I see?”

Kendra slid the pad over to the edge of the desk. “Knock yourself out.”

Bruce moved from the couch, the licorice aroma stronger now, and behind it came that rank, fishy stench. The boy could stand a bath.

“It looks like the third floor,” Bruce said. “Those kids look funny, like they’re from a cartoon.”

Kids? Kendra checked the rendering of the hallway. It was a pretty quick perspective job, the angles of the hallway receding toward the horizon to the vanishing point. No great shakes, even with the decorative table, vase, and plastic flowers on them. She’d fuzzed in some lines to capture the shadowed areas, planning to cross-hatch them with ink later and throw in some sort of spook for the fun of it, or maybe Emily Dee with a samurai sword or something for the manga crowd.

“It’s just a hallway,” she said. “I’m not finished yet.”

“Do you always put faces in your pictures?”

“Another gimmick. I want to do my own comic books when I grow up. I figure since my dad already has a name in the paranormal world, it will be easier to get a publisher. Go out as ‘The Digger’s Daughter.’”

Bruce leaned closer. Kendra usually didn’t let anyone see her work in progress, but she figured the kid would be good for some ideas. Except the fish smell was overpowering now that he was an arm’s-length away.

“So, got any ghost stories?” she said, expecting the same urban-legend crap the front desk had dished out. “Anything weird happen to you here?”

He touched the paper with his fingertip and traced out a shape. Then she saw it, the deeper shading where she had turned her pencil lead sideways and raked out a series of zig-zags. It looked like two small figures standing at the back of the hallway, waiting in the shadows.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said, with a shudder in his voice.

“Smart.”

“Will you draw a picture just for me?” One corner of his mouth lifted in a weak attempt at a smile, and his pale, injured face looked so forlorn and pitiful that Kendra felt ashamed for thinking of him as a twerp. After all, if her mother hadn’t died, she might have had a little brother and–

She looked away from the hollow eyes and the glistening, bruised flesh around his nose. “Sure thing, Bruce. You want Spiderman or Batman?”

“I don’t believe in heroes, either. Draw something scary. Like the two kids.”

Kendra flipped the sketch pad to a clean sheet and began roughing in the end of the break room. “Sure. I’ll have them sitting on that couch like they’re going to bite the legs off whoever comes in the door.”

Bruce giggled, and the sound gave a flat echo off the walls. The kid had moved a little closer, and the room was too small for such intrusion on her personal space. But probably he just wanted to see her work.

“I don’t know what they look like, so I’ll make one fat and one skinny,” she said.

“Dorrie’s the fat one,” he said. “She eats all the cupcake crumbs when everybody’s asleep.”

The kid’s got a good imagination. He’s probably like me— his dad leaves him to entertain himself so he escapes into his own little world.

“Is this fat enough?” She squiggled out a peanut shape. “Man, she’s totally breaking the couch in two. Whoever walks in the door is going to lose their legs and their arms.”

Kendra rounded out the figure and went to the next, glancing up so she could get the perspective right. “There’s Dorrie, fat as a donut hole,” she said. “Now for–”

Jesus.

For a split second, Dorrie was sitting there, pouting in a plain brown frock, hair in a terrible page cut that made her face look even rounder. Her fists were clenched on her knees, as if she were going to spring up from the couch and punch somebody. Twelve, maybe, swollen with her first period, confused about the changes of her body, chunky boobs already sagging.

Kendra blinked and the vision cleared. “Man, I hope Dorrie doesn’t mind being ugly.”

“I wouldn’t say that if I were you.”

But Kendra was already adding the details she’d just imagined. When inspiration flowed, you bottled it. “Okay, tell me about the other one.”

She decided to make them Emily Dee’s mortal enemies. The creepy kids who terrorized an old hotel. It probably couldn’t be an on-going series, because there were only so many storylines you could squeeze out of one location, but maybe it could fill up a graphic novel and catch some Hollywood producer’s eye. Another dumb haunted house story, just the way they liked them.

“Rochester’s even meaner than Dorrie,” Bruce said. “He’s got a pointy nose and he smells like mice. You know how mice smell, when they die behind the walls? My dad has to put out the poison every winter, because they move in when it gets cold. The poison sure tastes yucky.”

Kendra chuckled. High-larious, kid.

She drew a stick figure, giving it a long rodent’s tail. She wanted to get the job finished. Bruce stood there, not blinking, silent, holding his breath. And, worse, now she could smell the mice, like that high school science lab where the hampster cages never shook that odor of death.

“Rochester the Rat Boy,” she said with cheerful bravado. She realized she was afraid to look up, lest Rochester was sitting there with his red, beady eyes and sharp, yellow incisors. The gaunt rendering horrified her.

She gave him oversize Mickey Mouse ears and ripped the sheet out of the pad. In her haste, the rip was uneven, dissecting a chunk of Dorrie’s head. “Here you go, Brucie. No charge.”

Bruce was gone.

She forced herself to look at the couch, and it was empty. Bruce couldn’t have squeezed past her to the door without nudging her chair. Maybe there were other entrances, ones she couldn’t see. Even if the walls held secret passages, it was hard to imagine someone sneaking away without a revealing creak of wood. But if Bruce had been stuck here playing for years by himself, he’d probably figured out the best hiding places.

“Dorrie Dough-Face and Rochester the Rat Boy,” she said aloud.

The company of fictional characters provided no comfort. Her fantasy life, the cherished escape from a world where her mother had abandoned her and her father regretted the inconvenience, had turned on her, and she didn’t like it. Because if that went bad, then what else did she have left?

The pictures added up to nothing.

Painted into a corner.

On the bottom of the sketch, she scribbled “To Bruce, for the forever inn,” before adding the flourish of her initials. One day she’d be as famous as Jack Kirby, Moebius, and Todd McFarlane rolled into one, and her initials would be gold. In the meantime, a girl could always dream.

Always and forever.

She left the drawing on the table and headed for her room, clicking on her walkie talkie. Maybe Digger had actually noticed his daughter was gone and was fuming because he needed some help. He would be huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf in a cancer ward, muttering curses under his breath, his blood pressure rising. His impatience and frustration would only be rivaled by his helplessness.

She wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Chapter 19

The group was really getting on Burton’s nerves.

Ninety percent of paranormal tourism was about keeping the travelers safe while delivering the illusion of danger. That’s why the liability waiver was so loaded with phrases like “inherent risk” and language that implied the hunter might end up being the hunted.

So Burton wasn’t above the occasional “Look, did that shadow move?”

The tactic never failed to draw a few gasps, and once in a while a newbie would get so shaken the hunt would be disrupted. Then a twenty-minute debate would ensue as people recounted their versions of what they did or didn’t see, and those with cameras would flip through the thumbnails. Burton would review the evidence and reluctantly validate whatever happened to appear in the images, whether it was an orb, a flash of light, or the Second Coming of Harry Houdini. All in a day’s work, all part of the show.

But sometimes a group collected at random would yield such an obnoxious array of personalities that Burton felt like he was punching a time clock in a Portajohn business instead of serving as a shamanistic guide to the land of mystery and spirit. When you got right down to it, shit was shit, and you didn’t want to step in it, either here on Planet Earth or in the otherworld.

And the dude in the Henry Fonda fishing cap was a two-hundred-pound bag of shit that was bursting at the seams.

“Where’s the Percival Ghost?” whined Cappie. “You promised us the Percival Ghost.”

“There are no guarantees in ghost-hunting,” Burton said.

“She may not even be dead,” said an unfortunate woman whose make-up was thick enough to make an undertaker proud. She was way too old to put Kool-Aid-blue highlights in her hair. Her T-shirt read “Ghosts believe in me,” and Burton figured she was a paranormal slut who’d get in bed with any group or ideology that whispered “boo.”

“She’d be dead by now, one way or another,” said a woman who looked over the top of her glasses like a librarian. “Even if she didn’t die in 1948, she’d be well over a century old.”

“Maybe that’s why her ghost isn’t here,” Cappie said.

“One theory is she was killed at the inn and her body was taken off site,” Burton said. “That could explain the lack of any evidence. She could be an intelligent spirit and moving between the place she died and the place where her body is buried.”

“True,” said the Kool-Aid woman, as if such things were established fact. “If she were a residual, we probably would have seen her by now.”

“With all this foot traffic, we’ve probably stirred up enough dust to hide an elephant,” Cappie said.

“All this talking doesn’t help,” Burton said. The walkie talkie on his hip squeaked and Wayne announced, “Okay, all groups head for their next scheduled stop.”

Burton ushered the group to Room 318, counting to make sure no one had dropped out, though he wouldn’t mind losing a couple of them.

“Hey, the light doesn’t work,” someone said.

Burton retrieved the flashlight from his belt and flicked it on, pointing it into the dark room. Good move, Wayne. Pulling the fuse will keep them guessing every time.

“Watch your step,” he said. “Let’s see what the FLIR picks up.”

He passed the instrument to the person closest to him. Even with the door open, the room appeared thick with darkness. The flashlight barely dented it. Burton whacked it on his thigh, though he routinely added fresh batteries before every hunt.

“I feel a cold spot,” said the Kool-Aid woman.

Burton was willing to bet she felt hot spots, too. And maybe even purple polka dots.

“Margaret, are you here?” Cappie bellowed.

“Easy, now,” Burton said. “No need to provoke yet.”

“Come out,” the Kool-Aid woman said. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

That’s a good one. Ghosts afraid of people.

“Did you hear that?” said someone on the far side of the room.

“Shhh.”

“What was it?”

“Tapping. Up above.”

Burton found himself squinting in the darkness overhead, though he kept his flashlight trained on the floor. Since Digger was staying in 318, he’d stowed his personal gear in the closet and locked it. That sealed off the attic access, so unless someone had ascended the closeted stairwell off the main hall, then the noise was likely caused by animals.

Still, opportunity knocked.

“Tap once if you’re Margaret Percival,” Burton said in a calm voice.

The room fell silent, and wood creaked in the distance as the inn settled.

“Tap once if you’re with us,” Burton said.

Nothing but Cappie’s labored breathing. Burton flicked off the flashlight and closed the door, figuring absolute darkness would inspire reaction.

The door swung open again.

Burton turned, knowing he’d been the last to enter. The hallway was empty. “Is that you, Margaret?”

Burton wished he’d thought of the trick. Fishing line, a hidden spring, even a subtle kick of the heel would have been enough. Was Wayne at work behind the scenes?

No, for all his boss’s enthusiasm, Wayne was not the type to rig an encounter. And Burton’s few solid paranormal experiences were enough to convince him that there was more to this world than met the eye. Ghosts happen.

The room was quiet, and Burton could feel all eyes fixed on the doorway. “You’re welcome to close it now.”

“I’d crap my pants if it did,” somebody said.

“Shhh.”

The tension in the room was like a taut, quivering wire. Burton took an easy step toward the lighted rectangle of carpet. If he played it right, the open door could give the guests a weekend’s worth of talking points.

“Margaret, we’ve—”

Creee-kuh-BLAM.

The door swung closed so fast that Burton dropped his flashlight, and the wall shook with the force of its slamming. One woman screamed, and a man who sounded like Cappie issued a breathless curse. Furniture banged as several people fled deeper into the dark room. Burton mentally counted the steps to the door, then moved to it and tried the handle.

It was stuck.

“Easy, folks,” Burton said.

“The door closed by itself,” said one of the faceless hunters.

“No way,” Cappie said. “This isn’t a poltergeist room.”

“Yeah, but it could be something that even a poltergeist doesn’t want to mess with,” Burton said, scooping up his flashlight. He swept his flashlight across the room and into the squinting, confused faces.

“She’s here,” whispered the Kool-Aid woman.

“What’s the FLIR saying?” Burton asked the man who was looking into the device’s small monitor.

“Seven of us,” he said. “Warm blooded.”

Burton passed his flashlight to the woman on the left. “Hold this,” he said. “I want to get some infrared video.”

Burton backed against the door, pretending to fumble in his pack while he surreptitiously tested the door handle. Still locked.

The flashlight blinked out and the room was once again nearly dark, with only the dim green lights of cameras and EMF recorders to break the endless expanse of black.

“Shit, gone dead.” The man banged the flashlight with the palm of his hand.

“She’s charging up,” the Kool-Aid woman said. “My camera just drained.”

Burton had once been in a séance where the medium had allegedly dredged up the spirit of a mass murderer, and whether it was the power of suggestion or the real thing, the room had fairly crackled with tension and expectation. This room had the same electricity. Burton wondered if Wayne or Cody was monitoring the remote cams in the control room.

He reached for the walkie talkie on his hip. He thumbed the “send” button and said, “Wayne, we’ve got phenomena in 318.”

He released the button and realized there was no wireless signal. The walkie talkie didn’t even hiss. He clicked the button a couple of times. Dead.

“Your walkie talkie’s broken, too, isn’t it?” said the Kool-Aid woman, with spaced-out satisfaction.

“Dead spot,” he said.

“Exactly. Margaret wants her room back, and we’re in it.”

“She can have it,” said the man with the flashlight. “I’m outta here.”

The beam jittered as he took a few steps toward the door, throwing the room into a kaleidoscope of images: the Kool-Aid woman’s blissful smile, the FLIR meter tilted toward the center of the room, a couple standing by the bed holding hands, Cappie fiddling with his digital camera.

Burton blocked the door. “Easy. You’re breaking hunt protocol.”

In truth, SSI policy was to allow any hunter to break off at any time, for any reason, whether diarrhea, boredom, or fear. But Burton didn’t want to deal with the fallout from a roomful of adults trapped against their wishes. Plus he’d have to come up with a reasonable explanation for the locked door. Even if the door had been locked from the outside, it had a privacy latch that should have released the lock with a turn of the handle.

The man pointed the light into Burton’s face. Burton forced his facial muscles to relax into a smile. “This is what we paid for, right? The Trophy Room.”

“Yeah,” the Kool-Aid woman said to the man. “You’re going to scare her off.”

“Jesus,” said the man with the FLIR. “There’s something here.”

He turned the small monitor around until it showed the seven other people in the room outlined as orange-red figures. A bluish-green shape flickered in the middle of them. Burton grabbed the flashlight and pointed it at the spot, but it was only an open expanse of carpet. The shape solidified on the screen, then began undulating.

“Margaret,” the Kool-Aid woman gushed, with an air of worship. “I knew you’d come.”

Burton checked his EMF meter but it had drained as well. Fully charged, it was good for at least six hours, and he’d only been using it for an hour. The only evidence of the phenomenon was the FLIR, which had a digital drive for recording.

“You guys see this?” said the FLIR operator.

The man who’d been holding the flashlight pushed past Burton and lunged at the door. “Hey, it’s locked!”

The bluish-green shape on the FLIR never quite took on a human outline, though many forms were suggested as it shifted. Several of the hunters had moved forward to watch the meter, while two–the couple holding hands–edged closer to the door. Burton kept the flashlight trained on the carpet.

“It’s moving,” said the FLIR operator, and something brushed Burton’s face like the cool, slimy tentacle of an octopus. The man at the door rattled the handle and then moaned.

“Get it off me,” he said, and then the door swung open with such force that the man landed on his ass, blinking into the explosion of light from the hallway. The FLIR now showed only the orange forms again, depicting the warm-blooded people in the room. Whatever had caused the anomaly had now evaporated.

The overhead light flickered, blinked, and then stayed on, leaving the group of hunters looking at each other with a mixture of fear, awe, and disbelief.

Burton checked his equipment and found it working again. He thumbed the walkie talkie and spoke into it. “Control Room, we’ve had a doozy.”

Chapter 20

Noonie.

The word had taken on a double meaning for Wayne and Beth, in the way long-time companions formed their own language. At first it had been a code word for their lunchtime sexual encounters, when they invariably ended up late returning to work. The word had evolved into a synonym for Beth’s vagina, though Wayne always found it too cutesy for a place that served up such powerful mysteries, mind-blowing pleasures, and the miracle of a child.

The word had been theirs, and he couldn’t imagine how Amelia Gordon had learned of it. If the board had spelled out “Beth” or “wife” or “I’m here,” he would have dismissed it as coincidence, but she had picked the one word he couldn’t deny. Wayne stared down at the abandoned Ouija board in 218.

“Beth,” he whispered.

The thought of her name somehow seemed safe, because he’d carried her inside him for years. But saying it aloud gave it weight and imbued it with the power of possibility. Making a wish was foolish and believing in ghosts was an act of cowardice. If he really thought he knew better than God, then he would pick up a bottle and hide in the sewers of his own ego and fear.

“Beth,” he said aloud.

I can’t believe in you. Not like this. I believe in how you used to be.

Wayne touched the surface of the Ouija board. The planchette still lay on the floor, where it had fallen after Amelia’s fainting spell.

Amelia had talked about  an angel in the ceiling. Room 318 was directly above.

Do I want to know? If I got an answer, would I accept it? Or would I rather cling to the stories that have given me comfort over the years?

Comfort.

No, it wasn’t comfort.

It was survival.

The board was slick and relatively new. He’d bought it as a prop after one of his conference guests had complained that the discussion panels were too tech-oriented and boring. “You can learn all that stuff on the Internet,” said the crank.

So he’d started sexing up his events, tossing in psychics, palm readers, and everything but one-armed, mud-wrestling midgets, and if he could figure out a way to tie those into the paranormal instead of the plain old abnormal, he would do it in a heartbeat. The Ouija board always drew a crowd because people longed for oracles and throughout history had searched for messages in everything from animal intestines to tea leaves.

During their honeymoon, when they’d played with the Ouija board, that’s what they were doing—playing. As they knelt at the coffee table, drinking wine in their bath robes, they summoned Margaret. All for laughs, all for foreplay, all part of the fun of a haunted hotel.

But then the talk had turned serious, and as a cold wind blew in from nowhere, Beth gazed into his eyes and made him swear. Wayne gave an uncomfortable giggle, playing along. So he’d nodded and smiled. An agreement and an invitation.

When Beth had made The Promise, Wayne never imagined he’d outlive her. He was still drinking in those days. Not so much that it had drowned their relationship, but plenty enough. They were too young to acknowledge the inevitability of middle age, let alone mortality. When you had forever, promises were cheap.

The pact was simple: if one of them died, the other would return to the White Horse Inn. The deceased would try to make contact from the spirit world. Harry Houdini had made the same promise, and as far as anyone knew, the greatest magician in history had not found a way to pick the locks of the afterlife and make a successful return.

Wayne might even have forgotten the pact, throwing it on the pile of somedays and pledges and promises, if she hadn’t reminded him of it as she wasted away in a hospital bed. A mastectomy hadn’t stemmed the spread of cancer, and when it showed up in her pancreas and liver, she swore off the chemotherapy and kept her pain medication to a minimum, wanting to be alert for her final days. Wayne went in the opposite direction, crawling into a bottle and pickling himself like a living laboratory specimen.

Beth didn’t scold him or judge him, and her unconditional love radiating from dimming eyes filled him with shame. In some ways, alcoholism was an even more insidious disease than cancer, because it gave the illusion of choice. Beth’s mother, who always knew best even when she knew nothing, had taken on Kendra, showing her granddaughter how to react to the death of a loved one: the stages of anger, denial, fear, acceptance, and then deep, abiding sorrow.

And when the countdown came, when the heart monitor beeped erratically and Beth’s breathing became ragged, she beckoned him close and whispered, “I’ll see you at the inn.”

She smiled and her gaunt fingers gripped his sweaty ones, and Wayne could only nod. Later, days after the funeral, he realized she’d been referring to the White Horse and the glib deal they’d made years before, fresh after making newlywed love in Room 318.

It took a while, but here I am.

Wayne picked up the planchette, half expecting it to throb with unseemly warmth.

It was plastic, made in China, nothing divine about it.

He hurled it across the room and it bounced against the television.

The television switched on.

“–OPEC has pledged to boost production so that heating oil prices will stabilize for the holidays. Crude oil is currently trading at seventy-eight dollars a barrel and–”

Wayne shut it off.

“Okay, Beth,” he said. “If you want to speak to me, do it directly and not through cheap electronics.”

The curtains fluttered even though the window was closed.

Draft, probably blowing through the ventilation system.

“About that promise,” Wayne said. “It wouldn’t be the first we’ve broken. We both said ‘forever,’ remember?”

He sat on the chair by the desk so he could survey the entire room, including the bathroom with its clawfoot tub, tiled floor, and gray wallpaper. He could spare a couple of minutes. He owed her that much. Promises were cheap.

The lights blinked.

“Are you afraid?”

He wasn’t sure if the words were in his head or if they had wended from the corners of nowhere.

He waited 30 seconds, listening to the distant thrum of the ventilation system and the squeal of the elevator. That gave him plenty of time to consider the question, whether he had posed it to himself or not. It was the kind of question that had only two answers, and both were wrong.

If Beth appeared, all the failure would come sluicing down in a gray avalanche. His skeptical convictions would be challenged, and he’d be forced to change the way he viewed the world. He didn’t want to be knocked out of his comfort zone. He preferred to think of Beth in a better place, far removed from the worries of this troubled plane. If he’d dragged her from eternal bliss just to satisfy his whims, he’d have yet another reason to feel guilty.

“I tried,” he said. “I wanted to be there for you but I didn’t know how.”

The shadow in one corner of the room grew lighter, though the sun was sinking outside and purple dusk crawled across the mountains.

“I haven’t done so bad with Buttercup,” he said. The claim felt thick on his tongue, as if he had licked dust.

Wayne fumbled in his pocket for his EMF recorder, made sure it was off, and laid it on the desk. Such a toy embarrassed him, here in the face of awesome mystery.

A distinct outline fuzzed a few feet from the wall. Wayne held his breath.

The outline grew threads and walked.

And here she was.

Eight years after cancer had ravaged her, eight years after her heart had given one final flutter that barely registered a green quiver on the monitor, several thousand long days since she’d entrusted Wayne with guiding Kendra to adulthood, and here she was. Not all of her, to be sure, but even through the tears dimming his eyes, he could tell.

“Beth.” His voice didn’t crack, but everything else did.

He sought the features of her face in that amorphous mass, but the threads were swirling, fading in and out like a fog in the breeze. Her hair, her legs—is that her funeral dress, or wedding dress?—and the hand reaching toward him all shifted in the twilight, and he couldn’t tell if she were smiling or grimacing. The eyes, the holes in her face, were black and deep and told nothing.

This was the only ghost he’d ever wanted to meet, and now that she was here, he wished he were dead, too.

“Beth, I’m sorry...”

The sibilant trailed off into a sigh. Stupid. Time for apologies is past. What have you got for her? What does she need? What can you pour from your empty cup?

He wanted to stand and move toward her, meet her halfway. If the door between worlds were opening, then maybe he’d see more and understand. But he could trust neither his legs nor his eyes.

The air was brittle with anticipation, as if the ions were charged. A faint smokiness rode above the musty, cleaning-chemical smell of the room. The smoke was pungent enough to sting his nostrils and reminded him of the old coal-burning furnace from his elementary school, tucked away in a brick shed and surrounded by piles of reddish-gray cinders.

Why doesn’t she smell like patchouli or lavender, the scents she always dabbed on her wrist? Or the roses I laid on her casket, or the dirt from her grave, or the diesel fuel from the gravedigger’s tractor?

He was trying to impose logic on a miracle, but his mind was skittering away from the confrontation. What do you say when you need to say everything but don’t know how little time you have?

The threads weaved themselves in and out, a fabric of animated unlife.

You never have long, which is why you should never waste time.

And his thoughts were coming in her voice, the way they had in the months after her death, when he’d tried to pray but all he could do was blame God. Funny, but she’d never blamed the Big Guy Upstairs for her cancer, and Wayne had never had much use for an entity that supposedly had the power to make everything better but refused. But God was handy when you needed a scapegoat.

Anything besides accepting responsibility.

He swallowed and grabbed some air. “You look...wonderful.”

Like a teenager watching his prom date undress. Words without thought, another lie, because he wasn’t sure what she looked like.

Her face grew more solid, the mouth forming words, and he was no lip reader but it looked like she was trying to say “Kendra.” And something else.

Wayne squinted into the shifting morass of her eyes. They took on a frantic light and Wayne felt his muscles sag, as if she were drawing energy from him in order to deliver her message. And she looked afraid.

“Kendra,” her lips formed again, and her voice echoed in his mind, faintly enough that he could deny its existence if he wished, write it off the way he would if someone else had described the phenomenon.

“Yes?” he whispered, wondering if she could hear his voice in her head, too, or if that ephemeral, temporary skull could even hold thoughts.

“Get her out.”

He’d made a promise to meet, she’d held up her end of the bargain, jumping through God-only-knew-how-many hoops to get here, and now she wanted him to leave?

Right when she’d hinted at every secret he’d ever wanted to know, right when she held some answers, right when she could make him famous as the ghosthunter who had successfully proven life after death, right when Digger could become the world’s leading expert in something and finally gain Kendra’s respect and make her proud? Right when all the years of fooling around with gizmos in dark spaces was about to pay off? How could she be so goddamned selfish?

And her face was changing, as if she could read his thoughts, the cheeks crinkling in disappointment, and the face kept twisting, and Wayne didn’t know where his thoughts had come from, because it wasn’t the kind of thing he dwelled upon, all he wanted was to see her, love her, hold her one more time—

Her words, the world’s words, maybe even God’s words, roared through his flesh with a dozen voices.

“THIS IS NOT ME.”

Sounds from outside the room, tapping, knocking, pulled Wayne from his trance and he reached a trembling hand to his beloved wife, but she was changing, her face wizened and mottled, the shadows eating away at the fleeting flesh and only her teeth remained, gleaming pearls that seemed far too sharp. They were arced in a menacing, gleeful grin.

The door opened.

“Dad?”

Wayne stared transfixed into the corner where his wife—and Kendra’s mother—had drifted moments before.

“Dad, I’m sorry about...”

He couldn’t shake the image of Beth’s face in that last glimpse, before the night had reclaimed it. It wasn’t her, she’d said. Or had he only thought it?

Had any of it happened?

All he knew for sure was his cup was empty again.

“Jeebs, Dad, you’re crying.”

Lost her again.

Lost.

Chapter 21

Ann Vandooren had come to science the old-fashioned way: poking dead animals with sticks and dropping worms onto anthills. The offspring of an artist whose bisexuality had transformed into full-blown surgical transexuality and a Realtor specializing in rehabilitated commercial properties, Ann had evolved a world view that embraced both liberation and rigidity.

Her Catholic mother had dished out more than enough structured mysticism and church-approved dogma, rules that encouraged free thought as long as you stayed within the white lines. Her father, a devout Taoist whose favorite argument was that true Taoism couldn’t exist, constantly jousted with anyone who said there was only one path to God, enlightenment, or even the local drug store. But perhaps Mother was right after all, because when Dad turned, he legally changed his name to “Mary.”

Ann’s school years were a litany of academic awards and trips to the counselor, as she learned early on that intelligent, creative people were afforded more leeway and were more easily forgiven. Public education had little to do with children and everything to do with adults controlling, suppressing, and feeling good about themselves, so the prevailing wisdom was that any intelligent, creative kid was bound to be screwed up. And things would only get worse as that kid sought a slot in the real world, where only half of all drivers used their turn signals yet demanded air bags and other expensive safety gear for their vehicles.

By the time she attended North Carolina State University, she’d come to understand the delusions under which most people lived. Because they couldn’t accept the cold, hard facts of their lives, they concocted elaborate fantasies of religion and culture. They saw reality as somehow less inviting than a glorious heaven and harbored hope of better times ahead, even if that future could only come through the rite of passage known as “death.” And because most of them had made bad grades in science, all scientists were viewed with hostility and popular culture often painted them as crackpots, well-meaning but ultimately destructive subversives, or dispassionate observers of small things that didn’t matter.

Ann prided herself on being all three.

So when the paranormal fad started and even respected professional journals ventured into the field in an effort to publish something people would actually read, Ann took it as a tossing down of the gauntlet. Angels, Bigfoot, aliens, and conspiracy theories rarely depended upon objective measurements, but when hunters started buying high-tech equipment, the war was on. She was fully aware that debunking nonsense took away time and energy from real research, but if she could guide even a handful of people to their senses, then the human race ultimately logged an overall gain. For that was the real work of the scientist: to nudge the species just a little further along the path to enlightenment, truth, and understanding.

And, she had to admit, pissing off a flake gave her a serious case of damp squirmies.

“How’s my halo hanging?” Ann asked Duncan.

As usual after sex, Duncan was withdrawn and self-absorbed, his sweating head sunken into the pillow. Despite his verbal cockiness, he was sensitive about his performance, always trying to gauge the letter grade she would assign. She wasn’t as difficult to please as she acted, but figured playing with his ego would keep him rising to the challenge. Plus, when the inevitable day came that she needed to terminate the experiment, it would be easier to pour him down the sink.

“I saw it, Ann,” he said.

“You let a voodoo priestess put a picture in your head, boy. Power of suggestion.”

“It was creepy.”

“‘Creepy’? That’s hardly an objective description of a psychological experience.”

He rolled over, his eyes narrowed. “Damn it, Ann. I know your whole game is to get these people coming after you with torches and pitchforks, but I don’t know why you have to fight me, too.”

“Because I’m not sure whose side you’re on.”

“Reality isn’t a ‘side.’”

She reached for his bare belly and stroked the wiry hairs there, feeling him relax. She moved her fingers lower and he tensed. “We’re on the same team, boy.”

“The Vandooren Team.”

“The winners. Always stick with the winners.”

He exhaled heavily, his body responding to her touch. Brain chemicals aside, the manipulation of certain sensitive glands elicited a natural arousal response. People gave it names like “passion” and “love,” but the same response could be achieved in a frontal-lobotomy patient.

“You know how to run up the score,” he said.

“And don’t you forget it.” She gave him one final, alluring stroke, then released him and rolled out of bed, feeling his hungry eyes on her flesh. She turned away to hide her smile of triumph. “Almost midnight. Time to upload the images and let the show begin.”

She slipped into a black nightgown that was just flimsy enough to keep him distracted and crossed the room to the desk. The laptop and video gear was university property, state of the art, and Duncan’s ingenuity had allowed them to patch into SSI’s control-room monitors. The split screens showed the various hunts in progress, some operating with military efficiency and others scattered like a third-grade class field trip. She didn’t see her main target, Wayne Wilson, but a little more chum would help bloody the waters.

A group of six headed down the hall, led by the guy listed on the program as “The Roach.” He was decked out with enough gear to impress any armchair paranormalist, a walking advertisement for pseudoscience as sponsored by Radio Shack. If he shouted “Snake!” then no doubt his followers would jump.

By the time she’d clicked up the projection program and sent her image of the Jilted Bride onto the wall in front of the group, Duncan had joined her.

“Ease back on the contrast,” he said. “It’ll look too solid otherwise.”

He took the mouse from her and manipulated the image so that it faded in. The image had been taken from a slide in the university’s Appalachian history collection, a silver daguerreotype whose iridescent coating made the woman appear even more ephemeral. The woman’s large, dark eyes and the bouquet in her slack fingers didn’t project the joy of a new bride. Instead, she looked like a teenager in the end stages of tuberculosis.

The image was barely visible when one of the group, a short woman dressed completely in black, pointed and exclaimed. Though the monitor system had no audio track, her lips clearly formed the word “Look.”

Duncan had edited the video clip so that the contrast fluctuated, creating the illusion of a ghost trying to flicker into existence. The resulting handiwork, as viewed through the spycam, was almost as good as the cinema tricks coming out of Disney and Pixar.

“Suckersss,” Ann said, with an exaggerated hiss.

“Check out The Roach,” Duncan said, pointing to the screen at the man fumbling with the equipment on his belt. “Looks like he’s having a panic attack.”

Ann chortled, surprised by the sound erupting from her throat. She was enjoying this far more than she thought she would.

“Who ya gonna call?” she sang, mauling the 1980s movie theme. “Roach busters!”

“What’s he got in his hand?”

Chapter 22

A hotel full of living, breathing demons, and a weakling like this comes along?

The Roach was almost annoyed that such a puny residual would dare show its face, sort of like a peg-legged pirate stumping onto the marble mezzanine at the royal ball. But you dealt with the entities as they came. It was all part of the training. It was all part of the War.

The hunters behind him were no good, too busy oohing and aahing and thinking about what they’d be blogging next week. The problem with paranormal tourism was that, when it came to crunch time, they tended to get in the way of the real work. But, like the demons, they were a necessary evil.

They made good bait.

The entity appeared to be the Jilted Bride, though the descriptions had varied over the decades before settling into an acceptably homogenized urban legend. And though the bride was already losing steam, failing to draw enough power to pose for a photo, The Roach wasn’t willing to let it go without a fight. So while the hunters behind him fumbled to bring their cameras and EMF meters to bear, he pulled a vial of holy water with all the deftness of a Wild West gunslinger.

He thumbed away the rubber stopper and sent a clear arc of water across the wall, flicking his wrist so the path of the water widened. If the spirit was a demon in disguise, it would piss and moan, and if it were merely a possessed puppet, it wouldn’t feel pain but should dissolve on contact.

The water splashed on the wall and carpet, and the bride stood there frozen, her face locked in the sick misery of her eternal death.

“Did you see that?” said a woman in black, Terry was her name, who’d been pestering him non-stop during the hunt. From the lack of hot water in the shower to overpriced Manhattans in the bar, she’d expressed her displeasure at every opportunity. And though she’d squealed with fear at the bride’s appearance, she now was pushing her way through the group, her jaw slack in rapture.

“Careful,” The Roach said.

Terry evaded The Roach and reached for the vanishing entity. “Don’t go.”

A man in cowboy boots, evidently her husband, rushed forward as well. “It’s a residual, honey.”

Ignoring him, the woman said to the spirit, “If you need to draw power, you can take it from me.”

The Roach had found ripe bait. You’re lucky it’s not a demon.
That’s practically opening up the refrigerator door to your soul and letting Evil sample the buffet.

As the image faded away to nothing, the group of hunters broke into chatter.

“Did you see that?”

“What was it?

“I couldn’t get my damned camera to work–”

After the image had faded, one disturbing impression remained. For a flicker of a second, the Jilted Bride’s arm had been superimposed over Terry’s skin, as if Terry had penetrated the entity’s spirit stuff. And a sleeve of dust was visible in the air overhead. Maybe the phenomenon had tunneled out from a peculiar hole in the heavens, and the entity hadn’t been a demon after all.

An angel? Angels were just as common as demons, but tended to be ineffectual. The Roach had learned never to count on them at Crunch Time.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” The Roach said. “I believe we’ve just had an encounter.”

“Anybody get a reading?”

“EMF was flat.”

“Her eyes were so sad.”

“We’ll corroborate this later,” he said. “Let’s get some baseline readings in case she comes back.”

Terry wiped at the water The Roach had spattered across the wall. She sniffed the substance on her finger.

“What’s this?” she asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Protection.”

“From what?”

“I hope none of us have to find out.”

Terry’s husband took her arm. “Let’s check our audio and see if we got any EVP’s.”

She shrugged away from his grasp. “I paid to be here and I didn’t come to see this clown play ‘Exorcist.’”

The rest of the group, whom The Roach figured was as tired of the woman’s complaints as he was, gathered close to hear the confrontation.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “SSI policy puts the safety of the hunters first.”

“Safety? From what? She didn’t exactly look like the Bell Witch.”

“I got a picture of an orb,” said an overweight man who leaned on a wooden cane, balancing precariously while he checked his viewfinder.

“Dust,” said another man. “I saw it swirling when you hit your flash.”

“No, it was energy,” Terry said. “I felt it.”

“Whatever it was, it’s gone now,” said a weasel-faced woman.

Oh, yeah? Then what’s watching us from the end of the hall?

The Roach’s original count of active demons was six, but it figured they would try for seven if possible. While the number “666” had gained infamy because of its purported role as the Mark of the Beast, scholars had traced old translations and found the number had been recorded in error. Besides, the Holy Bible was hardly more than a field guide for the surface struggle. The real battles waged outside the pages, in rare air and poisoned darkness. Seven was appropriate, a number of magic, mystery, and perfection.

“Where’s Artie?” a woman said. “He was right behind me a second ago.”

The Roach looked down both ends of the corridor and at the locked doors lining each side of the hall. A quick head count showed he had indeed lost a group member. He hoped Artie was sitting on the stool down at the bar, indulging in spirits of the liquid kind, but the energy in the ancient structure had grown palpably stronger, and The Roach wondered if a demon had taken Artie for a spin across the dance floor.

The Roach activated his two-way radio. “Digger, I got a Lost Boy.”

Cody’s static-filled voice came back, the signal saturated with noise so that the words were barely audible. “Digger’s a Lost Boy, too. What’s the prob?”

“We had a sighting and someone must have fled the scene.”

“He wasn’t scared,” said the woman. “He loves ghosts.”

The Roach nodded while ignoring her. Paranormal tourism had all the inherent risk factors of traditional outdoor adventuring, with the same fear response and endorphin rush. The Roach frowned upon speed dating with the dead, but he figured he could best serve on the front lines where the metaphysical bullets flew hot and fast. He’d learned long ago that just closing your eyes to a problem didn’t make it go away.

And there was wisdom in the old saying about being careful what you wish for.

Because he wished a demon would invade Terry and shut her bitching mouth.

Chapter 23

Violet wasn’t sure what was worse—that old bitch Janey Mays hovering everywhere like a vulture crossed with a hummingbird, or disappearing when things went to hell.

Violet had called Janey several times from the front desk since the mummified manager had called the front desk. No answer each time, and Wally Reams had knocked on her door to no avail. J.C. Henries from night shift had gone AWOL, one of the gas burners in the kitchen stove had flared and burned a cook’s arm, the hot water was on the blink, and two of the guests were complaining about children running up and down the halls. Despite the lie she’d told Digger, Violet was positive no children had checked in, since most of the rooms were taken up by the ghost-hunting crowd.

The customer’s always right, even when they’re assholes.

“You sure she reported a leak?” Violet asked Rhonda.

The girl gave a nod, bouncing her red pigtails and smacking her gum. “‘bout 25 minutes ago.”

“Doesn’t it seem weird? She expects someone to clean her ashtray the second she crushes the butt. You think she’d wait 25 minutes without chewing the whole maintenance crew a new pooper?”

“Yeah, it’s weird,” Rhonda said. “Her car’s still in the lot and I can’t see her walking two miles to Black Rock. And where else is there to go?”

You got that right.

“I can’t believe she’d bail out of a big conference, especially with a freaky crowd like this,” Violet said. “I’m surprised she’s not counting the silverware and towels.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. She busted me for taking a roll of toilet paper.”

“Well, it’s hotel property. It’s her job.”

“Nobody should like their job that much.”

“This place is falling down around our ears. If anything else goes wrong, we’ll have to call in FEMA.”

”Life goes on,” Rhonda said, turning her attention back to People magazine, where Angelina Jolie was adopting another baby, this time from Madagascar. The clerk was slouched against the drawer that served as cash till, except most customers used credit cards these days. Violet eyed it, wondering how much loose change was in there. The best filching was done in the bar, but with Battle Axe away, then why not go for a few twenties?

Violet tried the phone again. It gave a sad bleat, the death of an electronic sheep. She banged the handset against the wall, and then checked the signal on her cell phone. It was hopeless, because cell phones never worked around the inn. Some said it was because of the inn’s location straddling the Eastern Continental Divide, while others called it a “dark zone” the wireless companies had not yet found lucrative enough to pursue. Whatever the reason, she had no bars.

Wally came huffing and puffing to the front desk, his ruddy face dotted with sweat. “Elevator’s gettin’ squirrelly,” he said.

“Squirrelly? Is that the engineering term for ‘out of service’?”

“It’s still working, it just don’t stop on the floor you push the button for.”

“We’ve only got three floors. How much of a problem can it be?”

“Normally, it wouldn’t be one, but these Christ-dang ghost hunters are crawling from floor to floor like piss ants in a sugar factory. The way the floors are divided, you got to walk a mile to get from 210 to 324. Down, around, and up.”

“And Janey didn’t answer?”

“I pounded on the door near hard enough to break it down. If she’s in there, she’s either dead or deaf.”

One of the guests approached the desk, a hawk-faced woman wearing an ill-fitting pants suit that spelled trouble. Wally stepped away, falling into invisible-worker mode. Violet was annoyed at being thrust into command, especially since she was due to clock out in half an hour and Phillippe Renaud, the new cook—”chef,” he had insisted, in that gorgeous French accent—had offered to buy her a Beck’s in the hotel bar.

“Excuse me,” the guest said, rapping on the counter with her room key. “My door’s messed up. I got locked inside my own room.”

The bony woman’s avian eyes darted past Violet as if expecting someone older and more mature to hear her complaint. An adult. Violet was annoyed. She had a community-college degree, for crying out loud. And one of these days, she’d own a pants suit, too. As soon as she paid back what she’d borrowed.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Violet said, giving her falsest, sweetest smile. “But our keys only work from the outside. All inside doors have privacy locks and deadbolts. Are you sure you didn’t turn the knob the wrong way?”

“I know how to work a door, Miss,” the Hawk said, with enough frost in her breath to lower the room temperature. Which Violet noticed had gotten colder in the last few minutes. A malfunctioning heater was all she needed.

“Yes, ma’am,” Violet said, her smile locked in place. “Wally, would you please look at the lock?”

Wally nodded, though his face curdled as if he’d swallowed a slug. “I’ll get J.C. on it right away.”

“And don’t disturb anything,” the Hawk said. “I have some very valuable equipment in there.”

As Wally hurried away, she added, “You people should do something about the heat. It’s freezing in here.”

Tell it to someone who cares.

A few guests were milling back and forth, as if the conference had hit a lull. Violet fished under the counter and came out with a couple of brass tokens. “Here, good for complimentary drinks at the bar.”

And you better not sit with Phillippe, or I will break a bottle over your head.

The woman took the tokens, scratching Violet’s thumb with her long, painted fingernails. “That’ll take the chill off. Thanks.”

Rhonda put down the People after the Hawk was gone. “No wonder Janey’s so crabby all the time.”

“She’s only crabby when we’re around,” Violet said. “Where’s the master key?”

“Master key? We don’t have any master key.”

“Figures. Do we have a copy for Janey’s suite?”

“You’re not going in there, are you? You might not come out of alive. I’ve never even seen inside it.”

“Come on, you think she has pentagrams drawn on the floor and a bunch of mutilated cats nailed to the walls?”

“Maybe she’s got J.C. in there.”

“Yuck. Don’t want to think about it.”

Rhonda sorted through the extra keys, reading their tags, until she found a skeleton key that bore Janey’s suite number. The ring also held a key that Violet supposed went to the office. “Here you go. Looks like it hasn’t been used since Ricky Martin was still hetero and hot.”

“Okay, if I’m not back in ten minutes, call in the National Guard,” Violet said.

“If the phone’s working.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Violet headed for the stairs, determined to bypass the squirrelly elevator. All she needed was to get trapped and spend the night in a rusty metal box while Phillippe sipped Merlot and talked French to all the drunken girls. The sooner Janey Mays was back in charge, the better.

She bounced up the stairs, calves sore from a long day in high heels. A man in a black jumpsuit met her at the first landing, heading down. One of the SSI guys, not the young hottie, but a middle-aged, chunky man.

“How’s the conference going?” She almost regretted asking , because she could think of a hundred things that could go wrong and her shit list was about full at the moment. But he just shook his head and said, “We’re getting some pretty good results.”

“Are results good or bad? Assuming you actually want to find a ghost.”

“Oh, you don’t have to find them. They’ll find you.”

“Great.” Fucking sadist.

She continued to the second floor, feeling his oily gaze on her ass. It gave her no pleasure. She had her mind set on Phillippe—not her heart, she wasn’t that stupid—but a girl could always dream. Dreams were all you had in this world, but never enough money to make them come true. Why should a couple of sweet boys like Chad and Stevie have all the—

She found herself in front of 226. The idea of opening the door had seemed as simple as the mechanical insertion of the key, the triggering of the tumblers, and the turning of the handle. But now a hundred scenarios howled for attention.

What if she really IS boning J.C.? Or worse, what if she’s settled in for a date with the old battery-operated boyfriend? Or if she’s drunk and grouchy? Snorting coke? Or even something innocent, like reading Agatha Christie? Is this worth it?

In the end, Violet decided the only way she’d make that date—not a date, just hanging out—with Phillippe was to rouse Janey and let her know the White Horse was coming apart at the seams. She steeled herself and rapped on the door, but it lacked any thunder.

Chicken dooty pants patootie.

Surely Janey wouldn’t kill the messenger? Violet had tried hard to solve the problems, right? And this was the last resort?

She hammered with the bottoms of her fists this time, bruising a bone in her wrist. She should have brought Wally with her, but there were too many holes in the dike and not enough thumbs to go around.

She was fidgeting for the key when she instinctively tried the door handle. It turned easily, the clack of the catch like a gunshot in the quiet hallway.

Whatever Janey’s up to, it wasn’t worth locking the door over.

Violet pushed the door open a couple of feet. “Miss Mays?” she called into the darkness.

No radio or television, no sound of a shower, no snores, no moans of passion or grunts of surprise. Only a hush to match that of the hallway.

Jany pushed the door open wider, calling again. She squinted and tried the light switch. Nothing. Darkness crowded the room and Violet had the distinct feeling of being watched, as if nocturnal predators lay in wait. She stood in the doorway, letting the weak light from the hall spill into the room, hoping Janey would wake up and not be too crabby.

“Sorry to bother you,” Violet said, wishing somebody, even one of the fat-assed SSI perverts, would come along. Because the room smelled like a possum had died in the walls and something fluttered against the ceiling—either bats or the world’s largest mutant moths. Violet decided she’d done her duty and was about to back out of the room when the hall light caught a metallic glint.

She squinted at the short tube and the bulk behind it.

A gun? On the floor?

There were only a couple of reasons why a gun would be out in plain sight, and neither were the stuff of flowers and sunshine. Violet took another step forward, peering into the gloom, half expecting to see Janey sprawled in a pool of her own blood and brains. Janey didn’t seem the suicidal type and was the kind of crotchety old bag who’d probably live to be 120 just to piss off the nurses in the old folks’ home.

“Janey?”

Her vision adjusting, Violet saw the bathroom door was open, and the kitchenette was bare. That left only the bed….

It was partitioned off from the main room but enough showed so that the rumpled, dangling blankets were visible. Janey went three steps deeper, looking for a pallid foot.

Murder...yeah, plenty of people got motives.

Violet stopped.

Including me.

Janey wouldn’t keep suspected embezzlement a secret. She pretended to loathe gossip but those creased, cracked, reptilian lips loved to spit poison. When Rhonda had been busted with the toilet paper, her name had blared out in bold letters from the staff memo. And Janey’s glee was evident in every sentence, right down to the reminder that “Employees who don’t put the White Horse Inn first will not be employees for long.”

Violet was innocent. She couldn’t hurt a fly, unless it was landing on her pancake syrup. Then she could mash it good, mash it, mash it, mash it--

She glanced back toward the hallway and the low murmur of approaching voices. She couldn’t be seen in this room. “Motive, means, and opportunity,” as the cop shows put it. Sure, forensics tests might eventually prove she’d not fired the weapon, but in the meantime she’d be out of a job, broke from legal fees, and sleeping on a cold iron cot surrounded by lonely, desperate convicts instead of snuggling next to Phillippe.

Plus, Janey’s office was waiting, and Violet held the all-access pass in her hand, skin sweaty around the metal. With luck, she could search the bottom cabinets before anyone found Janey’s body.

She backed to the hall, hearing distant laughter. She looked both ways to make sure no one was watching and closed the door. She banged on it until the approaching group of ghosthunters rounded the corner, then gave one more emphatic, “Miss Mays?” before shrugging and heading back downstairs. She glanced at her watch.

Ten minutes of prowling for loose cash, then a date at the bar.

Chapter 24

“You’re freaking me out, Dad.”

Not that Wayne Wilson’s tears were as scarce and sacred as Buddha bones or anything, but Kendra hadn’t seen him cry since—well, probably five years ago, when he’d quit drinking for the last time.

He’d cried when Mom died, choking and wailing and occasionally letting slip with “Why, God?” But sometimes he’d be sitting in front of the television and silent tears would slide down his cheeks, his eyes as dull as whatever baseball game he happened to be watching. Tears that reflected the colors of the screen, made somehow more disturbing by the sparkles of green and blue. They were the kind of tears that had no cause or reason, and she’d wondered if they would ever end.

These tears had that quality, of having leaked from cracks on a parched cliffside after seeping, crawling, and trickling for miles to find their way to the surface.

He turned his head, as slowly as a ventriloquist’s dummy. He was smiling, and that was even creepier.

“She’s here, honey,” he whispered.

Kendra looked around the room, expecting that fat lady in the lime-colored blouse. But the room was empty except for the Ouija board on the coffee table.

“Some of the hunters are getting antsy,” she said. “You might want to check in at the control room.”

“We’re done,” he said, in that same spaced-out voice. “Now I know.”

“Know what?”

Dad stood up, so wobbly that Kendra’s breath caught and she glanced around his feet for a bottle. Her nursing days were done. She was Emily Dee, not Florence Nightingale.

“Your mother’s okay,” Dad said.

“I barely had a mother, remember? Pictures and stories, that’s all I got, and I don’t have much more of a father.”

Ouch. The words hurt to say them, but they felt good in a way, because they were honest. Digger was more of a fictional character these days than a human being. If only she could erase him like she could Mom.

The verbal slap seemed to pull Wayne back to Planet Earth. “I saw your mother.”

A quiet “Wacaroni” was all she could manage.

His face was earnest, eyes shifting from dull gray to a bright green. “She was standing right there in the corner and she...and she….”

His pointing finger lowered. “She said your name.”

“Mine? Like, she’s dead, she jumped the shark on me when I was barely out of kindergarten, and now she cares?”

She’d said the words louder than she’d meant to, and they rattled off the flat walls of the room and gave an echo among the bathroom tiles. The force behind them was driven by fear as much as anger, because she’d found ways to push Dad’s buttons over the years, through careful trial and error. But now he appeared beyond control, ready for a shrink and a rubber room.

Dad didn’t believe in ghosts. Dad barely believed in Dad.

“Man, you two must have been the perfect couple,” she said.

“No, but we made the perfect child,” he said, fumbling at his hip for his walkie talkie.

“Dad, there’s nothing here,” she said. “There never was.”

“I made a promise,” he said.

“When have you ever kept a promise? How many times was the Tooth Fairy three days late? How many times was I the only kid whose parent didn’t show up for the soccer game?”

“Kendra, this isn’t the time to—”

“I know. It never is. There’s always ‘one day.’ In case you didn’t notice, I’ve got boobs and all my permanent teeth and a driver’s permit and ‘one day’ I’m going to be packing my stuff and heading for art school. And a year later you’ll be sitting there wondering where what’s-her-name went.”

Wayne held the walkie talkie in front of him, thumb resting on the “send” button. “She’s here.”

He brushed past her, lifting the walkie talkie to his mouth. Kendra reached out and slapped at it, knocking it onto the floor. The case cracked open and the batteries tumbled across the carpet.

Her heart fluttered with rage, but a ball of ice lodged in her belly. Dad had never hit her, never even really spanked her, but once in a while he exploded over the smallest thing. And now she was just like him, a character in her own comic book.

Not Emily Dee, not a hero. Just The Digger’s Daughter. A loser.

She looked at her right hand, the one that had drawn reams and reams of goofy mice, fanged fairies, satirical superduperheroes, and even a few sly caricatures of Digger himself. Despite all Mom’s guidance, maybe this was the hand’s true purpose—not to create, but to destroy.

“She told me to get you out of here,” Wayne said, falling back into space-cadet mode.

“She’s dead,” Kendra said, her voice quavering.

“She came back.”

“Where?” Kendra flung up her arms to indicate the shabby elegance of the dark room. “Where?”

“Here.”

“Here is nowhere, Dad. Why should she come back to this dump, of all places? Why couldn’t she show up for my eighth-grade graduation or when I won my red ribbon in the Smart Art contest? Pierced ears and first period? When I got my skateboard scar? I guess I should be glad she bothered to show up for my birth.”

“You were born here.”

“Jesus in butter toast. I was born in Charlotte, remember? Unless I was abandoned by gypsies or dropped by a UFO.” Her hand still trembled, so she wrapped it into a fist, but that was even scarier because it felt good.

“This is where we made you. We weren’t trying or anything, it just happened.”

“Dad, you’re scaring me.” And, Mom, if you can hear me, YOU’RE scaring me, too.

“On our honeymoon. Here. In this room.”

“Too much information.” She didn’t want to think about her parents making out, but she wondered why Dad was so sure this was the place. When Cassie, the trailer-park chick at middle school, started swelling in the belly at age 13, she’d told her classmates that “a woman knew.” But she doubted if the man ever knew.

“In a weird way, this is where we all started. The three of us. And now we’re all together again.”

“Except the part where Mom’s dead. I’m worried about you, Digger.”

He stooped and gathered the walkie talkie batteries. As he did, the shadow behind him seemed a little slow in shifting. But the room was dark, she was jumpy, and she didn’t trust her senses right now. Especially the faint aroma of smoke and the soft, slithery sounds coming from the corners of the room.

Wayne pressed the button on the reassembled walkie talkie. “Digger here. We got activity in 218.”

The speaker spat static and Burton’s voice came through in broken bits. “...problem...control room...equipment on the fritz....”

“On my way,” Wayne said. He looked at her. “Come on.”

“Be there in a minute.” She wanted to prove she didn’t need him. She could stand on her own, tough it out, take his best shot. I ain’t afraida no ghost.

“She’s here,” Wayne said, and then he was gone, as elusive as any wayward spirit.

He left the door open, but the entering light did little to repel the gathering gloom. If only she had her sketch pad, her shield, her greatest weapon. Doodle Girl, saving the world one sketch at a time. Saving herself.

“Okay, room,” she said aloud, startled by the sudden shattering of the silence. She addressed the room because she didn’t want to address her mother. Her mother was only an idea at this point, a memory. A dream of a warm, loving lap, crayons, and laughs. Nothing you could hug when the night grew deep and cold or you scabbed your ankle or freaked out after taking your first puff of grass.

They always leave you with nothing.

“Whaddya got?” she said.

Meaning: Mom, I’d get really freaked out if you’re here.

Sounds came from the hallway, and they were the normal chatter of a ghost-hunting group, complaints about logistics and equipment failure. Kendra wasn’t brave enough to close the door, because then she’d be alone with—

Alone with her thoughts, and no pen and paper to hide behind.

“Mom, where are you?”

“Hey,” someone whispered.

She jumped, though the whisper sounded real enough.

“Who’s there?”

“Me,” said the boy, and Bruce stepped from the shadows.

“How long have you been here?” she said, hiding the quaver in her voice. For just a heartbeat, she’d hoped—or feared—it had been her mother after all.

“Not long,” he said.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Daddy doesn’t know where I am.” The boy’s head hung down and his skin was sallow in the weak light.

“You overheard our argument, didn’t you? Is that what you do, sneak around and spy on people?”

“No, just bored.”

“Well, go be bored somewhere else.”

“You mom’s gone.”

“That’s what I figured. But it’s not any business of yours.”

“Hey, look, 218 is open,” said someone in the hall.

Bruce moved with startling speed and slammed the door. The room was now almost fully dark, lit only by light from the lampposts below.

She couldn’t discern the boy’s outline, so she shouted in the direction of the door. “What did you do that for, twerp?”

He giggled as if playing a game. Someone pounded on the door from outside.

Kendra moved across the carpet, bumping her shin on the coffee table. She bit back a curse and continued to the door, feeling her way in front of her. Voices from outside the door expressed annoyance:

“It’s locked. We’re supposed to hunt here.”

“This is the worst-organized paracon I’ve ever attended.”

“At least the ghosts are having fun.”

Kendra felt along the door until she found the knob, then turned it, bracing herself for embarrassment. Instead, the handle froze.

The room grew darker and Bruce was making a strange noise behind her, halfway between a yowl of pain anda low chuckle. She clawed at the door, desperate for light and air, longing for escape. She knocked on the wood, which was pointless, since the people on the other side were knocking as well.

Fingers brushed across her hair. The little twerp was pestering her, playing games. “Stop it, Bruce. Or I’ll….”

What? Tell on him? Give him a spanking?

The voices on the other side of the door were receding, as if the hunters had given up. “Wait!” Kendra shouted. “I’m locked in.”

The fingers were gone and now there was a squeak, as if Bruce had climbed up on the bed. Then the bedsprings creaked in rhythm, and she could barely make out his form jumping up and down as he cried in a sing-song chant:

“Lock the door and throw away the key,

Stay and play with Mommy and me,

Lock the door and throw away the key,

Stay and play with Mommy and me.”

“Is your mommy here?” Kendra shouted.

He giggled and scrambled off the bed. “No, but yours is.”

Then he crawled under the bed, his muffled laughter almost spookier than his sudden appearance. The little guy had probably gone bonkers, stuck here at the hotel all the time. Nothing to do but find hidden doors and hallways, sneak around and play tricks on the guests, and get people in trouble. She’d probably feel sorry for him as soon as she got done kicking his little butt.

She was kneeling and peering under the bed when the room exploded in light, the door swinging open. Cody stood there in his SSI jumpsuit, a flashlight in his hand.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Nothing,” she said, trying to act cool, though her cheeks were hot and flushed. “This little twerp—”

She looked under the bed. Nothing there but a rumpled tissue and a thin coat of undisturbed dust.

“I saw Digger leave the room on the video monitor,” Cody said. “When you didn’t come out, I got worried.”

Kendra rose and sat on the bed. “Digger’s not the only one seeing things that aren’t there.”

“You can’t trust anything here,” Cody said. “The MAC Attack is going apeshit. The readings are all over the place. Something’s active for sure.”

“Not you, too,” she said, exhaustion seeping into her bones. Here she was in a darkened bedroom with the stud-muffin Future of Horror, who was apparently paying attention to her whereabouts, but all she wanted was a warm bath and a stack of Red Sonja comics. She was so sick of ghost hunters and their pathetic attempts to reach the Other Side.

“You better get out of here,” Cody said as Digger’s voice erupted in a burst of fuzz from his walkie talkie.

“Nah, I like this room,” she said, lying back on the bed.

“I don’t mean the room,” he said. “I mean the inn.”

“And let the Digger win? You got to be kidding.”

“Damn it, Kendra, don’t be so hard-headed. You don’t mess around with demons.”

She was almost pleased at his anger. Passion was passion, after all, and even though she didn’t quite know what to do with it, arousing it inspired a certain kind of creativity and power. No wonder ghost hunters created their own drama, and invisible drama was the best kind of all. “You better get that,” she said, as Digger repeated his request for all SSI personnel to report to the control room.

“I’m not leaving without you,” he said.

“What’s with people and promises?” she said. “They must have put something funny in the complimentary coffee.”

Cody crossed the room and she closed her eyes, sensing him looming over her. She wondered if he would try anything, but he’d left the door open and he was still wearing that ridiculous jumpsuit. And she wasn’t sure what she would do if he bent close, what with the peeping twerp and the mysterious self-locking door and the fact that she was going to carry her virginity to college. She held her breath and Digger summoned his staff once more.

She sensed Cody’s hesitation, and then the child’s whisper came.

“Stay.”

Kendra opened her eyes. “Did you hear that?”

Cody shook his head. “Come on. The hunt group is coming.”

Chapter 25

The Roach was sure the portal lay below, in the basement.

Intellectually, there was no reason to assume demons would emerge from the ground. Hell was not a lake of fire beneath the surface of the Earth. God had sent the fallen angels to do His dirty work, and so they were as likely to drift down on snowflakes, sluice along on a river current, or ride the wind like the spores of a diseased fungus. No, demons didn’t come from a place—they were everywhere, at all times, in their own dimension and moving parallel to the human world.

In some locations, the fabric between the two dimensions grew thinner, particularly in sites of geographic tension, and The Roach had formed a theory that the nearby Eastern Continental Divide had played havoc here. The blue quartz he’d observed was pocked with crystals, and while the New Age devotees held crystals to be a healing power, The Roach believed energy itself was neither good nor bad. The results of that energy, however, meant the difference between salvation and damnation.

When Wayne Wilson had summoned everyone back to the control room, The Roach had directed his group to rendezvous with the rest of the hunters. He worked best alone, though he wasn’t above using innocents to lure demons into the open. If a spiritually vulnerable person opened themselves to invasion and possession, no demon could resist. The trick was to destroy the demon before it took over the host.

The Roach navigated the first floor, running into several frustrated hunters who decided the bar offered more entertainment than the hunts did. One guest had asked him what was going on, and The Roach shrugged and said, “The hunts got off track. It happens.”

A surveillance camera was rigged in the top corner of the hallway, and The Roach gave it a little half-salute. He turned down the dim and dirty hallway that led to the basement. Two women stood by the door, wielding EMF meters, cameras slung around their necks.

“Are you the hunt leader?” said the one with bottle-blonde hair.

“The basement hunt is tomorrow night,” The Roach replied.

“Sheezus, Nancy,” said the other woman, who was a decade younger, ebony-skinned, and shaped like a pear. “We’ve wasted an hour.”

“It wasn’t wasted,” Nancy said. “We got some good readings. But I’d sure like to get in that basement. I know there’s something behind this door.”

“How’s your spiritual condition?” The Roach asked.

“I’m born again but getting over it,” Nancy said.

The pear-shaped woman said, “Well, I usually don’t talk about it, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m a demonologist. Eloise Lanier. Maybe you’ve read my blog?”

The Roach bit back his smile. Another armchair warrior in the battle between Good and Evil. He doubted if she’d endured the six-month purification process or undertaken the enlightened conversation with God that separated the Dark Arts dilettante from True Warrior of Light. Eloise had probably seen too many “Touched by an Angel” re-runs and now felt the calling to go forth and save the troubled and wicked.

“If you’re a demonologist, we’re in good hands,” he said.

“It was the sin of pride that made them demons,” Eloise said. “And the last thing I want to do is brag about my abilities.”

“Pride is Lucifer’s main weapon,” The Roach said. “But I doubt if he’s hiding in the basement of the White Horse when he could be out somewhere doing some real damage.”

“We’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out, I suppose,” Nancy said, a little relieved.

“Well, I happen to have a key,” he said. While he’d been prepared to work alone and at least make contact with the demons, if not engage in full spiritual combat, he figured God had delivered these two women for a reason. And who was he to doubt the wisdom of God’s ways?

The Roach fished the key out of his pocket while Eloise beamed and Nancy fretted. Wayne and the rest of SSI would notice his absence, but they were aware of his calling. You could argue religion, you could argue paranormal evidence, you could argue science, but you couldn’t argue faith.

And The Roach’s faith was strong. Here was proof of God’s blessing. God had provided bait.

“Are you ready to meet him?” he said, with appropriate gravity.

“Him?” Eloise said to Nancy. “See, I told you it wasn’t Margaret Percival.”

God, keep me strong in thy service.

The basement door opened to the expected musty, earthen smell, but The Roach detected an underlying whiff of coal ash. Lucifer had no problem gathering around the campfire and swapping war stories. But The Roach sensed that Belial was the shaper here, the one treating the inn as his personal dollhouse. Belial, as the demon of lies and deceit, had a special power to corrupt, as humans were all too willing to believe what they wanted to believe.

“Shall we, ladies?” he said, bowing and ushering them forward with his arm.

“It’s dark,” Nancy said.

“Better that way,” Eloise said, though she no longer seemed so eager to enter the basement.

“Don’t worry,” The Roach said, fingering his crucifix so they couldn’t miss the gesture. “I’ll take care of you.”

He tried the light switch just inside the basement door, though he knew it was dead. He switched on the miner’s-style mag light strapped to his toboggan and descended the stairs. “Follow me.”

The two women must have been avid watchers of the popular paranormal shows, for both had flashlights recommended by the “experts.” Eloise came first, her yellowish flashlight beam mixing with the mag-light’s blue beam to cast the basement floor in a sickly green glow. Nancy had enough presence of mind to switch on her audio recorder and whisper, “Entering the basement. 11:56 p.m. Three people present.”

Four minutes until midnight. In many occult systems, midnight marked the thinnest point between the physical and spiritual realms. In locations of high energy or turbulence, invisible doors opened and realms overlapped. The lost and the weak from both sides wandered where they shouldn’t, and some never made it back to their side of the border.

The trio reached the concrete pad at the foot of the stairs, the crumbling gray platform giving way to a sea of dirt. The Roach surveyed the battlefield and decided it was as suitable as any. Higher ground was easier to defend, but frontal assaults were best made on level terrain.

“What was that?” Eloise said, her flashlight cutting frantic swathes along the support timbers and slick stone walls.

“Something moved over there,” Nancy said, drawing nearer to The Roach.

He pulled the tiny flask of holy water from his belt. His Latin was rusty. The Catholic Church got all the credit for holding back the tide of demons, but in truth it just had the best publicity department. With their coy denial of exorcisms and their pretense at secrecy, the church leaders held a monopoly on awe. They were no more immune to pride than any of God’s servants.

The beauty of a dead language was that the average person had no idea what you were saying. Demons spoke in tongues and cared more about intention than literal interpretation. But words conveyed magic and gave force to beliefs and desires. Spoken aloud, they were the difference between mere thought and true will.

“Repeat after me,” The Roach whispered.

The two women would assume he was casting a protective spell, though cloaked in the church instead of witchcraft. From the shadows, Belial pulsed with pleasure at the trickery. But he would not make a full appearance until the hosts were ripe and willing, and in its greed and lust the demon would become vulnerable. The best time to slay a pig was when its nose was buried in the trough.

“Beati possidentes, et di minores abyssum invocat.”

The women echoed a jumbled, half-hearted imitation.

The invocation was swallowed by the dead, heavy air of the basement. The Roach waded a few more feet into the murk, luring his sacrifices closer to the portal. As he swiveled his head, the mag-light bounced along the walls, illuminating chinks and crevices in the stone. A low suspiration wended through the maze of beams and pipes, a noise that could have been mistaken for flowing water or the hum of the ventilation system.

“What did he say?” Nancy whispered, but Eloise shushed her.

Belial was dangerous because he had a chip on his shoulder. Whereas most of the demons in the pantheon were happy to commit evil for its own sake, Belial had once been celebrated as the main fallen angel, and early texts even called him the father of Lucifer and the one who inspired the revolt against God. Yet somewhere between the butchering of the Old Testament and the giddy pop presentation of the EZ Read Bible, Belial had slipped down the ladder and Lucifer now lorded over the lesser gods.

While Lucifer was content lapping up the cream God so generously dished out, growing fat and contented, Belial was working overtime. The Roach had crossed paths with it before, but that was years ago and The Roach had made many mistakes, most of them born of overconfidence. Belial had no doubt grown stronger, for the world was ripe with the fruit of sin, but The Roach was wiser, too. He’d learned to play the game on their terms and turn their own arrogance against them.

“What’s that sound?” Nancy said.

The breath of your worst nightmare.

“It’s a discarnate spirit,” Eloise said, her sureness waning as they moved deeper into the basement.

“11:59,” Nancy whispered into her recorder. “Apparent audio evidence noted.”

“Belial, master of this world,” The Roach intoned. “I offer you these gifts and hope you find them worthy.”

At the edge of the mag-light’s reach, swirls of darkness struggled to coalesce. The beam dimmed and The Roach’s skin puckered despite the surge of warmth. Even the rectangle of light from the doorway above went a shade toward orange, as if Belial were draining the hotel’s electrical system to power up and drag himself into the material world. Belial could manifest in any form it chose, though most demons went with the old standby of horns, fangs, and reptilian eyes, at least until they found a suitable subject to possess.

“I see it,” Eloise whispered.

“Margaret Percival?” Nancy said.

“Yes,” came the response, though the sibilant word was lost in the distant thrum of the elevator.

“Taking a flash photograph,” Nancy duly noted for the benefit of the recording. The Roach wondered which image the demon would allow to be captured. The flash illuminated half the basement, and Eloise gave a choked squeal.

Belial decided to give the full Monty.

Though it was only for a split-second as the flash died away to a beeping that indicated dead batteries, the image burned itself into The Roach’s retinas. At least eight feet tall, three horns brushing against the floor joists, a wrinkled, trollish face, narrow eyes with yellowed, elliptical pupils, grotesque green musculature of the torso set atop scrawny legs that ended in cloven hooves, and between its thighs dangled—

The door slammed as their flashlights died.

“God help us,” Eloise shouted in the utter darkness.

Must be midnight. Let’s party.

The Roach held up the crucifix, confident that he’d be able to sear Belial’s form back to ash and sulfur. A hot wind rushed by him in the dark.

There was a thump and a heavy, sodden sound as one of the women moaned.Forgive me, Lord, for I have been mistaken.

Belial grunted and smacked drenched lips. The Roach slid his night-vision goggles into place, crouching into a defensive posture. He wielded the crucifix like a knife, shocked to see the demon bent over Nancy, slavering away at her throat.

Sucking her soul…

Belial dropped Nancy’s corpse and roared, dark liquid dripping from its serrated fangs. It snarled at The Roach, no trace of cunning in its beady eyes.

“I rescind my invitation,’ The Roach said, his voice quavering.

Belial either didn’t hear him or didn’t care. It turned toward Eloise, hot breath raising the temperature of the basement. Eloise backed away, probably seeking the stairs but inadvertently heading deeper into the basement. The Roach’s night-vision goggles painted a green landscape that looked like the surface of an alien and hostile planet. And, indeed it was, for this world was now ruled by Belial.

“God have mercy,” Eloise blubbered. God had been merciful by darkening the room and taking away the vision of the horned beast before her. But her faith was weak. And that only made Belial stronger.

“Leave her, Belial,” The Roach challenged. “It’s me you want.”

The demon’s claws reached for the woman’s tear-stained face, but then it hesitated and turned its hideous face toward The Roach. The crucifix didn’t deflect the hostility of the stare, nor the wariness in the hooded eyes.

Obey me, you horny-headed bastard.

The Roach listened for God’s instructions. He was a mere emissary, and only through the power of the Lord could he stand a chance here. Otherwise, he would share the fate of the two women whose faith offered no protection in the face of supernal evil.

But Belial’s bellow drowned out any message God might have delivered, and it set upon Eloise like a torrid lover, wrapping her in sinewy arms and squeezing her in the throes of depraved passion.

She issued a final gasp as her lungs emptied in Belial’s embrace. The forked tongue whipped out and licked its cracked, wet lips. Belial’s head dipped and the creature buried its grin against the woman’s gaping mouth.

Eloise struggled with the last of her energy, her digital camcorder bouncing to the dirt. Her eyes bulged and then she went limp in Belial’s grasp. He exhaled and filled her with loathsome unlife. As her fingers twitched and curled, The Roach took a tentative step forward, begging God for courage and wisdom and strength.

“Now you are mine, Belial,” The Roach said. “You have taken what I gave and must do my bidding.”

Belial hesitated, still pumping his foul wind into Eloise. Her eyelids fluttered and she reached one hand to Belial’s neck for support.

The Roach lifted the crucifix higher, expecting the demon to recoil in disgust. “By the master of angels above, I command thee to obey.”

Belial gave a bone-deep shudder and threw its head back, growling in agony and rage. The Roach pressed his advantage now that the demon was caught between its intended host and its current corporeal manifestation. He jabbed the tip of the crucifix into the creature’s back, the silver slicing through the scaly flesh.

Ichor gushed from the wound, appearing black through the night-vision goggles. The roar of rage gained pitch and intensity, almost the keening of a teakettle. Belial thrashed about, sending a clawed fist toward The Roach, but he’d already withdrawn his weapon and stepped away. He reached for the holy water, knowing it would burn like acid on the split skin.

But before he could react, Belial collapsed.

The tip must have reached his heart and poisoned it with the love of Christ.

The Roach stood over the trembling bulk. He had eradicated demons before, and they could only be defeated, never destroyed. Belial would return at another time and place, and The Roach or some other soldier of light would be there in God’s service. He tested the corpse with the tip of his boot, but the corrupt flesh was already decaying to ash and dust.

Eloise moaned and The Roach knelt to her prone form.

“May God bless you,” The Roach said, checking her pulse. With luck, she would remember nothing, and he’d only have Nancy’s corpse to deal with.

Eloise rolled to her knees, graceful for such a robust woman recovering from shock. “Dark....”

“Easy,” The Roach said. “I think you fell down the stairs and bumped your head.”

“Dark is....”

He reached for her, intending to help her to her feet. The blow came suddenly and powerfully, taking his breath and loosening his teeth as bone crunched in his cheek. He lay in the dirt, blood pouring from his nostrils as he squinted through the cock-eyed goggles.

“Pride goeth before a fall,” Eloise said, though her voice was rough and thick as if she were unused to the size of her tongue. The woman knelt and wiped a hand beneath his nose, then licked at the blood on her fingers. He watched her walk toward the stairs, his green field of vision going gray.

CHAPTER 26

“The jumper is awesome,” Duncan said.

Ann didn’t understand him at first. She’d drowsed after the hurried round of lovemaking, intending to recharge her batteries and be at full alert for the after-midnight hunts. She opened her eyes thinking they were in Duncan’s apartment, a cramped walk-up two blocks from campus. The smell of coffee reminded her of Sunday morning, and she smiled at the thought of those languid hours ahead, with no classes, no responsibilities, and nowhere else to be. Duncan clicked the computer keys, the first out of bed as usual, browsing all his favorite Internet haunts.

This is how a woman should awaken. The only thing missing is breakfast in bed.

She’d been dreaming of horseback riding, an activity she’d pursued in her teens before the high maintenance costs forced her family to sell her pony. The metaphorical connection was so obvious that she jarred fully awake and recalled she was at the White Horse Inn.

Duncan, not realizing she’d been asleep, said, “That footage is so good it almost fooled me. Who shot it for you?”

“What footage?”

“The jumper. The guy who skewered himself on the lamp post. I thought you weren’t going to have time to do that one.”

She kicked the blankets away and reached for her blouse. “All I shot was the Jilted Bride.”

“Come on, Ann. I’m not one of those idiots who believes anything you tell them.”

She grabbed for his coffee mug and took a mouthful of cool, bitter brew. “We’ve already used up all the footage. I told you we’d have to go into replay mode.”

“Well, I don’t know how this got on the hard drive, then.”

Duncan leaned away from the screen to reveal grainy, pixelated movement. She squinted and recognized the room. It was 312, the curtains featuring ornate braided piping that was at odds with the furniture. The room appeared to have been outfitted with leftovers, with imitation Queen Anne chairs, hand-hewn tables, a sagging art-deco vase holding flowers, and an impressionist painting that suggested a wooded lake. Though the picture was monochromatic, her memory filled in the autumnal color scheme of the room.

“We didn’t put a projector in 312,” Ann said. “Remember, we ran out of time.”

Duncan consulted his notes, brow furrowed, face stark and haggard in the lamplight. “You sure that’s 312?”

“That ugly painting. I made a remark about a flea-market find.”

“Yeah,” Duncan said, tapping the keys. “Let me run the program again.”

A window popped up on the bottom of the screen, revealing a video-editing program. He scrolled backward with the mouse and hit “Play.” The footage loop began. The first 10 seconds showed the still room, but then a man entered the camera view and threw the curtains wide, nearly knocking them from the rod in his haste. He wore a bow tie and had slicked-down hair, pouches under his tired eyes. He flipped the window latch and lifted the lower pane, shaking with what appeared to be sobs or rage.

“Check the clothes,” Duncan said. “Izod shirt and LL Bean plaid pants. Totally Eighties.”

Ann nodded. Those were the types of details she’d have included if she’d had time to rig another loop of fake footage. The suicide jumper had died in 1981, the dawn of the Reagan Era.

The jumper punched the window screen out with one foot and climbed onto the ledge. He gave one baleful, hopeless look back at the camera, and then he launched himself into the night beyond the window. The curtains swayed and settled back into the place, and again the room was still.

“I’ve never seen that before,” Ann said.

“It’s on the hard drive and the file is called ‘Jumper.’”

Ann looked at the split monitors in the corners of the screen. “Bring up the control room spycam,” she said.

Duncan enlarged one of the boxes, revealing the room where several SSI members gathered around a computer. The good-looking, long-haired skater punk was working the keys, drawing their attention to the computer screen. A rack of various meters, sound equalizers, and video gear towered on the table beside him. Whatever the teen’s skill level, he had enough tech toys to put on a show.

“The little fucker must have hacked us,” Ann said.

“Impossible,” Duncan said. “We’re double-firewalled. Plus he’s running a Mac.”

“How else do you explain it?” Actually, there was one other explanation: for some reason, Duncan was engineering an end run. He must have uploaded the footage while she wasn’t around and now was staging a “What the hell?” act.

“Let’s watch it again,” Duncan set, restarting the video file. The scene played out just as before, only this time the jumper had a faint smile on his face. The difference was subtle enough that Ann convinced herself it was part of the con Duncan was running.

After the man disappeared through the window, Ann said, “Back it up.”

She didn’t understand why Duncan would go to such lengths just for simple revenge. She’d warned him repeatedly that their relationship was doomed to end before the semester was over, and that she never let her dalliances linger too long.

Never screw a Scorpio. They always plant the stinger when you step on them.

As Duncan worked the mouse and reset the file, Ann decided to play along instead of busting him. The jumper repeated his sullen trek across the room, pausing at the window, and this time he lifted his hand slightly in greeting.

“Did you see that?” Duncan said.

“His hand.”

“I swear this is the same file. Something freaky is going on.”

“Maybe it’s just another haunted computer.”

“The kid hacked us.”

The jumper went out the window, recreating his suicidal leap. Duncan let the clip play through until the curtains were once again still.

“If SSI was on to us, do you think they’d bother playing games?” Ann said. “Wouldn’t they come right out and challenge us instead of wasting all these resources?”

“Don’t forget the time and energy we’ve spent on debunking,” Duncan said. “When you’re on a mission, common sense goes out the window.”

“Literally,” Ann said as the file repeated. This time the man paused at the window but didn’t climb onto the sill. Something about the picture was different.

Curtains.

The curtains were now flimsy white cotton, thin enough to be translucent. Like the curtains in their room.

Ann and Duncan turned toward the window at the same time. The jumper gave a small wave and forlorn grin, and launched himself through the window. The closed window.

“Was that a video file or real time?” Ann asked.

“I have no idea.”

“See if I show up on the clip.” Ann moved toward the window, holding her hand in front of her as if expecting to sweep the jumper away like a cobweb.

“Nothing,” he said. “All it shows is the window.”

“Still frame?”

“No, the curtains are blowing.”

“Maybe I scared him away,” Ann said, reaching the window. She glanced to the ground below, where a spill of lamplight laid a wide yellow circle on the dying lawn. The jumper stood on the lawn, looking up at her.

She took an involuntary step backward. “He’s down there.”

Duncan left the computer and joined her, but just before he reached the window, the jumper pointed above Ann and stepped back into darkness. Except she wasn’t sure he stepped. He could have simply drifted or dissolved.

“I don’t see anything,” Duncan said.

“I’ll bet SSI rigged the game,” Ann said. “Doing the same thing we’re doing, planting images and clips to work the hunters into a frenzy. They took it a step further and hired an actor.”

“I don’t see how they could hack our system,” Duncan said. “The computer’s hardly been out of my sight and we’re not networked, so there’s no way in.”

“Either that, or admit we’ve had a supernatural encounter.”

“I’m not admitting anything.”

“Whoever he was, he was pointing above my head.”

Duncan leaned back and peered at her. “Shit.”

“What?”

He waved his hand over her head as if brushing away a fly. “Your black halo.”

Ann put her own hands above her head. “This is no time for—”

She caught her distorted reflection in the window and there it sat, floating a couple of inches over her hair. Beyond the glass, the jumper slumped broken and skewered halfway down the lamppost, the lamp housing shattered but still radiating a sickly yellow light. As she tried to gather enough air to speak, the jumper slid down and separated himself from the pole. He patted it as if to say, “It’s here when you need it.”

“Get Wayne Wilson,” Ann said.

Duncan opened his mouth to protest, but Ann twisted her face into Bitch Mode. He nodded and retreated.

After the door closed, Ann went to the bathroom and checked the mirror. The halo looked as solid as forged steel. She grabbed at it, not knowing what she’d do when she had it, but her fingers passed through. Her eyes glittered in fright but her face was locked into Bitch Mode, no matter how much she worked her jowls to erase the expression.

She hated to admit it, but the halo was a nice accessory to Bitch Mode.

There had to be a scientific explanation, even if her brain was flooding itself with toxins and upsetting her perception.

As a researcher, she understood that the simplest answer was usually the right one.

And, in this case, that meant she was most likely a demonic bitch possessed by a denizen of hell.

And it wasn’t so bad.

A smile wended its way into the Bitch Mode facade.

Chapter 27

Wayne hummed the Monkees tune “I’m a Believer.”

He’d seen her face, and now he could no longer doubt. He didn’t know what she was now—a lost soul, a displaced memory of God, a photographic impression on the emulsion of reality, or simply an angel—but she was back again.

When she’d said “Forever,” she meant it.

Wayne couldn’t decide whether Amelia or Cristos would be the better channeler, but somehow he had to maintain contact with Beth. He rounded the corner toward 218 and nearly slammed into Burton.

“Digger,” Burton said. “Where ya been?”

“Busy,” Wayne said.

“Roach is AWOL, and so is the hotel manager, the MAC Attack is on the fritz, and we’re getting lots of actives. If I didn’t know better, I’d say all hell is breaking loose.”

“Cancel the hunts,” Wayne said.

Burton’s jaw dropped. “Fifty-seven registered and we got a lot of money tied up—”

“Give it back. I’ve got something more important to do.”

Wayne brushed past Burton, who grabbed at his shoulder. Wayne slapped the hand away and wheeled, eyes narrowed. “She’s here. I don’t care what the machines say.”

“Boss, we better—”

“Handle it,” Wayne said, already halfway down the hall. “The Digger is hanging up his shovel.”

He decided on Cristos Rubio, remembering how the man’s eyes had darkened while conning Gelbaugh. As Wayne descended the stairs, music and laughter trickled from the bar. Probably some of the hunters had found an outlet for their spare time.

You could pop in for a quick one. Just one little bitty shot.

He licked his lips and could almost taste the whiskey. His head swam in imagined pleasure and he nearly lost his balance on the steps. That was just the kind of thinking that caused people to say, “The Devil made me do it.” Because who’d ever want to own up to poor choices, bad behavior, and swallowing sweet poison when there was someone or something else to blame?

“What’s the harm in it, Digger?”

He looked around, unsure where the voice had come from. Someone was laughing on the second floor, but that voice was distant. This one had been near his ear.

He continued down the stairs, intent on passing the bar without a glance. A Rolling Stones song was grinding across the room and spilling from the door like cigarette smoke. Glass clinked and several dozen tongues blended into one thick murmur, televisions casting kaleidoscopic light. He couldn’t help himself. Blame the bar mirror, blame the Devil, blame the goddamned weather, but he had to look.

His eyes went first to the row of amber bottles stacked at the back of the bar, then over to the bartender, a spike-haired young man with a thick neck, then back to the bottles. He told his feet to keep right on walking, because he had a date with his dead wife, but drunks knew how to screw things up at the most inconvenient times. That’s what they did best, and who was he to try to be better? When the devil made you do something, well, what could you expect besides the worst?

Besides, Cristos Rubio was sitting at the bar, perched on a stool like a frog sitting on a lakeside rock and waiting for a fly.

I can kill two birds with one stone.

Wayne was already through the door before he realized there was no second bird. He waved to a group of ghost hunters gathered in a booth. A couple nodded at him, apparently harboring no ill will over the disrupted schedule. Booze greased the squeakiest wheels, Wayne well knew, and he was feeling a bit rusty himself. The beer signs, dart board, karaoke stage, cigarette machine, and half-empty glasses were screaming “Welcome home,” and even the solemn Cristos was smiling at him.

Wayne made it to the bar before his knees went weak, and the bar stool was there to catch him.

“Deegger Weelson,” Cristos slurred in this thick accent.

“Cristos, I need some help.”

“You need a drink, compadre.”

Wayne swallowed. He’d promised Kendra. He’d even promised Beth, in the closest thing that ever passed for a prayer from his lips. Today I can do it. Today will be different. This time I can control myself.

“No, I just want to talk to you about something,” he said. On the television in the corner, two prize fighters were swapping body punches, one of them riding the ropes as if waiting out the bell.

“I know,” Cristos said. “That’s why I wait here for you.”

Cristos slid a drink coaster toward him. Wayne looked down at the design. It was the same snake illustration that had adorned Gelbaugh’s surprise Tarot card, the serpent entwined with a tree, its forked tongue flicking out from a vague reptilian smile.

“How did you do that?” Wayne asked, but Cristos was signaling the bartender. The Peruvian seer tapped his glass and held up two brown fingers.

“You wonder about fate,” Cristos said. “The will versus the randomness of chance.”

“I...had an experience.” Actually, he’d had several, but lies were easier than promises.

“Chance or will?”

“Does it matter?”

“I have read the cards for many years. The outcome is always the same.”

“I saw my dead wife.”

Cristos stared at his own reflection in the bar mirror. Wayne looked beyond the row of glistening bottles and saw Violet at a table, leaning forward and talking with a handsome, curly-haired man. He considered asking her about Janey Mays, but then the bartender was pushing a whiskey sour under his nose and his world was reduced to four ounces of golden fluid and half a dozen ice cubes.

“We see what we want to see,” Cristos said.

“Don’t give me that crap about wishful thinking,” Wayne said. “I’ve been selling it for years.”

“And it led you to the White Horse Inn, Black Rock, North Carolina. The way it should be.” Cristos tilted back his head and tasted his fresh drink.

“I’ve been here before.”

“We each live many lives.”

“No, I mean in this one. My wife and I were staying here sixteen years ago when we made a pact. If one of us died, we’d meet here.”

“And now you are surprised. Would you not have kept the promise if you had been first to die?”

“It should have been me. The world needed her more.” Wayne reached out and touched the dew that beaded the whiskey glass.

“Maybe the next world needed her even more. Angels aren’t born. They die.”

Wayne searched the man’s eyes but they were black and cold, as impassive as midnight on a distant moon. “I can’t believe beyond this one.”

Wayne nudged the drink away, but only a few inches. Through the bottom of the glass, the snake on the coaster undulated, the forked tongue slipping in and out. The music, chatter, and laughter swelled to a crescendo, as if a church choir had hit the Rapture chord.

“Perhaps a question,” Cristos said. “Did you come back because you expected to meet her? Or because you were certain she wouldn’t?”

“This conference.” Wayne swept his hand out to indicate the hotel. “It had nothing to do with the promise. It’s a haunted hotel and that’s what I do.”

“Will or fate?”

Wayne touched the glass again. “The outcome is the same.”

“Not yet.”

Wayne had the glass to his lips and the first swallow burned a sweet path to his belly. He thought of Kendra and the expression in her eyes when she found him—a look that said she knew it all along, that the Digger was determined to hollow out his own grave and bury himself. The second swallow washed that vision away, and his gut warmed as if the banked coals of hell had been stoked into a cheerful blaze.

Cristos nodded in approval. “Welcome back.”

Digger Wilson could summon the courage to face Beth and do what he had to do. He figured three drinks would be enough.

Chapter 28

“So, what do you think of this place?” Violet picked at the label of her Corona bottle, aware that it was the international bar-scene signal for horniness. She wasn’t sure she was horny, not yet, but Phillippe definitely had potential. According to Cosmo and Glamour, women knew within three seconds of meeting whether they would sleep with a man. Violet was suspicious of that formula, because the advice was geared toward the upper-class single woman with a busy career. Three seconds was not enough time to calculate someone’s net worth and, more importantly, his willingness to shower that worth on a lover.

“The decor is not even shabby chic, just plain shabby,” he said, pursing his plump lips. “I would give the whole place a makeover.”

“Janey’s going for the creep factor. She realized ghosts are good for business.”

“Janey Mays.” Phillippe fluttered his eyes toward the smoke-stained ceiling and sipped his chablis. “Pisser dessus. Piss on her.”

“Yeah,” she said, noticing the bar was fuller than it had been in weeks.

“She’s petasse, a whore for donkeys.”

Violet barely heard him over Billy Joel’s “Piano Man,” the ballad of self-pitying barflies around the world. A wine-drinking chef with a flair for interior design who used phrases like “shabby chic”? God, he wasn’t gay, was he? Just her luck. She’d taken his French accent as a sign of European hunkness and had totally overlooked the signals. Cosmo never said anything about this.

“You want another?” Phillipe said.

Violet had only finished half her beer and it was getting warm and flat. “I’ve got an early shift.”

He took the bait and she took it as proof that he wasn’t gay, or he might have been more concerned for her well-being and less about the potential for a score. “Hey, the night is young and so are we.”

“Okay, but if I get wobbly, will you take care of me?”

He grinned, and some wolf glinted in his teeth. “You can trust me, mademoiselle.”

The way he said implied that she couldn’t trust him a bit, which she took as an even better sign. As he approached the bar, her eyes roamed from his taut buttocks and she surveyed the room, noting in particular the off-duty staff smoking and drinking. Dead-end slaves killing time. Violet was better than them--she was a dreamer. Why, with a break here and there, she could take Janey’s position. Assuming the old Battle Axe was really dead.

When Phillippe returned with their drinks, he said, “So, what’s all this talk of fantomes? Ghosts? A couple of the cooks were talking about the knives that fly across the room by themselves.”

“Well, they say the place is haunted. That’s why these people came, to hunt the ghosts.”

“Like on the TV shows?”

“Yeah.” She pointed. “That man at the end of the bar, that’s Digger Wilson. He put this together.”

“He sure knows how to drink.”

“Well, it’s only a little after midnight. I don’t know why they gave up so early.”

“Maybe they found what they were looking for.”

“You don’t believe that junk, do you? You’re French, for God’s sake. You’re supposed to be enlightened.”

“These ghosts, where do they hang out?”

“Well, they say Room 318 is the spookiest. The wiring is a little tricky, but other than that, it’s just another room.”

“How about a little tour?” His eyebrows raised in suggestion. He definitely wasn’t gay, and she shifted in her seat.

“The hunt rooms are reserved for the guests. Wouldn’t want to barge in on anyone. Janey would have a hissy fit.”

“The basement?” He smirked, a challenge in his European eyes. “Nobody down there, oui?”

“Nobody,” she said, leaning forward so she could whisper over the jangling strains of “Crimson and Clover.”

He knocked back his wine and stood, holding out his hand. She considered the choice between Phillippe and the unknown or the petty cash in the bar till.

What the hell, the cash will always be there, and Janey could fire Phillippe next week for all I know. This might be my only chance. Sure, he’s only a cook now, but he has a chef’s degree, and that could lead to management.

She was out the door before she’d really made up her mind, and by then it was too late.

Chapter 29

Cody had dropped her at the door to 318 like a perfect gentleman.

Not a kiss on the cheek, not a hint that he’d tuck her in if she wanted, not even a handshake, just a “Get some rest, and I’ll catch you in the morning.”

Kendra was disappointed but also relieved, because she was tired and edgy. At least the room lights worked. After all that weird stuff in 218, she welcomed some down time with her sketch pad. The room had two twin beds, which wasn’t too awkward because she’d traveled a lot with Dad, but Kendra didn’t want any goodnight hugs. With luck, Dad wouldn’t show up until she’d drawn herself to sleep.

She settled on her bed and chose a charcoal pencil. She opened the pad to find the sketch of Dorrie Dough-Face and Rochester the Rat Boy.

I tore that out and left it for Bruce.

Except this picture wasn’t quite the same. Rochester’s eyes had a glint in them and his whiskers lifted in a sneer, while Dorrie grinned as if to say, “I ate the last doughnut and the bitchin’ crumbs, too. Whatcha gonna do about it?”

The little twerp must have sneaked into the room and copied the sketch back into her pad. He obviously had a master key. But his fingers were way to plump to draw at such a level. Kendra was proud of her skill, but she was also realistic about the work involved. Talent meant little until you had logged those endless hours of development and made the shift from art to craft. That was way too refined a concept for a 10-year-old to grasp, and prodigies were in short supply.

“You like my picture?”

Kendra dropped her pencil.

Bruce stepped from the shadowy bathroom, still wearing his too-short trousers and dirty green shirt. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“That’s exactly what you meant to do, you little creep. What kind of game are you playing, anyway?”

“Hide and seek.”

“It’s way past your bedtime. Your dad is going to kick your butt.”

“He’s busy.”

“What if I’d been changing into my pajamas?”

Bruce grinned uneasily. “Rochester said he saw you in the bathroom.” He giggled. “He saw your noonie.”

“Crap.” She clenched her fists and rose from the bed as he retreated into the bathroom.

“Just wait till I—”

The bathroom was empty. She clicked the light just to make sure. She checked the cabinet under the sink, expecting him to jump out and yell “Boo.” Nothing but spare rolls of toilet paper and the rank, musty smell of moist pipes.

The shower curtain was pulled closed, opaque enough to hide him, but there was no way he could have ducked in without the curtain swaying. He might be lying down, though. She yanked the curtain back with a flourish, anger tightening her jaws.

The giggle came from the bedroom.

Creak creak creak.

The creep was bouncing on the bed. If he stomped her sketch pad, that would be one dead kid. Except it wasn’t just a creak, another sound accented it, as if he were brushing the ceiling with each leap.

Creak flup creak flup creak flup.

His singsong rhyme was syncopated by his bouncing.

“Stay—”

Creak.

“—and play—”

Flup.

“—with Mommy—”

Creak.

“—and me.”

Flup.

She raced into the bedroom, more intent on rescuing her precious sketch pad and its cast of characters than on mashing the little brat’s teeth down his throat.

The creaking had stopped, and Bruce dangled in midair, a piece of fiber-coated electrical wire wrapped around his neck and tied to the light fixture. His black tongue protruded, and his blank eyes bulged, the flesh around them sunken and purple. Flies buzzed around his head and his skin was the color of cottage cheese.

Christ—

Before she could decide whether to touch him or if he was too far gone, the lights went out.

Christ and back again.

She didn’t know whether to retreat or feel her way forward. The afterimage of the light burned orange blobs behind her eyelids, but the image of the dead boy burned just as brightly.

You’re cracking up, kiddo, just like Bradshaw said you would. Too much imagination. Too much fantasy. Too much believing in the monsters you make.

Too much being the Digger’s daughter.

Her cracked laughter sounded too loud in the dark room.

It wasn’t real. She could make it to the light switch, get the room back in working order, and find some way to jam the lock so Bruce wouldn’t bug her anymore. And as soon as Dad came in, she’d make him report the little twerp to the hotel staff. Surely they had some sort of security, even if it was just that old mummy of a manager. One scowl from her wrinkled, witchbag face would scare any kid straight.

Yeah. Logic and reason. Much better than the koo-koo choo-choo to Nutsville.

One hand in front of her, she took brief steps forward across the carpet, mapping the room in her mind. The beds were over there, coffee table and TV cabinet to the left, an open path in the middle, right where Bruce would be hanging--

He’s NOT hanging, damn it.

Still, she slowed a little and waved her hand in front of her. Despite the lamps outside that girded the walkway to the hotel’s front entrance, the room was way darker than it should have been.

She thought of that screwy line the ghost hunters used when they were ushering a restless spirit to peace in the Great Unknown: “Go toward the light.”

Count to three and do it.

Count to three....

Stay and play with Mommy and me.

“Kendra?”

The woman’s voice froze her heart in mid-beat.

She couldn’t quite place it, but she couldn’t quite forget it, either. The familiarity was stored in her cells, at a genetic level, and she’d heard it on a few of Dad’s home videos on those late nights when he wanted a serious dose of melancholy. She’d heard it as a she sat on a warm, loving lap and painted herself into a hundred corners.

“Mom?” Kendra whispered, which was plenty loud enough in the stillness of the room, practically a scream that tore the faded, rose-patterned paper from the walls and sent gypsum snowing from the ceiling.

Kendra wrapped herself in the shadows of the room, waiting for a response, dreading it and wanting it all the same.

If I’m stepping on the koo-koo choo-choo, at least I’m going with a smile on my face. Reunited and it feels so good. Even if it feels so wrong.

In the solitude of her childhood, browsing through her mother’s artifacts and parental love notes and even the last letter penned on the deathbed, Kendra had often considered the many questions she’d never gotten to ask. All that mother-daughter talk, all the advice and wisdom, all the scolding and conflict, all the wonder and mystery of that special bond—all interrupted, all stolen away by some asshole in the Great Unknown, a punitive, sociopathic little Wizard of Oz hiding behind the curtain and pulling strings, giggling all the while.

Digger said she was here. But when can you ever trust Digger?

“Mom?”

No response.

Thirty seconds.

Someone was breathing in the corner of the room.

Which made no sense, because dead people didn’t breathe.

Games. More goddamned games.

Bruce.

Feeling silly now for thinking her mother would actually come back as a ghost like some trucked-up “Touched By An Angel” episode, she marched across the room, steady, steady, steady. Lunatics likely felt no shame, so her embarrassed rage was proof of her sanity.

The light switch would set things right, make it just another room, just another lonely hour with her sketch pad, painting herself into corners.

Before she could reach it, the door handle clacked and the door swung open, something thumping heavily against jamb. The wedge of light that cleaved into the room lit up the person crouched in the corner. Not Mom, not Bruce, not the Wizard of Oz.

It could only be Rochester, and he was even worse than she’d drawn him.

Then the light flicked on, Rochester was gone, and the real horror began.

Dad staggered in drunk as a senator, mushing out an atonal jumble of song. “...shaw her faysh...muuuh bweever….”

The koo-koo choo-choo had just derailed.

Chapter 30

“I haven’t seen him in a couple of hours,” Burton told Ann Vandooren.

She blinked at him as if waking from a nap. “This is important.”

“He had something come up,” Burton said. “Trust me, Digger wouldn’t bail on a conference without good reason.”

“Do we tell them?” Duncan said.

Burton looked from the woman to her young companion, then at the stack of video gear on their desk. “Tell us what?”

Cody, who had been with Burton in the control room when Duncan burst in, glanced at the computer and the various firewires and cables that protruded from the machine’s ports. “Nice system.”

“What’s the deal?” Burton asked. Ann looked like she’d aged a couple of decades since he’d last seen her, or maybe she’d taken off her make-up. She was hollow-eyed and evasive, a junkie without a fix.

“I’m possessed,” she said.

Drama queen. There was one at every conference, usually more than one, sometimes entire bus loads. Somebody had to be the most sensitive, see the most ghosts, endure the deepest sympathetic link with the dead. He wouldn’t have figured Ann for it, because his money was still riding on that fat loudmouth Amelia G. But she was the first to declare herself possessed, and that counted for something.

All Burton could do was humor her. “Is this a demonic possession or more of a communing with the dead?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the difference?”

Cody, who had moved closer to the computer set-up, said, “Demonic possession is subtle and insidious. It’s not like a boogieman jumping into your skin and yelling, ‘Hey, Lucy, I’m home.’ Demons tend to find the weak, search the brick wall for chinks, and then hitchhike into your soul by way of your worst traits.”

“Hey,” Duncan said. “I understand psychology, but we’re not talking a meltdown here. I tell you, I saw a black halo over her head.”

“I saw it, too, in the mirror,” Ann said. “You can’t convince me we’re both cracking up. We’re scientists, for god’s sake.”

“Science,” Burton said. “The last refuge of the faithless.”

“Look at this,” Cody said, pointing to the split screen on the computer. “You’ve got a camera in the attic.”

He reached for the keyboard as if to click the image to full resolution.

“Get away from there,” Ann said, leaping at him with her fingernails extended.

Burton moved forward to grab her, but Duncan reached her first. She shrugged him away and reached for the computer. Cody turned at the motion and her fingernails clawed his cheek. Ann slammed down the lid of the laptop, mashing Cody’s fingers.

“Jeez, lady,” he said. “I’m trying to help.”

“Ease up, everybody,” Burton said. “Look, it’s the middle of the night. We’re all a little tired. Why don’t we get some sleep and work this out in the morning?”

“And let the demon get even deeper inside me?”

“We’ve got a guy on staff who’s an expert on such things. The Roach will be glad to talk to you, no matter what the problem is.”

Ann put her fingers to her lips as if savoring the tiny bits of flesh she’d raked from Cody’s face. “This place...there’s something wrong with it.”

“Scientifically speaking?” Cody rubbed his cheek.

“Okay,” Duncan said, putting an arm around Ann. “I can take care of her. Sorry I bothered you.”

Burton nodded. To hell with it. Let Digger deal with her. Better get Cody out of here before the kid blows a fuse.

“Come on,” he said to Cody. “Let’s set up the recording gear for overnight.”

Cody left without another word. Ann’s face, already puckered with anger, twisted a little bit more. Burton decided she was putting on an act. He was turning to follow Cody when the black ring materialized over her head.

What the fuh—?

The walkie talkie squawked from his hip and by the time he’d thumbed the receiver, the image was gone. Must be getting combat fatigue.

“Burton,” he said into the walkie talkie.

“Shaw her faysh....”

“Digger?”

“Are you a bweever, Burton?”

“Who is this?”

“The lost and the lurking.” The voice trailed off into giggles.

Out in the hall, he caught up to Cody. “Did you hear that? Some kid screwing around on the channel?”

“No.”

“Sorry about those two,” Burton said. “You get every kind—”

“They were broadcasting. Not just recording.”

“Well, I don’t—”

“I caught video that looked a little suspicious. I thought somebody might be playing around. I figured it was an inside job, maybe you and Digger—”

“Watch it, Cody. You might be the ‘Future of Horror’ and all that happy horseshit, but we’ve been doing this since you were in diapers.”

“You’ve got to admit, Digger’s all about the show. I wouldn’t put it past him to pull a little stunt like that.”

Cody’s anger had shifted targets, and Burton realized the kid was bothered more by phony science than Ann’s talons. Burton prided himself on keeping cool, and now he was seeing things, hearing things, and bitching at his teammate. While Digger’s technical expertise was the weakest of all the team members, the man had a way of holding them together. And Digger was as invisible as the shyest ghost.

“If you don’t want to be part of SSI, you can pack up your toys and go home.”

“I got my own reasons for being here,” Cody said.

As Cody stomped down the hall, giggles leaked from Burton’s walkie talkie.

Chapter 31

“It’s supposed to be locked.”

Violet had wanted to use the basement key she’d swiped from Janey’s office, a small symbol of access and power, a hint of all Phillippe could have with her.

“An invitation,” he said, taking her elbow. Not a great line, but at least his grip was firm and confident. A little tingle of anticipation raced up her spine, just as it had done when she was prowling in Janey’s office. As she’d sat in the chair and rifled the desk drawers, she fantasized herself as Janey’s replacement. Queen of the White Horse, the new Battle Axe. Somebody had to carry on , now that Janey had permanently checked out....

How do you know she’s dead?

Phillippe reached through the basement door and flipped the switch, revealing the dirt floor. “Let there be light,” he said.

Because they said so.

“I don’t see any ghosts,” she said.

“I think we need a closer look.” Phillippe wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner. He pulled her closer to the top landing of the stairs. The basement air was moist and stagnant, and a coppery corruption settled on her skin like mist. Her nipples went taut, but not from arousal.

As Phillippe led her down the stairs, she said, “Now I know why the stupid kids go down in the basement in the horror movies, even when they know something bad is down there.”

“Why is that, madamoiselle?”

The French got her going again and reminded her of the goal. “Because they might get lucky.”

Phillippe grinned at her with those plump, exotic lips, and by the time they reached the basement, his face was near enough that she could smell the Chablis. “Worth a little risk, no?”

He pulled her close and she shivered against his body heat. “The door,” she said.

“Stay right here,” he said, as if she might wander off into the cobwebbed corners. He propelled himself up the stairs and she glanced into the shadows, wondering if anyone was hiding among the posts and support walls. She had the distinct sense of being watched.

By the time Phillippe rejoined her, she went into his arms, more for warmth than passion. The basement had gotten colder.

“Where we were?” he whispered.

“Nowhere,” she said.

“Yet everywhere.”

It was a line he’d probably used a hundred times, feeling up Parisian girls in cramped walk-up apartments where art littered the walls. She didn’t care. Once they were married, she’d pick out the art, and it wouldn’t be square purple cats and pastel vomit. And when she became queen of the White Horse, all the drab curtains and reproduction Victorian furniture would be on the curb and Martha Stewart would get a hefty royalty check.

He pulled her closer, and she molded into his body, feeling his erection tenting against her belly. He nuzzled her neck and his breath drifted across the fine hairs at the base of her skull.

“Mmm,” she said, looking over his shoulder to the rusty, hulking boiler in the recesses of the basement. The coal gate was open and something dangled from the dark recess. Phillippe nibbled at her ear and she giggled.

“Ticklish?” he whispered.

More like thinking he was silly, with all his well-oiled moves and suave maneuvers. She was used to the high school boys in their pick-up trucks, whose rough hands would grab and squeeze and push her into compliance. Not that she’d spent much time on that scene. She’d seen enough classmates pregnant at fifteen, with nothing but bruises and food stamps in their futures. She dreamed bigger, and if it meant she had to endure Phillippe’s wine-softened tongue, well, a woman couldn’t count on looks forever.

Besides, his tongue wasn’t so rough, and his lips were not too slobbery. But she couldn’t relax under his tactics, because of the thing dangling from the boiler. She squinted, trying to make out more detail.

A rag, maybe?

Phillippe’s hands did a slow crawl across her back and shoulders, kneading and stroking. They were strong but also gentle. Like she was a soufflé and he had to fold the eggs just right so the whole recipe wouldn’t collapse.

“Your skin is lovely, ma cherie,” he said, his nose against her cheek.

“I still don’t see any ghosts.”

“Perhaps we should turn out the lights, my sweet.”

But the switch was at the top of the stairs and the whole moment would be blown. And she couldn’t quit staring at the thing dangling from the boiler. It was cloth, but it wasn’t a rag. And there were...what?

Fingers?

“Phillippe,” she whispered.

“I know,” he moaned, grinding against her as if he were trying to break the wooden totem pole in his jeans. His hands slipped lower and cupped her buttocks, and then he locked lips. His little goatee irritated her chin, but at least he didn’t suck all the air from her lungs. But the moment she parted for a breath, he slipped his tongue in, like a snake heading for a hibernation hole.

“Murr-umpha,” she said into his mouth, trying to pull free, but he was too busy proving his French manhood to listen. One hand slipped to her breast and circled, stretching the lace of her bra. The bra cost her $35 at Victoria’s Secret, and if he popped the elastic, it was coming out of his wallet without his permission. His fingers found her nipples and he pinched as if it were a generous helping of salt.

The cloth thingy in the boiler...had it moved?

No breeze, except for the lust hurricane from Frenchie’s mouth.

God, maybe it was a rat’s nest. The hotel had plenty of them. She’d have J.C.—

Ouch.

“Easy,” she whispered. Maybe they went for pain on the Seine, and the French had a million reasons to be masochists, but if she wanted to be abused, she’d have married a cop.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, rolling out the words with a husky richness.

Good one. What’s next, “I love you”? Just do your thing, or at least the warm-up part of the act.

He thumbed free the middle button of her blouse, not even pausing in his oral attention, and then his hand was inside, teasing bare skin at the elastic frame of the bra. She wasn’t stacked by any means, but she had enough there to fill the cup without padding. She’d let him go at it a bit, maybe even a finger in the panties, but no way was she giving the milk before she got the deed to the farm.

The cloth thingy definitely moved, and it wasn’t just Phillippe that was breathing heavily. She looked around. That pervert J.C. might be down here drinking and goofing off, doing God-only-knew to kill time. It would be just like him to watch. Phillippe’s turgid snake was demanding to be free, and she’d have to make a decision soon or he’d whine about blue balls and she’d never get another chance.

She touched his zipper but all she could think about was the rats in the boiler. And the heavy breathing was louder, like a hundred pieces of sandpaper on wood.

“Phillippe?”

“Oui, ma cherie?” He was focused on his little mammary maneuver, inching toward raw nipple and disrespecting expensive lingerie.

“There’s something in the boiler.”

“The ghost thing...we already played that game. Now time for a new one.”

He squeezed hard and bit her neck, sending a jolt through her. Not all of it hurt, and she was disgusted by the tiny hotwire of pleasure that raced to her vagina. She moaned and closed her eyes. Encouraged, he bit again, this time hard enough to leave marks. His zipper was halfway down and heat plumed from the opening.

“Eeee-zy,” she said, knowing he was pushing the limits to see how much he could get. Men thought they were so damned clever, like they were setting the ground rules. But even if she’d wanted to bone him up, the dreary, creepy basement was jangling her nerves. She never relaxed during sex, not completely, because a girl had to stay on guard. But here, with that weird noise and the cloth thingy moving and—

His teeth clacked together and drew blood.

“Ow. Goddamn it.”

Before she could consider the consequences of having an enemy on staff, she slapped him across the cheek. If his goatee were long enough, she’d have yanked his head off and tossed it into the corner for the rats.

“I’m sorry, eez not like me....” Phillippe stared at his hands as if they belonged to someone else, but she was already to the stairs, adjusting her clothing, patting the narrow gash below her ear. Her fingers were warm and wet. The heavy breathing now sounded like giggles oozing from the dark, secretive nooks of the basement.

By the time she reached the door, she was somewhat composed. She’d been hit harder by better, and Violet Felkerson would make sure to sharpen the guillotine as soon as she became manager. Phillippe was toast, French or not.

“Cherie?”

“Stay down there and rot,” she said.

Behind Phillippe, the rag thingy was crawling out of the boiler, wormy fingers clawing at the door for traction.

Rats.

An old hotel like this, what could you expect?

By the time she’d slammed and locked the door, the giggling had turned into a laugh track.

Chapter 32

The Roach pressed back against the stones, fingering his crucifix. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness and couldn’t tell how long he’d been in the basement. Eloise’s—check that, Belial’s—blow had given him a concussion. His tongue probed a few loose teeth, and his nose was clotted with dried blood, which forced him to mouth breathe. His broken jaw throbbed and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak.

Not even the prayers he would need.

He awoke the first time with something touching his leg. The touch had given way to a slithery, slick stroke, all the more disturbing because it was vaguely sensual. He opened his eyes to near-total darkness, his night-vision goggles knocked somewhere across the uneven floor.

A dull orange glow emanated from a distance, like a star trying to wink in the gathering dusk. The touch became a turgid rope, and it continued across his thigh and moved on. Seconds, minutes, or maybe hours later, he heard the skuffff of something heavy being dragged across the dirt. Then he remembered Nancy’s corpse.

Disoriented and too sore to move, all he could was lie in the clammy dirt and assess his injuries. The scuffing lasted several minutes, followed by a meaty thunk, like encased bone hitting metal. The orange glow deepened and the fire roared to life. The woman’s body was thrown in silhouette against the bed of embers, then the fire roared to life and engulfed her flesh.

Rodney tried to crawl away, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the bright light cast by the flames, but the going was slow and painful. Blood seeped from his nose and he had to pause every few feet to wipe it from his lips. He expected the slithering limb to latch onto him at any moment.

Are you finished with me, God? Is this the price of arrogance?

But as he clawed his way inch by inch over greasy dirt and protruding rocks, he wasn’t sure he’d be granted such a quick release. After all, the blood of at least eight people was on his hands. Sure, it was all part of his holy work, but that didn’t bring them back to life or give their souls peace. Like Belial and the other fallen angels who did God’s dirty work, he was a necessary evil.

But an evil nonetheless.

And evil masquerading as “good” was in a class by itself, and deserving of a jalapeno enema in the scorching bowels of hell.

After the flames died down and the embers fell into a lulling pulse that made a mockery of a heartbeat, Rodney checked the luminous dial on his wristwatch. It had gone dark, along with the lamp attached to his headgear. Most of his equipment had scattered during the demon’s assault, but his digital camera was still strapped around his neck. Its batteries, too, were dead. The demon had drained all the energy from him, which explained his enervation.

He must have dozed again, because he awoke to near-total darkness, the embers dampened as if the source was entering a long sleep. He could barely make out the stairs, and figured they’d provide some refuge until he could recover enough to climb them. He dragged himself under them and huddled with his prayers.

“Give me a sign, Lord,” he whistled through his shattered mouth.

And the Lord provided, as the basement door creaked open above him and He let there be light.

Rodney thought about calling out when the woman and man descended the stairs, but he wasn’t sure whether one or both were possessed. Belial could have changed hosts, or Eloise might be manipulating people by now, spreading its profane influence like an infection.

Rodney recognized the young woman as one of the hotel hostesses. The man was obviously trying to make a move on her, in the slick, clumsy way of someone who hadn’t mastered his own power. The source would take them both, Rodney decided, and he controlled his uneven breathing so he could watch unnoticed.

The teasing of their coy embrace gave way to an argument. Then she mentioned the boiler and Rodney couldn’t help looking at the rusted hulk. The glow of embers had given way to a roiling pile of smoke. The tendrils of smoke looked solid, and Rodney recalled the tentacle that had brushed his leg. The woman said the things were rats, but she wouldn’t be able to know the demons for what they were.

Only the Chosen could see.

When the woman slapped the man and fled up the stairs, Rodney had called out for her to wait, but his mashed-up mouth could only emit a moan. After the door slammed, giggles slithered from the corners of the basement.

After the door slammed, the man gave a slow turn at the foot of the stairs, as if only now acknowledging his surroundings. “Beetch,” he said.

Rodney called again, this time doing a better job of wiggling his tongue.

“Who’s there?” the man said, squinting beneath the stairs and backing up a couple of steps. Toward the furnace.

Rodney slid a hand in the gap between the crude steps so the man could see he was human. “SSI,” he said, in a sibilant mush.

“One of the paranormal people?” The man had a French accent.

Rodney used his grip on the step to raise himself to his knees and moved his ruined face into the light.

“Mon dieu,” the man said. “What happened?”

“Belial happened,” Rodney said, though the words were unclear and he doubted the man would know the demon’s name anyway.

The man rushed to help him, but Rodney was reluctant to leave the relative safety of his hiding place. He licked the blood from his lips and said, “She locked you in?”

The man nodded. “What were you doing down here?”

Rodney pointed to his camera and the meters on his belt.

“Ah. The ghosts in the basement, no?”

“Worse than ghosts.” His words were still a little mushy, but his tongue and lips were now on speaking terms with one another.

“You must have fallen in the dark? The manager was afraid this might happen.”

“I’ve fallen, all right.” Rodney let the man help him to his feet, and the rush of blood to his head carried an electric jolt of pain. He leaned against the steps and checked his equipment. The EMF meter, audio recorder, and thermal-imaging camera now seemed like stage props. He hadn’t needed them to detect the demons. All he’d needed was his blind faith. “Do you work here?”

“I’m a chef.”

“My cell phone and walkie talkie are dead,.”

“I’ll check the door,” the man said. He thundered up the stairs and tried the handle, though they’d both heard the lock click into place after the woman slammed it. “American women. I should have heeded everyone’s advice. Don’t play where you make your pay.”

Rodney wasn’t listening. He was studying the coal boiler at the far end of the basement, where Nancy’s body had been consumed. If Belial were upstairs, inhabiting Eloise’s body, then what entity was down there feeding?

The man banged on the door. “Maybe one of the ghost-hunting groups will come.”

“No,” Rodney said, fingering his crucifix. “The basement is off limits.”

“Then why—oh. You don’t like to follow rules, either.”

“Join the club.” Easing around the steps, holding on for balance, Rodney’s head began to clear a little. His night-vision goggles lay in the dirt 20 feet away. He retrieved them, along with his video camera and flashlight. The camera lens dangled loose and the data card was cracked, the card slot crammed full of mud. Any footage he’d taken of the encounter was likely ruined. So much for proof.

“What do we do now?” the man said, sitting on the top step. “Wait for morning?”

“There’s probably a service access that leads to the outside.” Rodney checked his flashlight to verify it was dead. “You want to wait here?”

“As if she’s going to come back? No, mon ami, I have been slapped like that before.”

“Okay, then, let’s get out of here.”

“Your face—”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.” It was probably worse, but he didn’t want to risk slipping into unconsciousness again. If he kept moving, perhaps the pain would keep him awake.

“This isn’t a place for a man to be alone.” The man tried the door again and came down the stairs. “I’m Phillippe.”

“Rodney,” he replied, without shaking hands.

“So how does this ghost-hunting thing work?”

“You get all this equipment out, you raise hell, and you hope you get some evidence.”

“Have you ever found anything which convinces you?”

“Not lately.”

“You sure your head is okay?”

“It only hurts when I laugh.”

“That is funny, no?”

“Yeah.”

Rodney tried to recall his reconnaissance of the building’s foundation. Because of the Margaret Percival disappearance, SSI had made notes on the structure and its access points. Such maps helped debunk noises caused by wind, rain, or even someone’s inadvertently entering a hunt zone and later being dubbed a supernatural anomaly.

Because Rodney had suspected demonic activity in the lower levels of the building, he’d paid particular attention to the stonework. If demons had been passing through on a regular basis, there were apt to be scorch marks in the cracks.

Where there was smoke, there was fire, and where there was fire, there were demons.

Some believed that Lucifer’s greatest trick was getting people to not believe in him. But Lucifer, like all gods, angels, and demons, needed belief in order to exist. Lucifer didn’t invest a whole lot of energy in human subterfuge. He simply didn’t care.

In the same vein, demons were indifferent to the various classifications described by sages and scholars, from King Solomon to Peter Binsfield to modern role-playing-game companies. Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, the titles didn’t matter. Evil always knew its name, and evil always knew which hearts had a little room to spare.

Rodney gave the furnace plenty of distance, navigating around the crumbling block wall that marked off the newer wing of the hotel. Phillippe followed close behind.

Beyond the support wall, the basement was darker, with only a couple of dangling bare bulbs for illumination. Above them came the muted thunder of footsteps and the throbbing of bass and drums.

“We’re under the bar,” Phillippe said. “They’re past closing time.”

“I don’t think it’s closing at all tonight,” Rodney said. Belial had already poisoned the conference. The disintegration would be subtle and insidious, but that was how evil performed its best work.

“The kitchen is back there,” Phillippe said, motioning to the right.

“Is there a service access? You probably have to deal with rats and grease drains and things like that.”

“No rats,” Philippe said. “We run a clean ship.”

Rodney leaned against a support post, letting his head settle a little. He considered shedding his equipment belt, but he might need the gear later. The basement was lower in the newer wing and they’d had to crouch as they looked for an access. “You think all this is a bunch of crap, don’t you?”

“Strange things happen. Like a woman gives up a chance with me. Crazy world.”

Rodney’s walkie talkie sputtered. Batteries that appeared drained sometimes contained a last reserve. Or maybe he’d moved beyond the immediate influence of Lucifer and back into the good graces of God. He spoke into it. “Roach here.”

“You’re not finished,” came the response.

“Who is that?” Phillippe said.

Rodney looked at the power level on the walkie talkie. It was flat. Whatever had brought the device to life had provided its own power source. “The boss.”

“Mr. Wilson?”

“A higher authority.”

“More,” came the crackling voice from the walkie talkie.

Rodney fingered his crucifix, sweating despite the moist air of the basement. When God spoke, he had no choice but to obey. He freed the long silver crucifix from its clasp.

“What ees thees?” Phillippe said, losing his carefully controlled English.

“Strange things happen.” Rodney brought the crucifix sweeping upward before Phillippe could detect the motion in the dark. It pierced his throat.

“Gak,” the Frenchman uttered, spouting blood from both the wound and his mouth. He wobbled around for a second, clutching at the crucifix. He slid it out with a thip and looked at it with wide eyes, not comprehending why Jesus would want to share the torments of the cross.

“Jesus died for our sins,” Rodney said. “Now you get to die for yours.”

Phillippe collapsed and Rodney wiped the crucifix on his victim’s shirt. He didn’t know how the body would be retrieved—maybe the ropy tentacles would slither across the floor, or maybe the wires overhead would carry it back to the furnace. Rodney wanted to be out of the basement before that happened.

Lucifer’s greatest trick wasn’t getting people to believe he didn’t exist. His greatest trick was playing God better than God ever had.

Chapter 33

Morning dropped like a bag of broken rocks.

The thirst was the first thing he noticed, and his tongue felt like a wool sock. His skull throbbed, each sluggish heartbeat punching through taut, angry arteries. He found himself lying on his back, but the bed was floating. He touched his forehead, afraid to open his eyes.

God, why did you make me wake up?

The Digger had done it again. He wasn’t sure where he was or how he’d gotten here, or even if he was anywhere at all. If someone would yank the vibrating screwdriver out of his temple, maybe he could remember.

There was one other option. Maybe he was dead. This might be his afterlife, his condition forever and ever. Not even a glass of water, not even enough bile in his stomach to puke.

A clacking sound rattled his ears and then light poured over him, sharp enough to slice his eyelids.

“They’ve been looking for you, Dad.”

“Who?” The word tasted like dirty pennies.

“SSI, the hotel people, the hunters, everybody.”

“What...time is it?”

“Don’t worry, I told them you were having a nervous breakdown. Saw your dead wife and it blew you mind. They’ll cut you some slack.”

He gave an experimental blink and found the room was fuzzy. “You shouldn’t—”

“Cover for you. I know.”

Digger was in his rumpled clothes, still wearing his boots. He rolled away from the sunlight that sluiced through the window like an accusing finger. He swallowed down nails, fiberglass, cobwebs, and sand, and dry acid slithered back up. His pulse was erratic and fluttering.

“Shit,” he said.

“Could be worse.”

“How could it be worse?”

“I’m not sure, but it could be. Mom could be dead or something.”

Digger opened his eyes. Kendra sat on the opposite bed, fully dressed, the box of registration information beside her.

“Shouldn’t you be downstairs registering people?”

“Registration’s ended.”

He licked his chapped lips. “It goes until noon.”

“It’s nearly two.”

He tried to rise, but a sit-up position brought too much blood to his head, so he flopped on his side and rolled up on one elbow. His knuckles were bruised. He hoped he hadn’t punched anyone. “I blew it again.”

“Nah,” Kendra said. “The show must go on. Burton and Cody are leading the panels, and Holmes and the others are looking for Roach.”

“Roach?”

“He’s missing.” She peered at him. “Guess you don’t remember that part, huh?”

He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, and the nausea hit him almost instantly. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it to the bathroom. “Besides Roach, how is everything else going?”

“A lot of people are mad about the messed-up hunts. A couple asked for refunds.”

“What did you tell them?”

“The fine print. ‘No refunds after Nov. 12.’”

“Are you mad?”

“Why should I be mad?”

“You know....”

“What? Another broken promise? Another disappointment? Another chance to babysit my dad? What’s to be mad about?”

“It’s...the thing with your mom....”

“I know, I know. After you pulled that bit, I thought I saw her, too. Power of suggestion. Neat trick.”

“It’s her.”

“And what if it was? You were afraid to face her so you crawled back in the bottle like you always do?”

No, I was....”

Excuses. He always had some handy. Cristos made him. Gelbaugh. Blame this, blame that, blame those people. All their fault. When all else failed, God made the ultimate fall guy.

“I was out of control,” he finished, fighting down a knot of vomit. “I knew better than to take that first sucker drink.”

“Well, I got my own problems. I’m being stalked by a ten-year-old brat who has keys to the whole hotel.”

“No kids here.”

“Tell him that. It’s like I’m his personal entertainment. He keeps showing up out of nowhere, pestering me and playing tricks. I think his dad works here.”

“I’ll talk to the manager about it.”

Kendra shook her head, her dark hair swinging across her shoulders. “Don’t rat him out. I can handle it. Besides, it’s only for another day.”

“Two o’clock. Two more panels before the dinner break.”

“Speaking of which, can you keep anything down? I can get you orange juice and some toast.”

Digger winced. That was the menu for his “headaches,” when young Kendra would bring him breakfast in bed, thinking he had a cold. The glass of water was there on the bedside table, though its ice had melted. He tried a sip. “This is fine. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I wanted to—”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Kendra, I—”

“You’d better clean up and put in an appearance. The Digger can’t keep his fans in suspense forever.”

He took a few more drinks of water, the fluid racing through the greasy tunnels inside him. “She wants to tell me something.”

“We don’t believe in ghosts, Dad.”

“I made a promise.”

“Like that means anything?” She jumped to her feet and grabbed her sketchpad. She tossed his walkie talkie beside him. “Give me a call when you get your act together. Maybe I’ll still be around.”

Then she was out the door, the slam echoing through his head like a thunderstorm, leaving him alone with the pain and sickness and self-pity.

He clutched at the walkie talkie and held it with a trembling hand. “Beth?”

Nothing. The batteries were dead. Just like his soul.

Chapter 34

The panel entitled “Christianity and the Paranormal” had gone about as well as could be expected, meaning the few true believers who approached hunting with a missionary zeal were not stoned by the hardcore atheists in the crowd. Burton had to admit, Wayne had done a good job of balancing the panelists, with an Episcopal minister, a physicist from Westridge University who viewed supernatural phenomena as dimensional disturbances, a member of the Eastern Seaboard Skeptics Society, and a Jewish scholar who specialized in the Old Testament. Despite Martin Gelbaugh’s repeated heckling, the divergent viewpoints had filled the hour and entertained the attendees.

With the audience dividing up for break-out sessions on EVP technology, Ghosthunting 101, and ectoplasmic detection, Burton had a couple of hours to round up Roach, sober up Wayne, and find out why Cody had a bug up his ass, but first he had to clear all the keys for the evening’s hunt locations.

At the front desk, he encountered the same gum-popping teenager who’d worked the night shift. From the way she slumped in her chair, the magazine curled to the shape of her grip, she could have perched there around the clock.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Is the manager in?”

She scarcely glanced up from her magazine. “We don’t know where she is.”

“Someone on your staff has been locking the doors behind us. We were told all the hunt locations would remain acessible.”

“Nobody could be locking the doors. The only set of master keys belongs to our maintenance supervisor, Wally Reams, and he’s off today.”

“Both 302 and 218 are locked. And we were promised—” He looked around, lowering his voice in deference to the guests. “Look, I’m okay with the staff playing tricks. I know it’s all part of the haunted-house show. But we’ve already got some pissed-off clients, and if they miss out on any more hunts, we might all be looking at some refunds.”

He glanced around the shabby foyer. “And I don’t think either of us can afford that.”

“I’m sorry, Burton,” she said, reading the name stenciled on the left breast of his uniform. “The maids are gone for the day. No one else would have access, and the locks require a key.”

Burton fought an urge to reach over the counter and slap the magazine out of her hands. “I can’t—”

“Excuse me,” An attractive young woman stepped from the alcove behind the clerk. “Are you having a problem?”

The gum-popper said, “Violet, this man says we’re locking doors on them.”

Burton recognized her. She was the one who’d shown Wayne around during yesterday’s set-up. “Look, we have a lot of hunts scheduled tonight, and we can’t have any accidents that will throw us off track.”

“Please come to my office,” Violet said.

“Janey’s going to kill you,” the desk clerk said.

“I’ll take my chances.”

The gum-popper shrugged and went back to her magazine. Burton rounded the corner and entered the office via a short hall. The fluorescent lights flickered and buzzed, giving their skin a seasick look. The space was cluttered, but Violet took a stack of papers from a chair and indicated that he should sit.

“I can’t stay long,” he said.

“This won’t take long.”

“About the keys. Wayne told me you guys were playing along, setting up stuff so our guests will think they’ve had supernatural encounters. You know, a little knocking on walls, whispering in the air ducts, messing with the electricity. We’re fine with that. I have to admit, you’re putting on a good show. Those projected images went beyond the call of duty.”

“What projected images?”

“You know, in the hall. That ‘Jilted Bride’ thing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Violet had settled behind the warship-gray desk. She lit a cigarette.

“I thought you had a ‘No smoking’ policy,” he said. She held her cigarette with an easy familiarity, though she winced at the strength of the smoke.

“There’s an exception to every rule,” she said. “I’m the exception.”

“We can’t have problems with the keys.”

“There’s no problem. You’ll get where you need to be, when I need you to be there.”

Because she was attractive, Burton had extended a little extra patience. But her blank, cold eyes offset the pleasing angles of her face. “I want to talk to the manager.”

“I’m afraid she’s unavailable.”

“Doesn’t she have a pager?”

“It wouldn’t matter if she did. She’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“If I knew that, all this would be pointless.”

Violet flipped her palm, but Burton couldn’t tell whether “all” meant the conference or the hotel. He also couldn’t believe the manager would skip out on the biggest event the White Horse had hosted since the Eisenhower administration. “Someone must have a master key.”

“Only the Master.”

Burton edged forward, only now noticing the corrupt odor of the office. The mop bucket in the corner was the likely cause of the stink. A greasy snake of unease slithered in his gut. “Look here, Violet.”

“I’m not Violet.”

Burton slapped the arms of his chair. “Fine. Just be ready to find another job next week.”

“Thank you and please come again.” She smiled but the gesture was disconnected from the rest of her face.

“The rooms better be open, or you’re going to have sixty unhappy campers on your hands.”

“Please enjoy your stay.”

Burton’s walkie talkie hissed and broadcast Cody’s voice. “Burton, you’ve got to come see this.”

As he was leaving, he glanced down into the mop bucket. The liquid in it was dark and thick, almost like....

Nah.

Chapter 35

Ann Vandooren was afraid to leave the room.

The reason she was afraid was because she wanted to leave the room. Ever since Duncan had brought the two SSI guys to the room, the paranoia had grown. They knew about the rigged images she’d broadcast. She’d be ridiculed and probably reported to the departmental dean at Westridge University. And she really didn’t give a damn.

Because now she understood. The supernatural wasn’t some bit of monkey business concocted by scared primitives; it was the overt manipulation of the dark gods. Give the people something invisible to fear so they didn’t see the demons in their midst.

“What should we do about it?” she asked Duncan, who had shut down the computer and was packing away the cables.

“Consider the experiment a failure.”

“I don’t like to fail. Is the halo still there?”

Duncan nodded. “There has to be some sort of simple explan—”

“Yeah. It’s a halo.”

“I need to get the cameras and projectors.”

“Don’t leave me alone.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Despite what the silly boys in their black jumpsuits had said, Duncan was happy to leave her in this condition. Maybe after sixteen hours observing the black halo, he’d grown accustomed to it.

“You know about succubi, right?” she said, moving from the window toward the bed. “Women believed to be demons or witches who draw power by having sex with their victims?”

“I know the mythology.”

She peeled her Dale Earnhardt T-shirt over her head and tossed it to the floor. The cool air of the room drew her nipples into taut purple points. “Want to see what that’s all about?”

“You’re not a demon, Ann.”

“Right. I am a fucking angel.” She laughed, and the sound trailed off into a muted shriek that frightened her. “Get it? A fucking angel.”

“This isn’t the time to—”

“Test the theory?” She unbuttoned her jeans. “Afraid you might learn something?”

Duncan tossed the coils of cables on the bed. “Damn you.”

“I’m already damned.”

He pushed his crotch against her, the fabric of his pants gently chafing her skin.

“Shit, baby, what’s going on?” He was hoarse.

Raw, pulsing possession. The science of seduction. The age-old dance of the devil. “Shut up and worship.”

He brushed her hair with his fingers, then clutched a handful of strands and lifted her face from the bed. His other hand reached for the nearest coil of cable. Bitch Mode allowed her to smile and let her lips grant permission.

“Yessssss....”

Lilith, harpy, siren, witch, eventually it all came to this. No folklore, no religion, no rigorous adherence to scientific method. Just women taking it. Women loving it. And men dying for it.

Ann slammed back to meet his thrust and he was fully inside, reaching deep into the poisonous pit of her womb. He yanked one of her hands back and looped the cable around her wrist, then pressed her harder into the bed, her breasts squeezing into the mattress. She gave him her other hand and he bound her without missing a stroke, the crude knots straining her shoulders. He grabbed the bond and used it for leverage, banging himself deeply into her. The room was thick with the odor of their rutting.

The electric freeze jolted her brain and she screamed into the blankets. Her urgency carried him along on its tide, and her scream turned into a sibilant hiss of satisfaction. He swelled and exploded, and she felt his energy gushing into her.

He groaned and collapsed on top of her, pinning her bound arms between them. “My God, baby....”

God. How strange he’d invoke the thing he couldn’t believe in, the one thing she’d now come to understand and despise. God was the reason she was trapped here in the hotel, exiled among these pathetic humans, when she could have been tasting all the delights of heaven and hell.

The pleasures and pains of the flesh had their attractions, but even those extremes served the will of that oppressive entity that hid behind the clouds. God needed her kind, their kind, on Earth because God didn’t like to get His hands dirty. If only He knew how much fun it was.

“Ann,” Duncan whispered in her ear, and she barely recognized the name. With his life force now added to hers, she was closer to fully possessing this body.

“Ann, I....”

She was afraid he’d let slip that last pathetic lie, that utter excuse for every mortal failing. “Shut up and die already,” she said.

He obliged.

Before he could say “I love you.”

She rolled him off, flexed her potent limbs, and snapped the cable. Sitting and shaking the circulation back into her hands, she looked between her legs at the blood.

Outside, the late-autumn shadows stretched as the sun slipped low. The approaching night offered many chances to offend and rebel and, perhaps, gain a foothold in which the real war could begin.

Chapter 36

Rodney must have passed out yet again, and he’d gone foggy first.

Because he was all the way across the basement, some 200 feet from where he’d killed Phillippe.

No, not “killed.” Sacrificed. In this war, words were important, because they staked the moral ground.

He was nestled in an alcove snaked through with conduit and plumbing pipes, propped against the block wall. A hot bullet of agony ricocheted from temple to temple inside his skull. His lower jaw was numb, but the bleeding had stopped. The crucifix was back in place on its silver chain, the weight cool and comforting against his chest. His digital audio recorder was clutched in his right hand.

The lights in the basement were still on, suggesting no one had visited the basement since the hostess had locked the door. That seemed unlikely, since at least three people were missing from the conference.

But Belial wouldn’t report Nancy, because Belial was probably having the time of its life, unleashed on a playground of gullible acolytes. And Rodney doubted the pissed-off woman would tell anyone about her own embarrassing encounter. But SSI would be looking for Rodney. He was important, and the team members took care of their own.

A casual glance of the basement wouldn’t have revealed his presence, though. He’d instinctively tucked himself out of sight.

Or something dragged you here.

He was hungry and thirsty, meaning hours had likely passed. He looked at the audio recorder. Its red power light was on. He pressed the “play” button.

“Is anyone here?” he heard himself say on the recording.

He thumbed up the volume but heard only a slight electronic hiss.

“Are you here?” his recorded voice said.

Nothing.

“Is there someone with me?” Rodney’s tactic for EVP’s was to repeat each question three times in different wording, giving the target a chance to translate and respond.

Still nothing. He let the hiss play out for another fifteen seconds, studying the overhead pipes. The largest pipe appeared to be a sewer main, its white PVC a contrast to the cast-iron pipes of the original building. He’d already decided to follow the main—assuming he could stand—when the recorder said, “Yes.”

“What is your name?”

Asmodeus, Astaroth, Mammon. It could be any of the demons. Or perhaps just a ghost, but at this point in Rodney’s spiritual journey, God wouldn’t waste his time on mere disembodied spirits. No, Rodney had a special role on this battleground.

Nothing but Big Daddy Bad-Ass Demons for me.

“What is your name?” he repeated.

“You know,” answered the recording, in a coarse whisper.

Rodney clicked off the recorder. The red light blinked back on.

“Listen to me.”

“I only obey one master.”

“You’ll obey who I tell you.”

Rodney clasped the crucifix. “Are you God?”

“Would God lie?”

“You’ve already made me kill, and you killed your only begotten Son.”

“I didn’t kill Him, I gave Him to the world.”

“You gave other things to the world, too. Like Lucifer and his army.”

“I didn’t give Lucifer to the world. I gave the world to Lucifer.”

“Do you always have to talk in riddles and nonsense?”

“Do you always have to question God?”

“I’m your humble servant and I pray for guidance.”

“And all your actions have been sacred.”

“What is your will?”

“Go toward the light.”

“Die, you mean?” Rodney’s heart galloped, the surge of his pulse causing his head to ache.

“No, the light at the end.”

The basement lights went out, and the weight of darkness was a solid thing, pressing down and pinning him against the wall, suffocating him. Hands girded his neck, cold and flexing bands of corded muscle. As his throat constricted, he fumbled for the crucifix. Already weak, he knew he wouldn’t last long.

“The light,” whispered the voice, and then the hands abandoned his skin, leaving bruises in their wake.

Rodney coughed and rolled to his knees, tossing the digital recorder aside. A faint glow emanated from the far wall, toward the area Phillippe said was beneath the kitchen. Rodney crawled toward it, not understanding. But few had understood God’s calling, even the great prophets of the Old Testament. All they knew was that faith required faith, and faith often required action.

He bumped into a support beam, sending a sharp spark of burning pain across the backs of his eyelids.

Go toward the light, go toward the light.

His knees ached. The progress was so slow he wondered if he were moving backward. “What is the mission, God? Please show me your purpose.”

The absurdity struck him: he was following a sewer main that began at the kitchen. Follow the shit.

By the time he reached the far wall, he was gasping and clammy. A wave of dizziness hit him, and he eased down onto his stomach in the slick soil. To the left, up a series of three crumbling concrete steps, was a wooden door. He hadn’t seen it from the outside, so it must be an internal service door. If he remembered correctly, the laundry room and access alley were behind the kitchen, so the basement didn’t extend into those areas.

The light blinked on the digital recorder. He clicked it on and said, “Yes?”

“Do you see the light?”

“Yes, I am in the light.” His mouth was a jumble of rocks and glass but it was important to communicate clearly. So much pain and misery had been inflicted because God’s messages had been misinterpreted. Rodney wanted to get this one right.

“Look beside the light.”

Rodney squinted up into the nest of floor joists, wires and pipes. Pink fiberglass insulation hung loose like cobwebs out of a Dr. Seuss nightmare. From above came the dull clangor of kitchenware, and water sluiced through the pipes with a liquid rumble. It might have been the breakfast crew, or lunch, or maybe even dinner. He wondered if Phillippe had missed a shift.

“Show me the way, Lord.”

“You already see.”

Amid the tangle of utility pipes was a dull copper line, turned green with age. It descended from the kitchen floor and angled to the masonry wall, where it went through a hole that was patched with concrete. He pictured the kitchen, with its dishwashers, counters, racks of pots and pans, and the deep fryer baskets. The stoves, with their little blue pilot lights.

Fed by propane gas.

He smiled in understanding. Lucifer had made this basement his domain, and the White Horse had become the home of demons. Take away their home, and they could no longer play. True, evil could never be defeated, but it could be delayed. And the victims he’d delivered unto them would make the six demons sluggish and susceptible. Already they thought him weak, a puny servant of God who couldn’t even stand on his own two feet in the face of adversity.

Fight fire with fire.

That wasn’t in the Bible, not in so many words, but Exodus prescribed an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, foot for a foot, and burning for burning. Close enough.

Belial owed him a couple of teeth, at least. And Lucifer had earned quite a burning. Maybe not the eternal lake of fire that God would cast him in after Armageddon, but hot enough for now.

He fiddled with his equipment belt and pulled out his multi-use tool. A wire cutter, knife, screwdriver, and more, it also contained a pair of pliers. He’d be able to work on the copper. Just as soon as he was able to stand.

Soon.

But first, sleep.

Chapter 37

“Come on, Twerp Face, I don’t have time for this.”

Dad had gotten drunk, Cody was flipping out, the panels had bought them some time but the natives were getting restless, and the last thing Kendra needed was Bruce pulling another one of his “Now you see me, now you don’t” bits.

To make matters worse, that creepy little Rochester was with him. Bruce had popped out around the corner, about fifty feet down the hall, and held out her sketch pad. “Looking for this?” he’d said.

She’d left the sketch pad in the room with Dad, but if Digger was nursing a colossal hangover, an elephant parade could have waltzed through the room without his knowing it. Rochester the Rat-Faced Boy had also poked his head around the corner, and their footsteps and giggles faded down the hall.

Rochester was dressed in oddly formal clothes, a little black jacket and bow tie that looked like they’d been scavenged from a thrift shop. It was the frilly white shirt that was most out of place, the kind of clothes any normal boy would have ditched at the first opportunity.

Kendra was winded by the time she turned the second corner. The giggling seemed to come from all over, as if the boys had separated and were hiding in places behind the walls. One of them, probably Bruce, must have reached the attic through a hidden set of stairs. Except it sounded like several pairs of feet running overhead, not just one little twerp’s.

As she ran, she passed a couple of open rooms. People were getting ready for the night hunts, assuming SSI got its act together. Somebody yelled her name, but she didn’t slow down. Bruce knew all the secret nooks and crannies of the third floor, and if she didn’t rescue her sketchbook soon, she might not get it back by the end of the conference.

Then all her favorite characters would be lost—Emily Dee, the Circuit Rider, the Truth Fairy—and even though she carried them all in her head, the sketches represented months of work. They were more than her work; they were her life, her sanity.

But you saw him hanging.

Nah, that was just the ride on the koo-koo choo-choo. Sometimes you were the engine, sometimes you were the caboose.

When you opened the door to your imagination, you invited such things. It came with the territory. Creativity wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows and primary colors. Once in awhile, you scribbled with the gray crayon.

She came to a narrow door she hadn’t noticed before. It looked like a service door of some kind and it was parted a few inches, cool air oozing from the crack.

Bingo.

She opened it to find a narrow set of steep stairs that led up to darkness. The giggling grew quieter, followed by a shushing sound.

“Okay, Brucie, I know you’re up here. Just give me the sketch pad and nobody gets hurt.”

His voice came from the far corner of the attic: “Somebody always gets hurt.”

“I’m not in a real good mood right now.”

“What’s going on?” This voice was from the hall, below her.

Cody stood in the narrow doorway, gazing up at her. She was glad she was wearing black tights, or he’d have seen right up her skirt to her panties.

She shifted so that her legs were drawn together. “Just getting back some personal property,” she said, realizing how absurd she must look.

“I saw you on the camera, running down the hall.”

“That boy I told you about. He took my sketch pad.”

“What boy?”

“The one I was chasing.”

“K-babe, there wasn’t anyone. I was watching.”

“Cut the crap, Cody. He was there.” Just like when he was hanging, right?

“You’ve been around The Digger too long. You’re starting to lose it.”

“They ran up here. I heard them laughing.”

“They? Now you’re having multiple hallucinations?” Cody took a flashlight from his belt and flicked it on, angling the beam into her face. “Nobody’s supposed to use this access.”

She squinted back at him. “Are you going to let me go up here in the dark alone, after all your bitching and moaning about demons and danger?”

“Uh...guess not.” He started up the stairs, and she eased onto the dark platform of the attic before he got too close and they’d have to rub bodies. Once they were both in the crawl space, Cody played the beam around, revealing low-hanging ceiling joists.

“We have a camera at the other end of the attic, remember?” he said. “I haven’t seen any kids.”

“They’re hiding. It’s what they do. Bruce, he’s the caretaker’s kid, he knows all these secret stairs and passageways and keeps popping out of nowhere.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“And there’s Rochester the Rat-Faced Boy, whose dressed like somebody out of a funeral parlor. Then there’s Dorrie the Doughball, and—”

“Whoa. These are characters from your comic book, right? The one you’ve been drawing?”

“No. Real people. And Bruce stole my sketchbook after I saw him hanging around in my room.” She’d bent the truth a little, but it was just a little white lie. Dad had taught her that lies were always better than promises. But sometimes they were the same.

Cody raised the flashlight so they could see one another’s face. “Okay, I know you’re under a lot of stress. Burton told me about your dad. We’re hoping we can pull off these hunts so SSI doesn’t get burned. And... your mom....”

“What about my mom?” Her lip trembled, despite herself.

“It must be weird with your dad thinking he’s run into her.”

“She’s dead. That’s all I know for a fact. The rest is just stuff for you to throw on Facebook for a laugh.”

“Kendra, I followed you because—”

“Because you feel sorry for me? Because you want to ‘help’ me? Like I’m some lost spirit that has to be guided to the light?”

“Because I—goddamn it, you sure don’t make it easy, do you?”

“Not my job. Now help me look for Bruce.”

She snatched the flashlight from his hand and navigated the uneven rows of support beams. A bed of shredded paper served as insulation on the attic floor, though a series of gangplanks allowed access through the crawlspace for needed repairs.

“Careful,” Cody said, close behind her. “If you step through, you’re liable to keep falling all the way to the basement.”

“Shh. Did you hear that?”

They were silent a moment. Muted conversation came from below them, obviously guests getting ready for the night’s hunt.

Kendra swept the flashlight in an arc. Cody grabbed her arm and guided it, pressing against her from behind. Even in her anger and fear, she noted the contours of his body. “The chimney,” he said.

She recognized it from the video Cody had shown her. “That’s where Dad saw the ghost.”

“The rigged image, you mean. We busted those clowns. Come on, let’s find their projector.”

His breath was on the back of her neck and she closed her eyes. Emily Dickinson never had these problems. “I’m more interested in my sketch pad at the moment, thank you.”

Cody let go of her arm. “I guess we all have our priorities. Piercing the veil between life and death or a bunch of pages of cartoon doodles. Tough choice.”

“What’s with you, Cody? You used to be so cool. Now you’re starting to believe your own blog posts.” She flipped the light toward him, and the beam was waist high, shining up into his face and casting his eyes in deep red shadows.

“We’ve got some real evidence here. A lot of active readings. If we can just keep it together, we may be able to make a case.”

“You’ve been drinking Digger’s punch, huh?” The dust nearly made her sneeze, and she wiped her nose so she didn’t blow her temper tantrum. “SSI and the White Horse Hauntings. Buy the DVD, read the book, eat the goddamned cereal, and by the way, I’ll come lecture at your conference for ten grand a day. That’s what the future’s all about, right?”

“This isn’t about money or ego,” Cody said. “It’s about knowing.”

“Who cares?” The attic was chilly and she shivered, wishing Cody’s body heat would enwrap and kindle her.

“Don’t you want to know where your mom went?”

“Leave her out of this.”

“Digger told me, so don’t act like a child.”

“Damn you, I’m not a child.”

She let the flashlight sag to her side, their faces in darkness. Where they were safe.

He touched her cheek. Emily Dickinson may have been a moribund virgin but maybe she still drifted over her beloved New England meadows, places she dared not walk while alive.

Sleeping the churchyard sleep? Or searching for that missing master?

His breath was close, soft on her cheeks, and then his lips found hers. She flicked the flashlight off, afraid of his dangerous eyes.

First kiss...and it tastes like strawberries and pennies.

Giggles erupted. A child’s voice whispered, “He’s going to touch her noonie.”

Cody’s lips froze and pulled back. “What the—”

She jabbed at the flashlight casing, fumbling for the switch. The giggling swelled, as if half a dozen kids were gathered around in the utter darkness, teasing and making fun of their kiss. She finally thumbed the light on and waved it wildly around.

“You heard it?” Cody asked.

“Yeah.”

“Now do you believe me?”

“Do you believe me?”

Cody nodded. “Maybe we’re both right. There are ghosts here and this Bruce guy stole your sketch pad.”

“What kind of ghost plays tricks like that?”

“Well, it’s not a residual, because they reacted to our—you know.”

She touched her lips, which still tingled. “Yeah.”

“I hate to say it, but based on the other evidence, I believe we have a true demonic haunting.”

“A demon? Like in ‘The Exorcist’ and all that?”

“Worse. Multiples.”

“Christ. What are we waiting for? Let’s get out of here.”

“What about my sketch pad?”

“Your weakness. They’re using it to gain power over you.”

He guided her toward the access opening, his hands firm and confident on her shoulders. Cody called out to the recesses of the attic. “I’ll be back.”

Kendra thought the challenge was a little foolhardy, even though she didn’t believe in demons. She’d heard SSI talk about them, theorizing that they were fallen angels who were rebelling against God for being cast out of heaven. Why would demons bother playing such silly pranks, when they supposedly had the power to inflict real harm and destruction?

That kind of talk was for later, in the safety of a well-lighted room with a cup of herbal tea in her hand. She’d get Cody to tell her about it, asking enough questions that she could gaze into his eyes for hours, maybe luring him into another kiss or two. She was nearly to the square of light marking the access when the door below slammed shut.

“Cody?”

“Right behind you, kid.”

She turned and Cody was nowhere in sight, but Rochester seemed happy to see her. He grinned like a rat wallowing in contaminated cheese.

Chapter 38

He hadn’t seen Kendra in three hours.

Wayne Wilson splashed cold water on his face, his stomach finally settled enough for hunger to emerge. He cupped his hands and drank from the bathroom sink, watering down the bile. The erratic pulse had given way to the occasional tha-dump of a skipped beat. He winced as he studied his reflection, adjusting the top hat that now felt foolish, as if he were Bugs Bunny pulled out of some magician’s ass. His face was pale but he’d be able to fake it.

“Showtime, Digger,” he said. “It’s a new day.”

Bury the past yet again.

His last clear memory was sitting next to Cristos at the bar and making the decision to go for that third drink. After that, only flashes remained, a jigsaw puzzle of his night he’d never be able to reassemble: the hostess, Violet, waving from across the bar...a Bud Lite commercial featuring Mike Ditka...the cryptic message “Yaz manchoo” scribbled on the wall above the urinal...Kendra taking his boots off...and…

No. Please, God, you didn’t let her see me like that, did you?

And what if Beth had been watching? His encounter with her swirled in with the broken memories of his binge and the shards of frantic dreams, until he couldn’t sort one from the other. But maybe there was no difference.

Wayne changed the batteries in his walkie talkie and pressed the button. “Burton?”

“Aye, Kip-tin,” Burton answered, in a Scottish brogue parody of engineer Scottie from “Star Trek.”

“How’s it looking?”

“Assembling for night hunts.”

“I’ll be in the control room shortly. Over and out.”

“Roger.”

Professional, controlled, relaxed, just the way Wayne had taught him. And everything Wayne wasn’t.

The trip to the door went smoothly. He made it just fine to the stairs, greeting a couple of ghost hunters and smiling as if to say, “Sure, I’ve been around all day, you just haven’t seen me.” His head swam a little as he ascended, but nothing too unmanageable. Based on distant past experience, he’d have pegged his consumption at between a quart and a half gallon. Only his bar tab knew for sure.

He was nearly to the top of the stairs, breathing hard and wobbling, when one of the guests confronted him. He recognized her face but she wasn’t wearing her name badge. Her clothes were rumpled and dirty, as if she’d been ghost-hunting in a basement somewhere. But it was her eyes that got him.

“Where’s the party, Digger?” she said.

“In the control room. We’re gathering for hunts.”

“I don’t need a group.”

He remembered her now. Eloise Lanier, one of the panelists for “What’s My Line?,” a discussion of why some people were more attuned to supernatural and psychic phenomena than others. He made a polite step to one side to indicate he was in a hurry. His throat was already dry despite the glass of water he’d downed. “Well, ma’am, we can’t accommodate solo—”

She shoved him against the railing with enough force to knock his top hat over the side and twenty-five feet down to the landing below. Off balance, he grabbed at the slick oak rail. “Ma’am, if you’re upset—”

Eloise grabbed a fistful of his ruffled shirt and shook him. Even though she outweighed him by a good eighty pounds, he was startled by her strength. “Upset? Why should I be upset?”

He gripped her wrist with both hands, forcing himself to remain gentle despite the pain. “I’m sorry if—”

“I’m not upset, I’m grateful.” Her voice changed and deepened. “Thanks for inviting me to the party.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re having fun,” he said. “But we also hope to get some serious data on the White Horse Inn.”

She leaned her face closer, spittle flying from her broad, dark face as she hissed. “You want answers, Wayne Wilson? Do you really want to know?”

Wayne blinked. Had her eyes flashed yellow or was he still wobbly from the drinking? He couldn’t trust any of his senses, and it made him feel even more lost than before.

He pulled free but she grabbed his wrist as he tried to slip past her.

As her eyes burned into his, he caught a glimpse of a dim, dirty opening and a crumbled carpet of gray and black. Ashes. In the vision, a tiny dot of red sparked to life underneath, then orange-red sparks winked to life.

He reeled against the railing as the hallucination swept over him. Eloise’s grip was like molten iron, and an electric wire of heat stabbed up his arm. The hallucination broadened and the embers burst into flames, images of naked bodies in the flickering bands of red, yellow, white, and blue.

Hell... the gate of hell....

But he didn’t believe in hell. This was someone else’s illusion, a fire-and-brimstone story from a Southern tent revival. Or a bad horror movie. Yet the warmth engulfed his chest and his heart stuttered. He clawed at the searing band around his wrist, his head jangling with more than a hangover.

The vision swelled until he could no longer see the dull white walls of the stairwell. He was surrounded by darkness, and the searing band was now a lasso, tugging him into the roiling pit of burning human forms. The crackle of the flames was like a soft, sibilant whispering, an almost seductive lulling.

“Dance with us, Digger... stay and play.....”

“No,” he said, straining against the lasso. “I don’t see this.”

And just like that, his eyes snapped open, and he was in the stairwell, holding onto the railing and gently swaying. Eloise Lanier stood a couple of steps above him, her brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay, Mr. Wilson?” she asked.

Wayne looked around and reached for the top of his head. His hat was missing. “I’m just a little...late.”

“I heard you were under the weather.” She gave a sweet smile of sympathy.

He looked over the railing. His black top hat lay on the carpet of the first-floor landing, the brim dented from the fall. When he turned his attention back to Eloise, she eased down a step. He fought an urge to back away. This wasn’t the embodiment of evil.

According to the biography she’d sent in for the conference program, Eloise was a public librarian who fancied herself a psychic medium. She probably baked cookies for her grandchildren. If he gave her credit for channeling a vision through him, she’d probably quit her job and start dressing in black gowns and owl feathers.

It was easier to believe he’d gone through a delayed case of delirium tremens, the scientific name for shaking yourself sober.

“I dropped my hat,” he said.

“Good thing your head wasn’t in it.” Her smile remained frozen in place.

Wayne’s walkie talkie crackled and he jerked at the sound. “Come in, Digger,’ came Burton’s voice. “Where are you?”

“On my way.” He eased past Eloise, half expecting her to trip him up. He was nearly at the top when she whispered, “Catch you later, Digger.”

From the third floor, he looked down to see that his hat was gone. Children’s laughter echoed up the stairwell.

I’m going to have a talk with that goddamned manager. But first things first.

Get the night hunts rolling, find Kendra, and get out of this hotel before my brain pickles in its own juice.

Chapter 39

“Cody?” Kendra swept the flashlight beam past Rochester and into the recesses of the attic. Cody had been right beside her. How could he have just disappeared?

Rochester laughed. “What, want to play ‘kissy face’ some more?”

She thrust the beam into his face. He didn’t squint and his dark eyes seemed to soak up the light. “None of your business, you little rat-faced creep.”

His lips curled in anger. “Don’t call me that.”

“Just like a rat—sneak around in the dark and stink.” The words were louder than she’d intended, but she was scared and didn’t want the brat to know. She forced her hand to hold the beam steady on his puckered, pointy face.

“Take it back,” he said.

She glanced around, but all she saw were shadows. Why didn’t Cody answer? Had he dropped off his flashlight? Where were Bruce and those other kids?

“Why are you guys playing games?” she said, then aimed the beam behind Rochester. “Oh, I get it. Bruce, you’re such a dork.”

Rochester fell for the trick and turned to look behind him, and she glimpsed a dark depression in the flesh of his neck. It was an unbroken line, with mottled skin around it. As if....

No. He couldn’t have hanged himself, because then he’d be dead. Just like Bruce. And I don’t want them to be dead.

Because then I’d have to believe all this crap.

Maybe Cody was in on it, using her as bait in some bizarre research project. He could have set up his audio recorders, decimeters, and other devices beforehand, then tried to scare her so he could measure her skin temperature, pulse rate, electromagnetic energy, and screams.

Probably even the kiss had been part of it, causing her to let guard down, make her vulnerable to his suggestions of demons.

Now it made sense. Bruce grabbing her book, leading her on a chase, Cody conveniently guiding her to the attic, planting ghost stories in her ear—

Christ, my first serious crush had to be wasted on an asshole.

The Future of Horror. If this is what the future looks like, then put me down with Emily Dee in the churchyard sleep. I’ll die a virgin, and the sooner the better.

She had to admit, though, Rochester’s make-up job was pretty decent. He turned back to face her again, and she studied the black folds of skin beneath his eyes and the pale cheeks. Even the fey little Victorian get-up had the air of stage costume.

The kid was a pretty good actor, but ten-year-old boys already had a lot of creepiness inside and it wouldn’t take much to bring it to the surface. Like maybe fifty bucks and the promise of a good laugh. Or a credit on Future’s Web site.

She reached out, planning to push him back into the fluffy shredded paper that served as insulation. With any luck, he’d hit a soft spot in the ceiling and tumble through to the third floor. The flashlight dipped with the movement, and she lost her balance. She grabbed where his shirt should be, but her hand went cold and she clutched air as she fell.

“Cody!” The cry was a mixture of anger and fear, because now she was the one falling toward the insulation.

The attic was a kaleidoscopic swirl of dust, brown rafters, and white, plastic-coated wires as she fell. Just before she landed, she saw Dorrie peeking from behind the brick chimney. Then she was choking in the shredded paper, the flashlight lost.

Something creaked beneath her and she pictured the gypsum ceiling and its ancient cracks. If she struggled, the ceiling might give way. She’d probably survive, but it wouldn’t be fun, and it was hard to get revenge from a hospital bed.

She coughed, her throat tickled by the thick dust. “Cody, you bastard.”

“Over here.” His voice was strained and far away. How had he reached the other end of the attic, navigating the maze of support posts and wires in the dark?

From somewhere to her left, the flashlight cast a muted glow, as if it were half buried. She had the sensation of swimming as she fought for traction, and for a horrible second, she imagined she was in a dark morass of thick liquid that would suck her down and into... into what?

The hotel.

The hotel will pull you down and drown you and keep your bones inside forever, and no one will ever know where you went.

“No one will ever know,” Bruce whispered from the darkness.

As her knuckles struck a floor joist, she yelped in pain. But the pain was solid, as was the wood, and she clung to it, dragging herself to her knees. Her vision was bleary from the paper as she squinted into the depths of the attic. “Cody?”

“Run for it,” he said, and she once again wondered if he was playing with her. He sounded scared himself, and she recalled the wistful tremor in his voice as he’d said “Multiples.”

She didn’t know about demons, but three kids were sure as hell tormenting her. She gained purchase on the floor joist and spied her flashlight nestled in the insulation ten feet away. Crawling the beam so that she didn’t test the ceiling, she recovered the flashlight and pointed it toward Cody’s voice.

He hovered in the air, his face stricken and pale, mouth open and gasping for breath. His hands were at his throat, and his legs flailed six inches above the attic floor. He made a rough sucking sound, as if swallowing rocks, and it was then she saw the wire descending from the roof.

Kendra shouted his name and ran toward him, somehow managing not to trip. Rochester taunted her from the shadows: “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“The old gray goose is dead,” Dorrie sang in an off-key, nasally whine.

By the time Kendra reached Cody, his eyes were bulging and glazed. She ducked between his legs and placed her head between his thighs, lifting him. Maybe that would buy him time....

Unless this was part of the act, and cameras were trying to capture his spirit leaving his body. A suicide video would really rack up the Web hits.

But she couldn’t think about that now, or the warmth of his crotch against her neck, or the laughter of the hidden children. She was working on instinct, and if she could release the tension on the wire, then Cody could untangle it.

But he didn’t kick her away, and air whistled into his lungs as his windpipe opened above her and he fought for breath. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but his arms were busy, and then his full weight was on her and they both fell. She thumped her hand again—luckily not her drawing hand—and the gypsum groaned beneath them. Cody rolled over, still wheezing, and she shined the light on his face.

“Thanks,” he croaked, and she sent the beam to the wire that descended from the roof. The wire was still swaying, two bright points of copper protruding from its frayed end.

“Is this for real?” she asked, sensing the small forms of the children looming around.

He nodded, grabbed her hand, and gave it a weak squeeze.

Chapter 40

“Roach is still missing, and so’s Cody,” Burton said.

Wayne Wilson looked around the control room, checking the monitors. Though a few people had dropped out of the night hunts, probably due to exhaustion or excessive celebration, there were thirty people in the room. He’d have to divide them into three groups—one led by Burton, one by Jonathan, and the last for himself.

That left no one to monitor the video screens and coordinate the schedules. Most likely Cody would show up in a few minutes, but he couldn’t delay any longer. The hunters were already irritable, infected by the unease that permeated the hotel. Wayne wanted to get them rolling before they had time to revolt.

Beth, please watch Kendra for me. If you’re really an angel.

Cristos Rubio, standing alone in the corner of the room, raised his cupped hand in an imaginary toast. Wayne wasn’t sure whether the psychic was smirking or smiling in approval.

“Okay, Burt, you take the first ten and head for room 312,” Wayne said, more decisively than he felt. “Jonathan, take the next ten to the dining room and set up. With any luck, you’ll get an appearance from the Waiter.”

“Right, Chief,” Jonathan said.

“I’ll take the rest to the basement,” he said. “My group will be a little bigger but we have plenty of room down there to spread out. That should keep us all occupied for a couple of hours, then we’ll regroup when we lose a few stragglers.”

“You get Gelbaugh,” Burton said. “And Amelia George.”

“Sure,” Wayne said. “I’m feeling masochistic tonight.”

Jonathan silenced the murmuring crowd with a commanding bellow, and Wayne ran through the hunt logistics. As the crowd divided, Burton took Wayne aside. “Listen, I know it’s none of my business, but do you think Cody and Kendra—”

“None of your business.”

“Right.”

Wayne checked the monitors. The attic cameras were stable, showing no activity of any kind. The hall cameras showed sparse traffic as people went from room to room, headed for the bar. He glanced out the window and saw the fog had settled around the hotel, and the lamps on the lawn threw off fuzzy halos of light.

The surrounding forest was obscured, and the lane leading from the main road was swallowed by the mist. It was as if the hotel had broken loose from the world and floated into a forgotten sea.

“So, when does my guaranteed ghost show up?” Gelbaugh said, when Wayne was left alone with his group.

“The night is young.”

“But we’re getting older by the second.”

“And closer to death,” said the short man in a sailing cap.

“The spirits are active tonight,” Amelia said, gripping her husband’s arm for support.

The basement provided enough dark shadows, cobwebs and weird noises to keep the whole group happy. Even Gelbaugh should come away with something to grumble about. Wayne just wanted to survive the night, before he stopped by the bar for another round, Kendra got pregnant, and his dead wife made another appearance.

“Okay,” Wayne said to everyone. “You guys are lucky because we get the basement. Everybody got a flashlight?”

Nods all around. Wayne passed out a couple of audio recorders, EMF meters, and spot thermometers to some of the more inexperienced hunters. They probably wouldn’t produce any useful data but they would feel more involved. He gave one more glance at the bank of monitors, wishing Kendra would pop up on one of the screens.

You just have to trust her. After all, she’s the adult in this family.

He led the group down the hall, Gelbaugh sniping from the rear. By the time they’d reached the first floor, Wayne was thirsty. Jimmy Buffett’s voice spilled from the bar, preaching rum and sand as a way of life, and the laughter and clinking glass begged for Wayne’s attention. He swallowed hard and hurried past without a glance inside.

“Get ready to rock, people,” he said, navigating the narrow hall that led to the basement door. He stood aside to let the hunters pass while he fished the key out of his pocket.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Cappie.

“What?” Wayne said.

“The door,” someone said.

Wayne moved through the crowd. Written on the door in red letters was the word “Stay and play.” The paint was wet and running down the wood, as if the perpetrator was waiting around the corner to see the effect of his prank.

The door was unlocked, held in place by the deadbolt. Wayne opened it, and fecund darkness oozed up from below. The air had changed since his first visit the morning before. Now it was rich with the musk of decay and fungus. He flipped the light switch but the darkness held its ground.

“Bulb’s out,” he said. “Ready with the flashlights.”

“‘Play’ indeed,” Gelbaugh said. “What’s next, a brood of bats erupting to the accompaniment of cheesy organ music?”

“The place is 150 years old,” Wayne said. “What do you expect?”

He descended the wooden stairs, following his own flashlight beam, sweeping it around to verify that the basement floor was relatively level, though pocked with broken rocks, depressions in the soil, and building materials left over from long-ago repairs. Reaching the bottom, he stood to the side and illuminated the stairs to aid the rest of the hunters. Once everyone was down, he launched into the obligatory backstory.

“The basement has no particular legend attached to it, though one of the workers reported smelling pipe smoke,” Wayne said, though the olfactory hallucination had actually been reported on the second floor. Still, those were the kinds of legends that traveled well, and probably one of the hunters would end up smelling some scorched Prince Albert.

He flicked his beam to the rusting hulk of metal. “That furnace over there is said to light all by itself. As far as we know, no deaths have been recorded down here, though there’s evidence that this site is near an old Civil War stockade where prisoners probably died of disease if they weren’t killed outright.”

“Come now,” Gelbaugh said. “Surely there’s an Indian graveyard right under our feet. Or a pet cemetery.”

“Yeah,” said Cappie. “Or maybe a serial killer buried his victims here in the crawl space.”

“Shut up,” Amelia shouted, her voice swallowed by the dirt and dangling insulation. “Don’t you feel the energy?”

She lifted her arms as if about to conduct an orchestra, and then performed a slow, graceless pirouette. “It’s all around us.”

“Christ, if she faints down here, we’ll never get her up the stairs,” said a woman who had witnessed yesterday’s aborted Ouija-board experiment.

“My meter’s going wild,” said a man on the edge of the crowd. The device was a K-II EMF reader, so Wayne downplayed the value of the evidence. Most likely the man was standing under a bundle of electric wires. Still, the excitement in his voice was enough to distract Gelbaugh and the sailing-cap man from their razzing.

The hunters, who had spread out upon reaching the ground, now instinctively gathered more closely together. The basement was cool with the November night, the crumbling foundation walls full of cracks and loose masonry.

“If you’re here, let us know,” Amelia said.

“We came here just to meet you,” added her husband.

“Make my millennium,” Gelbaugh said, quoting the movie “Beetlejuice.”

“If you need energy, you can draw some from me,” Amelia said. Her flashlight dimmed.

“Feel that?” someone asked.

“It touched me!” shouted the man with the K-II meter.

“I think we got an active.” Wayne’s ears popped as the air pressure subtly changed. The floor resonated with a deep, steady thump—da boo boo da-boo—but it was clearly caused by the lower registers of the bar’s sound system. It had the rhythm of a heartbeat, as if the hotel were alive and slumbering.

Flashlight beams cut swaths through the darkness.

“Did you see that?” a woman whispered.

“Behind me,” said the excitable K-II operator.

“Ghosts don’t reveal themselves to just anyone,” Amelia said. “You need to be sensitive.”

Wayne played his flashlight around. Due to the disordered layout of the support walls, he couldn’t see much of the basement. But something flickered orange at the edge of his vision, and he thought at first his beam had reflected off some stray ductwork or abandoned machinery. Then he realized the glow was emanating from within the furnace.

“Flashlights off,” Wayne ordered.

“Bossy, aren’t we?” Gelbaugh said, though he complied along with the others.

In the pitch black, the throbbing of the bass notes took on even more power, and the muted light in the furnace was readily apparent. Wayne assumed someone had built a fire in it earlier, perhaps as a joke. The same person who had painted “Stay and play.”

The darkness skewed perception enough that Wayne couldn’t clearly judge the distance to the furnace, though he’d guess it was a hundred feet from the stairs.

“What’s that?” someone said.

“The haunted furnace,” Gelbaugh said. “Digger did a great job of setting that one up.”

“I haven’t been down here yet,” Wayne said.

“Maybe one of your minions. Paranormal activity or your money back.”

A flashlight clicked on and the beam bounced as its owner fled toward the stairs. “It touched me again,” said the K-II operator. “I’m done.”

“Touch me,” Amelia implored, addressing any spirit in the vicinity, desperate for attention.

“Careful,” Wayne hollered after the fleeing man, whose feet banged up the wooden steps. He switched his light back on and aimed it at the man’s back.

“A broken neck and we’ll have a new legend,” Gelbaugh said.

Cappie, who had become Gelbaugh’s ally in skepticism, added, “Let me guess. The door is locked from outside.”

The K-II operator hammered at the door. “Let me out,” he said.

“Shakespeare said, ‘All the world’s a stage,’” Gelbaugh said. “And that was long before the age of reality shows.”

A couple of the others turned on their flashlights, illuminating the K-II operator as he rapped his hairy hands on the door.

“You serious?” a woman said.

“Great,” Amelia’s husband said. “Spending the night down here when we’re paying a hundred and fifty a night for a bed.”

“Don’t worry,” Wayne said. “I’ll get maintenance.”

As he clicked on his walkie-talkie and removed it from his belt, he tried to picture how the door could have locked itself. It was key-operated from either side, and didn’t have a latch or button like a privacy lock would. Mechanically, the door was designed against accidental locking. But the White Horse now seemed intent on breaking the rules.

“Burton?” he said into the walkie-talkie.

“Here’s where they wait five seconds for dramatic effect,” Gelbaugh said.

“You’re a jerk,” Amelia said to him, which elicited a bark of derisive laughter.

“Cody?” Wayne hoped the teen—and Kendra—were now back in the control room.

“Whoa, we’re really locked in,” someone said. “They won’t hear us until the bar closes, and knowing this place, that could be four in the morning.”

Wayne tried again, not wanting the hunters to panic. “Jonathan? Anyone from SSI?”

The K-II operator was nearly in a state of panic now, tugging on the door handle and pounding the wood with the base of his flashlight. Cappie lit a cigarette and headed up the stairs. “Easy, man,” he said. “No need to break your gear.”

Wayne tried the walkie-talkie again, glancing at the furnace. Is the fire brighter now?

If someone had built a fire, it should be dying down, not growing larger. But the bed of red embers pulsed in time with the bass notes, growing brighter as it drew oxygen. The brusque aroma of sulfur and coal smoke was overwhelmed by Cappie’s cigarette.

“Flashlights off,” came Wayne’s voice, but he wasn’t the one who said it.

The flashlight in his hand went dead, as did the others.

“Hey,” somebody said. “I didn’t do anything.”

The furnace roared to life with a whoosh, flames illuminating the rusted metal and open grate. The fire cast fingers of yellow light along the slick walls.

“Whoa,” Gelbaugh said, trying to maintain his acerbic ennui. “Did anyone bring marshmallows?”

“How’s it doing that?” a man said, shielding his eyes against the brightness. “There’s no wood in it.”

“As long as it stays in there, we’re fine,” Wayne said, though the metal was now ticking from the heat. Had he ordered the group to turn off flashlights? He couldn’t afford to become disoriented.

“What are you sensing?” Amelia’s husband asked.

She closed her eyes, her face pink, shadows crawling across it like small rodents. The group fell silent and waited, even the man at the door, who had given up on the lock.

“The one from the Ouija session,” she said.

Wayne swallowed, wondering if Beth was making an encore appearance. Despite his denial, her memory—her possibility—had fueled him with anxiety, and that was part of his eagerness to leave the White Horse. Promises were lies to comfort the dying, and everyone was dying, all the time, moment by moment.

I’ll never drink again, I’ll take good care of Buttercup, I’ll meet your spirit at the White Horse Inn. I’ll love you forever.

Amelia turned slowly, as if homing in her inner radar to a weak and distant signal. Her mouth opened, and the words that issued forth were from a different, younger voice.

“In the walls,” she said.

“Who are you?” asked her husband, obviously trained to coax out the spirits Amelia channeled.

“You know,” Amelia said.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“To feed the fire.”

“The fire in the furnace?”

“Yes.”

“Did you make it burn?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations, we’ve solved the energy crisis,” Gelbaugh said, drawing a snicker from Cappie. “While I have you here, can you give me some tips on the stock market?”

Amelia’s response was drowned out by the roar of the furnace, which vomited a wave of flames toward the group. The heat wafted across Wayne’s face, not hot enough to burn but plenty enough to get his attention.

A couple of people shouted, and someone dropped a camera to the dirt. Most of the group headed toward the stairs, but the flames were already rolling back upon themselves, like a tidal wave that had smashed against a cliff, and the fire drew back into the furnace.

It glowed almost white for a moment, condensing into a shrinking globe, and then winked out, leaving the basement pitch black.

Chapter 41

“Okay,” Kendra said, more bravely than she felt, kneeling over Cody. “Come on out.”

She shined the light around the attic. Dust swirled from all the activity, and something fluttered in the distant eaves, a disturbed bat or bird. Cody’s breathing was heavy but even, so he wasn’t too seriously injured. But she’d have to lead him out of the attic before the Brat Pack played any more of its games.

“That boy,” Cody wheezed. “He’s the leader.”

“Rochester,” she called out. “Are you a scaredy cat?”

He appeared three feet in front of her, smirking, his hands behind his back. “Cat? I thought I was a rat.”

He brought her sketch pad out from behind his back and opened it to her drawing of him as the Rat-Faced Boy. “Not bad, but I think my whiskers are a little longer in real life.”

She blinked, as his face seemed to sharpen for a moment, drawing his nose to a point and exaggerating the size of his two front teeth.

“Cody,” she said. “Are you seeing this?”

“Be cool,” Cody replied, still too weak to stand. “Demonic haunting.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, trying to remember Dad’s lessons on the various classifications of paranormal activity. She had tuned them out as yet more Digger blabber, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that “demonic” was not good.

If I live through this, I’ve got one hell of an idea for my next character. How would Emily Dee handle this?

Well, Emily Dee wasn’t a ghostbuster or a priest, more of a ninja Goth, and this situation didn’t really call for a flying skull kick. And she’d already tried screaming for help. That left relying on smarts. She stood and faced Rochester, figuring that the best approach was to show no fear.

“Help me out here, Cody,” she said. “What do demons want, exactly?”

“Different things,” he said.

“Like my soul?”

“Maybe.”

“Hey, Stick Figure, why don’t you ask me?” Rochester said.

“Because you’re acting childish,” she said.

“I am a child. I just happen to be dead, so I’ve been one for a long time.”

“I liked you better when you were sneaking around and playing pranks,” she said. “I’d think a demon would find a better host to possess. That one looks like it has worms.”

Rochester’s face narrowed and his teeth grew sharp again, his nose twitching in rage.

Oops. Maybe I better get a clue from Cody about how to handle this before I get my face bitten off.

“So, Mr. Future of Horror, what’s the next move?” she asked.

Cody raised himself to a sitting position, still rubbing his neck. “Well, a demon only has power over you if you invite it in,” he said.

“You invited us just by coming here,” Rochester said. “So bow down.”

Kendra’s feet flew out from under her and she banged hard on her knees, kneeling beside Cody as if the two of them were repentant sinners seeking forgiveness. Kendra had not been raised in the church, but she was offended both by this mockery of religion and the ease with which she could be manipulated. She tried to rise, but a great weight had settled on her.

“So,” Kendra asked Cody. “What does the book say about how to handle this?”

“There’s no book.”

“I don’t suppose I can all of a sudden ask Jesus into my heart?” she asked Rochester, planning to do the exact opposite of whatever he said.

“Be my guest,” he replied. “Jesus and me, we’re on the same team. Working for the Man, putting in time until time’s up.”

His delivery had changed, voice older and almost weary. She glanced toward the direction of the access door, but it now seemed impossibly far away.

“Where are Bruce and Dorrie?” Kendra asked.

Rochester shrugged. “Around.”

“We already knew the hotel was active,” Cody said. “If you’re a demon, why do you hang around with all these ghosts? Are you a scaredy cat like she said? Maybe you’re afraid of the dark.”

“I’m only afraid of one thing,” Rochester said. “And if you can figure it out, I might—” he gave a rodent grin—”might—let you live.”

“There are worse things than being dead,” Cody said, leading Kendra to wonder what those things were and how he knew.

“Suppose we don’t want to play your guessing game?” Kendra said. “What if we just walk out of here and pretend you don’t exist?”

“Free your spirit and your feet will follow?” Rochester adjusted the collar of his plush jacket and thrust out the sketch pad. “I don’t think you could leave without this.”

She propelled herself forward, but it was difficult to launch from a kneeling position, and she fell into the shredded paper that served as insulation. She was reminded of a rat’s nest her dad had found in the garden shed behind their house, and how much of it had been paper nibbled from Digger’s comic-book collection. The nest had smelled of old hair and pee, and this insulation was almost as bad.

A hand latched onto her, squeezing hard enough to hurt, and she figured Rat-Face was digging his creepy little paws into her, but when she glanced up, it was Cody stooping over her. The gypsum beneath her cracked, and she was reminded of Cody’s warning: Be careful, or you’ll step straight through to the floor below.

Sounded like a good idea.

“Okay, Rochester,” she said, as Cody helped her rise. She gave her best Emily Dee leap into the air, and landed squarely on the spot where she had been lying. The gypsum splintered and bent, but didn’t collapse. She glanced at Cody, who caught on, and he jumped beside her, their combined weight too much for the ceiling material.

She just had time to hear Rochester’s squeal before she was flying through the air, weightless, seeming to hang forever, or at least long enough to grab Cody, and then she struck the wooden floor ten feet below, and all was black.

Chapter 42

“Shit,” Burton said.

The lights had blinked just as his group was settling into Room 318, then the power dimmed and went out after one final surge.

“Flashlights, everybody,” he said.

As the individual lights clicked on, throwing erratic dots of orange around the walls, Burton paged the other SSI members on his walkie-talkie. No answer.

Cody, Kendra, and The Roach out, and Digger on the ropes. Jonathan out of contact, too.

He tried the walkie-talkie again. Outside the window, the lawn was dark, the only illumination cast by the half moon stitched behind a gauze of fog. The hunters in Room 318 didn’t seem alarmed by the power outage, talking in occasional low whispers and enjoying the gloomy atmosphere.

Burton felt his way along the wall to the door. “Be right back,” he said to the group before slipping out of the room. He dreaded having to deal with the vacant-eyed Violet, but maybe the manager had turned up.

Yet another person gone AWOL…what is it with this place? Is it eating the guests?

With the lack of power, the ambient noises of the hotel—televisions, elevator, bar—had given way to almost complete silence. Those few guests not on the hunts were likely reluctant to leave their rooms. The creak of his footsteps was magnified, and only when his beam glanced against a mirror could he see more than five feet in front of him. He debated checking in at the control room, but the equipment there would be useless even if someone were manning it.

Burton turned the corner and headed for the stairwell. The woman stood there with her arms folded, and he almost bumped into her. She would have seen the flashlight approaching, but she hadn’t called out. He recognized her from one of the earlier panel discussions, where she had sat in the back and cracked her knuckles, a sour expression on her face as if she had eaten bad eggs and they had given her gas.

Her onyx pupils absorbed the flashlight beam and there was no glint reflecting from her eyes. She was a stolid statue, carved from rock by a civilization long gone, except her full lips lifted in a grin that showed most of her teeth. Her breath washed over him in a sulfuric wave.

“Power’s out,” he said, in an excuse to move past her, lowering the beam from her face.

“Power’s in,” she said in a taunting voice.

“Excuse me?” One of Digger’s rules was that every guest should be treated with respect, no matter how odd or flaky, because the paranormal community was small. The customer was always right, even the psychotic alien love child.

“I took it,” she said.

He aimed the light at her name badge. Eloise Lanier. He tried humor. “Do you mind giving it back?”

Her smile dropped. “I’m not finished with it yet.”

“Okay, Miss Lanier. Did you lose your group?”

“They’re down there.” She rolled her eyes toward the floor.

“Yeah, that’s where I’m headed. Do you have a flashlight?”

She reached out and snatched his away before he could react. “Now I do.”

She held the flashlight over her head like it was a chunk of meat and she expected him to leap for it like a dog. Her face was steeped in shadows.

“Ma’am, this is an emergency,” he said, biting back his irritation.

“More than you know.” She brought the flashlight down in an arc, crashing it on top of Burton’s skull. He grunted and staggered away, stunned by the blow, sparks of purple and electric lime jumping across the backs of his eyelids. He touched his head and felt the wetness of blood.

As he recovered, anger surged through him, joining the pain to give him a burst of energy. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Bad attitude,” she said.

He tried to place her, wondering if she were one of the unstable drama queens Digger had warned SSI about. He recalled her name from the program as one of the speakers on a panel he hadn’t attended. If she were an aspiring para-celeb, going psycho at a paranormal conference might get her some infamy and the ensuing Internet hits.

He decided to give professional tact one more chance. “I’m sorry you’re not enjoying your stay—”

The flashlight swung again but this time he was ready. His experience as a rock ‘n’ roll roadie paid off as he ducked the blow and came underneath, jabbing his fist toward her elbow. He’d been raised never to hit women, but preservation instinct overrode it and he smacked her hard enough to force her to drop the flashlight. As it hit the carpet, its batteries jostled free and the hall went utterly dark.

And she was on him, sour breath oozing across his face. She was six inches shorter than he, but in her dark fury she seemed to have grown two feet. She knocked him back against the wall, and her weight bore him down.

“Christ, lady,” he yelled, but he no longer had any restraint. As she pressed him against the floor, he wriggled to escape, feeling along her shoulders until he found her face. He’d claw her eyes out—

“Yarggg,” he squealed, as she bit one of his fingers hard enough for a tendon to pop. He yanked his hand free and balled it into a fist, then pounded it against her back. It was like beating a sack of sand.

Her hair scratched Burton’s face. Her smell was metallic and smoky, as if she’d been sweating in a foundry all day. Her weight crushed his lungs. He fought for breathe, still startled by the suddenness of the assault.

“Get off, bitch,” he said, throwing an elbow against her. He’d been in a few bar brawls, but rolling around in the neon-lighted beer and piss seemed almost normal compared to this struggle in the dark.

“I’ll make you my bitch,” she said, and her voice seemed far too large and distant to have come from her foul mouth.

He gave a twist and felt her body shift, and then he rolled the opposite way, using her momentum to toss her aside. He shoved her away with his feet, drawing sick satisfaction from the cracking of her skull against the wall. He rose to his knees, not sure whether to look for the flashlight or find the stair banister and flee. Before he could act, cold rivers of pain sluiced along the length of his left arm.

He touched the wound and his fingers came away wet. Blood? Did the lunatic have a knife?

Then she was on him again, only now she seemed heavier, more solid. He raked at her, caught the turgid tendons of a flexing wrist, but her strength had grown. Barroom bad-asses sometimes freaked out on meth or angel dust, taking on the strength of ten in their panic. But Eloise Lanier had gone from zero to eighty without even hitting the pedal.

He grabbed her face again, but her skin was slick and scaly, not like flesh at all. As he gouged for her eyes, his fingers stung as if he’d grabbed a fistful of barbwire. He wrapped his bleeding hand around a hank of her tangled hair, tugging at it to pull her filthy mouth away from his. But he was weakening, and her cracked, grimy lips pressed against his. He tried to scream, but she bit his tongue.

Commotion and lights down the hall....

“What’s going on?” someone shouted, but the words sounded as if they’d poured through a wall of cotton. The agony in his mouth was indescribable—mostly because he could no longer form words.

A flashlight beam swept over and past him, and he turned to see Eloise—no, not Eloise, not a human, but something scaly and lumpy wearing her clothes—skitter away and down the stairs, trailing a reptilian tail behind it.

Burton almost smiled at the illusion, understanding the grim trickery the mind played when the body went into shock. But the pain in his mouth was too intense, and the spreading pool of liquid beneath him had probably leaked from his blood vessels, and the hunters from the room must have heard the noises and come to investigate.

“Shit, what was that?” said one of the hunters, and a woman screamed, and another said his name, and a flashlight beam bobbed across his face, then another, and he wanted to open his eyes and he realized they were already open.

“Eloise,” Burton tried to say, but all that came out was a fresh gush of salty, stinging hurt, and he shut up.

Now that his eyes were open, all he wanted to do was close them and block out the pain, the lights, the gasps and whispers and frantic chatter.

“What happened to his mouth?” somebody said.

Burton wondered the same thing, but somehow he couldn’t narrow the words into a cohesive thought, and even with his eyes closed, the image of snapping dragon’s teeth burned into his brain, plunged in the feverish forge where the flames went white-hot.

Go toward the light.

It was the corny joke of all paranormal investigators, though some took it more seriously than others. But Burton didn’t have much choice, nor was he laughing now, because the light was a distant spark dimming to yellow and then to red, finally blinking out and giving way to a rapidly cooling darkness.

Chapter 43

“We can’t bust the door down,” Gelbaugh said. “It’s two inches of solid wood.”

“The hinges are on the other side, too,” Wayne said. He jammed a screwdriver into the catch, but even if he managed to trip the tumblers, the upper deadbolt was secure. His tool kit would do no good.

The two men stood shoulder to shoulder on the stair landing, having felt their way up the banister in the dark. The rest of the group waited below, talking in low, frantic whispers. The furnace was now behaving itself, but Wayne didn’t trust it. Gelbaugh had posited a theory on the cumulative telekinetic powers of the group, a magnified form of wishful thinking, but even Cappie had dismissed that one.

“The work of demons,” Amelia George said. In the dark, her disembodied voice took on a creepy authority.

“Get us out of here, Digger,” a woman said, in a near panic.

“Be reasonable,” Gelbaugh said from his perch, as Wayne continued rattling the lock. “If demons were here, why would they play tricks with pyrotechnics? Why not just turn the basement into a boiling puddle of Napalm and be done with it?”

“Because they want you to believe,” Amelia said.

“Then their work is half done, because half of you seem to be buying into the foolishness.”

“I don’t care what it is, I don’t want to be down here another minute,” the unseen woman said.

“I’m getting claustrophobic,” a man said, his words clipped by gasps.

Wayne slid the screwdriver back into the tool pouch on his belt. “There’s got to be another way out,” he said.

He spoke with more confidence than he felt, because he hadn’t conducted a thorough survey. The basement had been Roach’s turf, and Cody was in charge of logistics. Because the walkie-talkie was dead, he wasn’t sure if either had shown up in the past hour.

And Kendra is with Cody. I hope. Or maybe not.

“Get me out of here before that furnace blows up,” said the claustrophobe.

“Stay calm,” Wayne said, feeling his way down the stairs.

“Yeah,” Gelbaugh said. “Enjoy the atmosphere. You don’t get this on ‘TAPS.’”

Something rumbled in the far end of the basement, and the floor timbers creaked above their heads.

“Either Beelzebub just farted or the hotel is about to collapse,” Gelbaugh said, the joking tone shot through with nervousness.

Once Wayne left the familiar landmark of the stairs, he was adrift, with no sense of where the walls were. The group in the middle of the basement, still huddled together, had not moved since the furnace had gone out. Amelia was carrying on in strange tongues, and Wayne welcomed the distraction. If the hunters felt the demons were speaking through her, maybe they wouldn’t freak out.

Wayne put out his hand and took short, shuffling steps, careful of the protruding rocks and clutter on the dirt floor. He could be heading toward the furnace, for all he knew. But he had to keep moving. It might be another hour before Burton and Jonathan returned to the control room and figured out Wayne’s group was now among the missing.

The rumble came again, and this time Wayne felt it in his feet.

“It took her,” Amelia shrieked. She was at least fifty feet behind Wayne, so he figured he was nearing the back wall.

“Who did?” her husband asked, ever the willing sidekick.

“Belial.”

Great. My first case of demonic activity and not only is all our gear on the fritz, but I get the biggest baddie of them all.

“The fire,” someone said. “Did the demon do it?”

“It can make more,” Amelia said.

“Where is it now?” her husband said.

“Upstairs.”

“Have it come down and unlock the door.” Gelbaugh had moved away from the stairs and was apparently across the room, near the furnace.

“Channeling doesn’t work that way,” Amelia’s husband said.

“Margaret said it doesn’t want us to leave,” Amelia said.

“Why did it take Margaret?”

“Not Margaret. The angel.”

“A beastie gets lonely?” Gelbaugh said. “I thought all those hounds of hell hung out together in one big pack?”

“You don’t understand theology,” said the claustrophobe, forgetting his panic in the rush of a channeling experience. “In the pantheon of demons and angels, there’s a definite hierarchy, and some are lesser demons.”

“Wonderful. So we can look forward to yet more politics in the next life. That’s comforting.”

Wayne touched the cool masonry with his hand, easing his way toward the newer portion of the hotel, where the kitchen and dining room were. He felt disembodied in the utter darkness, no longer sure of his moorings. He could have been drifting in deep space, submerged in oil, or encased in liquid nitrogen and dreaming of one day having his corpse reanimated.

“Okay, people,” he called, more to reassure himself than to keep them informed. “I’m checking out the new wing.”

“Meet you there,” Gelbaugh called from the other side of the basement.

Amelia continued her spacey, droning delivery, talking about Margaret Percival coming down to the basement through the service entrance and—

Service entrance?

“Amelia,” Wayne yelled. “The service entrance. Where’s that at?”

“She can’t talk right now, she’s channeling,” her ever-helpful husband said.

“I need to know where that entrance is.”

“Behind the kitchen,” she said, then continued recounting Margaret’s visit to the basement. “And Belial found her her here. She never left.”

The boiler gave a dismal sigh but didn’t ignite, as if something in there agreed with Ameila.

Wayne reviewed his mental snapshots of the basement. The kitchen likely lay in the section where the pipes and wires had tangled and multiplied like a nest of snakes. He moved faster, chafing his hands on the crude stonework. A sense of urgency juiced him up.

If Amelia’s right about a demon running loose up there, and Kendra—

He bumped his head on a pipe. Even if he was lucky enough to find a door, it would probably be locked, too, but he might have more luck jimmying it open if it was flimsier than the main entrance.

The rumbling came again. He was nearly to the kitchen when a scream ripped through the dead air of the basement.

Chapter 43

“Kendra?”

The voice came swimming down to her through a sea of night.

She grunted, trying to suck oxygen into the brick tombs of her lungs. Maybe this was death, and God was calling her onto the carpet. Time to pay for that Tegan and Sara CD she’d shoplifted, all the movies she’d illegally downloaded, that lie she’d told her teacher when she skipped out on a chemistry test. So it all caught up with you, just the way the televangelists said.

Emily Dee paints herself into one last corner.

She heard her name again. God must have figured out she was hardheaded and had to be told several times. Might as well go in with attitude blazing.

“Who turned out the lights?” she whispered with a scant scrap of air.

“Whew, thought you’d knocked your noggin,” Cody said. His hands moved over her, unhurried and confident. “Any broken bones?”

“It hurts too much to tell.”

“Well, at least we’re out of the clutches of Demon Child up there.”

Cody helped her sit up, and she brushed the plaster dust from her face and shoulders. She could just make out his face, and only a dim square of distant light from a window broke the blackness.

“The electricity must be out,” Cody said.

“Did the demons do it?”

“So you’re a believer now, huh?”

“Nothing says ‘bone-chilling horror’ like floating kids with bloody red eyes,” she said. “So, now what?”

She could barely make out Cody’s silhouette as he glanced back up at the ceiling. “Sure you don’t want your sketch pad?”

Something fluttered down from the torn gap and Kendra ducked, thinking it was a bird or a flock of bats. Or a flock of flying dead kids.

The pad landed at her feet and she swooped it up. “Thanks, Bruce,” she whispered.

A thump came from the service closet, as if the flashlight had bounced down the attic stairs. Then the floor quivered beneath her feet, wood groaning. Broken glass tinkled in the distance. The motion stopped as suddenly as it began.

“Whoa,” Cody said. “Earthquake.”

“No. The Appalachians are stable. Oldest mountains on Earth.”

“Bummer. So we can rule out natural causes?”

“Better hit the control room and see what’s going on. There’s nobody on this floor.” Kendra tucked her sketch pad under her arm and headed down the hall, wondering if any guests occupied the rooms. If so, they were staying put, and since most of them were participating in the hunt, they should be prowling around and enjoying the darkness.

As her eyes adjusted, she was better able to see the hole in the ceiling. A wisp of shadow appeared there, and she was about to mention it to Cody, but it faded fast enough for her to chalk it up to imagination. Wishful thinking worked two ways in the paranormal game: seeing things that weren’t there, and not seeing things that were probably there but you hoped weren’t.

Rochester, Bruce, Dorrie. How many other kids were hanging around the hotel when they should be off playing in the Great Playground in the Sky? And what about you, Mom? What’s here that’s better than wherever you’re supposed to be?

“No flashlight, no walkie-talkie,” Cody said behind her.

“And no weapons,” Kendra said, knowing how silly the declaration sounded. You couldn’t suck ghosts up into a vacuum cleaner and dump them out on a stiff breeze. You could give them the paranormal version of talk therapy and convince them to go toward the light, but they had to be willing to listen.

If Cody was right and these entities were demonic, then they would have no reason to check out. After all, they’d probably been here so long they had metaphysical squatter’s rights.

Which means Mom is a demon?

Cody reached out, touched her back, and let his hand trail down until he found her hand. They walked side by side, limping a little, moving carefully in the gloom.

“Why here?” she asked Cody, feeling a little safer now that they’d moved some distance from the attic access and the hole in the ceiling. The sense of security was illogical, because spirits didn’t need doors, but it was instinctive and reassuring nonetheless.

“You could spend years researching,” Cody said. “But at some point, somebody invited one in. And the others probably showed up like sharks at a bloodbath. They feed on weakness and depravity. The idea of ‘sin’ is not just something invented by priests to control people’s behavior. It’s about knowing right and wrong and still choosing wrong.”

“So demons sniff out a broken soul and come set up shop?”

“Something like that.”

“How do you explain the kids?”

“It’s a shell game. Demons use whatever façade does the job. And the job is to create doubt and confusion, to weaken all they encounter, to disturb the structure and rules of this world. This is God’s turf, and nothing makes them happier than to piss in the shrubbery.”

The rumbling came again, and this time Kendra steadied herself against the wall until the quake passed. They were near the window, and they could see the lawn and the dirt road leading to the White Horse. “No traffic,” Kendra said.

“It’s after midnight in the offseason,” Cody said.

“Nobody comes, nobody goes, huh?”

“That’s your dad’s decision. He’s still in charge, after all.”

A stocky form stepped from the shadow of a doorway in front of them. “That’s what you think,” the woman said.

Kendra jumped back, nearly dropping her pad, and Cody stepped in front of her. Give the guy points for macho heroism in the face of danger.

“Who are you?” Cody asked.

“One of the hunters,” she said, in a husky alto, though her tone was flat.

“Have you seen any of the SSI people?”

“I ain’t seen anybody since the power went out.”

“We should gather in the control room,” Cody said. “We’re headed that way. Want to come with us?”

“There ain’t no more control,” she said. Kendra’s eyes had adjusted enough to make out the woman’s shiny eyes and ebony skin. She recognized the woman from check-in but couldn’t recall her name.

“We apologize for the inconvenience, but I’m sure—”

“Cool it, Cody,” Kendra interrupted. “This isn’t about Haunted Computer Productions anymore. Weird crap is going down.”

“Going down,” the woman said, as if she liked that idea.

“Have you tried your cell phone?” Cody asked her. “I think every battery in the place is dead.”

“Dead.”

Kendra didn’t like the woman’s zombie monotone. “Well, I’m sure the lights will be back on soon. Be careful.”

She grabbed Cody’s arm and tugged him down the hall.

The woman called after them. “You be careful, too. Your momma said to tell you that.”

“Your momma?” Cody asked, confused. “But your momma’s—”

“Dead.” Kendra ushered him toward the control room. “Like a cell phone. You call and get no answer.”

“You’re not telling me something,” he said.

“I’m not telling you lots of somethings,” she said. “Mostly because I don’t know what they are.”

The woman was now lost on the shadows behind them, though she might have chuckled. At least, Kendra hoped the woman had chuckled. Otherwise, the floating kids from the attic were tracking them.

They traced the camera cable running the baseboard of the hall, following it around a corner and to the opening of the control room. The interior was utterly dark, having no windows.

“Damn,” Cody said. “A couple of the pieces have battery back-up, but it looks like they got drained, too.”

“I can’t believe the hotel doesn’t have emergency generators, especially for the exit signs. What if there was a fire?”

“Nobody’s here. We’d better head downstairs and look for your dad.”

Just as they were about to turn, one of the camera monitors blinked to life. The sudden green light threw dots behind their eyelids, but they welcomed the illumination.

“Guess some of the batteries still have juice,” Kendra said, entering the room.

“Kendra,” he said, putting out his arm to bar her entry. “That one doesn’t have back-up.”

As they watched, the monitor image focused on a scene in the attic, where Rochester and the others had taunted them. They saw themselves on the screen, Kendra speaking to nothing, then jumping to slam down on the gypsum. That was followed by Cody landing beside her and the ceiling giving way beneath them in a flurry of dust.

“No Rochester,” Kendra said.

“If they’re making the monitor tape run, then editing themselves out of the image would be no problem, right?”

“You’re the expert.”

The loop replayed two more times as they watched. In the last one, Kendra thought she could just make out a misty form in the background, but it could just as easily been her imagination.

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result,’ Cody said.

“What do you call it when you watch insanity on TV?”

“Time to pull the plug.” He led her from the room, the flickering images still playing behind them.

Chapter 45

The scream had come from the edge of the group, as if a shark had sliced from the dark depths and taken prey.

All Wayne could do was cling to the wall and wait for the clamor to die down.

“What the hell?” Gelbaugh shouted.

“It touched me,” a woman said.

“I thought you wanted it to touch you.”

“Not like that.”

“Are you hurt?” Wayne shouted across the basement.

“I can’t tell,” the woman said. “It was all slithery.”

The group members talked over one another, and one of them must have braved the stairs again, because the door shuddered with dull blows. Someone else fled the group, smacking into a stone wall and groaning in pain.

“Stay where you are,” Wayne said.

“Easy for you to say.” Wayne recognized the voice as Cappie’s. “You’re way over there and something’s probing around.”

“Belial,” said Amelia George.

The furnace burst to life again, with a great chuffing of heat. The flames drew sighs and screams from the group, and Wayne could see some of them had fled. The woman, presumably the one who had been touched, was kneeling at the foot of a support wall, holding her bloody head in her hands and rocking back and forth. Another hunter, a short man in a vest, was hammering at the door, shouting against the thick wood. Amelia stood in the middle of the others, arms raised as if calling forth demons.

And maybe she is.

An hour ago, he might have believed in telekinetic powers. But now the rules seemed to be changing minute by minute, and the White Horse Inn no longer belonged to the realm of physics and logic.

This was now Demon Country.

The flickering flames cast long fingers of light across the basement and onto the scared faces of the group members. Wayne could see the maze of pipes around him, cast iron, lead, and polyvinyl in different sizes. Twenty feet away was a shadowed recess that suggested a door.

The furnace inhaled—that was the only word Wayne could use to describe the action—and the flames subsided to a dull glow. Wayne took advantage of the lingering glow to move forward.

“Come to me,” Amelia said. “Use me if you need it. Take me.”

Amelia’s husband eased a couple of steps away from her, unwilling to be caught in the crossfire of her spiritual recklessness. “Honey, maybe you should—”

“Kill you,” she bellowed, lowering her hands from their uplifted, summoning position and reaching for her husband with curled fingers.

“Christ, lady,” Gelbaugh said. “The cameras aren’t working so there’s no need for a show.”

“Open this damned door,” said the man on the stairs, now yanking on the handle with the force of his ample weight.

Wayne hurried to the recess, which blended with the larger shadows when the flames weakened. He ducked under a rusty drain pipe that disappeared into the dirt, and came up ready to reach for the door he hoped would be there. His hand struck soft, yielding flesh.

“Digger,” wheezed a voice.

The furnace breathed again and the basement flashed orange and red. In the fleeting light, Wayne made out a bruised, bleeding face, the eyes swollen nearly shut and the grin missing a couple of teeth. But it was the uniform, and the night-vision goggles perched atop the soggy mess, that clenched his guts.

“Rodney?” Wayne whispered.

The light dimmed again, but Wayne assembled the memory of the glimpsed image: The Roach’s dark jumpsuit was soaked with blood, the equipment belt empty. The Roach held his thumb over the jagged end of a copper pipe.

Wayne squinted into the shadows. “What happened?”

“You wouldn’t believe.” The Roach’s voice cracked like an ice sculpture under an axe blow.

“Are you hurt?”

“You wouldn’t believe.” A sob in it.

“Is that a door behind you?”

“You wouldn’t fucking believe.”

“You might have a concussion.” Wayne moved closer as the furnace pulsated again, throwing a lunatic sheen onto Rodney’s bloody, sweating, filthy face.

“I have proof now, Digger.”

“I know. But right now we need to get these people out of here.”

With his free hand, Rodney slid his night-vision goggles into place. “They won’t allow that.”

The basement went dim again, and Rodney released the copper line. Wayne smelled propane. The line must have run from an outside tank to the kitchen stoves. Rodney must have found the ruptured pipe, and maybe he’d stayed down here holding it closed until someone could shut off the tank. That would explain his absence, but not the gashes and bruises.

“Got a light?” Rodney asked.

As if in answer, the furnace roared again, and the propane fed it.

Whooosh.

“Mission accomplished,” Rodney said, just before the concussive blast stole the air and shot an expanding fireball across the basement. The heat slapped Wayne like a volcanic tidal wave and shoved him against Rodney, and they fell together against the door as support timbers groaned and splintered.

In the chaos of collapse, Wayne thought he heard Beth’s voice, or maybe it was the muffled screams of Amelia George.

Chapter 46

Kendra was pitched against the stair rail when the explosion sounded, and Cody grabbed at her as he lost balance in the dark.

She took a step forward, but the stairs seemed to give way beneath her, and her stomach took that same queasy somersault as when she’d fallen through the ceiling.

The subdued thump reached them a split-second later, and by then Kendra was gripping the rail, hugging her sketch pad to her chest as if it were a sacred text that would solve the crazy riddles of the night.

“Dad,” Kendra said, probing a foot out to see if the stairs still remained.

“Hear that?” Cody said.

On the floor below, people were shouting and scurrying in the dark. Deeper, the squeal and snap of straining wood mixed with a rumble of loose stones and a faint crackling sound. The hotel shifted again, as if knocked loose from its moorings and sliding down a slope.

“We need to get out of here,” Cody said. “This place has got a bad case of the shakes, and it was matchsticks and glue to begin with.”

“I can’t leave without Dad.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

“Who’s there?” someone yelled from the landing below, a man with a gruff, clipped voice.

“SSI,” Cody responded.

“One of your—our guy—I think he’s dead.”

Kendra and Cody headed toward the commotion, aided by light that leaked from a distant window that had broken open during the tremors. “Please don’t be Dad,” Kendra whispered.

“What’s going on?” Cody said, trying to project authority, though Kendra could hear the suppressed panic in his voice.

“This—thing—like a big lizard or something—”

“It was a black woman,” someone else cut in. “She had a knife.”

“It wasn’t a knife—”

“And then all our flashlights went out at once—”

Kendra couldn’t tell how many people were gathered on the landing, but by the time she and Cody reached the body, five had offered opinions. From the description, the victim didn’t sound like Dad. They bent over him, Cody checking his pulse. Kendra was afraid to touch the body but she forced herself to put her palm near his mouth. She felt no breath of wind.

“Did anybody report it to the front desk?” Cody asked. “The land line ought to get 9-1-1 even if there’s no cell signal.”

“You kidding?” said the gruff man who’d originally hailed them. It was too dark to make out his face, but he was tall and heavyset and Kendra remembered he’d put “West Virginia” on his registration address. He spoke with a rural Southern accent. “You reckon any of us wants to wander around in the dark when some nut has a knife?”

“It was a lizard,” a woman insisted. “I saw its scales and it had...it had....”

“Had what?” Cody said. “Nothing could be crazier than what we’ve already heard.”

“A tail,” she finished.

“Lord, help us,” another said.

“Ain’t the Lord’s doing,” said Gruff. “Somebody with a knife. See?”

A metallic skritch was followed by a small flame erupting, and Gruff bent down with the Bic lighter, illuminating Burton’s corpse. “Yuck,” he said, wiping at his ragged moustache. “Took his tongue, looks like.”

Wet, dark gore surrounded Burton’s lips and his mouth was a torn maw. His eyes were open and staring, blank with death and already losing their luster. His left arm was ripped and his jumpsuit was blotched with dark stains. A rusty, cloying odor hung over the landing.

“Ah, Burt,” Cody said with a sad sigh. Kendra touched his shoulder in a gesture of compassion. She’d liked Burton, and Dad would be devastated, but right now she was too shook up to feel much grief.

“It wasn’t one of the ghost kids that did this,” Kendra said.

“Ghost kids?” said Gruff.

“How many are in your group?” Kendra asked. And have you seen Digger Wilson?

“Eleven,” said a short woman whose silhouette was barely visible at the edge of the Bic’s light. “Burton told us to wait in the room when the power went out, but then we heard the fight.”

Cody tried the window, but it was sealed by ancient coats of paint. He yanked the curtain, pulling the rod down with it. A little more twilight leaked onto the landing. Cody wrapped the fabric around the wooden pole and held it out to the man with the Bic. “Torch.”

“This is going to stink,” Gruff said, but he applied the lighter. The linen curtain burst into a smoldering, oily flame.

“Are you the only group on the floor?” Kendra tried to remember the list of haunted rooms where the hunts would take place, but they all jumbled together. Digger said it didn’t matter whether the hunt location had activity or not, as long as people got their money’s worth. But he’d assumed there was no difference between a cold spot and a dead spot, and now it appeared the entire hotel was one big open grave, spilling out creepy spirits and things that should have been left buried.

“The rest went to the basement,” Gruff said. He snuffed out the lighter now that the torch crackled. A bit of curled ember fell to the wooden floor but Cody stomped it out.

“Smell that?” Cody said.

Kendra’s nose was full of Burton’s raw stench, but she took a sniff. “Smoke.”

“Yeah, but it’s not from this.” He waved the torch. “Come on, people.”

Gruff didn’t like being bossed by a teenager. “Where you going?”

“Out.”

“Them stairs are dangerous,” he said in his Southern accent. “Earthquake or something. You could fall right through.”

“I’m not staying here and waiting for the roof to fall in,” said an elderly woman, in a high tremulous voice. A shawl was draped around her frail shoulders and her darting eyes glittered in the torchlight. She tried to step past Burton’s corpse but slipped in the blood. One leg flew to the side and her bones clattered as she landed and skidded down a few stair treads.

“Dear Christ,” she muttered, moaning in pain and writhing, holding her left ankle. “Broke it.”

Kendra was immediately by her side, squinting at the injured limb. A bone appeared to bulge beneath the pale skin and flaccid muscle. “We’d better get her down.”

“Here,” Cody said, passing the torch to a rotund man in a leather jacket. “Lead them down.”

Cody stooped and picked up the old lady, cradling her in his arms. “Hang on, ma’am,” he said, as she whimpered at the sudden movement.

The smoke was thicker now, and undeniable. “Musta had a short,” Gruff said. “Blew some fuses.”

People who had huddled in the second-floor hallway moved past Gruff and the body, some of them refusing to look down at the mess. The pool of blood had spread so that it now dripped from the landing and onto the lower step in a sickening rivulet. Cody followed the leather-jacketed man, intent on not hitting the old woman’s leg on the shaking stair rail. Kendra counted the group members as they passed to make sure everyone escaped.

“Eleven,” she said. Cody had already made the turn in the stairs, which creaked under the combined weight of those descending, but enough torchlight lingered that she could see Gruff’s scowl.

And you make twelve. Did we gain somebody?

“A nut with a knife,” he said.

She glanced down at the descending group, and a woman looked up at her.

Mom?

The woman—the illusion of her mother, nothing more, surely nothing more—waved at her to follow, and then she made the turn and was gone.

Kendra took a step but slipped in the blood. The man caught her arm and squeezed hard enough to hurt.

“Easy,” she said.

“No, honey, it ain’t easy,” Gruff said. “It’s real, real hard.”

She looked at him, and his eyes were just as dead as Burton’s, the smoky moonlight pushing gray across his skin, the moustache lifting to reveal blunt teeth and a mocking grin. She recognized him now, though it was only through her artistic talent of sizing up facial features.

“Rochester,” she whispered.

“Among other things.”

She tried to pull away, shouting Cody’s name, but another rumble came and the stairs skewed sideways. The wall broke open at the end of the hall, spilling night into the hotel. The smoke made her cough, and the first flickering flames rose from below. The ghost hunters yelled frantically over one another, now fully aware of the danger.

“Maybe if you draw me purty, I’ll let you live,” Gruff said. “Just long enough.”

Her sketch pad was on the landing, forgotten in the chaos. She thought of the fantastic creatures she’d drawn on those pages, the imagined ghosts and disembodied spirits. Her morbid art now seemed like a survival instinct, because she had already dreamed the worst and could so easily accept the unreal.

“What do you want with me?” she said. “You could have anybody.”

“Don’t you get it?”

Her arm was almost numb under his grip. She wondered if Cody had noticed her absence, or if he was so intent on playing hero that he only had room for his ego. A few stair balusters fell from the landing above, clattering against wood.

“I just want out of here,” she said.

“You came back.”

“I’ve never been here before.” She tried to tug free as the hotel groaned around them, timbers snapping overhead.

“You think Digger brought you here for no reason?” Gruff’s face morphed and shifted in Rochester’s, looking almost silly because it still had the moustache, but then the face grew hairy, pointed, and rodent-like, two yellow incisors gleaming in the moonlight. “You don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

In her panic, she couldn’t remember what Cody had said about demons. Something about power. The only power they had was the power you gave them.

“You can’t have me,” she said.

The rodent face twisted and became softer, rounded, clear as a photograph. It was the woman she’d seen on the stairs, the woman who’d spoken to her the night before.

Her mother.

Kendra quit struggling. The smoke grew thicker and flames crackled below like rumpled cellophane.

“I only had you for a while,” her mother said, and though the voice was feminine, Kendra knew it was really Rochester’s. Kendra saw a lot of her own reflection there—the dark hair and moody eyes, the broad nose—and her panic was dampened by sadness. It didn’t seem right that her mother would stay thirty-two forever, would always wear the face in the photograph on her dresser back home, would remain constant while Kendra grew up and older.

Just like my characters. Made from scratch. Not good or evil, just drawn that way.

“What?” Kendra said, coughing against the acrid smoke. “Do you want me to die here? Afraid to be alone?”

Mother’s voice hardened, became a chorus. “We’re never alone.”

The floor tilted, and Burton’s body slid across the landing and thumped down a few steps, rolling over so that his arms were splayed as if in jubilation.

Her mother—demon, she’s a demon, a ghost kid in disguise—released Kendra’s arm and she fell against the wall. She glanced out the window, expecting to see fleeing guests on the lawn or the distant red lights of emergency vehicles, but the grounds were still and empty under the moonlight. Smoke drifted toward the surrounding forest like an army of ghosts, melding with the mist in the shroud of night.

The hotel lurched and timbers grated, plaster board crumbling as the hotel shook again. Dad was downstairs somewhere, maybe trapped under the falling rubble or cornered by the fire.

Free now, she clambered up the stairs, thinking she could navigate the third floor and go down the stairs at the other end. She glanced back at her mother—not my mother—and Gruff blinked, confused, as if wondering what he was doing standing there with hell erupting around him. He shouted, ran over Burton’s back as he hurried down the stairs, and lost his footing. He tumbled, gasping in surprise, and slipped through a gap of torn wood where the stairs had given way.

Kendra paused, knowing she should run, knowing she could trust none of her senses, but tugged by a heroine’s instinct to save the day.

Emily Dee to the freaking rescue.

Gruff was only visible from the chest up, and he reached toward her with one arm while scrabbling for purchase with the other. His eyes were wide and scared.

“Help,” he wheezed, smoke billowing up around him.

Despite herself, she reached for him. Rochester, or the thing that owned Rochester, had made Gruff delay her until the stairs had collapsed. And now that Rochester had played his game, Gruff was just another toy to be discarded. She stooped and extended her hand, bracing herself against the stair railing, judging the man’s weight at 220 or so.

But just before their fingers met, Gruff slid down a few inches, and then dropped away in a sudden eruption of splinters and rising sparks.

She gazed into the smoking well for a moment, understanding he was lost. In more ways than one.

The hand locked around her ankle.

Kendra kicked, but Burton held tight, his eyes now open and filled with mad light.

“The Diggersh daughter,” he said, the words mushed by blood and gore. “You going to leave without burying me?”

“Sorry, Burton,” she said. “But I know it’s not you.”

She brought her other foot down on his wrist, jamming her heel into the flesh. He didn’t wince but the muscles tensed. She stomped again, sick to her stomach but driven by fear and rage. Bones snapped and the clutching fingers loosened.

Kendra danced away and ran up the stairs to the third floor.

Chapter 47

Violet stood by the main lobby entrance, arms folded.

The small crowd pushed against her, shouting as the smoke blinded them. Rhonda had spit out her gum and Jonathan Holmes, the burly, bald member of SSI, tried to shove past her. The only light was from a torch held aloft by one of the guests. She searched for Philippe among the flame-licked faces but didn’t see him.

Maybe her friends in the basement had taken care of him. She had a new maintenance staff, and they would be on call around the clock, forever.

“Remain calm,” Violet shouted.

“Let us the hell out of here,” Jonathan said.

“The door’s jammed,” Violet said.

“The second floor’s caving and the stairs are shot,” said Cody, the young, good-looking SSI guy. He cradled a whimpering old woman in his arms.

Janey? Her heart clutched. No. This place is mine now.

The old woman rolled her face away from Cody’s chest. Violet was relieved. Besides, Janey was too proud to accept help.

The hotel gave a deep shudder, settling on its framework. Outside, shingles tore loose and rained down past the windows. The floor was warm beneath them, the carpet steaming. Some of the people were groggy and bleary-eyed from the carbon monoxide.

Sleep tight, my valued guests. Enjoy your stay.

Jonathan Holmes threw his shoulder against the massive door. He bounced off with a thrunk, cursing, while a couple of people joined Jonathan and put their weight against the door.

“The windows,” someone yelled.

The lobby featured large bay windows set with old-fashioned ripple glass. Like most of the windows, they were painted tight in their casings. The smoke now hung in a solid, roiling sea just beneath the ceiling, and a dim red glow blossomed from the far ends of the halls. The hotel was like a great ship going down, and Violet lifted her chin against those who would abandon it.

“Don’t break anything,” she shouted, knowing they’d ignore her. Few understood the soul of this old place. To them, it was just wood, carpet, and glass.

One guy picked up a settee and hurled it against the window. It bounced away, but the glass cracked. A couple of people had dropped to their hands and knees to dodge the smoke. Even the torchlight did little to penetrate the murk.

“The couch!” Jonathan waved a few people over. Two men joined him and they bent and lifted the furniture to their waists.

“You’ll have to pay for damages,” Violet said, but no one was listening.

If Janey were here, they wouldn’t dare.

She could sense them—she wasn’t exactly sure what they were, only that they’d always been here and they had something to do with Janey’s disappearance—hovering around the corners, their laughter mingling with the distant crackle of flames and the cacophony of destruction.

“Heave,” Jonathan commanded, as the three men rocked the sofa backward. On “ho,” they hurled it into the window and the glass exploded. Cool night air poured through the jagged opening and the frantic crowd rushed to escape.

“Women first,” Cody yelled, carrying his injured patient to the window.

Rhonda made a move toward the window, but Violet grabbed her by the back of her blouse.

“Lemme go,” Rhonda said.

“You haven’t punched your time card.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Where’s the cash drawer? At the desk?”

“How should I know?”

Cody passed the injured woman through the window, and she was reluctant to let him go, clinging to his neck with tapered, skeletal fingers. He finally passed her to Jonathan, who was standing outside in the hedges. A man in a toboggan was helping women over the lip of the window, but not everyone was as chivalrous. Violet smirked as a chubby young man in T-shirt and jeans shoved his way through the crowd and clambered out, revealing the fleshy swell of his upper buttocks.

“Kendra?” Cody called, looking around the rapidly thinning crowd. He was just like the rest, calling a woman’s name like she was a possession.

Well, no one is going to possess me.

Now that the curtains were yanked wide, the lobby was filled with moonlight and was almost beautiful. Smoke curled around the piano as if it were on a nightclub stage and some music-school dropout were about to peck “Heart And Soul.”

But the audience was vanishing. Violet grimaced at the thought of guests leaving before they’d checked out. Had they no respect?

Janey would never stand for it.

But Janey’s no longer in charge. Now they’ve made me caretaker. And what am I supposed to do about it?

Good question.

But one thing she knew, there was no sense letting good money go up in flames. She elbowed through the chaos and headed for the office.

Chapter 48

Wayne opened his eyes to dirt, his head like a bowl of mashed potatoes with blood gravy.

Moist, forest-scented air wafted over his face, but smoke boiled from behind him. He tried to stand but couldn’t feel his legs. He remembered the darkness, the basement, and then....

He was lying on the ground just beyond a concrete pad, the wooden door split and sagging to one side. Behind him came screams and the rending of wood. He rolled over just enough to see the outside of the hotel, the back end with its sloping addition and a tin-roofed maintenance shed. The November night chilled his skin but the warmth of the fire crept along his spine like a molten snake.

“Yo, you okay?” someone asked. It was a college-aged man in dirty chef’s whites, obviously a cook who’d fled the kitchen. He stood near the edge of the forest, at a safe distance, nervously puffing a cigarette.

“Kendra... the others....”

“Get out of there, man, the place is going to blow,” the cook said. His face was streaked with grease and soot and his eyes bright with fear.

“My daughter’s in there.”

“They’re all out except—Jesus, there’s a dead guy behind you.”

Wayne’s first thought was “ghost.” But ghosts didn’t exist. That meant—

Wayne reclaimed the glimpse of Rodney Froehmer’s deranged face. He tried to turn but he couldn’t. Somehow it didn’t matter, whether it was a ghost or just a normal, everyday corpse.

Kendra is safe. I can just lie here and rest. “I can’t move.”

“Just my luck,” the cook said, tossing his cigarette aside and approaching Wayne.

“Never mind me,” Wayne said. “Other people are in the basement.”

“You must have hit your head. They all evacuated when the power went out.” The chef bent over Wayne. “How come you’re still here?”

“We were hunting in the basement.”

The sputtering flames licked light along the chef’s moist face. “Don’t know if I’m supposed to move you or not. What if you’re paralyzed or something?”

“Well, I can lay here and burn to death or lay over there and still be alive,” Wayne said.

The cook looked dubious, though he was in a hurry to retreat from the burning structure. “You won’t sue me?”

“Never saw you,” Wayne said. “And this didn’t happen.”

The cook lifted Wayne from beneath his armpits. Tingling needles of ice worked down Wayne’s thighs as blood began flowing through his legs. When the cook dragged him out of the doorway, Wayne at last saw what he’d left behind. Red light limned the entrance, revealing Rodney’s prone form on the basement floor. A steel pipe protruded from his chest.

“Don’t look back,” the cook said.

“Too late,” Wayne said.

“Least he don’t have to worry about burning to death.”

By the time they were 20 feet from the building, Wayne had regained some feeling in his feet. He raised himself up, wobbling, as smoke crept from the basement and drifted toward the trees.

“You ain’t paralyzed,” the cook said.

“Guess not.”

“Man, I hope I turned off the gas to the deep fryer. Janey Mays would have my balls in a blender.”

“So everybody evacuated?”

“Yeah, they’re out front. You’re one of them ghostbusters, right?”

“I guess.” But we’re the ones that got busted.

“Sorry about your friend there,” the cook said, already lighting another cigarette. “You must have been the last two in the building.”

The flames had just begun to penetrate the first floor. Wayne swayed on his numbed legs and took a trembling step toward the hotel. “I have to find my daughter.”

The cook grabbed his arm. “Hold on, man. I told you the place was empty.”

“I have to be sure.”

“Hear that?”

Wayne listened beyond the crackle of the flames, the whisper of the Blue Ridge wind in the trees, and the groan of straining timbers. A wail poured over the valley like the scream of a wounded dragon.

“Sirens,” the cook said. “We’ll get you an ambulance.”

Wayne nodded, wondering if Kendra was worried about him. He glanced up at the window of the room where he and Beth had conceived her—

And there she stood.

Chapter 49

Bad move.

Kendra had ducked into 318 because it was the first open door she’d found while feeling her way down the smoky hall. She’d hoped to escape through the window, but it was jammed tight and the lattice framework was too narrow. Even if she broke the glass, she wouldn’t be able to slip through. She looked down at the crowd milling on the front lawn, hoping to spy Cody, but also hoping he’d noticed she was missing.

Dad must have escaped. If he’d been in the basement, he’d probably been one of the first to spot the flames. No doubt the same short-circuit that had caused the power outage had also ignited the hotel. The place was a real tinderbox and wouldn’t withstand the flames for long.

She ran to the other window, saw two forms on the lawn behind the hotel.

A row of red strobe lights made a wash across the treetops, emergency vehicles rolling in from Black Rock. If she could only hold out for a couple of minutes, trucks with ladders and firefighters would arrive on the scene. She’d wave and some hunky hero with an ax would climb up and smash the glass and chop apart the frame, then escort her down to safety. Dad and Cody would be impressed and—

The door slammed shut behind her.

In the darkness came the unmistakable sound of bedsprings. Then came the rhythmic creak made by jumping feet and a soft whisper:

“Lock the door and throw away the key, stay and play with Mommy and me.”

“Bruce,” she said, not turning around.

The boy repeated, with more insistence: “Lock the door and throw away the key, stay and play with Mommy and me.”

His jumping grew more violent and she expected to hear his head thump against the ceiling. He repeated the line again, nearly shouting.

And the rain began. Kendra squinted and sputtered against the deluge, realizing the sprinkler system had activated. A little late, perhaps, but working nonetheless. Except she now believed something else controlled the White Horse Inn, a malevolent brat that abused its toys and pouted when things didn’t go its way. And now it was taking a whiz, letting loose all its frustration and rage, drenching her so that her clothes stuck to her body.

“It’s no good, Bruce,” she shouted against the spray.

“Stay and play...stay and play...stay and play....”

“I can’t stay,” she said.

The beating red rays of light were closer now, pushing up from beneath the trees and down the lane that led from the highway.

“Stay and play,” it said, but it was no longer Bruce’s voice. A woman’s.

A spotlight tracked across the front of the hotel, momentarily illuminating her face. It was Ann Vandooren, the woman Cody said had rigged a prank camera.

“I’m not staying and I’m not playing,” Kendra said, trying to sound tough, though it came off more Dr. Seuss than Emily Dee.

“You should have been mine,” Ann said, moving closer to Kendra, hands upraised, ignoring the falling water.

“I didn’t do anything to you.”

“Besides getting born, you mean?”

Kendra backed to the window, flipping wet hair out of her face. All she could make out of the woman was her sinister silhouette, but the form didn’t matter that much, whether it was Bruce’s, Burton’s, or Eloise Lanier’s. They all drew water from the same well, and they all wanted her dead, for some reason.

Christ, what a comic book this is going to make. Assuming I ever get out of here.

But “here” was where it had to end, right?

According to her mother’s ghost, she’d been conceived in this very room. Her first spark of life had glinted when Digger’s stone had struck her mother’s flint. She’d crawled out of the mysterious pool of spirit matter and became the quirky kid with the crooked smile and a talent for doodling, the sad kid who watched her mother waste away at an age when her biggest worries should have been soccer and long division, the troubled kid who had to grow up way too fast because her father needed a parent.

This was where it all started.

The spotlight swept by again, the sirens blaring nearby, and the carpet was warm under her feet, the falling water mixed with smoke and steam. The room was fog, and she could be left here and lost forever, to wander the seams between living and dead, or maybe this was the dream an infant had suffered in the womb of Beth Wilson on the way to being stillborn.

Maybe she was already dead.

And had never been.

A memoir writ in invisible ink.

“You’re the life he never had,” Ann said, but it wasn’t Ann. It was Margaret Percival. It had always been Margaret Percival.

“Kendra!”

Dad was just outside the door, banging, kicking, screaming her name.

Her name.

Kendra Wilson.

She had been born after all, and she was alive.

“You took his life,” Margaret said.

“I didn’t take anything that wasn’t mine,” Kendra said, water streaming down her face, eyes stinging, the tears flushing away as fast as they escaped.

She flung her arms out in the fog, knowing Margaret could see her, because Margaret saw everything in the hotel. Margaret was the hotel.

“Because you still have this,” Kendra said, shouting over the hissing of the water and the pounding on the door and the creaking of imploding lumber. “All yours.”

She lunged toward the door, bracing for the collision, wondering if Margaret would be as yielding and suffocating as damp cotton, as sharp and brittle as an iceberg, as splintery and hot as a burning hotel. No matter the material, or the immaterial, Emily Dee was kicking ass and taking names and writing it all down in a little book.

The room was suffused with a sudden glow, as if a thousand candles had been struck to life, the water drops sparkling like amber and rubies. Ann Vandooren’s face emerged from the exotic mist and she swiped out with a hooked stack of talons, going for Kendra’s face. But someone—something—caught Ann’s wrist, twisting it behind her back, yelling at Kendra to run.

Chapter 50

Wayne fell into Room 318 when the door flew open.

Spitting, coughing, crawling, he forced himself forward, though his body was one big bruise and numbness enervated his legs. The climb up the dark, smoke-filled service stairs had sapped him.

And he’d almost given up hope when he found the door stuck tight, as solid as the wall, and in a burst of frustration and fear, he’d slammed himself against it, calling Kendra’s name. But then—if he believed in miracles, he’d give it that name, though other names were possible—the room allowed entry.

Water cascaded down, stirring the air enough for him to fill half his lungs, not enough to carry a shout but enough to make the next lunge forward.

The door...allowed...entry.

The room had let him in. Not because the lock yielded or the stubborn hinges gave way or structural damage had loosened it from the jamb.

No, the door had said, “Come in, Digger. We’ve been waiting.”

The same room where he and Beth had booked a second honeymoon, making serious love and silly promises, and 17 years on, he was right where he’d never wanted to be again. In many ways, he was deader than Beth would ever be.

Wayne squinted into the steam. He made out two shapes near the window, silhouetted against the backlit window. One was large and hulking, with wild, stringy hair, towering over the smaller figure, who was crouched in a stance of self-defense. Her Emily Dee act.

The White Horse had his daughter.

He roared in rage, throat raw, and launched himself from the floor. He didn’t understand the forces here, and all the tiny paths that had led back to Room 318, but he understood that Beth had trusted him with this job.

It was time for Digger to shovel shit.

He caught the woman’s arm as she clawed at Kendra’s face. She turned and snarled at him like a feral animal. He barely recognized her—Ann Vandooren, the hoax artist—and the fierce glow in her eyes reminded him of the pulsing furnace in the basement.

“G-get out.” His words came in a spasm of coughs. “Run.”

“Dad,” Kendra said, sounding scared, but he couldn’t reassure her because he was scared, too. The strobing emergency lights outside threw a red wash across the walls, making a chaotic kaleidoscope of the room.

Ann shrugged free from his grip and thrust her hand toward his neck, nails slicing flesh as fingers locked around his throat. Kendra gave a flying side kick, but her sneaker bounced off the woman as if she were made of rubber-coated steel.

Wayne glanced around for something to use as a club. The bedside lamp had a heavy base, but it was out of reach. Ann’s fingers clung with unnatural strength, and the drumming water blurred his vision.

The floor shuddered, signaling a portion of the building had collapsed. The eastern wing had been the most engulfed, and Wayne figured the flames were chewing their way down the hall. The firelight pulsed in syncopation with the emergency lights. If Kendra didn’t escape soon—

She leaped onto Ann’s back, wrapping her arms as if going for a piggyback ride. The attack was just enough to throw Ann off balance, and they all fell onto the soggy king-size bed. As Ann writhed on top him, pinning him to the bedspread, Wayne couldn’t help but think of Beth and how their long-ago wrestling had created Kendra.

Ann raked her fingers down his chest, ripping his skin and shirt collar, but at least he could now suck enough air to scream.

He wallowed for traction against the sodden cloth. Ann had turned her attention to Kendra, but her face was close to his, sulfuric wind oozing from her mouth. He drove his forehead into her nose and she shook, flinging water from her hair.

Blood gushed from her face. Whatever she was, she wasn’t invincible. Her flesh was still human.

Wayne didn’t know if there was anything left of Ann inside the hissing, flailing form, but instinct compelled him to hurt her in any way he could.

But before he could punch her, the ceiling fell, chunks of gypsum pounding his face and delivering him to darkness.

Chapter 51

Kendra bounced on the bed—stay and play—and grabbed the sprinkler pipe, planning to swing until she could kick the crazy woman off of Dad. But the pipe came loose from the ceiling, yanking jagged sheets of gypsum with it.

Kendra fell, snapping off one of the bed’s posters, then sprawled backward with a spluff, her fall softened by the wet blankets.

Ann hovered over her, and in the strange flickering light, her eyes were bright as embers, pulsing with the rage of the world.

“You can’t have it,” Ann said, grabbing Kendra’s hair with one hand. The woman grinned, and her teeth were impossibly long, far too big for her mouth. She was no longer a woman, really. More like a badly drawn creature from the imagination of some sicko cryptozoologist.

Rat face.

Dad moaned from somewhere miles away in steamy jungle night.

Kendra rolled until she was halfway off the bed, but there was no floor below, only a deep, inky blackness that looked like it would suck everything down into the dead belly of the world. The walls were still there, the bulky outlines of furniture still revealed by the emergency lights outside, but the abyss below was big enough to swallow it all. The water drops fell on and on until their reddish silver glints vanished forever.

Even if she escaped the clutch of the demon, she wouldn’t dare leave the bed and touch that bottomless morass. It looked cold enough to kill.

Ann tangled her fingers in Kendra’s hair and jerked. The demon wallowed on her, hot breath on her cheek. The mouth descended and teeth scraped the soft skin around her jugular.

Kendra squirmed and felt the pressure in her pocket. Pencil.

“You should never have been born,” the demon hissed in her ear.

Kendra dug her hand in her pocket, fingers settling on the solid thickness of Big Fattie.

Works for vampires, but it won’t reach the heart.If this creature’s even got one.

She flipped up with her hips, which drew Demon Thing’s mouth closer but allowed her to yank the pencil free. Hot slaver spilled on her neck, erasing the chill of the spraying water.

The creature’s grip eased just a little and she opened her eyes. Dad had Demon Thing by the shoulders, trying to pull it away. The creature had gotten even uglier, with wrinkled grayish skin and eyes burning toward blue-white intensity.

As the teeth closed, Kendra drove the pencil into the creature’s ear.

“Draw blood!” she yelled, as Big Fattie’s sharpened tip plowed through the fragile chambers into the demon’s ear.

The creature’s shriek drowned out the latest wave of fire sirens, and it stiffened and jerked upright. The spotlight swept the window, revealing the creature in silhouette as it wiped at the wound. Black ichor gushed from the thing’s head. It swung an arm out, knocking Dad from the bed.

Kendra called his name and reached for him, expecting him to be gone, just as Gruff had gone, down into a dark hole in the heart of God. But the floor was solid now, and he came up with the bed’s broken poster.

“Go back to hell,” he yelled, driving the jagged tip into the creature’s chest.

Another shriek shattered the room, and the demon’s face contorted, shifting rapidly to Ann Vandooren’s, Rochester’s, Eloise Lanier’s, Gruff’s, Rodney Froehmer’s, then dozens of others, shuffled like cards, moving back through time until at last it settled on the woman in the first-floor painting.

“Margaret Percival,” Dad said.

Margaret looked down at the chunk of wood protruding from her chest. “You should never make promises,” she said, her voice no longer deep and demonic.

She pulled the bedpost from her chest. She looked happy in the rain.

“This way,” came a voice from the door.

Cody.

Chapter 52

“Get out,” Wayne said, shoving Kendra out the door. “Now.”

Smoke roiled in the hall, and flames flickered in eager fingers of golden heat.. Cody had yanked his shirt up over his face so the cloth acted as a filter, but his eyes were red and narrow. The ceiling joists groaned overhead.

“Service stairs,” Wayne shouted.

Future of Horror, I hope to God you’ve got a future.

He slammed the door behind them and flung the deadbolt. Kendra screamed at him but he offered no answer. She yanked on the door handle, but Cody must have had enough sense to lead her away before all hope of escape was lost.

Satisfied that now his daughter had a chance, he turned to face his demons. All of them.

The sprinkler system gave one final gush and then fell to dribbles. Steam curled above the carpet, and Wayne’s boots conducted heat up through the soles of his feet. For an absurd moment, he wished he had his top hat. The prop would have given him a little courage, as if playing a Victorian undertaker conferred an indifference to death.

“You’re not Margaret.”

“I’m way older than that,” it said. “She is just another vessel.”

“I didn’t believe in you, and now I do. Isn’t that enough?”

“Faith is never enough. You need proof. That’s why you’ve been looking so hard.”

Wayne glanced at the bedpost that lay on the bed, a gooey slickness coating its tip. It hadn’t worked the first time, but it was all he had.

Unless....

“How long have you been in the basement?”

“As long as people have needed me.” The demon touched the hole in Margaret’s chest, as if curious about the ephemeral nature of flesh. “As long as God asked me to be.”

“Look. Only two ways this can go. You kill me, or I die when the hotel caves in. So either way we’re stuck together.”

“More than you know.”

The smoke grew thicker. Boards detonated from stress. A huge piece of roof sheeting slid past the window. The heat was palpable now, and each breath carried pain to the bottom of Wayne’s lungs. Outside, the forest glimmered with the reflection of the rising conflagration.

The fire fighters had probably reached Kendra and Cody by now. No reason to wait any longer. It wouldn’t do any good for him to stay here forever, too.

“I kept my promise,” he said.

The demon reached up and yanked the pencil stub from its ear. “Took you long enough.”

“We just said we’d meet again. We didn’t say when.”

“I went to a lot of trouble for you.”

“You caused a lot of trouble, you mean.”

The demon’s face shifted from Margaret Percival’s to Beth’s as fire leapt across the attic and lit up the gash in the ceiling. “Well, I didn’t want Kendra to see me like this.”

Even with her damp hair, the bloom of blood on her chest, and the reflection of the encroaching flames in her eyes, she was beautiful. Digger’s half-dead heart twitched in his chest, revived enough to ache. “She’s not ready to know what she is.”

“She’s almost a woman, Wayne. Haven’t you noticed?”

“I’ve been trying not to.”

“Thanks for bringing her. It was so good to see her.”

“Sorry I waited so long. I was just—”

“Scared. I don’t blame you.” Beth sat on the soggy, gypsum-covered bed as smoke and steam swirled around her face. “We knew something was here. Dumb as we were, we somehow knew.”

A gutter banged against the windowsill and glass shattered. Another chunk of the ceiling fell down, and the attic rumbled and copper roofing flapped from the heat of the updraft.

“Go now,” Beth said, looking at the sketch pencil in her hand. “Get her away.”

“I can’t lose you again.”

“Somebody’s got to fit her for wings.”

“I’m not much—”

“But you’re all she’s got. Dying is the easy way out. I should know.”

“The hotel....”

“Ashes to ashes and all that. Get out of here. I’m tired of goodbyes.”

“Six demons against one angel. Odds are not good.”

“When God gives you a job, you just do it. Come hell or high water.”

Wayne wished he had Beth’s faith. He struggled to leave her with something, even as the walls crackled, but all he had was doubt. “How will I know who wins?”

“See me in heaven and you’ll know.”

He staggered through the smoke and kissed her. She was already gone, air, ether, mist, a cloud in heaven. All that was left was crackling flames, a cacophony of splintering wood, and the filthy sketch pencil lying on the bed.

He grabbed the pencil and ran for the door. The deadbolt blistered his fingers as he racked it loose and swept the door wide, then entered a hall of hell.

“I love you,” he shouted, words lost in the roar of Belial’s fury.

Chapter 53

Violet’s fingers played over the petty cash. A few hundred. Not so hot, but it would do until the unemployment checks came through.

Outside the office, windows shattered and the fire fighters sprayed their futile hoses. They must have thought everyone was out by now, because no hero types were barging through the lobby looking for lost souls.

The real pity was that there was no time to raid the cash register in the bar.

She folded the rumpled stack of bills and slipped them in the waistband of her pants. She wasn’t worried about the fire, not yet, because most of the damage had occurred on the two wings. The front door was barely 50 feet away. She played the flashlight around the office, glad she’d found one that worked.

Violet wondered what else Janey might have stashed away. Maybe there was a lost-and-found drawer, with jewelry, watches, and wallets. She opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and rifled through papers. Aside from a half-empty bottle of Merlot, there was little of interest.

She tried the one above it, now conscious of the smoke collecting in the office. The cabinet was empty except for a photograph of a young woman. The photograph was yellowed with age and chipped at the edges, and Violet would have disregarded it except the face looked disturbingly familiar.

She retrieved the photograph and peered at it.

“Margaret,” Janey said.

Violet turned, nearly dropping the flashlight. The round cone of light framed the manager’s face as she sat behind her desk, smoking a cigarette.

“We couldn’t let her leave,” Janey said. “She was pregnant.”

“We don’t have much time.”

Violet started toward the door and saw it was closed. When she spotlighted Janey’s face, the woman’s eyes were utterly black and no light reflected from them.

“We have a lot of time,” Janey said, except her voice was deep as graves, as cold as a winter tombstone. “And the White Horse needs a new manager.”

Violet tried the door but the handle was so hot that the flesh of her palm sizzled. She yelped and banged on the wood with the bottom of her flashlight, now desperate for heroes.

Chapter 54

Almost....

The floor had nearly fallen away, but Wayne managed to reach the service stairs. Her energy had sluiced before him like a cool winter storm, pushing the flames away, parting the red sea of hell. The demons grabbed at him, claws curled, their howls of rage melding into the larger scream of the dying hotel.

Beth’s ether enveloped him, proving the permanence of devotion, yet he couldn’t touch it. The substance was like mist, white vapors that pushed against the darkness and chaos.

The womb of God....

This is how it feels to be reborn.

But even now, clambering down the stairs, he couldn’t surrender to the mystery. If God had taken Beth just to have another warrior on the front lines, Wayne saw no grace or mercy in it. Just the endless cycle of desire, merry-go-rounds of good and evil, little games to validate the fallibility of mortals.

You’re saving my ass, but you’re a sorry bastard, God.

He almost wished God would summon his wife home and grant her peace, even if it meant his death. At least then he would have sacrificed something. And it would prove God was listening.

But all he had was the will to live, and a daughter to raise, and a second chance—

“Lock the door and throw away the key,

Stay and play with Mommy and me.”

The kid stood below him, on the first-floor landing, his back against the door.

As he squinted through the angel haze and black smoke, two more kids emerged from the walls. They were dressed in ill-fitting, archaic clothes.

They chanted in unison as he descended, knowing Beth’s shield couldn’t long withstand the pressure. If he hesitated, they might yet win.

And Kendra would never know....

“Play with your goddamned selves,” he said, plowing toward the door, throwing his shoulder into it. The wood yielded and the door creaked open, the night pouring in and feeding the flames, pulling Beth away in the updraft of flames, screams, and the vanity of God.

DECEMBER

“Too bad all the equipment burned up,” Cody said.

Wayne didn’t think it was bad at all. Some things were better left as mysteries. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life reviewing audio files and video clips, trying to determine what was real and what wasn’t.

The inn was a brittle, black skeleton, wobbling on a few support beams as if a strong wind would push it over. December was underway, a few snow flurries twisting in the air among the ashes. That should do the trick.

Nine bodies had been found in the wreckage. All were considered victims of the fire, including three staff members and the manager, Janey Mays. Rodney Froehmer’s injuries had been caused when a pipe burst from the basement ceiling, and the initial investigation pointed to Rodney as the cause of the fire. He’d been messing around with accelerants, and for some unknown reason had been trying to start a fire in the old rusty furnace below.

“The court would take everything anyway,” Wayne said. “Once the civil trials start.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Kendra said.

Sure, it was. In ways you’ll never know.

“That doesn’t matter, honey,” he said. “People always need somebody to blame.”

He should know. He had God to blame. Not that it was getting him anywhere. Maybe one day he’d get on his knees, or get out an Ouija board and look for Beth again, make a few more promises.

The three of them stood behind the yellow tape that marked off the investigation scene. The fire had scorched the lawn, and the wind played through the surrounding trees, bare branches clashing and tangling.

They were sequestered at the Holiday Inn in Boone, waiting for the authorities to finish identifying the victims. It could take a while. They might even be spending Christmas in the mountains.

“Do you think it was Margaret?” Cody said. The investigators had discovered the bones of an adult woman walled off in the basement. In her abdominal cavity were the tiny bones of a fetus. The bones were old, and the DNA tests conducted on them had yet to return a match.

“Probably.”

“Why don’t you guys let it go?” Kendra said. “All we know is what we saw. Everybody thinks we sucked down too much carbon monoxide.”

“They have a way of covering their tracks,” Cody said. “They’ve been doing this awhile.”

“Demons,” Wayne said. “What do you expect?”

Two members of SSI had been killed, and the group’s Web site had been visited so many times the server had crashed. Three networks had already called with offers, but they were more interested in Cody than Digger. Paranormal enthusiasts around the world had posted their own theories about what had happened at the White Horse Inn. All of them were wrong.

“Let’s roll,” Wayne said. He climbed behind the wheel of the SSI van and closed the door. Kendra got in the passenger seat and Cody bounded into the cargo area.

Kendra was already opening her sketch pad. He’d bought her a new one the day after the fire, while she was recovering. She was busy with Big Fattie, wearing out the last of the lead. She had developed a new set of characters with gruesome, demonic faces, and she could hardly wait for Emily Dee to kick them back to the far side of hell.

Cody had suffered a few second-degree burns and minor lung damage, but, as he put it, it would have been a lot worse if that Bruce kid hadn’t led them through the blinding smoke.

Wayne glanced at his daughter, wondering whether her halo would come in black or gold.

She looked up from her sketch pad and caught him. “Dad, how did you know I was in 318?”

“I saw you in the window.”

“But you were in the back of the hotel. I was at the front window.”

Wayne started the engine. She looks a lot like you, Beth.

“Where there’s a demon, there’s an angel to balance it out,” he said. “Or so the theory goes.”

“Hey,” Cody called from the rear of the van. “I thought you were finally a believer.”

“Prove it.”

As he wheeled down the drive to the highway, he glanced in the rearview mirror at the charred bones of the White Horse. He half expected to see Beth’s face, or the smoky shape of a laughing spirit, or perhaps just a hole in the sky that led to heaven.

Nothing.

Just like always.

THE END

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Scott Nicholson is the international bestselling author of more than 20 thrillers, including The Home, McFall, Disintegration, Liquid Fear, and The red Church. His books have appeared in the Kindle Top 100 more than a dozen times in five different countries. Visit AuthorScottNicholson.com or his Amazon Author Central page

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After: First Light

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THE FINAL WINTER

THE SNOW WAS JUST THE START...

On the night it begins snowing in every country of the world, an ordinary group of people gather at a rundown English pub. At first they assume the weather is just a random occurrence and nothing to worry about - but as the night goes on, weirder things happen, and they start to realise that something far more sinister is at hand.  Something that none of them could ever have imagined.

By the end of the night, not everyone will make it, and those that do will wish they hadn’t.

This book has been written using UK English.  Some spellings may vary in other territories.

THE FINAL WINTER

(Special Edition)

By

Iain Rob Wright

Now this was the sin of Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty and did detestable things before me. Therefore I did away with them as you have seen.

— Ezekiel 16:49-50

The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event

—    J. B. Priestley

Chapter One

Harry sipped his latest beer as yet another news update flashed across the pub’s dusty television.  A female reporter appeared onscreen, enveloped by an over-sized pink ski-jacket and covered in snow.  “Good evening,” she said politely, a slight shiver in her voice.  “I’m Jane Hamilton with Midland-UK News.  As you can clearly see, the nineteen-inches of snow Britain has witnessed during the previous 24-hours has left the nation’s transportation network in disarray.”

The camera panned to overlook a deserted motorway.  A sky-blue transit van lay overturned and abandoned in its centre; its mystery cargo strewn across – and half-buried by – the snow.

The reporter let out a breath, which steamed in the air, and then continued.  “Major roads have now been closed and the nation’s rail links have been terminated until further notice.  Schools are closed, along with most nonessential businesses, while hospitals are doing their best to remain open.  The current death toll of weather-related fatalities is now at twenty-seven and feared to rise.  Emergency services have set up a helpline in order to assist those in need and to offer advice on how best to survive the current freezing temperatures.  That number is being displayed at the bottom of the screen now.”

Harry shook his head.  How long are they going keep this up?  We get it, the weather’s bad.  No need to act like it’s the end of the world.

“Even more concerning,” the television reporter continued, “is the fact that it is currently snowing throughout every nation of the world.”  A multi-coloured map of the earth superimposed itself at the top-right of the screen and then slowly turned white, representing the recent snowfall.  “From barren deserts to areas of dense rainforest, all have been subjected to unprecedented snowfall, some for the first time in centuries.  Never before in recorded history has such an event been known to occur.  Certain religious leaders are calling this-”

”Rubbish!”  Old Graham, the most elderly regular of The Trumpet pub and lounge, threw his hands up in disgust and grumbled in Harry’s direction.  “Bloody fear-mongers, that’s what they are.  A little snow and the country trembles at the knees.”

Harry lifted his head away from his half-finished pint and glanced over at the old man.  He was pointing to the television that was mounted against the rear wall by a pair of rusted brackets.

Harry shrugged his shoulders.  “What?”

Old Graham huffed.  “More nonsense about a few snowflakes bringing the country to a standstill.  Your generation can’t cope with anything unless there’s a video on that yourtube or myface to tell you about it!”

Harry glanced at the television again.  The weather was starting to affect the signal and the picture flickered constantly.  The endless evening-news updates had shown locations from around the globe, half-buried by blankets of slush and snow: The Pyramids of Giza ice-capped like Himalayan Mountains, the canals of Venice frozen over like elaborate ice rinks, and Big Ben rising above a snow-covered Westminster like a giant stalagmite.

Harry returned his gaze to Old Graham.  “I agree it’s a bit much, but the fact that it’s snowing everywhere is at least a little odd, don’t you think?”

The old man huffed again, the sound wet and wheezy.  “You think Canada or Switzerland are panicking about the weather?  This is a heat wave to an Eskimo!  All this climate-change, ozone-layer hogwash they’re harping on about is just to scare us, you mark my words, lad.”

Harry thought about it for a moment.  According to the news segments throughout the day it had been categorically denied that climate-change could cause such unprecedented weather.  Whatever was causing the snow was something else entirely, said the scientists, if only a random occurrence.  But, whatever the cause, Harry wasn’t about to allow himself to get rattled by media-frenzy and speculation.  The freakish weather didn’t concern him one bit – nothing did anymore – and he knew that if he got into a conversation with Old Graham about it he’d be stuck listening to the wrinkled codger’s piss-n-vinegar all night.  It had happened enough times previously for Harry to learn his lesson: lonely pensioners had a penchant for long-windedness.

Harry swallowed another mouthful of crisp lager and kept his attention on the flickering television screen.  When he glanced left again, Old Graham was still gawping at him.  Harry sighed and decided to give in and talk to the guy.  “Bet everything will be back to normal this time next week, huh, Graham?”

“You bet your balls it will.”  The old man sidled along the bar towards Harry, arthritic knees clicking with every step.  “I’ve lived through worse times than this, lad!”

Harry rolled his tired eyes.  “Really?”

“Yeah,” Old Graham said.  “I used to be married.”  With that, the old man howled with laughter until his worn vocal cords seized up in complaint, causing him to cough and hack yellow-green phlegm bubbles across the bar.  “Best go shift the crap off me chest, lad,” were his parting words as he tottered off toward the pub’s toilets.

Harry shook his head and turned to face the opposite side of the bar.  Steph, the pub’s only barmaid, was smiling at him while clutching a cardboard box full of MALT ‘N’ SALT crisps against her chest.  She placed it down on the bar and pulled an old dishrag from the waistband of her jeans.  She wiped down the area where Old Graham had coughed.  “He bothering you again, Harry?”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, threading his fingers through the knots and trying to neaten the scruffiness.  Then he sighed.  “He’s okay.  Just had too much to drink.”

Steph snorted.  “You’re one to talk.  What time did you get here today?”

“Noon.”

“Exactly, and it’s now…”  She glanced at her watch.  “Nine in the evening.”

Harry smirked.  “Yeah, but at least I have the decency to pass out when I’m drunk, instead of talking people’s heads off like Old Graham.”

“I’ll give you that.  Although, I’d like to remind you that you puked on my knee-highs last Sunday.  I had to throw them out, and they were my favourite pair!”

Harry stared down at the foamy liquid hissing away in his glass and, for a split-second, felt ashamed enough that he contemplated not drinking it and going home instead.  He quickly let the guilt go, though, and downed the last of the beer, dregs and all.  He had enough regret in his life without adding to it.  ”I must have been a pathetic sight,” he admitted.

Steph shrugged.  “You’re not pathetic, Harry.  Just unlucky.  Things will look up for you one day.  You only turned thirty a couple months ago, right?  Plenty of time to get back on your feet.”  She stopped and looked over at the plate-glass window of the pub.  “As long as this dreadful snow doesn’t freeze us all to death first, you’ll be fine.  Time heals all wounds.”

Harry sighed.  Steph knew about his past and sometimes it made him uncomfortable.  “You really think so?” he asked her.

“You better hope so, matey, because I’m not putting up with you puking on me every week.  Doesn’t matter how handsome you are!”

They both chuckled and Harry felt his mood lighten a little.  It wasn’t often that he heard such things from a young woman nowadays.  Not when he looked about ten years older than his actual age (he hadn’t been able to face a mirror in months so maybe now he looked even worse).

He pushed his empty pint towards Steph and she refilled it diligently.  The overflow from the glass slid down over the black heart tattoo on her wrist and made her pale skin glisten.  The unprompted desire to lick the beer from her young flesh found its way into Harry’s head and he felt ashamed.  He chased the lecherous urge away with thoughts of his wife.

Julie had been gone a long time now, but Harry never stopped considering himself a husband.  Never once did he forget his vow to love her forever.

Until Death Do Us Part...

Harry took his fresh beer, slid off his seat, and moved away from the bar – away from Steph.  The tattered padding of the bar stool he’d occupied for the last three hours had sent his backside numb and he now craved the relief of a cushion.  He headed towards the bench below the pub’s large front window and, at the same time, saw Old Graham returning from the toilets.  There was a small urine stain on the crotch of the old man’s grimy, cotton trousers and Harry was relieved to see the pensioner returning to the bar instead of coming over to join him.

Thank God for small mercies.

Harry eased down onto the faded bench cushion and sighed as the blood rushed back to his ass cheeks.  He placed his pint down on the chipped wooden table in front of him and picked up the nearest beer mat.  There was a picture of a crown on it, along with the slogan: CROWN ALES, FIT FOR A KING.  Without pause, Harry began to peel the printed face away from the cardboard.  It was a habit Steph was always scolding him for, but for some reason it seemed to halt his thoughts temporarily, keeping back the demons that haunted him.  The brief respite allowed Harry to breathe freely again, if only for a small while.

Relaxing further into the creaking backrest, Harry observed the room.  The lounge area of The Trumpet was long and slender, with a grimy pair of piss-soaked toilets stinking up an exit corridor at one end and a stone fireplace crisping the air at the other.  In the middle of the pub was a dilapidated oak-wood bar that was older than he was, along with several rickety tables and faded patterned chairs.  In the backroom was a small, seldom-used dance floor that Harry had only seen once at New Year’s.  It was a quiet, rundown pub in a quiet, rundown housing estate – both welcoming and threatening at the same time.  Much like the people that drank there.

Tonight the pub was low on drinkers.  It usually was on Tuesdays and Harry preferred it that way.  He wasn’t a big fan of company.  Of course it helped that the snowfall had stranded most people to within a hundred yards of their homes and blocked up the main roads with deserted, snowbound vehicles.  With the weather as bad as it was, getting to the pub, for most people at least, was not worth the risk.  For Harry it was, because the alternative was being alone.  And that was something he hadn’t been able to face for a long time.  He wondered if it was something he ever would be able to face again.  So he had braved the snow and made it to the pub in one piece, surrounding himself with people who he barely knew and were just as desperate as he was.

But at least I’m not alone.

Somehow Steph had made it in tonight as well, holding down the fort as she did most evenings.  Harry often wondered why she needed all the overtime.  She seemed to enjoy her work, but it could’ve just been the barmaid’s code: to be bubbly and polite at all times to all people.  Maybe, deep down, she counted each second until she could kick everybody’s drunken-asses out and go home.  Whatever the truth, Steph was a good barmaid and she kept good control of the place.

Even Damien Banks behaved under her watch.  Weekdays were usually free of his slimy presence, but tonight was an unfortunate exception.  The local thug was sat with his Rockports up on the armrest of the sofa beside the fire, a flashy phone fastened to his ear.

No doubt controlling his illicit little empire, Harry thought.  Probably refers to himself as ‘the Don’.

From what Harry had heard – from sources he no longer remembered – the degenerate scumbag pushed his gear on the local estate like some wannabe drug lord.  No one in the pub liked Damien, not even his so called friends (or entourage as Old Graham would often call them in secret).  There were rumours that the shaven-headed bully had once stomped a rival dealer into a coma, then taunted the family afterwards, revelling in the grief he’d caused.  There had also been several murders in the area that Damien was supposedly involved in, albeit not directly.

Harry shook his head.  He’s the one who deserves to be in a coma, instead of lounging around like he owns this place.

There was one other person in the bar, too.  A greasy-haired, oil-skinned hulk named Nigel.  Harry had not ever really spoken to the large man, but spotted him in the pub at least a couple of nights each month.  A lorry driver, from what Harry gathered, and spent a lot of time on the road.  Poor guy will probably have to sleep in his cab tonight.

After Nigel, Damien, and Steph, there was Old Graham and Harry.  Just the five of them; the full set.  Tuesday was a quiet night.

Harry swivelled on the bench, pulled his right knee sideways onto the cushion, and peered out the pub’s main window.  The Trumpet sat upon a hill overlooking a small row of dingy shops and a decrepit mini-supermarket that had steel shutters instead of windows.  Steph once told him that the pub was barely surviving on the wafer-thin profits brought in by the lunchtime traffic of the nearby factories and, if it were to rely on its evening drinkers alone, the place would have closed its doors long ago – even before the public smoking ban came in and ruined pubs across the land.

Usually Harry could see the shops and supermarket from the window, but tonight his vision faltered after only a few feet, swallowed up by the swirling snow and impeded by a thick condensation hugging the window’s glass.  For all Harry knew, the darkness outside could have stretched on for eternity, engulfing the world in its clammy embrace and leaving the pub a floating limbo of light in an endless abyss.  The image was unsettling.

Like something out of the Twilight Zone.

Snow continued to fall as it had nonstop for the past day and night.  Fat, sparkling wisps that passed through the velvet background of the night, making the gloom itself seem alive with movement.  Harry shivered; the pub’s archaic heating inadequate in defeating the chill.  Even the warmth of the fireplace was losing its battle against the encroaching freeze.

God only knows how I’ll manage the journey home tonight without any taxis running.  Maybe Steph will let me bed down till morning?  I hope so.

Harry reached for his pint and pulled it close, resting it on his thigh as he remained sideways on the bench.  He traced a finger over his grubby wedding ring and thought about the day he had first put it on.  He smiled and felt the warmness of nostalgia wash over him, but then his eyes fell upon the thick, jagged scar that ran across the back of that same hand and the warmness went away.  The old wound was shaped like a star and brought back memories far darker than his wedding day.  It was something he dared not think about.  He drank his beer.

God bless booze and the oblivion it brings.

Harry chuckled about how once he had not cared for the taste of lager – white wine had been his tonic of choice – but The Trumpet wasn’t the type of place where a thirty-year old man could order a nice bottle of Chardonnay without being called a poofter.

Funny how a person changes, Harry considered.  Just wish I’d changed for the better.

He took another swig of beer and almost spat it out again.  In only two minutes since he’d last tasted it, the beer had gone completely and utterly flat, as if something had literally drained the life from it.  But before Harry could consider what would cause such a thing, a stranger entered the pub.

A second later, the lights went out.

Chapter Two

“Bugger it!”  Kath cursed aloud and slapped her palms down on the supermarket’s checkout desk.  She’d been two minutes away from finishing the 9PM cash-up and the building’s power blinked out like someone had flipped a switch.

Bah!  Working at this dump ten hours a day is miserable enough without having to do it in the dark.  I must have the words, SHIT HAPPENS, stamped across my forehead.

“Peter!”  She hollered into the darkness.  “Check the fuse box, will you!”

A muffled voice from the nearby stockroom led Kath to believe her order had been received.  She sighed and waited while her sight adjusted to the dark, wondering where she could find a torch or some candles (Doesn’t Aisle 6 have some?).  The Fire Exit sign above the supermarket’s entrance gave off a small degree of illumination, but not enough to see her acrylic fingernails in front of her face.  Kath had other senses, however, and her ears picked up the sound of footsteps echoing down the Bread & Pastries aisle.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

The person was standing close enough that the unexpected volume of their voice made Kath flinch.  “It’s me,” said the voice.  “Jess.”

“Jessica?  You stupid girl!  You gave me a fright.”

“Sorry, Kathleen.  Didn’t mean to, I swear.  You know why the lights are out?”

“No.  I’ve told Peter to check the fuse box.”

“Good idea.  You reckon it’s just us, or the whole area?”

Kath shrugged in the dark.  “How should I know?  Walk out the front and see for yourself.”

“Okay,” said Jess cheerily, before wandering off in one of the gleeful dazes that Kath hated so much.  Sometimes Kath was sure the girl was out to annoy her.

Like the way she always calls me ‘Kathleen’.  If it wasn’t so ridiculously hard to fire people these days, that girl would have gotten her marching orders long ago.  Goddamn tribunals.

Jess reached the store’s main entrance with a skipping hop and her complexion changed ghostly as she entered the pulsing green hue of the glowing Fire Exit sign.

Kath cleared her throat.  “Well?  What are you waiting for?”

Jess pushed open the door and exposed the stark white night outside.  Immediately a chill entered the building, rushing quickly to all corners like a horde of fleeing rats.  Kath waited impatiently as Jess popped her head out of the door and looked left and right, then left and right again, before finally stepping back inside and pulling closed the door.  When Jess turned back around to face Kath, her company-supplied fleece was peppered with snow.

“The weather out there is craaaaaazeee!” said Jess.  “With a capitol zee”

Kath sighed at the girl’s childish tone.  “What about the lights?  Are anybody else’s on?  What about The Trumpet across the road?”

“No,” Jess replied.  “I can’t even see the pub it’s so dark.  I can’t make out Blue Rays Video Rentals or any of the other shops either.”

“Wonderful!”  Kath shook her head and felt a migraine coming on.  If the whole area was out then she would be forced to sit and wait for the electricity company to get off their overpaid be-hinds and do something about it.

…and God knows how long that will take.  Two minutes?  Two hours?

Either way, until she could cash up Kath couldn’t set the alarms and go home.  Not that she had plans (besides catching up on episodes of Eastenders she’d recorded) but staying at a dingy council-estate mini-mart on the coldest night of the year wasn’t her idea of fun.

How did my life turn out so wrong?  To think I spent four years at university…  I make one little mistake and I’m condemned to a life of pointless mediocrity.  Kath breathed in deeply then let the cold air out through her nostrils.  What a wretched waste of intellect!

“It’ll be back on in a jiffy,” said Jess, still standing by the fire exit.  “It never takes long, Kathleen.  Tell you what, I’ll take a little walk over to the pub and see if anyone knows anything, okay?”

Without pausing for an answer, Jess slid out through the exit and was immediately swallowed by the shifting snow and darkness.  A second later it was as if the girl had never even been there.

Kath sighed, leaned back into the torn-padding of the cashier-desk stool, and rubbed at her aching forehead.  Shivers ran up and down her spine and made her think about the store’s heating.  With the power off, so too would be the store’s electric fan heaters.  It was Britain’s worst winter in history and she was stuck in a building with no warmth.

Just gets better!
Probably why the power went off in the first place.  All those lazy slobs, cosy at home in front of their fan-heater, over-taxing the grid while people like me, who have shown some commitment to work, suffer.

Well screw this, Kath decided.  She’d give her manager, Mr Campbell, a call and see if there was any chance he’d allow her to cash up in the morning.  She slid her fingertips along the icy surface of the shop’s counter and searched for the phone, but at first found only a stapler and some biros.  Eventually the side of her hand found what it was looking for; knocking the receiver from its cradle and off of the desk.  It swung on its coiled cord, jerking up and down like a bungee.  After a couple of swipes at knee-level, Kath caught the handset and pulled it up to her ear.  She tapped at the buttons on the phone’s cradle, waited a beat, and then tapped them some more.  No dial tone.  Perturbed, she placed the handset back down onto its cradle, before picking it up and trying to ring out once more.

Nothing.

“Please, for the love of God!”  Kath patted down the pockets of her work shirt and located her mobile phone.  She plucked it out and slid up the illuminated screen to expose the keypad.  Then, from memory, she entered Mr Campbell’s number and pressed the green CALL button.  She put the phone to her ear and waited.

Ten seconds passed and Kath pulled the phone away from her head to look at the display.  She could barely contain her frustration when she saw NO NETWORK COVERAGE scrolled across the top of the screen.

For crying out loud.  What the hell is going on tonight?

Before she could put her next thoughts in order, Kath was interrupted by a voice in the darkness.  It was male.  “Ms Hollister?”

The voice had a Polish twang and there was only one person at the supermarket that ever called her by surname.  “Peter,” she said, more calmly than she felt.  “Have you checked the fuses?”

“Yes, Ms Hollister.  I need show something to you.  Come.”

Speak properly, for God’s sake.  If you’re going to come here then at least learn the language.  And show me what exactly?  Bah, I’m never going to get home at this rate!

Reluctant, Kath followed the boy down to the back of the store, ducking through the strips of clear plastic that separated the cramped warehouse from the shop floor.

“So, what is it that’s so important, Peter?”

“One moment, Ms Hollister.  I will show to you.”

Peter turned a corner in the cramped warehouse and Kath stayed close behind him, lighting the way with her mobile phone.  It didn’t work particularly well, but at least it illuminated the piles of over-stacked boxes she would’ve otherwise bumped into.

Kath was getting impatient.  “Come on now, I’ve got to find a way to call Mr Campbell so we can all go home tonight.  Unless you want to spend the night sleeping in the staff room?”

Peter stopped at the far wall and pointed upwards, just above the height of his shoulder.  Kath glanced at the area a few inches away from the boy’s outstretched finger.  She didn’t understand and felt her patience thin even more.  “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”

Peter rolled his eyes in the faint glow of his phone display and then moved the light source toward the area he was trying to highlight.

Kath sighed.  “The fuse box?  Yes, very impressive.”

Peter rolled his eyes again and she was about to scold him for it when she spotted what he wanted her to see.  It was the fuse box alright – at least it had been in a former life – but now it was a black, melted decay of wires and bubbling plastic.  The green metal box that housed the circuits was untouched, but the area within looked as though it had been subjected to a hellish blaze.  The acrid stench of singed rubber lingered in the cold, crisp air, but it wasn’t as strong as one would expect after an electrical fire.

“I don’t understand,” said Kath.  “What could cause this?”

Peter shrugged at her.  “I no sure.  Fire maybe?”

“Obviously not, Peter.  There hasn’t been a fire because the alarms would have gone off.  Not to mention it would have spread.  This place is full of cardboard and paper.”

“Blowtorch?”

Kath considered Peter’s wild suggestion, her thoughts wandering off into the dark, insidious alleyways of her mind.  Could someone have really taken a welder’s torch to the fuses?  Was someone lurking in the shadows intending to have their way with her in the dark?  Had some hairy beast of a man been watching her for months, planning something like this?  It was certainly an opportune time with all the snowfall.  The police would never make it in time, even if she managed to call them.  It seemed ridiculous but, for a moment, so plausible in her anxious state of mind that she actually started to believe that someone was intending to murder her.  It was like something straight out of a Richard Laymon novel she’d once read by mistake, thinking it was something else.  Horrible, disgusting book.  Monsters in the cellar.

It wasn’t until Kath’s next thought that she considered herself ridiculous for letting her overactive imagination run away from her.  “Ridiculous,” she said finally, “if it was someone with a blowtorch then how on earth did they manage to do it to the pub’s fuse box at the exact same time?  They have no power across the street either.  Same with Blue Rays on the corner.”

Pete shrugged and walked off.

Nothing ever seems to concern that boy; just another lazy foreigner.  Someone ought to use a blowtorch on his backside!  Maybe then he’d show some enthusiasm.

Suddenly alone, Kath tried to make sense of the situation.  Was some deranged madman really stalking the neighbourhood, cutting off everyone’s electricity?  Or was her biggest threat merely freezing to death on the coldest night of the year?  Neither outcome was appealing.  All Kath knew for sure was that the fuse box didn’t destroy itself and that the real cause had yet to make itself known.

She shivered; the chill in the air thickening suddenly like a crushing, physical thing squeezing at the gristle on her bones.  There was no way she could stay there any longer.  Not without power.  Not in the dark.  She made a decision.  “Right, Peter, where are you?”

A scuffling sound from the far corner of the warehouse.  “I’m here, by the beer crates.”

“Well, make sure you’re careful.  You break anything and you’ll have a record of discussion before the week is out.”

Peter didn’t respond, but Kath was certain she heard the boy sigh.  She enjoyed getting under people’s skin and let loose a smile as crude as the oil-slick darkness that surrounded her.  Suddenly she felt more in charge, more like herself.  “Peter,” she shouted.  “Place some pallets against the back shutter.  We’re going to call it a night, but we need to secure the building as best we can before we leave.”

“Okay, I will do this, but where is Jess?  She can help.”

“She’s wandered off somewhere.”  Kath snorted.  “Least of my worries right now, so go do as I’ve said – and make sure you’re careful.”

Peter scurried away, mumbling something in Polish.  At least Kath imagined it was Polish.  Could be Russian or Hungarian, or whatever it is they all seemed to speak – ugly, primitive language that hurt her ears to listen to.  How had Britain gotten so weak?  There was a time when it had invaded third-rate nations, but now the once-great empire seemed more interested in letting them all in and keeping them fed and warm.  It made her stomach turn to think her Government cared more about benefit-seeking immigrants than educated citizens like her.

Kath left the warehouse and re-entered the supermarket, happily listening to the loud scraping noises of Peter struggling to shift the pallets in the warehouse.  The thought of him blindly bumping around on his own made her chuckle as she walked towards the supermarket’s exit.  She leaned against the glass fire door and looked outside.  There was little she could do to secure the building – not without being able to bring the electric shutter down from the awning – but she could at least lock up with her keys.  She didn’t expect anyone would be desperate enough to brave the cold to steal some groceries anyway; no one walking around in snow this deep, unscrupulous or otherwise.  At least she hoped so...

Yet, deep down in Kath’s gut, a dull throbbing, that was not her stomach ulcer, told her that tonight could well turn out to be a very long night.

Chapter Three

“B’jaysus, it’s nice to be in the warm again.  Cold as a nun’s pussy out there, so it is.”

Harry gazed in the direction of the stranger’s voice, over by the pub’s entrance, and found himself at a loss.  The cheery Irish accent was not what he had been expecting.  In fact, when Harry had first realised the presence of the stranger, he had felt something…ominous.  But that seemed silly now.

“Hey, who is that?” asked Steph from behind the bar.  “Anyone we know?”

A hearty chuckle floated over from the doorway as the stranger spoke once more.  “No Lass, I do not believe we’ve had the pleasure.  The name’s Lucas Fergus and I am on a vital quest to get some beer down me neck.”

Steph laughed and Harry found himself amused too.  It wasn’t often the pub was graced with such colour beyond old men and their tall tales of the past.

“Well,” said Steph, “I can only offer you bottles and shots at the moment.  As you can see the power is off, and that means the pumps are dry.  Cash only, too, if that’s alright?”

“Cash is the only way an honourable man pays for anything in my mind so there be no worries there, and I don’t care whether the beer comes from bottle or tap either.  It all ends up in the same place.”

“No arguments there,” said a voice Harry recognised as Old Graham’s.

Over by the fireplace the flickering silhouette of Damien shifted and stirred.  Harry had learned from past occasions that Damien didn’t like strangers.  People he didn’t know were usually unaware of his reputation; he did not appreciate that at all.  Once, Harry had witnessed Damien carve his initials into some poor lad’s forehead with a nasty-looking blade, just so people would know he was to be respected.  The young man had screamed the entire time.  The police never came; no one called them.

And Harry knew that the police wouldn’t come tonight either.  No matter what happened.

Thankfully, Damien had been uncharacteristically quiet all night; but Harry couldn’t help worry that meant something bad.  When a venomous snake stopped acting like a snake, what did it mean?

Does it mean they’re more dangerous?

“Can we bear some light in here, you reckon?” Lucas asked, flicking open a glinting, metal lighter and illuminating his face in flame.  He looked about Harry’s age – early-thirties – boyishly handsome with a cheeky grin to match.  The man’s head was tangled with wild tussles of mousy brown hair that crept below his ears.  Harry thought he looked like a handsome traveller from the front cover of one of the trashy Mills and Boon novels his wife used to collect.

“In weather like this I’m surprised you’re not all around that lovely fireplace.”  Lucas moved toward the bar, his flame-lit face a disembodied ghost as it crossed the room.  “Or does that wee bald fella on the sofa not play well with others?”

“The less said about that the better,” warned Steph in a hushed voice.

Harry cringed, worried about the response the newcomer’s comment could possibly elicit from Damien, and was thankful, if a little surprised, when the young thug merely turned away and returned to whatever he was doing.  It really wasn’t like Damien to be so reserved.

He’s preoccupied with something.  But what?

Confident that no trouble was going to occur – at least for the time-being – Harry decided he would join the newcomer at the bar.  Sitting alone in the dark wasn’t awfully appealing and he needed a refill anyway.  His current beer smelt like bad eggs.

“So, Lucas?” Harry said, arriving at the bar and propping his elbows against its gnarled surface.  “Where have you come in from?”

Lucas turned to Harry, the lighter still beaming in his face.  His striking blue eyes flickered in the shimmering glow of the flame.  “I’ve come in from the bloody cold fella, but before that I came from down south.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.  “South?”

“That’s what I said now, isn’t it?  Been here-there-and-everywhere in my time – up and down, upside down – but originally I hail from the North.  Been spending a lot of time in the South more recently though, after a falling out with me father.  Suits me just fine; warmer climate, you know?”

Harry nodded; the gesture pointless in the dark.  “I take it you’re talking about Northern and Southern Ireland, or do you mean since you’ve been in England?”

“Now, where is that drink I heard a rumour about,” said Lucas, single-mindedly.  “This is a pub, is it not?”

Steph shouted from the backroom behind the bar.  “Hold your horses!  For a complete stranger you’re pretty demanding.”

“I’m a growing lad, and if ye make me wait I may just fade away.  Or, worse than that, I may sober up.”

Steph came back through to the bar holding a wooden tray full of mismatched candles.  The flames danced around her breasts and Harry tried not to stare at them.  Carefully, she placed the candles evenly along the bar and the heady smell of burning wax wafted into the air.  The first candle she had placed in front of Old Graham, whilst the last went in front of Nigel.  In between, Harry and Lucas got candles too.

“That’s better,” said Steph.  “Now, who wants a beer besides our new friend here?”

“I’m ready for one,” said Harry.  “This one has gone bad.”

“Mine too,” said Old Graham, pushing his own pint forward.  “I’m going to have to have a dozen more just to make up for it.”

Steph scrunched up her face.  “Strange…Maybe there’s a problem with the taps.  Not surprised, the amount you lot drink. They probably couldn’t take the strain.”

Lucas chuckled.  “Looks like I’ve come to the right place.  You’re men after me own heart, and now that I can see a little bit better, I can also admire what a fine young wench we have ourselves behind the bar.”

“Hey, less of the wench!” Steph objected.  They all laughed and she got to work handing them their bottled beers, each of them swigging deeply as though it was their first of the night.  Perhaps for Lucas it was.

The Irishman pointed a finger.  “So who’s the beefy fella down the end of the bar that doesn’t talk?”

“My name is Nigel and I can hear you.”

“Well, Big Man, come and suck ale with the rest of us.”

“Maybe later.”

“What’s wrong with you, man?  There a gal down there with ya?”

“Huh, I wish,” said Nigel.

“Get your moody arse down here!  A fella shouldn’t be lonesome on a night like this.  The cold out there could kill a man stone dead.”

“Okay, okay!”  Nigel conceded, disturbing the shadows as he raised his hands in front of his face.  He slid down the bar to join them all, dumping his heavy mass down onto a creaking stool beside Lucas.  Harry nodded hello at the man and he nodded back.

Lucas certainly had a knack for bringing people together.  Magnetic personality was the phrase that came to Harry’s mind.

Lucas spoke again.  “You know something, fellas?  I don’t think that snow is gonna let up tonight.  No word of a lie but it’s like the feckin end of the world out there.”

“Oh, very nice,” said Steph.  “You walk into my pub and start worrying everyone.  We’ve all got to try and get home tonight.”

“What?  Are ye drunk, lass?  Ain’t no man getting anywhere in that winter blanket.”

Steph’s face dropped slightly, the dull candle-light making her expression seem grim.  “How did you get here then?”

Lucas smiled knowingly.  “I was nearby and realised things were bad, so I thought to meself, ‘where’s the best place to be stuck on a night like this?’  Well of course there was only one answer, wasn’t there?”

“The boozer!” Old Graham shouted gleefully, clearly delighted by the Irishman’s philosophy.  “Anyway,” the pensioner added, “don’t you worry, young Stephanie.  There’s always room upstairs at my place to keep warm.”

Cheeky sod, thought Harry.  Wonder if the old guy even has enough lead in his pencil to get it up these days?  If he does, then fair play to the old bugger.

Steph laughed defiantly, the air from her nostrils slanting the flames of the nearby candles.  “The only way you’ll get me up there, old man, is if you’re sleeping on the roof.”

Everyone cackled and swigged their beers.  Everyone except Damien, Harry observed.  The thug was scowling at them from the shadows of the fireplace, watching their every move.  No one else seemed to notice though, and the giggling chatter amongst the group at the bar continued.

Yet, despite the light-heartedness, Harry couldn’t help but notice that the snow outside continued to fall…

And it seemed to be getting worse.

As did Damien’s scowling.

Chapter Four

“Dude, just sit the hell down!  If you break something my Dad will freak.”  Ben didn’t need this from Jerry tonight.  Not with the power going out and such crappy weather.  It was like a dozen winters rolled into one and he was stuck in his father’s video store not knowing what to do for the best.

“Chill out, B-Dog!” said Jerry, shining his key ring torch into his face and contorting his skeletal features into a ghoulish grimace.  The DVD cases on the cluttered shelves behind him shone with each movement of the light.  “You need to stop worrying about your slave-driving old man.  It’s not like he ever does anything for you – other than work you to death, that is, and make you come in on a day where everything else is closed.  An important meeting, my arse!  He just couldn’t be bothered to waste another day at the Video Store of the Damned.”

Ben frowned, though it was too dark in the store’s dusty back-office for Jerry to see it.  “Stop calling it that!  The place is doing just fine.  He really did have a meeting, and it’s not every day he trusts me to look after Blue Rays on my own either, so the last thing I need is you making my life hard, okay?  Just behave and don’t mess anything up.”

“Okay, okay,” Jerry conceded.  “What would you like me to do with myself, oh wise Gandalf?”

Ben threw his head back and cursed.  “I told you to stop calling me that!”

“Get rid of that gay beard and I will.  Either that or I’ll get some hairy-assed Hobbits in here so you can feel more at home.”

“Just…”  Ben took a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “Sit down will you, while I try to get the power back on.”

Thankfully, Jerry complied, hoisting his stick-like figure up onto the service desk and remaining quiet.  Ben could still hear him fidgeting away for anything to get his spindly fingers on, but at least for now he was rooted in one place; his area of recklessness limited.

Sometimes Ben didn’t know why he put up with Jerry.  They’d known each other since they were peeing in pre-school sandpits, but for some reason his friend had never seemed to mature mentally like he had.  Ben had gone to College, whilst Jerry sponged off his mom and stepdad.  Ben started dating girls, whilst Jerry brought an Xbox – and then later an Xbox 360.  Finally, Ben had started to shoulder some of his dad’s business responsibilities, ready to one day take them on as his own, and Jerry…?  Well now Jerry spent most his days hanging around Blue Rays Rentals bothering him and making fun of his beard or ‘jelly-belly’.  Still, they were best friends and Ben knew that if it ever came down to it, Jerry would do anything for him.  There was something comforting about that.  Not like anybody else cares.  Besides, deep down, Ben liked having Jerry around.  Despite the odd annoyances, they had a lot of fun together.  Even the Ben and Jerry jokes didn’t really bother him too much anymore.  Tonight however, Jerry was stretching his patience paper-thin.

“When you gonna get the lights on again?” Jerry asked.  “It’s like Saturday Night Fever in here.”  He swept his penlight around the room, strobing the low-hung, suspended ceiling like a disco hall.  Movie posters of a disgruntled-looking Deniro and an uncomfortable-looking Ben Stiller lit up and disappeared as the light passed over them.

“If it is, you’re no John Travolta!”  Ben walked across to the far side of the office, behind the IKEA computer desk and towards the fuse box.  He didn’t know anything about electrics and he was hoping to flick a switch and be done with it.  Likely, it would be more complicated than that.

Before the power had gone off, Ben had been watching the news with Jerry (well, to be more honest, Jerry was waiting for a re-run of The Matrix to come on).  The reports had said that the country’s infrastructure was expected to be affected by the snow for several more days and that blackouts were likely as people’s heating usages rose to monumental amounts.  It didn’t bother Ben too much, so long as nothing happened to his father’s store whilst he was in charge of it; that was the main thing.  The way he saw it, people just loved an excuse to panic, and the snow was their most recent fixation.  You wouldn’t catch him freaking out though.  Ben’s father had taught him better than that; taught him about being a man, and about how business came first.

Before anything else.

Before silly little friendships with that imbecile, Jerry.

Ben shook his father’s words out of his head and pulled out his keys from his pocket, sifting through them one by one.

There must be twenty keys here!  I don’t even know what Dad uses most of them for.  I’m sure one of them is for the fuse box though.  It’s a little silver one if I remember correctly…

Earlier, he and Jerry had become concerned by the amount of snow that had been falling throughout the day – especially as it seemed to be worldwide (was that even possible?) – and, when it had started to pile up above knee height, the two of them had gone across to the supermarket down the lane – which was also, surprisingly, open – to stock up on snacks and beers in case they got stuck there.  They were willing to wait it out if they had to, but Ben hoped Jerry could keep his exuberance under control during that time.  His best friend had a knack for breaking things.  Ben called it the Jerry-effect.

Ben swung open the fuse cabinet and flicked open his monogrammed lighter.  He’d stopped smoking months ago but it had been a present from his father – and they were too few and far between to just go discarding them.  His eyes glazed for a second as they adjusted to the light and, when his vision finally compensated, he blinked, unsure of what he was seeing.  From the look of things, the entire fuse box had burnt out and melted in a flash of intense heat.  It was a mess and smelt like singed rubber.  It made no sense at all.  Wasn’t the whole point of having fuses to prevent things like this?  Power surges and whatnot?  There wasn’t anything he could think of that could cause such severe heat damage, especially without burning anything outside of the fuse box.  It was entirely localised to the area within the metal frame and not a speck of paint was damaged beyond that.  It was strange, for sure.  Ben plucked at his scruffy brown beard rhythmically as he tried to find a thought that fit, a thought that didn’t worry him.  A thought that wasn’t insane.  But all he could think was…

Dad will blow a fuse of his own when he finds out about this.

At that moment, Jerry shouted out from the shop floor.  “What’s happening, Gandalf?  You squeezing one out in there or what?”

Ben shook his head and rolled his eyes.  “Dude, I swear, not now, okay!”

“Okay, okay,” Jerry said.  “Don’t get your beard in a twist.  It’s not like it’s the end of the world – although we are missing The Matrix.”

Chapter Five

Kath wasn’t prepared to stay here all night in the dark.  She tried her mobile phone again and hissed when it still refused to dial out.

Knew I should have stayed home this morning.

Everyone else in the country had been skiving off and calling in sickies due to the unprecedented snowfall, so why hadn’t she?  Because I have integrity; something most other people sadly lack in this day and age.  Luckily, Peter and Jess lived within walking distance of the store and had had no excuses not to come in.  They knew she wouldn’t stand for any absence.  If I can make it in then so can they.  Most people who drove could have gotten to work if they really wanted to, but they were lazy degenerates that worked only when they had no choice or social benefits available.  Not many people would have come in for a ten hour shift like she had that day.

Where has it gotten me though?  Nowhere!

Kath looked toward the exit doors.  They were closed but she could still see the drifting snow outside, pilling up against the glass.  Peter had cleared it away only two hours before and it was already rising back again.  She’d have to have the lad shovel it away again if they didn’t get going soon.  It was starting to feel more like the North Pole than central England.

Shivering, Kath untucked her arms away from her sides and felt around the till-area for the phone.  The thought that someone may have been responsible for the power going off still worried her and all she wanted to do was talk to someone in authority.  Mr Campbell.  The power company.  The police.  Anyone.

Peter stood nearby (she’d insisted on it) and the intermittent glow of his mobile phone made Kath feel a little safer, but it was only enough to take a slight edge off her nerves.  She plucked the phone off its cradle and typed in a number.

There was still no dial tone.

Kath slammed the handset back down.

“Is okay?” Peter asked in his horrible broken English.

“Everything is fine.  I just dropped the phone.  Do you know where Jessica is yet?  I need to close up, but not before I’ve done a staff search.  Its night’s like tonight when things go missing.”

There was silence for a moment and Kath’s heart-rate rose as the emptiness poked at her anxiety.  A few seconds later Peter made himself known again.  “I do not know where she is.  Do you?”

Kath sighed.  “Would I have asked you, if I did?  Last I knew she was out front checking if anyone knew why the power was off.  I don’t think she’s come back.”

Peter started heading off towards the exit.  “Should I go look for her?”

The thought of being alone made Kath shout out.  “No!  Stay here.  The last thing I, uh, need is you both getting lost.”

Pete began walking back toward the counter.  “You think she is lost?”

Kath sniggered.  “That girl would lose her head if it wasn’t sewn on.  I’m sure whatever she’s doing out there, she’s managed to find her way into trouble.  Just lea-”

Her body was suddenly wracked with shivers, cutting her words off mid-sentence.  It was getting colder.  It hadn’t seemed anywhere near as chilly just an hour ago when the power had first gone off.  Perhaps the temperature had dropped so rapidly because the heating was out?  It made sense, but for some reason didn’t seem right.  It had gotten too cold too fast; unnaturally so.

She looked out through the glass doors again.  If the doors didn’t open inwards as well as out, Kath was certain they would have been jammed inside.  She watched as the top layer of snow began to jitter, swirl, and flow; lightly at first, but then more intently.  The wind was picking up and starting to howl.

Kath wrapped her arms around herself.  “For God sake, Peter, will you hurry up?  We need to leave.”

We need to leave right now.

###

Jess could barely see an inch in front of the freckles on her nose.  The snow hit her face relentlessly, filling her nostrils and blurring her eyes.  It felt like she was going to suffocate, yet she had no choice but to persevere and find her way back to the supermarket.  It was embarrassing that she’d managed to get herself so disorientated – it could have been only been ten feet before she’d found herself turned around and lost - but every direction led to a white, blossom background that seemed to creep on endlessly.  She shivered, partly from anxiety but mostly from the fact she was freezing.

Really smart, Jessica.  A+ for common sense.

She cried out for help and was unsurprised when she was met with near silence – the only other sound being the shrill whistle of the increasing wind.  Despite the lack of reply, Jess called out again, lacking other ideas.  When she was once again met with silence, Jess paused to gather her thoughts.  The biting cold was worse when standing still.

What did they teach us at school about being stranded in the snow?  That’s right – Nothing!  People in England aren’t supposed to get stranded in the snow.  That’s for places like Russia, or the North-freakin-Pole.  In this country all we’re meant to face is a bad case of drizzle and maybe a hosepipe ban in the summer.

The brightest thought Jess could come up with prompted her to reach into her trouser pocket.  Fumbling amongst her loose change and clock-in swipe card, she pulled out her mobile phone.  It was slender and metallic, painted pink with silver sequins, and her intention was to use it to call Peter at the supermarket; get him to shout out of the doorway so that she could track his voice.  She’d be back in moments, no doubt feeling like a fool, but as long as it was only Peter she wouldn’t mind too much.  He would keep things to himself and not tell the super-bitch, Kathleen.  Peter was trustworthy.

The phone lit up at once when she pressed its keypad, but it became immediately apparent to Jess that something was wrong with it.

This isn’t supposed to happen, she thought, shaking her head.  Not in England.

But she didn’t get upset about it; it was too weird to register in her brain and form that emotion.  Her phone still had power, but its display was garbled – distorted by vertical lines and random squiggles.  She tried making some calls but was unsuccessful.  The phone lacked even a dial tone.

She put the phone away and resumed her aimless wandering.  The snow had been trampled down where she was heading and she assumed that it was the main path, so she followed it.

As a child, Jess had loved the winter and wished for snow every Christmas – her favourite time of year – but this worldwide inclement weather made her nervous.  There was a sense of foreboding to the howling wind that made Jess wonder if it would ever stop snowing at all.  She’d heard on the radio that people had already begun to perish from the crushing cold, and it had only gotten worse since then.  Now that her mobile phone wasn’t working – something she’d never known to happen, except for one New Year when too many text messages were sent simultaneously – it left Jess feeling even more uncertain.  Of course her phone may just have been faulty.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she said to herself, hoping it would calm her nerves to hear a voice, even if it was just her own.  “It’s just faulty.”

Somehow, she didn’t believe it.

When she spotted something in the snow up ahead, she knew for certain that she was wrong.

###

It was almost thirty minutes before Peter was done.  Kath heard the boy’s footsteps coming from the BOOZE & SPIRITS aisle.  “Is everything secure?” she asked him.

“Yes, Ms Hollister.”

“Let’s get going then.”

”But we still not know where Jess is.”

Kath grunted.  “She’s responsible for her own well-being.  I can’t afford to wait around for that silly girl any longer.  If you’re so concerned, go wondering around in the snow for her yourself.”

“Thank you, Ms Hollister.  I will go now.”

Kath listened to the boy’s footsteps retreating towards the supermarket’s exit.  He was about to leave her alone; in the darkness.

“Peter, wait!” she shouted.  “You’re right.  We shouldn’t just leave Jess to her own devices.  We should go find her then all get home together.”

Peter’s footsteps halted.  “Okay, Ms Hollister.  Hurry!”

The fact that she was being given orders by a staff member made Kath furious, but the increasing howls of the snowstorm made her feel uncharacteristically subdued.  “Coming,” she said.

Chapter Six

Harry shivered as he started his next beer.  It was getting colder and the scar on the back of his hand started to ache in response, reminding him of things he’d rather forget.  Things he drank to forget.  He swigged deeply from his beer bottle.

The Irishman, Lucas, turned his attention to Old Graham at the end of the bar.  “So, Father Time, you must have been around a fair few turns of the world?  You ever see snow like this before?”

“Well,” Old Graham began, visibly delighted at being the centre of attention.  “There was a time in the fifties where things got a little chilly as I recall; and of course me old man told tales of winter in the Ardennes that sounded far more hellish than this.”

Nigel piped up from the opposite end of the bar.  “Yeah, well that’s the Ardennes.  It’s normal to have snow there.  The amount we’ve had here the past couple days isn’t natural.  Not to mention that it’s snowing everywhere.  All over the world.  In every country.  Maybe it’s because of the ozone layer or something?”

Lucas chuckled.  “Give over, man!  You think a couple of cow farts has the ability to change the weather?”

Harry joined the debate.  “What do you put the snow down to then, Lucas?  I mean I haven’t known it to ever snow half as much as this.  It certainly seems like something made the weather mad.”

“The world is a gazillion years old,” said Lucas, putting his beer bottle down on the bar as if to make a point.  “I bet there’s been weather like this before – just not in your lifetime.  It’s a tad unusual, no doubt, but I don’t believe in all that ozone layer nonsense.”

Nigel seemed disgruntled in the light of his candle, maybe even angry.  “That’s your opinion, isn’t it?” he said.  “Don’t mean I’m not right.  We’ve been abusing this planet for decades and it can’t go on forever.”

Lucas put up his hands.  “Calm down there, fella, no need to get your hackles up.  It’s just the beer talking, you know?  Makes me feel a thousand times older and wiser than I should ever admit to.  You’re probably right though, humanity has been abusing God’s green earth for a fair few years now, and maybe it can’t go on forever.  But, right now, my only concern is having a good time with a wee tipple to keep me warm.”  He looked at Steph and winked.  “And maybe a good woman wouldn’t go amiss either.”

“You’re an alcoholic letch,” said Nigel, a candle-lit half-smile on his face.

As I said before, I’ve come to the right place then.”  Lucas laughed out loud, hoisted his bottle up into the air and said “cheers!”  The others joined him in the toast, although the word alcoholic being bandied around made Harry feel uncomfortable.  It was such a dirty word that encompassed so many types of people.  Not everyone drank for the same reasons.  Not everyone had to deal with the same burdens.

Sometimes a beer is just a beer.

Harry took another swig from his bottle and sighed at the burning satisfaction it left in his chest.  When he pulled it away from his lips it was two-thirds empty.

For some reason, Lucas had begun staring at him inquisitively from inside the flickering cocoon of his candle-light.  “So what’s your story, fella?” he asked Harry.  “What’s the meaning of your life?”

Harry swigged the last of his beer then pushed the bottle toward Steph, who was already on the case with a replacement.  “My life,” he said, “has no meaning.  Not anymore.”

Lucas frowned.  “Come now, everybody’s life has meaning.  We all have a purpose.”

“Really?  Then why don’t you tell me what mine is, because I sure as hell don’t know.”

“I can’t tell you that.”  Lucas smiled.  “Every man has to find his own path and his own destination.  Who knows though, maybe you’ll find yours tonight.”

Harry started on his next beer with a hearty swig, gasping for breath afterwards.  He looked Lucas square in the face.  “Sorry, but I find that hard to believe.”

Lucas stared back, his face unflinching like a handsome slab of sculpted granite.  He patted Harry on the back.  “Well, Harry Boy, perhaps what you need is a little more faith.”

“Faith?  You think I should believe that there’s some almighty-being up there responsible for everything that happens?”

Lucas shook his head.  “Like hell I do!  Everything that happens down here is because of man and man alone.  The Good Lord’s not here to babysit us.   We can only blame ourselves for the things that happen in our lives.  Well, we can blame ourselves or other people.”

Harry felt his blood heat up, fighting back against the chill in his veins.  He took offence to a stranger offering him ‘life-advice’.  No one could understand what he’d been through.  Harry looked down at the scar on his hand, shaped like a star, and thought about the events that led to it; thought about Julie and Toby twisted and shattered in the remains of the bright-red Mercedes he’d been so proud to buy.  Only 8,000 miles on the clock.  Good as new!  That night Harry had discovered that material possessions meant nothing, as the only truly important things in his life slowly bled away from him.  There had been so much damage that he couldn’t tell where his wife and child’s broken bodies ended and the crumpled metal of the car began.  It looked like some abominable piece of modern art sculpture.  Harry had fallen from the car with nothing more than a bad headache and a scratched nostril; he was free to watch as his family died in front of him, one laboured breath at a time.  Where had the justice been in that?

“Whoever is to blame for my life,” Harry told Lucas, “can go screw themself.”

Lucas moved a half-step away from Harry.  “Easy, fella, not looking for an argument.  You just seem like a bit of a lost soul, and I like to take an interest.”

“An interest in lost souls?”

“Absolutely.  The only wisdom left to be found is from the pain men feel, and you strike me as a man with a belly full of it.”

Harry put down his beer.  If he was honest he didn’t really know what the man was trying to get at.  “Sorry to let you down,” he said, “but I don’t feel anything.  Not anymore.”

Lucas continued smiling, as though he had the wisdom of the world in his back pocket and was about to share it.  “You can lie to me, Harry boy, but it would be a shame to lie to yourself.  Men who say they feel nothing, usually feel too much.  And that always leads to trouble.  That, my friend, I can promise you.”

Harry moved away from Lucas.

###

The Trumpet was an old pub with an old history.  A baby boy had once been born in its claustrophobic toilets, the England Cricket team had once rented the place out after a win in nearby Edgbaston, and someone had even been murdered there once (although that was a long time ago).  It was a place with personality, history, and colour.  A proud relic of working men’s pubs.  Full of ‘proper blokes’ clocking off from a hard day’s graft for a fag and a pint.  But, like all relics, its day had come and gone.  Now, the fag smoking was ostracised to exist only outside the building, the over-taxed beer was high-priced and watered down, and the colour had faded as literally as the bleak wallpaper.

Things had not turned out the way Damien’s father had led him to expect.  The golden years of smoke-filled boozers, loose women, and high-grade drugs had been clamped down on.  Drugs were getting harder and harder to push and women were getting harder and harder to shag – stupid TV shows like Sex And The City making them think they had the right to self-respect.  It had taken all the fun out of being a gangster.

Screw it!  He’d been born in the wrong time.  There was no tradition anymore.  Damien’s father and Grandfather had drunk in The Trumpet and had pretty much run the place in their days.  Now you had people like this fuckface Irishman waltzing in and acting like they owned the joint after just five minutes.

He needs to be taught a lesson about who really runs this place!  In fact he needs a good smack, just so he remembers.

Damien stood from the sofa and turned towards the bar.  He had enough to deal with tonight without loud-mouthed strangers giving him headache.

###

When Harry saw Damien rise up from the sofa, and start making his way toward the bar, he cringed.  “Shit!” he whispered in Steph’s direction, hopeful that her authority behind the bar would be enough to stem any bad behaviour.  He’d seen Damien’s lack of hospitality towards strangers before and it was something he could go without seeing again.

Damien moved towards the middle of the bar, towards Lucas, and stopped half-a-foot away from the Irishman.  He stared intensely like a sight-impaired person reading a menu.  Lucas behaved as if he hadn’t noticed, facing forward and sipping from his bottle calmly.  Damien continued to glare, eyeballs bulged like squids and only inches from Lucas’s face.

Lucas leant over the bar toward Steph and spoke in a very clear voice.  “Darling, you want to tell this young fella to wind his neck in before his peepers fall out on my shoes?”

Harry waited for combustion as the air in the room seemed to disappear, everyone in the bar sucking in their lungs like a disordered line of vacuum cleaners.

Lucas turned his head to Damien, who looked like he was about to go off like a firework.  “Listen, laddy, I’m not a work of art, so take your beady little eyes off me and find something better to do.”

That’s it, Harry thought.  The cat turd just hit the propeller.

Damien’s face contorted like a broken whiskey bottle, full of crags and sharp edges.  His wiry arm drew back as his young body tensed up, ready to unleash a furious right hook.

In a move that seemed both casual and urgent at the same time, Lucas stepped back from the bar and slinked past his stool with leopard-like grace.  At the precise moment Damien’s punch began its arcing descent towards him, Lucas threw a punch of his own.  It was quick – it was vicious – and it connected perfectly with Damien’s incoming fist.  There was a loud crack as the two men’s knuckles collided at full force.

“Goddamnit!”  Damien howled, clutching his withered hand against his abdomen.  “Jesus-goddamn-Christ!”

Lucas – who was clutching his own injured hand – began to laugh in what seemed like genuine amusement.  “Not quite – but I’ll send you to go see him if you try that bollocks again, you little shithead.”

Damien glared.  “You’re dead!”

“Wrong again, Sonny Jim.  Unless you mean dead bored, which if I’m honest, I’m starting to get a wee bit.  You’re keeping a man from his drink.”

Damien looked more furious than Harry had ever seen him.  He was about to speak, no doubt to make more threats, but Steph cut him off first – not with her voice, but with the landlord’s bell pulled out from under the bar.  She rang it vigorously in the faces of the two arguing men.

“Pack it in!” she hollered.  “I’m in no mood for child’s play.  Especially from you!”  She scowled at Damien.  “It’s freezing cold, we’re all stuck here, and we’re in the bloody dark.  Do you two not think we have things bad enough without fisticuffs?  Because you know something?  If one of you gets hurt, I doubt there’s an ambulance in the world that can get here tonight.”

Or even this week, Harry thought.

Damien allowed his glare to turn into a grimace, before finally settling on a look of irritation.  Lucas got back on his stool and quickly finished off his beer.  He slid the empty toward Steph and said, “Two more, please.  One for me and one for my new friend here with the broken hand.”

Damien hissed.  “It isn’t broken, and I’m not your pissing friend.”

“Well,” said Lucas, offering a bottle of beer to Damien.  “Perhaps you should be.  It would make life easier.”

“Come on, Damien,” said Nigel from the far end of the bar.  “If we’re all stuck here, we may as well have a drink together.  Could even be a laugh.”

Damien turned his animalistic stare to the large, sweaty man at the end of the bar.  “You think I want to waste a minute hanging around with a bunch of losers like you?”

Harry took offence.  Being called a loser by a piece of scum like Damien did not sit well with him at all.  “We don’t want to be stuck with you either,” he said, “but shit happens.”

Damien turned his glare to Harry, his body coiled and trembling like a pissed off panther.  A panther ready to attack, thought Harry, regretting his comment already.

Before further words were exchanged though, Lucas pushed the bottle of beer towards Damien.  “How bouts I buy your beers all night if you sit down and join in?   Be an amicable chappy!”

Damien smirked.  “I don’t need you to buy my drinks.  I have enough money to buy your whole sodding family.”

Lucas smiled his cheeky grin.  “I very much doubt that, lad, but why don’t we say I’m doing it to show my respect.  I’m the new boy here and I obviously don’t know how things work now, do I?  So accept my offer as an apology.”

Harry watched in anticipation as Damien scrutinised the man’s suggestion, but it seemed obvious that it had settled down his need for bravado.  Harry admired Lucas’s savvy.  The man had swallowed his own sense of pride and manipulated Damien into behaving.  The young thug thought he’d won, but it was apparent to everyone else at the bar that Lucas had just used a modicum of intelligence to control the situation.

“Okay,” Damien finally said, snatching the bottle from Lucas.  “Guess I can lower myself for one night and share a few beers with the peasants.”

Everyone was happy to ignore the insult, ready to play along with Lucas’s charade if it meant having peace.  They raised their beers in the air and mumbled agreement.

Lucas put his hand on the bar; it was swollen and red in the candle light.  “Don’t suppose you could get me some ice, luv?”

Steph sighed and nodded.  “Sure.”

Damien suddenly slammed down his own fist on the bar and made the rest of them jump.  Like Lucas, his hand was also swollen.  “Yeah, I think I could do with some too.”

There was a brief silence before Damien began laughing.  It was the least hostile Harry had ever seen the lad and, before long, the entire bar was sipping their drinks and laughing right along with him.  The tension seemed to float away.

But Harry had a feeling it wouldn’t last.

Chapter Seven

”Dude, I’m starting to get totally frost-bitten.  It’s like The
Day After Tomorrow in here.”

Ben sighed.  For some reason, Jerry had to speak almost entirely in film references.  The fact that Ben’s father owned a video store didn’t help matters at all.  Yet, despite his annoyance, Ben had to agree.  It was getting uncomfortably cold.

“Can you hear me, B-dog?”  Jerry shouted from the shop floor.  “I said it’s like The Day aft-”

“Yes, I heard you.  Hopefully the power will come back on soon, but there’s not a lot I can do about it in the meantime.”

“What?  You saw those fuses!  The lights ain’t coming on any time soon.  You should just call your dad so we can get out of here.”

Ben fumbled his way through the dark from the office back to the shop floor, bumping into various shelving units along the way.  “I tried already!  My phone’s playing up.  The display is all screwed.”

“No shit?  My phone is like that too.”

Ben paused.  What were the odds that both their phones would be playing up?  “Really?  You think it’s the weather or something?”

“I dunno,” Jerry said.  “Can the weather do stuff like that?”

“Something’s responsible, not just for the phones but the power blowing out as well.”

Ben crossed the shop floor over to the thick glass door at the front of the shop.  It was still snowing outside; heavy round flakes that seemed to sizzle as they hit the ground – or rather the top layer of snow two feet above the ground.  He and Jerry had been clearing the entranceway throughout the day, keeping the place as accessible as possible.  Of course, in such bad weather there had barely been a single customer all day anyway, especially in the last few hours – but Ben’s father never closed if he had the choice to open (especially on a day where everyone was stuck at home with nothing to do but maybe watch a rented DVD).  Ben hadn’t complained.  He’d known his father long enough not to expect the day off – even on a day where all other businesses had closed – so he’d decided to do a stock count, which had been perfect except for two missing copies of The Pianist (and a copy of Brain Dead that Ben knew was currently stashed in Jerry’s bedroom courtesy of ‘a favour’).

It was dark outside, only the dim glint of the moonlight providing any chance to see.  The street lights were out and had obviously died when the power failed.  The two of them needed to get home soon, but that wasn’t going to be easy.   Ben turned around to face the gloom of the shop floor and a thought crossed his mind.  “Hey, Jerry, when did you go the supermarket last?”

Jerry’s response came from over by the cash register.  Ben hoped he wasn’t messing around with anything.  “Couple hours ago, why?”

“Did they say what time they were closing?”

“Nah, the bitch-monster was serving me.  I just brought a magazine and left.”

“You mean the manageress?  Yeah, she’s always rude to me too.”

“I hope she gets eaten alive by zombies.  And not the slow kind – the crazy-ass running kind from Dawn of the Dead 2004.”

Ben sighed at yet another film reference.  “Maybe we should go across and see how they’re getting home.  Might be safer if we all go together.”

“Dude!”  Jerry cried out triumphantly.  “There’s this girl over there that’s totally hot.  This could be the opening I’ve been waiting for.”

Ben laughed, just happy that his friend was for once being cooperative.  “Well, I’m sure she’ll appreciate you getting her home safely.  Just let me lock-”

Before Ben could finish his sentence something hit the door.

Chapter Eight

By 10pm everyone had moved over to the sofa by the fireplace.  The temperature had swan-dived so low that Harry and the others shivered constantly.  Steph’s teeth had also begun to chatter, leading everyone to giggle at her, which she didn’t seem to appreciate.  The atmosphere by the fire was just about comfortable, but Harry was certain it was getting colder still.

How much colder can it get before we all freeze to death?

“I’m starting to worry,” said Steph, as if she’d read Harry’s mind.  She was sitting on a thread-bare footstool beside the fire and hugging herself tightly.  “The snow really doesn’t look like stopping anytime soon, and it’s damn nippy.”

Harry looked over at the pub’s front window and found himself agreeing.  The snow was falling as heavily as ever and the large sheet of plate glass was starting to frost over, with icy spider webs creeping from the corners.  He nestled into the sofa cushions to seek out their warmth, but found none.

“What’s your drama?” said Damien from his standing place at the left side of the fire’s mantelpiece.  In his thick puffer jacket he looked warmer than the rest of them.  “A bit of a chill won’t kill you, woman.”

“Won’t it?” she asked.

“Course not, you dopey cow.  The power will be on again soon and the heating will kick on with it, so stop menstruating.”

Harry snapped, not quite sure why.  He wasn’t usually quick-tempered at all.  “Let’s have less of the bad language.  Didn’t your father ever teach you to treat women with respect?”

Damien was instantly enraged by the comment.  “You don’t talk about my father, you hear me?  You’re beneath him.  What you going do, anyway?  Teach me some manners?”

“Maybe I will,” Harry replied, still wondering what he was getting himself into and why.

Damien stepped forwards, but was halted by Steph who placed a hand on his chest.  “Behave!” she said.  “Harry’s right, you should treat women with respect – especially when they happen to be in charge of the only place with an open fire for miles.  You’re welcome to go freeze somewhere else, if you’d like, but if not then I don’t expect another peep out of you.”

Damien sniggered.  “Why don’t you two just shag each other and get it over with.”

Harry blushed at the remark, turned the emotion into anger, and then went to get up out of his seat, but Lucas, sat beside him, placed a hand on his arm and stopped him.  The Irishman shook his head and eased Harry back down onto the sofa.  Harry yielded, but couldn’t help but eyeball Damien.  The little prick had a smug grin on his face and obviously thought he had won some small victory.

Probably thinks I’m chicken.  Maybe I am?  Or maybe I’m just frightened of what I’ll do…

“Anyway,” said Lucas, changing the subject.  “Besides young Stephanie here – who I know is the world’s finest barmaid – what do the rest of you call an excuse for a living?”

Stephanie laughed.  “You cheeky git!  I’m more than a mere barmaid.  I plan on starting up a pet grooming business when I’ve saved enough money.  Say about another year and I’ll be there.”

Harry had known Steph since she’d started at the pub, but he’d never learned that about her.  It seemed important and he wished he’d shown more interest in her life, instead of always relying upon her to show interest in his.  An air-bubble of guilt rose up from his gullet and stuck in his throat.

Beside the fireplace, Damien was rubbing at his sore hand and laughing to himself, apparently lacking appreciation for Stephanie’s ambitions.  Lucas, however, seemed more interested.  “Pet grooming?” he said, stroking at his chin thoughtfully.  “Now does that mean you’ll spend your time giving rats haircuts and squirrels baths?”

Steph giggled.  “I was thinking more dogs and cats, but hey whatever.  I love animals and they all smell better after a bath.”

Damien’s laughter erupted in a mean-spirited snicker that made Harry want to spit at him.  “What you want to spend your time washing crap off Rottweilers for?”  He winked at Stephanie.  “I’ve got ways you can earn some real money, darlin’.”

Harry’s ‘thuggish-little-prick-tolerance’ was met once again, and if it wasn’t for the fact that the comment seemed to roll off Stephanie’s back, he may have gotten into another verbal bout of sparring with Damien.  He was beginning to lose patience.

Stay calm, Harry told himself.  This kid would knife you so much as look at you.  Don’t let him bring you down to his level.  You made that mistake once before…

“So then,” Lucas addressed Damien.  “What is it that you do with yourself then, lad?”

“Don’t ask,” said Nigel from his space on the floor beside the fire.

“Because if he told you; he’d have to kill you,” added Old Graham beside him.

“Is that true?” Lucas enquired, eyeing Damien up curiously.  “Are you a man of mystery?”

Damien smirked.  “Guess I am.  I do a bit of this and a bit of that.  Provide certain services to people that they may not find elsewhere.”

“Interesting; so how did you get into that type of thing?”

“Family business, innit?  Learned from the best – my old man.”

Lucas nodded agreeably.  “Sounds like a generous chap to pass on so much to his boy.  Best thing a man can do is see his young ones right in a profession.”

Damien beamed.  “Straight up.  Dad taught me everything I know.”

“So where is this great man now?” asked Lucas, a knowing smile on his face that made it seem as though he knew the answer already.  “I bet he’s some great success, yeah?  Sat back in Luxury, watching his boy carry on the family trade?  Am I right?”

Damien’s face turned sour – not angry, but defensive and dangerous – like a cornered feline.  “Not exactly,” he said.  “He’s…away at the moment.”

“Vacation?”

Harry watched with a disturbing amount of pleasure as he watched Damien squirm against the wall, trying to merge with the peeling paintwork.  He was rubbing his injured hand rapidly with rhythmic strokes.  “Yeah,” he finally said.  ”He’s on a cruise, innit.  What’s it to do with you?”

“Some cruise.”  Old Graham piped up from his space by the fire, but quickly turned his gaze to the floor when he was met by Damien’s warning stare.

Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted Lucas to shut up or carry on.  It was enjoyable to see the drug-dealing weasel so uncomfortable, but Harry didn’t know himself what had happened to the boy’s father; he was unsure if it was a conversation the group of them should be having.  Lucas seemed to have a tendency of asking too many personal questions.

Lucas stood up unexpectedly.  “A vacation, you say?  Well, I hope he returns soon.  Anyone for a beer?”

Talk about taking it to the brink, Harry thought, relieved that the conversation had altered course just as it had neared an emotional minefield.  It left Harry wondering what exactly had happened to make Damien so defensive about his father.  He had a feeling Old Graham knew, but when Harry glanced over at the old man, the pensioner looked away.

Yeah, he knows alright.

Harry’s thinking was interrupted by Steph’s voice coming from behind the bar.  She and Lucas she had moved away from the fireplace and entered into the flickering light of the bar’s candles. There was a phlegmy sound of concern in Steph’s voice as she spoke: “I think we have a problem, guys.”

“What?”  They all asked in unison.

Steph walked back over to the group and re-entered the light of the fireplace.  She had a bottle of beer in her right hand, the top already removed.  She turned it upside down.

Nothing happened.

“Jesus, no!” Old Graham cried, throwing his hands up at the sky as he realised what he was seeing.  “The bloody beer’s frozen.”

Harry eye’s widened.

Is it really that cold?

Chapter Nine

“Dude, what are you doing?”

Ben glanced over his shoulder – pointless as he couldn’t see Jerry in the dark anyway – and replied, “What you think I’m doing?  I’m opening the door.”

“No way!  It’s Night of the Living Dead out there.  If someone starts hammering the door, trying to get in – you lock it, tight!  Then you board it up with planks and nails.”

Ben didn’t have time for this.  He let out a long sigh.  “George Romero doesn’t direct your life, Jerry.  He made a couple of decent movie’s thirty years ago.  Get over it.  Besides, do you have any planks and nails, because I don’t!  Movies aren’t real!”  He heard Jerry wince in the dark – if a wince could in fact produce a sound – and smiled.  It was as though his comment had managed to manifest physically and punch his friend on the nose.

The banging continued on the door and a slinking silhouette flittered against the pure white backdrop of the snow outside.  Ben reached out for the door handle when something occurred to him.  He paused.  “Hey, who’s there?  Stop your banging, okay?”

Sure enough the banging stopped at his command.

“I said who’s there?”

From behind Ben, Jerry said nervously, “Dude, I swear to God if you let the Lost Boys in here to eat us, I’ll never forgive you.  Just remember if it’s a vampire, don’t invite them in.”

Ben shook his head again, certain that his friend had smoked one of his ‘funny fags’ at some point during the last few hours.  It was the only explanation for him being so annoying.

“My name’s Jess,” said the person outside.  “I work at the supermarket down the path.  Please let me in.  Please.”

Jerry leapt up and punched the air.  “Dude!  That’s the girl I was just talking about.  The fittie!  I swear it must be fate.”

Ben grinned.  “Pity we can’t let her in; just in case she’s a zombie or a vampire?”

“Dude, stop fooling.  Let her in!”

Ben couldn’t help but laugh as he turned to the door.  The girl’s silhouette continued to dance frantically against the snow outside.  Ben wondered what on earth had gotten her so worked up.

“Jess,” he said through the glass, “you still there?”

“Yes, let me in.”  She sounded frightened.

“The thing is, Jess.  The door isn’t locked.”

There was silence, followed by: “Huh?”

“The door isn’t locked – but it opens outwards.  You need to pull it towards yourself instead of banging on it.”

After a further moment of silence, the door started to open and cold air flowed in through the slowly widening gap.  Illuminated by the crisp moonlight reflecting off the snow, a delicately-featured face appeared in the doorway.  It looked embarrassed.

###

It took almost fifteen minutes for Ben to calm Jess down sufficiently that she managed to introduce herself.  Once Ben had let her in and locked the door (she’d insisted on it), the girl had started to catch her breath.  The three of them now stood by the entranceway where they could just about make each other out under the moon’s shimmering glow and the green pulse of the fire exit sign.

“You’re lucky,” Ben said, patting her on the back.  Her entire body was trembling.  Whether it was just the cold, or something else, Ben couldn’t tell.  “We were just thinking about getting out of here,” he explained.  “You just caught us in time.”

The girl glanced over her shoulder at the door behind her, as though she expected something might burst through at any moment.  The wind was picking up outside and flakes of snow were whirling up and settling against the glass.

Ben raised an eyebrow.  “What exactly happened to you out there?”

“Yeah,” Jerry added.  “Something give you the heebie jeebies, or what?”

Jess giggled, but it was a nervous sound.  “I guess you could say something like that, but I’m probably just being silly.  Least I hope so.”

“You got us a bit freaked out too,” Ben said.  “Banging on the door like that!”

“Sorry.  I was just in a panic.”

“Why though?”  Ben wanted to get to the point quickly, disconcertingly aware of the fact that they would all have to get out of there soon.  It was getting far too cold to hang around any longer.

”Well, I left the supermarket to see if anybody knew why the power had gone off,” Jess told them, “and also to get away from my cow of a manager.  She drives me insane, but I just act really happy around her because I know it makes her mad.  I call her Kathleen and it drives her craaaaaazeee!  With a capital zee.”

Ben got the girl back on track.  “Then what happened?”

“Oh right, well, it’s the weirdest thing.  I got lost!”

Ben and Jerry spoke in unison:  “Lost?”

“Yeah, literally like ten steps out of the doorway.  I couldn’t find my way back at all.  Every time I changed direction it felt like I was going round in circles.  I couldn’t see anything other than snow all around me.  That’s when I started to get, you know, a bit scared, so I got my phone out to call someone at the supermarket to come and get me.  But my phone was all messed up.  I totally freaked and started calling out for help.  That’s when I saw it…”

Ben swallowed.  He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what it was the girl saw – especially the bit about how her phone was all messed up the same as his and Jerry’s.  The last thing Ben needed was to be freaked right now, but he asked the question anyway.  It felt like he needed to.  “What did you see?”

Jess shook her head and shrugged, her bleached-blonde hair glinting in the white light coming in from outside.  “I…I really don’t know, but it had a face, you know?  It was a man, I guess.  A tall man.”

“Like Phantasm?  Dude!”  Jerry left it at that.  Sometimes Dude said it all.

Ben wasn’t quite so impressed, though.  “A face?  You just bumped into someone in the dark!  No big deal.”

Jess nodded.  “Maybe – except for the only thing I could make out on this person’s face were his eyes: big, glowy white ones inside of a hood.”

“A hood?”  Another one of Jerry’s fantasies took a hold of him.  “What kind of hood?  Jedi or Sith?  Or one like the guy in Assassin’s Creed?”

Jess shook her head, a blank expression on her face.  “I don’t know what any of that means, but it was like a priest’s robe or something.  I didn’t see anything else – just the face – and I ran.  Then I ended up at your door.  Thank God!”

Jerry put an arm around the girl’s waist and squeezed tightly.  “Amen to that!”

Ben’s common sense was telling him to dismiss the girl’s story as paranoid nonsense, but part of him couldn’t help but wonder…

Was something out there in the snow?

Chapter Ten

Damien had separated himself from the group and was now standing by the window in his bulbous puffer jacket, staring intently at the world outside.  Harry and the other drinkers had remained around the sofa, a row of beers at their feet thawing in front of the fire.  A couple were cracked due to the change in temperature, but several more seemed to be returning to their more natural state of crisp, bubbling liquid.

Damien stared out into the night.

What is with this weather?  It came out of nowhere…

Damien had never known anything like it.  The air was cold enough to freeze a person’s eyelashes – not to mention the beer – and if he was honest (which he never was if he could help it) he was worried.  If the power didn’t come back on soon, would it continue to get even colder?  Would he freeze to death?  It seemed absurd in this day and age, but he wasn’t so certain anymore.  The ghost-white blanket swirling outside the window made him even less sure. The whole world was freezing.

How did I get stuck in this dump on a night like tonight?  The one Tuesday where I have serious business to attend to and this happens – and that screwup Jimmy hasn’t even turned up.  I should be sitting in my Jacuzzi right now – some bitch waiting on the bed to gobble my knob – but no, I’m stuck here with a bunch of deadbeats.  Steph isn’t so bad – in fact I wouldn’t mind giving her one – but the others deserve a good old-fashioned beat down.  Especially that waster, Harry. Thinks he’s better than me when really he’s the biggest degenerate here.

Damien craned his neck towards the group by the fire.  Harry was sitting on the sofa alone, whilst the others milled about nearby.

Everyone probably moved away because of the stink of booze and vomit.  Who the hell does that guy think he is?

Damien had noticed plenty of times how Harry turned his nose up whenever him and his mates were in the pub.  Damien would have done something about it before now but the guy wasn’t worth the effort.  Besides, despite his superior attitude, Harry pretty much kept to himself, and it was a bad move to pick fights with people that kept to themselves.  It put you on the radar, and that was the last thing he needed right now

Still, the geezer best wind his neck in because I’ll put him down if he gets in my face again.  That thick Mick will get his too if he’s not careful.  Sick of people treating me like a worthless thug, thinking they know all about me, but they don’t know sod-all.

For some reason, when Damien thought about Lucas it produced butterflies in his stomach and he wasn’t sure why.  Certainly wasn’t because he was scared of the man (or any man for that matter), but for some reason Lucas made Damien feel uneasy.  Especially after the guy had damn-near bust his hand.

Damien shuddered as a cold breeze made it inside his collar.  Time to get back in front of that fire, I think; freezing my bloody nutsack off!

He turned away from the window and saw Lucas staring at him from across the room.

Speak of the Devil!

Damien wrinkled his brow at the man, who had now begun smiling as well as simply staring.  Damien shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows.  Body language for: What you looking at?

Lucas nodded at him and held up a bottle of beer.

Right! Damien thought, relieved, without knowing exactly what he had to be relieved about.  He’s just letting me know that the beer has thawed out.

Despite relaxing a little, the butterflies in Damien’s stomach were still acting up.  In fact they were multiplying.

###

Harry watched while Damien took a lightly-frosted beer from Lucas and wondered if he saw nervousness in the lad’s eyes.  The lad had started to seem less sure of himself as the night had gone on, as though some well-kept veneer of toughness had slowly started to show cracks.  Harry took a swig of his own beer and cringed as the icy liquid passed over his teeth, making them ache a little.  Think I would actually prefer a steaming mug of coffee about now.

Lucas exited a conversation he’d been having with Steph and then headed off towards the toilets.  Suddenly alone, Steph took up a seat beside Harry on the sofa.  He could feel the warmth of her thigh against his as she settled into the cushions.

“You got anywhere you’re supposed to be tonight, Harry?” she asked him.

He laughed.  “You know me!  When do I ever have any place to be other than here?”

“True,” she said.  “But I don’t know why it is that you come here every night.  It can’t just be the alcohol?  You could drink at home and pass out on your own floor if you wanted to.”

Harry laughed again.  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t be there to pick me up afterwards.”

Steph shook her head at him as though she didn’t accept his answer.  “I’m serious!  Why do you come here?”

“I don’t know.  I guess it’s because misery loves company.  I think I come here to be among the living dead.”

Steph raised one of her neatly-kept eyebrow.  “I don’t follow.”

“How can I explain it?  On the weekends you get the kids in having fun, but during the weekdays you have guys like Nigel who sit at the end of the bar without saying a word all night, or guys like Old Graham who live in the past because they don’t know where they fit in during the present.  They come to be around others that have ceased living in the here and now, people who instead live inside their own heads and exist on memories alone.”  Harry took a swig of his beer and then looked Steph in the eyes.  They looked to him like glistening pearls and, for a few seconds, he stopped speaking, just staring into them.  Frightened that the pause might become awkward, Harry carried on with what he was saying.  “I come here because it reminds me that there are other people that have nothing left in their lives except regret.  If I stayed at home I’d lose sight of the fact that I’m not alone in misery – that I’m not the world’s unluckiest man.  Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me going.  Doesn’t matter how much I hate my life, I’m not unique and my pain isn’t special.  I’m never alone because I’m part of a club.  The Living Dead Club.”

Steph rubbed a hand against her forehead.  The various rings on her fingers glinted in the fire’s glow.  “God, you’re depressing.  Were you always like this?”

“No.”  Harry didn’t say anything else.  Once he’d been a positive, upbeat person, but now he wasn’t – and that was that.  The death of his wife, Julie, and his son, Toby, had left a charred, sucking wound where his heart had once been.  He missed them and there was nothing else.  It was as much as he was willing to think about it.  If he thought about it any further than that, he would end up thinking about what he did one year ago.  And about how he got the star-shaped scar.

Steph must have understood the feelings that her question provoked in him and changed the subject.  She knew Harry had lost loved ones, but possessed none of the details of when or how it happened.  Harry did not share that with anybody.  It was locked up inside of him and the key was broken, and lost.

“Hey, Graham?” Steph shouted suddenly.

The old man was sat on the floor by the fire and flinched.  “What?”

“Can you go upstairs to your flat and get some blankets and stuff.”

The old man nodded.  “Good idea.”

Whilst Old Graham tottered over towards the bar on his way to the stairs behind, Nigel shifted along the floor and filled his place nearer the fire.  The man’s greasy face turned in Steph and Harry’s direction and spoke.  “Is it ok for me to bed down here tonight, Steph?  I’m parked round the back, but I don’t fancy a night in the lorry.”

Steph shrugged.  “Can’t exactly see you out on the street now can I?”

Nigel’s face lit up.  “Thanks Steph.”

Damien piped up from the opposite side of the fire.  “So you live in a lorry then?”

Nigel nodded.  “Sometimes, I do.  Travel Europe most the time so what’s the point in paying rent?  I book a hotel when I fancy a soft bed and a warm bath, but most nights the driver’s cabin suits me fine enough.  Never did much like being tied down to one place.”

Harry wondered what that must be like.  Such freedom to be able to lay your hat anyway in Europe and call it home for the night.  Part of him yearned to disappear like that, to become a wandering nomad: a man with no emotional ties.  Yet, for some reason, it just felt unnatural.  A man without a home, without a family, wasn’t really a man, was he?  It didn’t seem right not to yearn for those things.  He wondered what had led Nigel to live such an isolated life.

Damien sniggered.  “So, you’re basically one step up from a homeless person, huh, Nigel?”

Nigel shrugged.  “Aside from the fact that I have a well-paid job and get to see most of the continent in any given year.”

“Where have you been recently?” Steph asked.

“Well, I was in France last, but that was on my way back from Amsterdam, and Copenhagen before that.”

“Am-ster-dam.” Damien said the word slowly as though he enjoyed the feel of it on his tongue.  “I’ve been there, big man.  Next time you go, say hello to Cindy Suckalump.  She’ll give you a discount if you mention my name.”

“Don’t be so crude,” said Steph.  “I’m sure Nigel doesn’t know what on earth you mean.”  The attention of the group suddenly turned to Nigel who was looking away sheepishly.  “Oh my!” said Steph finally, realising that Nigel was just a man like any other.

Damien let out a raucous laugh.  “Oh, he knows.  Look at his face.”

Nigel seemed embarrassed but was smiling nonetheless, like a ten-year old boy caught with his father’s porno magazines.  Harry leant forward and was about to speak, but was interrupted by a voice behind him.

Old Graham was holding something in the air triumphantly.  “Got the blankets, folks.  Brought me something else too.”

“And what would that be?” asked Lucas, returning from the toilets and tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

”I think we need to know what the hell is going on tonight,” Old Graham explained, “so I brought down me old radio.”

Harry slapped his hands together and congratulated the old man.  “Excellent,” he said.

Now maybe we can find out just what the hell is going on with this weather and when the power will be back on.

Deep down,
Harry wasn’t so sure he wanted to know.

Chapter Eleven

“What’s the plan?” asked Ben.  His body had transitioned from shivering to full-blown quaking now.  It felt as if the very air were made of ice.  “We need to get out of here soon.  I’m freezing”

Jerry nodded agreement, his face lit by one of the dusty candles that Ben had found in the bottom drawer of a backroom filing cabinet.  His arm was still around Jess’ waist; she didn’t seem to mind currently, but Ben suspected that if she’d not had a fright earlier her need for personal space may have been greater.

“Guess we should grab the beers from the office and try to make it back to yours,” Jerry said, shrugging his arms.

Nice try, thought Ben.  He was fully aware of his friend’s lame attempts to create a social situation in which he could get Jess drunk, but he wasn’t about to play along.  “Leave the beers behind, okay?  They’ll only slow us down.  Let’s get Jess home, then we’ll go back and crash at mine.  I’ve got to be back here tomorrow morning so no parties.”

Jerry’s face sagged and his lower lip drooped like a mackerel’s.  “Well, it would only be polite to invite Jess back as well.  She may want company after the night she’s had.”

The two boys turned their attention to Jess and the girl began to fluster.  “Well,” she said.  “I should…you know…really get back to my mum and dad.  They’ll worry otherwise.  Another time though, yeah?”

Ben smiled as Jerry did the opposite.

Like I said, nice try.

“I think that’s sensible,” said Ben.  “Where is it you live, Jess?”

“Birmingham Road, just past Mappleborough Green.  You know it?”

Ben nodded.  “Yeah, it’s on our way.  I live just past it.”

Jess pulled away from Jerry’s grasping arm and clapped her hands together.  “Great.  We should probably get going then.”

In agreement, the three of them gathered their things and prepared to get going.  Ben got the store’s keys from the shelf below the counter and locked the rear fire exit.  Then they made their way to the front entrance.  Ben would be unable to set the store’s alarm, but seeing as it was freezing, half-ten at night, and nobody’s mobile phone worked, he was pretty sure his father would let him off this one time.

Pretty sure…

“Wrap up warm,” Ben advised everyone as he ushered them out, pulling closed the thick glass fire-door behind them.  He inserted the key in the lock and turned it, before pulling it out again and placing it back in his jean pocket.  “Ready?” he asked.

Jess and Jerry nodded.

They made their way forward into the snowfield that had been a public footpath only yesterday.  It now seemed more like arctic tundra than a paved urban area.  The wind continued to pick up plumes of snow that gathered on the air in wispy spirals.  Ben had no hood on his jacket; he had to cover his face with a hand in order to keep the airborne snowflakes out of his nose and mouth.  At the same time, his booted feet were getting numb as he kicked and heaved through the thick slush.

“I can’t believe how bad it’s gotten,’ Ben commented.

Jess replied.  “I know.  It’s really scary!  The snow was bad last year, too, but this is like the end of the world or something.”

Jerry’s expression lit up.  “Like The Day after Tomorrow.  I totally said that earlier.”

Jess sniffed, then said, “I wasn’t being literal, but, as I recall, humanity survived in that one, didn’t they?”

Ben laughed.  “She’s got you there!”

“Yeah, well, it was the end of the world for the two thirds of the population that didn’t make it.  Try telling them that humanity as a whole would make it.”

“Maybe I would,” said Ben.  “If not for the fact they were all fictional characters.”

“Dude, that movie was totally based on science.  It could happen.”

Ben wiped his face clean of snow and took a deep breath.  Once his lungs had air, he said, “Jurassic Park was based on science too.  Does that mean we could get attacked by dinosaurs any minute?”

Jerry jumped up and down in mock outrage (the only kind of outrage he was capable of in Ben’s experience).  The snow crunched and gave way beneath his feet.  “Dude, don’t even get me started on Jurassic Park.  That shit is less than ten years away.  I swear to you that when we’re middle-aged we’ll be taking our kids to ride T-Rex and big-ass Brontosauruses.”

Jess began laughing.  “Is this what you two are like all the time?  You crack me up!”

They both blushed.  Ben hated when Jerry got him involved in one of his asinine nerd-fiction routines.  It had been embarrassing him his whole life.  It was his own fault though; sometimes he just couldn’t resist winding Jerry up.  It was one of life’s few pleasures.

“You know what?” said Jess, still giggling.  “If we stop by my house, I can leave a note for my parents.  I’ll crash at yours like you said.  It could be fun.”

Jerry’s face lit up and, if Ben was honest, he too was pleased at the thought of having Jess back to his place; she seemed pretty cool.  All they had to do now was make it home – which, right now, seemed easier said than done.

###

Ten minutes later, Jerry had to stop.  Jess wasn’t thrilled about it because somewhere in the snow was the tall, hooded man that had frightened the life out of her earlier.  She was certain of what she’d seen.

Well, pretty sure anyway.

“Dude, I can’t see two inches in front of me!”  Jerry bumped into the back of Ben, sending them both into a stagger, the deep snow making it hard to keep balance.

Jess laughed at them.  “Come on, Ant and Dec.  I’m freezing my tits off here.”

Jerry regained his balance, pushing against Ben’s shoulders to steady himself.  Ben huffed, most likely irritated that he was being used as a steadying post.

“Hey, if you want me to warm them up for you,” said Jerry with a smirk, “just let me know.”

“Nice try,” she said.  “But I’m not as easy as that.”

Ben chuckled and pointed at his friend.  “Wounded!”

“Hey, she said she wasn’t easy – not impossible.”

“Well, I must admit that’s closer than you get with most girls.”

“You ain’t so hot yourself, Gandalf.”

“I told you to stop calling me tha-”

“Children, children,” Jess interjected.  “Put away the testosterone and try to remember I’m not a Star Wars figurine.  I don’t like being fought over, and my packaging stays on.”

“Worth more like that anyway,” Jerry muttered.  “Besides, I thought most girls liked being fought over.”

Jess stopped walking and put her hands on her hips.  “Well, I’m not most girls.”

The three of them shared a laugh and they continued struggling onwards, crunching their footprints into the twinkling snow.  The increasing blizzard made it difficult to see – and to hear – but they all saw clearly the shadowy silhouette standing before them.

Jess froze at the sight.  Earlier, when she had been pounding on the door of the video shop, begging to be let in, she had been terrified, but during her time with Ben and Jerry she’d come to the conclusion that perhaps she had just been spooked – or maybe even a little bit insane.  Now though, she was certain that what she’d seen earlier was very much a reality; not a figment of her imagination.  The same hooded figure now towered over her like a prison wall, making escape seem impossible.  Beneath its grey cowl, the same glowing white eyes were studying her once again.  The figure must have cleared seven feet – maybe even eight – and was looking down at them all like children.  A long, tattered cloak covered its entire body from head to snow (its feet were not visible).

Jess screamed.

Jerry chipped in with what he probably felt was an apt expression for the situation.  “Dude!”

Jess quickly quieted down however as she witnessed Ben step forward towards the stranger.  Obviously he was stark raving mad.

“Sir?  Are you trying to get home?”  Ben spoke to the stranger without any sign of fear, apparently oblivious to their unnatural size.  “We are too.  Perhaps we could help one another?”

Jerry started backing away, clutching at Jess’s arm and pulling her with him.  She didn’t resist – it was the right idea given the situation.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, Ben,” Jerry shouted.  “People that make nice with the bad guys end up on the end of meat hooks.”

Ben shot Jerry an angry look.  “Jerry, do you always have to be so stupid?  There is no such thing as monsters.  This isn’t one of your pathetic movies.  I’m sick and tired of-.”

Ben’s speech was derailed by an explosion, not of sound but of light.  Behind the hooded figure, a towering palisade of flames rose up, growing from the very snow itself and blotting out the night sky as it drenched their freezing bodies with intense heat.  The sudden change in temperature made Jess’s skin pop and tingle, but her legs were still numb and buried by the snow.  Her limbs lacked feeling so much that she felt as if she were floating in place.  The flames behind the hooded figure were mesmerizingly bright and, for the first time, Jess could make out the stranger in clear detail.  The robes were not the drab, weathered grey that she had first thought.  They were magnificent silver, sparkling in the flickering backdrop of liquid fire that now illuminated them.  Jess laughed as the inappropriate image of a Vegas magician presented itself in her head.

I think I’m losing my mind.

Jerry shouted from behind her, but still she could not move, her legs paralysed by fear.  Her eyes remained fixed on the hooded figure and the flames behind him.  The lurching figure started to move and from beneath the silvery cloth came a talon-like hand, all bony fingers and bulbous knuckles.  Jess gawped, wide eyed, as the creature begun to draw a long slither of grey from inside its flapping cloak.

Is that…a sword?

Finally, Jess found control of her legs, the sight of the lengthy, sharp-edged blade helping her to take charge.  “Ben, I think you should back away and come over here with us.”

Ben seemed to snap awake, as if suddenly he had been released from a temporary lobotomy.  Maybe he’d noticed the sword as well – or maybe it was the flames.  He turned and stared at Jess, ballerinas of fear pirouetting through his eyes.  “No shit!” he said before starting to run.  Not a single second passed before Jess and Jerry were doing the very same thing.

“Who the hell is that?” Jess managed to ask mid-run, the words coming out in huffs and puffs.

Jerry answered in the same out-of-breath way.  “You mean what is that, don’t you?  It ain’t no man.”

The conversation went no further as the three of them carried on their rapid retreat from the hooded creature.  The snow slowed their running down to less than half its normal speed and Jess couldn’t help but worry that if they were being pursued each of them had slim hopes of getting away.  “Is that thing following us?” she asked, trying to increase the speed of her clumsy, snow-bound strides.

“I don’t know,” said Ben, looking back over his shoulder.  “Let me see.”

While Jess tried to catch up with Jerry a few yards in front, she waited anxiously for Ben to reply from behind her about whether or not they were being pursued.  After several more, exhausting strides, Jess’s racing heart surged with panic and she could wait no longer for Ben’s answer.  She stumbled to a stop and looked back.

For some reason, Ben had stopped several yards behind.  He was still following after Jess, but was making slow, almost laborious progress.  Beyond him, she saw nothing but snow and darkness.  The crisp, bright flames that had held her mesmerised were now gone.  So too was the hooded figure.

“Ben,” she called out.  “What are you doing?  Get a move on!”

It was a few moments before he replied to her.  “I…I don’t feel right.  I…”  He fell down in the snow.

Jess panicked.  She had to go back to help Ben – she knew that without even thinking about it – but going back to help him meant going back towards the creature with the sword.  She had to go, she decided, but sure as hell wasn’t going alone.  Jess turned around and yelled.

Up ahead, Jerry stopped in his tracks, swaying and tottering like he couldn’t gain control of his knees.  When he came to a stop finally, he immediately understood something was wrong and started running back towards her.  Not waiting for him to catch up, Jess trudged her way over to Ben, who was still down on his hands and knees, face buried against the snow.  Her feet found the tracks they had flattened when they’d run in the opposite direction and moving became a little easier.

Within a few moments she had reached Ben.  “Hey, what’s wrong,” she asked him, getting frantic.  He looked up at her and the sight immediately made her stomach churn.  His face had turned white as the snow he lay in, except for his lips, which were bright red with blood.  “Jesus, Ben!  Are you ok?  What’s happened?”

Jerry came rushing up beside his friend and instantly dove into the snow.  “Ben!  Ben, what’s wrong?  Man, you’re bleeding.”

Somehow, Ben managed to laugh meekly at his friend’s arrival.  Scattered specks of blood flew from his mouth, covering the nearby snow in pinpricks of red.

Then Jess saw something that made her stomach churn even harder.  “One of your fingers is missing!”

Ben stared down at his hand as though he didn’t quite recognise it.  Jess thought that he looked mildly stoned, and, instead of looking at his dismembered digit, he was looking at a vase of multi-coloured flowers.  The strangest thing of all, Jess noticed, was that the finger stump was not bleeding.  It was capped by a glistening patch of red, but it wasn’t moist.  The wound seemed more like the surface of sandpaper.

Jerry put out a hand towards his friend.  “Come on, B-Dog.  Let’s get you out of here.”

Ben reached up to take his friend’s hand, but when he made contact something terrible happened.  His arm crumbled away at the shoulder as though it were made from ragged clumps of brittle clay.  The stump bled for a few seconds before seeming to glaze over.  Ben looked up at them with the same look Jess imagined soldiers had when they realised they were holding their own intestines: Mortal panic.  Now she saw that Ben’s face had taken on the same sandpapery quality that his finger wound possessed.  In fact, she noticed with increasing dread, he was dead.

It took several more moments for Jerry to understand, unwilling to believe that his best friend was gone, but when Ben’s entire body crumbled away to blood-coloured dust in his very arms, Jerry finally seemed to get it.  When the scene was finally over, with only a fading pile of red sand against the white snow to suggest anything had ever existed of Ben, Jess allowed herself the luxury of screaming.  She didn’t stop until she was completely out of breath.

It went on for some time.

Chapter Thirteen

Harry’s world felt better from beneath the snug security of a plush blanket.  It was still freezing inside the pub but at least the thick quilt prevented the loss of what little body heat he had.  Despite the fact he was now able to keep his temperature at a more tolerable level, Harry still eagerly awaited the power to click on.  It’d been almost two hours now.

“Come on, old man,” Damien shouted.  The lad had declined one of Old Graham’s blankets – it would no doubt ruin his hardman image – but he was closest to the fire and probably just as warm as the rest of them in his padded coat.

“Yeah,” Nigel joined in.  “Haven’t you picked anything up on that piece of junk yet?”

Old Graham sat on a footstool by the fire, fiddling with the radio.  It hissed and crackled, almost harmonising with the crackling spit of the fireplace.  “I’m trying,” he shouted.  “Nought’s happening.”

“When was the last time you even used that antique?” Damien asked.

“It’s been a while, but I knows how to work a bloody radio, lad.  My generation grew up with the things.”

Lucas reached out a hand from his perch on the armrest of the two-seat sofa (Harry and Steph still occupied the cushions and her thigh was still touching his).  “Give it here, old timer.  I know my way around a gadget or two.”

Old Graham obliged and handed over the crackling device.  Lucas immediately set about twiddling the knobs and pressing buttons.  A frown filled his face gradually like liquid filling a beaker.  “The thing’s a dud, old man.”

“Nonsense!  I’ve used the thing a hundred times.”

“Well it’s gone on strike tonight, fella.”

Harry was curious and scratched at his chin.  “I’ve never known a radio to switch on and not pick anything up.  They usually get something, even if it’s only faint.”

Lucas shrugged.  ”Not if the antenna’s faulty; you’d get nothing but static.  Let’s say you’re right though.  Let’s assume the radio is working and still we’re getting nothing.  What does that mean?”

Harry started to think about it, but couldn’t come up with an answer.  “Well, I guess it would mean that nobody’s broadcasting, or that the radio waves aren’t getting through.”

“Exactly,” Lucas said, as if he was revealing the most obvious fact in the universe.  “So those are two options.  The third and final one is that the radio has popped its little electrical clogs.  What’s the most likely, Harry Boy?”

Harry felt silly but worried at the same time.  “Well
I guess it is just the radio, or the weather affecting things.”

Lucas smiled as if he’d successfully explained algebra to a monkey.  “There you go!  No need to assume the wor-”

Old Graham cried out.  “Got something!”

Harry and Lucas broke their discussion and turned to the old man; so did Steph, Nigel, and Damien.  Old Graham waved his hand at them all and ushered them closer.  His left ear was half an inch from the radio’s speaker.  At first, all Harry could make out was more hissing and crackling, but as he got closer…

“What is that?” Harry asked, finally hearing something.

“I don’t know,” said Old Graham without turning his attention away from the radio.  “I can’t make it out, but something’s definitely there.”

Everyone gathered round and listened to the radio pop, hiss, and crackle, but behind those noises was something else.  At first it sounded like horns blowing – trumpets even – but then there was…

Voices?  Garbled, disembodied speech that made sense to Harry for only mere seconds: …Pillars…Salt…Sin…

Nigel straightened his back and stepped away from the radio, which quickly returned to giving out nothing but empty static again.  “Did anyone else hear that?  Could anyone understand it?”

Old Graham shook his head.  “Not really.  Something about salt?”

Nigel shook his head.  “Pillars.  It was pillars.”

“Pillars of salt,” Steph added helpfully.

Damien turned his back on the group, walked back over to the other side of the fire, and then turned back around to face them.  “Pillars, Salt, Sin; that’s what it said.”  He pulled at his earlobe.  “Guess my hearing’s better than you old farts.”

Harry felt like screaming ‘shut up’ at the top of his lungs, but refrained due to the fact that Damien had actually been helpful before his snide remark.  “He’s right; it did say that.  Pillars.  Salt.  Sin.”

Lucas sat back down on the perch of the armrest.  “What in heaven does that mean then?  Sounds downright biblical.”

Harry didn’t disagree and thought about it for a moment, finally wondering: Who’s broadcasting it?

”So does anybody know what Pillars of Salt and Sin actually means?”  Harry asked the question earnestly because he had no idea.

Steph was the first to offer an opinion: “Isn’t it from a Coldplay song?”

Harry raised his eyebrows.  “You think we just caught part of a song playing?”

Steph shook her head and seemed to doubt her own answer.  “It didn’t sound like singing, and the line in the song goes quite quickly.  The words on the radio were drawn out and slow.”

“Plus that song doesn’t contain the word, sin,” Damien added.

“No, it doesn’t.”  Steph agreed.

“Okay,” Harry said.  “Anybody else got ideas?”  He looked around and raised his eyebrows.  “What about you, Lucas?”

“Can’t help you there, fella.  It’s probably nothing but Prayer Time with Father Bob for all I know.  You can find all kinds of religious stations if you fiddle about enough – especially at times like these.  Either way, I need to go and visit the latrine again, so I’ll leave you folks to ponder.”  Lucas got up from the sofa’s armrest and headed towards the toilets while the rest of them continued their conversation.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Old Graham wrapping a wool blanket around himself and pulling it tight around his shoulders.  His words still fluttered slightly as the cold strangled his central nervous system.  “No point worrying about it now.  I’ll put the radio on the bar if anyone wants to have another go, but my only concern right now is keeping me bones from turning to ice.”

Nigel pulled his own blanket up around his shoulders; it made him look like a floating head beside the fire.

“Yeah, it’s getting a little too nippy for my liking.  Do we have any more wood for the fire?”

Steph nodded and headed off towards the bar, but before she got there the sound of screaming made her turn back around.

”What in the blue hell was that?” said Nigel

“Sounded like screaming,” Steph answered.

Harry agreed.  He got up from the sofa quickly and placed his beer bottle down on one of the nearby tables.  “It was screaming; someone outside.”

Steph stepped away from the bar.  “Harry, where are you going?”

“Outside.  Someone needs help.”

“I’d advise against that, Harry Boy.”  Lucas was returning from the toilets.  “You go out in that weather and you might not come back.”

“We can’t just do nothing,” said Harry.

Lucas walked over to him by the pub’s exit and pointed to the frost-covered window.  “Look out there, fella.  You’ll be blinded the second you step outside, and trying to make it in a straight line for ten steps will leave you a disorientated sot.  You’d probably struggle to walk ten steps in a straight line on a normal night.”

Harry scowled.  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Damien stood laughing by the fire.  “He means you’re a worthless drunk, Harry, and everybody knows it.”

The hackles on Harry’s neck tightened.  “What did you just say to me?”

Damien stepped towards Harry, but was still a good nine feet away.  “I said that you’re a no-good, piss-poor drunk, and that if someone is hurt out there, screaming for help, the worst person that could turn up to help them would be you.  Probably just puke on ‘em and pass out.  They’d end up having to get an ambulance for your sorry ass.”

Harry wanted to use words to retaliate – he was a civilised man after all – but none came to mind.  The only thing that entered his head was a blind, boiling rage.  He leapt at Damien’s smug, laughing face, crossing the nine feet before his heart could even beat once.  His first punch landed square and no more blows were required.  Damien’s nose scrunched up, spreading across his cheeks, until both nostrils were gushing blood.  The young thug didn’t go down though and instead just staggered backwards, holding his nose in stunned bewilderment.

After a few moments of confusion, Damien grabbed a hold of himself, dropping his hands out to his sides and straightening up his body.  His nose dripped a viscous meld of blood and mucous; it ran down the light-blue shirt inside his puffer jacket.

“You just shot yourself in the head, mate,” said Damien.  “If I were you, I’d go in those toilets, take off that cheap-ass belt around your cock-less waist, tie it round your alcoholic neck, and hang yourself.  Cus I’m going to kill you.  I’m going to slide a knife in your belly and laugh in your face while you die.  I’ll be the last person you see and I’ll be laughing my ass off.”

Harry’s soul deflated as he realised the seriousness of his actions.  What had made him act so violently?  That wasn’t him at all.  Was it?  Either way, he’d chosen a course of action and he would stick to it – there was no other choice.

Harry spat defiantly.  “Try it, you little fuckweed!”

Damien nodded and started towards him, taking each step casually as if he had all the time in the world.  Harry tried to swallow but found a lump of coal blocking his throat.  He raised his fists and prepared for his first ever bar fight.

Lucas jumped between the two of them and placed a hand across Damien’s chest.  “Calm down there, fellas.  Thought we had an agreement?  We’re all going to play nice tonight.”

Damien sneered.  “Try telling that to your man here; wrecked a perfectly good designer shirt.  He’ll pay for it though, so don’t worry.”

Lucas sighed.  “You gentlemen can settle up another night.  There’s no time for it now.  There’s some lass screaming out there and our Harry was about to do the noble thing and go offer assistance.  You should do the noble thing and let him.”

Damien shook his head.  “You were the one telling him not to go out there two minutes ago.”

“Well,” said Lucas, “that was before he was in as much danger here as he will be out there.  Besides, there’s a chance he might freeze to death so you should be all for it.”

Damien backed off slightly, waving an arm towards the door.  “We’ll finish this later.  That is, if you don’t freeze your tiny balls off out there first.  Good luck!”

Harry was unsure what to do, not wanting to lower his fighting stance until he knew the situation was defused.  He looked at Lucas who nodded at him reassuringly.  Harry lowered his arms and moved back towards the pub’s exit.

“Wait!”  It was Steph.  She sounded worried.  “Let me find you a torch or something.”

“Yeah,” Old Graham agreed from under his blanket by the fire.  ”At least take a blanket with you.”

Nigel added the final voice of concern.  “Or maybe you should try calling out the door before you go trekking off.  See if anyone shouts back and gives you directions.”

Harry waved a hand dismissively.  “I’m sure someone’s just slipped over.  I’ll be straight back.”

Damien sniggered from the back of the room.  “Then you and me can pick up where we left off.”

Harry’s stomach churned.  He decided to put Damien out of his mind for the moment; there were other things to worry about.  Whatever was going to happen would happen.  Life had taught him that a long time ago.  Harry stepped towards the door…

Clonk!

…before falling to the ground clutching his head.  The door had swung inwards, clubbing him in the forehead.  The world was cast into darkness as the wind swept in from outside and extinguished all the candles on the bars.  Harry moaned in pain.

“Are you okay?” asked Steph from somewhere in the darkness.

“What’s going on?” asked Nigel, who was just about visible beside the flickering fireplace.  The flames fought back against the darkness but failed to light more than a small semi-circle at their base.

Harry ceased his moaning and tried to get up.  He could feel the pressure building in his skull as a swelling began to form above his left eye.  Reaching forward onto his hands, he planted his knees on the floor and prepared to get back to his feet.  It was then that he realised someone stood in front of him in the darkness.

“Who’s there?” he called out.

For a few moments everyone stood still and listened for an answer.  Eventually one came: “My name’s Kath.  I’m the manageress of the supermarket across the road.”

A collective sigh of relief filled the room, more so from Harry than anyone else.  “Try knocking next time.  You almost had my head off.”

Kath laughed nervously.  ”I’m so sorry.  I guess the weather has put me in a bit of a panic.”

“Were you the one screaming?”  Steph asked as she started relighting the candles on the bar.

Kath moved away from the doorway and towards the light.  “Oh, that’s better.  I was starting to forget what it was like to be able to see properly.”  She offered her hand to Steph.

Steph shook it.  “Pleased to meet you, I’m Steph.  So, was it you that was screaming?”

“Huh?  Screaming?  No, that wasn’t me.  It would no doubt be that silly girl.”

“Silly girl?” Harry moved over to the bar to join the woman.  The others in the bar started moving too.  “What silly girl?”

“Jessica.  She’s just some ditsy teenager that works for me.  She went wondering off into the snow when the power went off.”

“We should go look for her then,” Harry insisted.

Kath sighed.  “Don’t bother wasting your time.  Peter Pole went after her, so she’ll be fine.  I’m sure they bumped into each other out there and that’s what startled her.”

“You sure she’ll be okay?” Steph asked.  “We should check to make sure.”

Kath’s response was abrupt.  ”If she needed help there would have been more than one scream, wouldn’t there?”

“Guess that makes sense,” said Lucas, taking the top off a newly defrosted beer with his back teeth.  “I say we top that fire up and get ourselves warm under the blankets.  It’s cold enough to freeze beer in here after all.”

“Good idea,” said Old Graham, already making his way back to the fire.  The rest of them took suit and gathered around him.  They spread their blankets into a line and got under them side by side, tucked in like sardines.

Steph brought over a crate of bottled beer and placed it by the fire to keep it from freezing.  Harry passed a recently thawed one to their new arrival, Kath, and she took it gladly.  “My saviour,” she said, sipping the beer.  “After the day I’ve had I could see myself becoming quite the alcoholic just to cope.”  The comment brought a stiff silence and Harry wondered if it was because of the comments that Damien had made about him ten minutes earlier.  “Did I say something wrong?” Kath asked.  “It was just a joke.”

Despite Harry being certain that Damien would have used the opportunity to revisit their earlier animosity, nobody said anything.  For some reason the lad stayed quiet and drank his beer.

“So,” Steph asked, “what exactly have you been through tonight then, Kath?”

“God, if only you knew.  The whole world has gone crazy tonight.  The electricity went out, my phone stopped working, and at one point I was worried I was going to freeze to death.  Thank heavens you’re still open, because I don’t know how on earth I would have gotten home.”

“Your phone isn’t working?” said Damien.

Kath shook her head.  “No, it doesn’t work at all.  The landline either.”

“Mine stopped working too.  Weird.”

“Guess the power affects the towers, or whatever you call ‘em,” said Old Graham.

“Maybe,” said Nigel, “but don’t the landlines work even when the powers out?”

Harry nodded in the dark and rubbed at the smooth lump growing on his forehead.  “I think you’re right.  Don’t they work off static signals?”

Lucas laughed.  “Any telephone technicians in the house?  Anybody?”

“What’s your point?” Harry asked.

“My point is that none of us really know how the phone lines work and maybe they do rely on power the same way everything else does.”

“That’s right,” said Nigel.  “Didn’t they go digital or something a time back?”

From the middle of the group, Steph cracked open another beer.  Her words were beginning to slur slightly as she spoke.  “Don’t suppose it matters.  Stuck here not knowing all the same.  This is the worst weather I think this country’s ever had, so it doesn’t surprise me that everything’s gone down the shitter.  Not like we have a Government that actually knows its arse from its earlobe, is it?”

Kath chuckled.  “Tell me about it!”

“Now, now, Ladies,” Lucas put both hands up.  “A pub is no place for politics.  You can go to a stuffy wine bar for the likes of that.  A good old-fashioned boozer like this is meant for people to forget their troubles in the world, inept Governments included.”

Steph laughed.  “Aha!  So you think the government is inept as well.”

“Sweetheart,” he said.  “I think they’re all inept – and trust me, I’ve seen a few.  I always say that Religion and Politics are just clever ways to make un-content people content with their un-contentedness.”

Old Graham snorted.  “Good one.”

Kath turned to Lucas, disapproval on her face.  “I take it you’re a none-believer of God then, erm…”

“Lucas, my dear woman.  You can call me Lucas.  To answer your question: yes, absolutely I believe in the Almighty Father.  I never condemned Him now did I?  I condemned the eejits that try to run things in his name.”

After a moment’s thought, Kath seemed to accept this.  “Well, perhaps I can agree with you there.”

“Well,” Harry joined in.  “What’s your Almighty Father’s plan for tonight?  Besides freezing us all to death that is.”

“Do I detect a heathen?” asked Lucas sarcastically.

Harry swigged his beer.  “That would be your opinion.  I’d just say I’m realistic.”

“Why don’t you believe?” Steph asked him.  She sounded genuinely interested.

“Because if I believed that there was someone responsible for all the things that have happened in my life then I would be so consumed with rage that I don’t think I’d be able to go on living.”

Damien laughed.  “Is that because you’re a gay alcoholic?”

Harry wanted to get angry and shut Damien’s smart mouth altogether, but he suddenly felt very tired.  Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was something deeper inside of him that was just giving up.  His heart felt weary.

“You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?” asked Lucas.

Harry turned in the Irishman’s direction.  “What?”

“The only time a man gives up hope like you have is when they’ve lost a lover…or a child.”  Lucas started nodding as if he’d found the answer to his own question.  “Was it a boy or a girl?”

“It,” Harry spat, “was a boy.  Toby.”

There was silence, thick enough that a snow plough would have blunted against it.  Harry had never let anyone in The Trumpet know about Toby.  It was his place to escape from all the pity and well-wishing that his once-friends and family had become consumed with since the accident.  This was his place to come and be alone with his pain, and to remember his son the way he wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” said Damien, before swigging his beer bottle to the end.  No one else spoke.

Harry didn’t say anything else either.  He had been consumed by a deep sadness.  Not just for Toby, or his wife, Julie – he always felt sadness for them – but sadness because he knew that he could never come back here again.  The Trumpet’s sanctuary of anonymity was gone now.

“Okay,” said Lucas, raising a beer in the dim light of the fire.  “We’ll change the subject, but first: Here’s to Toby, may his soul be somewhere safe and pleasant.”

The group raised their bottles and said Toby’s name.  Harry said nothing.  He just stared into the fire.

Chapter Fourteen

Peter hadn’t seen Jess, or anybody else, in almost an hour now, not since he’d parted ways with Kath.  Earlier, the two of them had heard screaming and he was certain it was Jess.  His selfish boss-lady had chosen to head for the nearby pub, caring only about herself, but he had decided to do the right thing and go find his friend.  It had not gone as well as he’d hoped.

Peter wasn’t one to lose his cool easily.  No one in Poland was after what their grandparents had lived through.  It gave them a unique perspective on what really mattered in life.  Yet, Peter had to admit to himself that he was starting to get anxious.  He concentrated on keeping his breathing steady and emptied his mind of all thoughts.  If a person did not think, they could not become afraid.  If he just continued walking, he would find someone soon – or at least reach some houses.  One thing was for certain: It could not go on like this much longer – pure white nothingness all around and in every direction.  If it did…then he would certainly freeze to death.  It was an absurd thought, but very real at that moment as the sub-zero temperatures swelled the pads on his fingertips that he could no longer form a fist.

Peter was used to the cold.  It was regularly freezing in his hometown, just outside of Warsaw, but since his two year stay in England had begun, he’d not known conditions like this.  It reminded him more of the Arctic Circle than Great Britain – the place he had come to follow his dreams and earn the money he could only dream of in Poland.  He enjoyed being here to study also, and, despite the odd pockets of racism (you’re taking our jobs!), the local population had been very welcoming.  England had become as much a home to him as his own country.

But today he would do anything to be back home with Momma and Poppa.  He’d never felt as alone as he did right now.

“Jess,” he called out into the emptiness.  “Jess, are you ok?  It is Peter.”

There was no response, as there had not been for the last twenty minutes since he’d first split ways from Kath.  He’d almost given up hope of finding Jess now, but that didn’t stop him worrying about why she had screamed.  Jess was a nice girl, attractive and funny.  Most of the Polish people in the town stuck to their own and socialised together – especially when it came to dating.  It was easier that way and provoked less xenophobia than if the Polish men went around sleeping with the English women, but, if Peter was honest, he yearned to spend time with Jess, and thought about kissing her all the time.

I hope you are okay, my beautiful friend.

“Peter!”

He stopped in his tracks, the snow crunching beneath his polished work shoes.  “Jess, is that you?”

“Yes, Peter, I’m over here.  I need help.  Come quick.”

Peter turned a full circle, unable to pinpoint where Jess’s voice was coming from.  “Jess, I hear you, but I not see you.  Jess?”

The voice came closer.  “Peter, I’m here.  Help!”

Peter turned another circle and stopped half way around.  He spotted something in the distance and stepped toward it.  “Jess, I see you.”

In the near distance, Peter could just about make out a grey shape in the howling blizzard.  A sigh of relief whistled from his cold, blue lips and he began to head toward it.

###

Jess and Jerry had fled in terror after witnessing Ben’s death – disintegration? – too much in shock to comprehend what they had witnessed.

“I don’t have…a goddamn clue what…just happened,” said Jerry, out of breath from all the running.

Jess was beginning to slow down too.  They hadn’t gone far, but in the deep, sucking snow, running any length at all was an endurance test.  “I need…to stop,” she said.  “I’ve got a stitch.”

Jerry halted and looked at her.  Then he grabbed her arm and pulled hard.  “Are you loco?  That thing will get us.  You never stop when there’s a demon on your arse.  Have you never seen Friday the 13th?”

Jess pulled back, her chest rising and falling in great heaves.  “There’s…no such thing as…demons.”

“There is too.  Exorcist was based on true events and so was The Entity.”

Jess shook her head.  “They just say that so idiots like you believe it.  The thing in the hood wasn’t chasing us when we ran.  I think we can stop.”

“You saw what it did to Ben!”  Jerry seemed to struggle with something internally, before going on.  Maybe he was realising that his childhood friend was gone for real; that it wasn’t all just some movie.  “It killed him,” he said, staring her in the eyes, “and if we don’t get moving it’ll get us too.”

Jess nodded.  “Okay, but where the hell are we going?  I can’t see anything and I’ve already gotten lost in this snow once tonight.”

Jerry pulled on her arm again and the two of them started moving.  “We need to find the pub or see if your boss is still at the supermarket.”

Jess laughed.  “I’d rather let that thing back there have me than ask that cow for help.”

“The pub it is then,” said Jerry.

###

Twenty minutes later, the two of them came to a stop at the bottom of the hill leading up to The Trumpet.  It had taken the last of their energy, wandering around in the white darkness of the growing blizzard, to find it, and if it wasn’t for the fear and adrenaline dominating her system, Jess was sure she would’ve keeled over by now.

“Thank God we found it,” she said.  “I don’t think I can get much colder.  My nipples could cut cake.”

Jerry stared at her chest.

“That wasn’t an invitation to ogle my tits.  Just take my word for it, they’re cold.”

Jerry shook himself as if escaping a hypnotic trance.  “Sorry!  Well, it’s one thing finding the pub, but let’s hope somebody’s still in there.  Else, I don’t know what we’re going to do.  With the Siberian weather and Flame Boy on our tail, I don’t know what’ll kill us first.”

Jess shuddered.

“Sorry,” he said.  “I know you’re scared.”

Jess didn’t admit it, but it was true.  They were both fighting back the pangs of panic as their bodies continued to freeze.  Jerry’s cheeks had gone clammy and looked like they were burning.  She worried that if they didn’t get under cover soon they’d be in danger of getting frostbite or hypothermia.

Jess started to take the steps up the hill, sticking to where she imagined the path lay beneath the snow.  She peered up at the pub, which looked back down at her ominously.  “I think I see light in there.”

Jerry squinted.  “Yeah, I think I do too.  There must be people inside.”

The two of them hurried, taking steps as quickly as possible in the knee-high snow sloping upwards.  As Jess got nearer the top, she became more and more certain that there was indeed light inside the pub.  Not electrical light, but a flickering, glowing light from a torch or-”

“I think they have a fire in there,” said Jess, giddy at the thought of warmth.

“Jurassic Park!” exclaimed Jerry triumphantly.  “Let’s get our black asses in there.”

Jess’s brow wrinkled.  “We’re not Black.”

“Will be if we get frost bite.  Now come on!”  He grabbed Jess by the arm and started helping her up the hill…

…but a noise from behind made them stop.

Jess heard it too.  “Was that…growling?”  She turned slowly as the low grumbling sound started up again.  It did indeed sound like growling but, when she looked back, there was nothing other than the drifting, windswept snow.  She turned back to Jerry.  “Let’s just get to the pub, okay?”

They picked up as much speed as they could, still hampered by the chilling embrace around their ankles and shins.  When the growling started again it seemed to be coming from all directions, vibrating through the air all around them.

Jerry put his hand on Jess’s back and pushed.  “I don’t like the sound of whatever’s making that.”

Jess was about to agree when she found herself off balance, her toe stubbing up against some hidden brickwork or stone beneath the snow.  As she crumpled, her leg twisted and folded beneath her, leaving her facing back the way she had come from.   She shrieked at what she saw.

So did Jerry.

Chapter Fifteen

Harry snapped out of his wallowing, leapt up in front of the fire.  “The hell was that?  More screaming?”  He started for the pub’s exit again.  “What’s going on tonight?”

The others emerged from underneath their blankets and duvets by the fire.  Steph hurried up beside Harry and put a hand on his back, clutching his jacket.  “That scream sounded really close,” she said.  “You think it was the same person as earlier?”

“I hope so, otherwise that means there’s something even more screwed up going on out there.  A single person screaming is a lot better than multiple people screaming.”

The cries continued, closer and more urgent.

“Go on, Harry,” Steph urged.  “It sounds like they’re right outside.”

Harry nodded and made for the door, but, before he managed to get there, it sprung open.  Luckily, his forehead was nowhere near this time and he avoided a second blow from the door’s thick wood.  Two flailing bodies – a boy and a girl – tumbled through the entranceway and ended up in a crumpled heap on the floorboards.

Harry saw that they were just a couple of teenagers.  He offered them his hand.  “Come on in why don’t you.”

The girl ignored his offer and sprang to her feet unassisted.  She rushed over to the still-open door and slammed it shut, heaving her weight against it and sliding her arm up to the dead bolt, pulling it across with a forceful Clack!

Damien entered the scene and came up beside Harry and Steph.  He looked down at the teenage boy on the floor and then across at the panting girl slumped against the door.  He laughed out round.  “What the hell are you two tripping about?”

The girl looked back at Damien, her chest heaving in and out beneath her fleece.  Her eyes were wide like a rabbit on a motorway.  She said nothing.

Damien turned his glance to the boy.  “What about you, sunshine?  You got anything to say, or shall I just kick your arse back outside?  You’ve interrupted a private party and its bad manners to crash.”

“No,” the girl said urgently.  “Please, let us stay!”

Damien went to speak but Harry cut him off, confident that he would take a more appropriate line of questioning.  “You can stay.  Of course you can, but what on Earth has gotten you so freaked out?”

“There’s something out there, man” said the boy on the floor, still trembling on his back, but now propped up by his spindly elbows.  “There’s something out there.  Like a big flippin’ dog or something.  It was like…like…Jaws with fur.”

There was silence in the room as Harry and the others studied the newcomers and considered their wild suggestions.  The girl was nodding in agreement at what the boy had said and they both seemed startled half to death by something, but what they were claiming seemed like pure...

“Bull,” said Damien.  “You’ve just shit yourself at a dog or something.”

Harry nodded, actually agreeing with Damien for once and finding the sensation strange.  “It was probably just a stray, stressed out by the weather.  I’m sure it’s unpleasant out there for anyone, dogs included.”

Harry watched patiently as the teenagers seemed to calm slightly, although both kept glancing back at the door, presumably to make sure nothing was trying to get in.  After a couple minutes, the boy got himself up off the floor and put an arm around the girl, pulling her away from the door.  They spoke between themselves for a moment but were too quiet for Harry to make anything out.  Boyfriend and girlfriend, he supposed, before asking them, “Beer?”

This seemed to be just the ticket as the two youngsters started smiling.  Yet, despite them relaxing, Harry couldn’t ignore the uncomfortable lump ascending in his throat, rising with the bile from his stomach.

It tasted like dread.

###

Jess watched the elderly man come from behind the bar with more blankets.  Beside him, a huge, greasy-skinned man had a shopping bag filled with food – sausage rolls, chicken, ham, and stale-looking bread.  The faint smell of meat made Jess’s mouth water as the blankets and snacks were handed out amongst the group.

“You say it was halfway between a Great Dane and a bull?”  Kath asked her, sneering lips stuffed with porkpie.

Jess couldn’t believe it when she’d found Kath at the pub.  A spiteful part of her had hoped the old bag had gotten lost in the snow.  Jess made a mental note to find out where Peter had gone when she had opportunity to ask.  It wouldn’t have surprised her if Kath had left him in the supermarket to guard it overnight in the freezing cold.  Kath had it in for Peter more than she did Jess.

Kath cackled at her.  “Well, bull is exactly what it is, young lady.”

“Yeah, as in bull-shite!” said a voice from somewhere else.

Jess sneered at the person who had spoken.  “You’re Damien aren’t you?”

Damien’s face lit up.  “You’ve heard of me?  Well I guess you’d be a fool not to have.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of you.  You’re the dickhead that gets high on smack and then tries to buy beer from the supermarket after licensed hours.  Then, when you get refused, you start causing trouble – knocking stuff over and threatening staff – most of which are female.  Basically acting like an immature little boy.  Same as you are right now.”

Damien’s smug expression dissolved into anger.  The flesh in his cheeks changed from primrose to burgundy.  “You better watch that mouth sweetheart.  This is my pub and–”

“Actually,” said the barmaid lady (Jess thought she’d heard her name was Steph).  “It’s my pub tonight, Damien, and we’ve all agreed to get along.  That includes you, too, sweetheart.  Don’t poke the natives!”

Jess nodded.  “You’re right, I’m sorry.  It’s just been a bit of a head-fuck tonight.”

Damien smiled and held up his beer.  “I forgive you, but only cus you’ve got a fit ass.”

“She’s like sixteen, dude!  How old are you?”  Jerry obviously took exception to the comment; he eyeballed Damien with suspicion.

Damien sneered.  “You want to call your dog off, sweetheart?  I was only being polite.  Besides, I’m twenty-one, mate, what’s the issue?”

Jess turned to Jerry, hoping to show as much disapproval on her face as only a young woman her age could muster.  “I don’t need you to fight my battles, Jerry, and, for everyone’s information, I’m seventeen - almost eighteen, in fact.”

Jerry stepped closer and spoke in a hushed voice.  “Sorry, it’s just that I’m aware of this tool and he’s bad news; a right wannabe gangster.”

“I know,” she whispered back.  “Everyone is aware of him, which is why you should just stay out of his way.  He’s dangerous enough on a normal day, let alone on a night where everything’s gone to hell.  Let’s just finish our beers and try to stay out of his way till the morning when we can try and get hold of help.”

Jerry nodded and re-joined the group who were resuming their position in front of the fire.  Despite covering herself in several layers of blankets, duvets, and coats, there was no doubt in Jess’s mind that it was getting colder.

“So, lass,” said a handsome man with an Irish accent, “with a somewhat calmer mind, do you want to give us your yarn about the furry beast you say you saw outside?”

Jess didn’t answer and instead looked quizzically at the other man, the one who’d offered to help her up off the floor when she’d first arrived.  He was handsome too, but had a withered tiredness to his face.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said to her and smiled.  “Lucas always speaks like that.  You’ll get used to it.”

Jess laughed.  “Oh, well, I guess it was like you all said: Just a dog or something.”

Lucas frowned.  Somehow his expression was clear to her despite the lack of light.  “Come now,” he said, “if that was what you thought at the time then you wouldn’t have burst in here screaming like a blind banshee.  At the time, you thought you saw something.  What?”

Jess was hesitant, nervous at the thought of bringing it all up again after she’d just managed to calm herself down enough to convince herself it hadn’t happened.  “I er…I really don’t know.  It was all so confusing.”

“It wasn’t a dog,” Jerry spoke up.  “I’ve seen a hundred different breeds of dog and there’s nothing even close to what we saw tonight.”

The others switched their focus from Jess and listened to Jerry as he continued.  Don’t tell them, Jess was thinking.  They’ll think we’re both bonkers.

“We’d just started to climb the pub’s hill,” Jerry said, “when we heard growling.  It started off just like a dog’s, and that may have been what it was at first…but then it got louder.  A dog can’t make your bones rattle like this did.  We started to get our asses out of there, but Jess slipped over.”

“I tripped on something under the snow,” Jess explained, embarrassed.  “That’s when we saw it.”

“Saw what?” asked the elderly man.  “What did you see?”

There was silence for a few moments and it became unclear who would be the one to answer first.  Jess decided it would have to be her.  “It was big – bigger than anything wandering around a council estate should be.  It had thick, oily fur that was totally clean from snow, as though any flakes that tried to settle on it just melted.  In a way, it really did look like a dog, but it was just way too big…plus its face was all wrong.”

Jerry supported her as her voice began to weaken.  She appreciated it and had already started to consider him a friend.  Relationships forged easily at times like this, she realised.  “Yeah, I remember,” Jerry said.  “Its face was much flatter and rounded – more like an ape than a dog, except its mouth took up half its face.  It was full of teeth; rows and rows of them like those chomp-monsters in The Langoliers.  You ever see that flick?”

Damien scoffed.  “How could you make out all that detail in a blizzard?”

Jerry shook his head.  “I don’t know.  It was as though there was a glow around it.  A sphere of light.”

Damien shook his head, obviously not buying any of it, but said nothing.  Jess saw a similarly incredulous expression on Kath’s face as well.  Screw you both, she thought.

The others stayed quiet too, until Jerry finally said, in a croaky voice, “We haven’t even told you about the sick bastard that murdered my best friend – turned him right to dust.”

Everyone looked at Jerry.

###

When the teenagers, Jess and Jerry, had finished telling their wild story about a hooded figure turning their friend to dust, Harry was speechless.  Of course, he didn’t believe such a ridiculous tale – such a thing was impossible – but the story still managed to unsettle him.  Whether or not it was true, something had obviously sent the kids running inside the pub.

Harry swigged his beer as he stared into the fire, listening to the conversations of the group rather than participating in them.  He tuned in to the sound of Kath who was busy berating Jess about what the girl had just told them.

“You silly, attention-seeking, twit,” the woman told the girl.  “You’re just trying to frighten everybody.  I’ve never heard such codswallop in all my life.”

Jess slapped her palms against her forehead in dismay.  “I watched Jerry’s best friend die.  If you hadn’t been too busy abandoning me then you may have been there to see it too.”

“How dare you!  I did nothing of the sort.  I shouted and looked everywhere for you, but you’d wandered off carelessly.”

Jess sneered.  “Bollocks!”

“That is it, young lady!” Kath’s voice quivered with rage.  “Don’t you bother coming in to work tomorrow because you are fired, young lady!”

Jess laughed.  “We’re in a pub, Kathleen, not at work.  I can say what the hell I like to you.  Don’t worry though because I quit anyway.”

“Music to my ears.  Now I can employ someone with half a brain.”

“Actually, you need to hire someone without a brain, then they won’t mind working for a pathetic bully like you.  I understand though, Kathleen, it must be difficult being a spinster.”

“You spiteful little bitch!  You know nothing about me.”

Harry watched as Kath threw off her duvet and leapt to her feet.  For a second, it seemed as though the older woman was going to go for Jess, but instead she turned away from the group and departed towards the toilet.

“You two don’t get on then?” Lucas quipped from the edge of the group.

“Can you tell?” Jess replied.  “Got to tell you though, it felt really good saying that to her.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” said Harry.  “Maybe you should just let things lie for now though.  Who knows how long we’ll be stuck in this situation together.”

“I know.  I’ll leave her alone, so long as she doesn’t get in my face.  I need to ask her where the warehouse guy went first though.  She treats Peter like dirt and I need to make sure he’s alright.”

Jess shoved herself up onto her feet and headed after Kath.  Once she’d taken half-a-dozen steps, a body crashed through the window.

Chapter Sixteen

“Peter!” Jess screamed.

Harry watched the girl drop to her knees, scrambling over to the body now splayed across the pub’s wooden floor.  The boy was barely conscious, covered in blood, and murmuring deliriously in a foreign language.  Cold air flew in through the broken window and extinguished any minor warmth that had managed to remain inside the pub.

Harry clambered across the room, skidded to his knees, and came to a stop beside Jess and the injured boy.  Did she say his name was Peter?

Jess looked at Harry; a hollow stare consumed her delicate features, while tears dripped from her grief-stricken blue eyes and stained her cheeks.  “Help him, please.”

Harry choked on his words.  “I…I…What’s…What’s happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” cried Jess.  “Just please make him alright.”

“I’ll tell you what happened,” said Jerry, rushing over to join them.  The others in the pub – minus Kath who was still in the toilet – stood on the periphery, watching.  “It’s those monsters outside,” Jerry continued.  ”The evil monk and his pet dog.”

Harry blinked.  “You’re speaking gibberish!”

“You reckon?”  Jerry contested.  “Then why don’t you tell me what can chuck a guy through a pub window like a ragdoll, huh?”

Harry had no answer and that worried him, but before he could send himself deeper into anxious musings, Jess shoved him hard on the arm.  “You’re not helping.”  She beat her fists against his arm again.  “You need to help him.”

“Okay,” said Harry, shaking himself into action and raising his voice.  “Let’s get him someplace comfortable.  I need someone to bring me blankets, bandages, anything like that.  Is there a first aid kit here?”

Steph stepped forward and nodded.  “There’s one in the back. I’ll go get it.”

Harry smiled, glad to have her help.  When Steph rushed off, he turned to address the others.  “Jess and I are going to carry Jerry over to the couch by the fire.  While I’m doing that I need the rest of you to get that window covered up before we all freeze to death.”

There was a mumbling of agreement and everyone got to work.  Harry slid his right arm underneath Peter’s shoulders and instructed Jess to get his legs.  She did so without argument.  “We need to move slowly,” he told her.  “We don’t know what kind of damage has been done, so easy does it.”

Jess nodded agreement and the two of them shuffled their way across the bar, being careful to avoid twisting or jerking the patient in their care.  In the corner of his eye Harry was aware that the others in the pub were upending a table and pushing it up against the broken glass. He was surprised to see that Damien was also amongst the group; in fact he seemed to be the one taking charge.

Maybe he’s not as selfish as he tries to show people he is.

“Okay, Jess,” said Harry, coming to a stop gradually besides the sofa, “you lower Peter’s legs and I’ll lower his body.  Carefully does it.”

The two of them lowered Peter down, an inch at a time, until finally, he was resting securely on the sofa.  Amidst the glow of the fireplace, the severity of the boy’s wounds became evident.  Shards of glass protruded from deep gashes all over his body, poking through his torn clothing like alligator teeth.  Harry also noticed that one of the boy’s eyes had been mangled beyond repair.  It looked like a squished cherry tomato and dripped blackish-red gunge down his cheek.  Harry felt his stomach tighten.

Who the hell did this?  Who could make such a mess of another human being?

“Peter, everything is going to be fine now.”  Jess spoke soothingly, stroking a hand across the boy’s forehead.  “You’re safe and I’m going to look after you.”

Peter muttered something in reply but it made no sense, more of a gurgle than discernible speech.  Harry continued to examine his body and was shocked to discover yet more wounds, more cuts, and more blood.  Not to mention a broken ankle that seemed like it had been attached to the boy’s shinbone back to front, sticking out at a gruesome angle.

Harry placed a hand against Peter’s clammy cheek and shook his head.  “Who did this to you?”

Peter opened his remaining good eye and seemed to concentrate.  He tried focusing on Harry but his eyeball kept flicking left and right as if it had a mind of its own.  His mouth formed the words, “Skrzdlaty Diabel.”

Harry frowned.  “Peter, can you tell me in English?”

The boy took a wheezing breath.  It seemed to take every ounce of strength for him to form another sentence, but he managed to utter one more word: “Winged…”

“Winged what?” asked Jess, tears streaking her cheeks.

Peter gazed at her and almost managed a smile, like he had only just realised she was there.  “Winged…Demon.”

Peter lost consciousness.

Jess went to put her hands on him, perhaps to shake him back awake, but Harry prevented her.  “Let him rest.”

Jess leaned up against Harry.  He could feel her shaking as she looked up at him.  “What do you think he meant?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry honestly.  “Probably just shock.”

Jess shook her head.  “If it wasn’t for all the other things that have happened tonight I may have believed you.”

Harry hated to admit it, but he was inclined to agree with the girl.  Something most definitely was wrong tonight.  The thing that worried him most, however, was when he tried to imagine what and why?

“Harry?”

Harry spun around to find Steph holding a green plastic box.  A first aid kit.  He took it and thanked her, but she didn’t hear it, too busy looking down at the bleeding casualty on the sofa.

Eventually, her attention turned back to Harry.  “Is he going to be okay?”

Harry glanced down at his shoes, then straightened up and took Steph to one side.  He didn’t want Jess to hear what he was about to say.  “I don’t know.  He’s been ripped to shreds and I think he’s blind in one eye.  I honestly don’t know what could do this to a person….or why.”

Steph’s expression grew dim, her skin becoming ashen even in the orange glow of the fire.  “Are we in trouble here, Harry?”

“I can’t answer that; but I can tell you one thing, I’ve never wanted out of this pub so bad.”

Steph nodded.  “I’ll go check on the others.  Just do what you can for him, yeah?”

Harry nodded and turned back to the sofa.  Jess was perched on the armrest, looking sick to her stomach.  He wondered how close she was to Peter.  Obviously they were co-workers, but were they more than that?

Isn’t Jerry her boyfriend?

“How’s he doing?” Harry asked her.

Jess shook her head and didn’t speak.

Harry knelt down beside Peter.  The heat of the fire pinched at the flesh of his back, making it itch.  He placed the first aid box down on the ground and popped open the lid.  Inside were the things one would expect to find: gauze, bandages, tape, alcohol wipes, and plasters.  He also found an eye dressing which he plucked out of the contents first.

After applying the dressing to Peter’s damaged, oozing eye and securing it around the back of the boy’s head, Harry moved on to the other wounds.  He unbuttoned Peter’s supermarket work shirt to get a clearer look.

Jess slapped a hand across her mouth.

At first, Harry wasn’t sure what he was seeing.  He unclasped the final button on Peter’s shirt and pulled the fabric away.  A film of glistening blood covered the boy’s chest and stomach, flowing from deep channels scored into his flesh.  As Harry took it all in, he realised that the gashes weren’t just random injuries.

“Someone’s carved words into him.”

Jess looked like she could throw up at any moment.  “W-what does it say?”

“Hold on.”  Harry pulled a couple of alcohol wipes from the first aid kit and ripped them from their packets.  He rubbed at Peter’s wounds, clearing away as much of the blood as he could, fighting away fresh tides that sought to replace it.  Slowly, the words became clearer.

SEnD…

Out…

ThE…

S…i…N…N…e…R.

“Send out the sinner?”  Harry said the words out loud, hoping his brain would come up with some interpretation that made sense.

“What does it mean?” Jess asked.

“I have no idea,” Harry replied – and he didn’t.  In fact, Harry had no understanding whatsoever about the kind of monster it would take to carve words into someone’s chest.  He took a deep breath and let it out.  “Maybe we should go get the others.”

Jess agreed.

They dressed as many of Peter’s wounds as they could and left him sleeping on the sofa, then joined up with the others who were still attending to the shattered window.  They’d managed to stack two tables up against the broken glass and reinforce them with chairs.  The long curtains had been pulled around the whole thing and the billowing gust had been reduced to a whistling breeze.

“Good job,” said Harry, genuinely impressed.

Those at the window turned around.  Each of them looked shaken and out of breath, even Damien.  Kath was the only one that didn’t appear to be bothered.  Harry watched the woman, sat on a nearby chair, pick at her nails as though she had not a care in the world.

“Harry Boy.  How’s the nipper?” asked Lucas, appearing suddenly.

Harry rubbed at his eyes and let out a sigh.  “Not good.  Someone’s made a real mess of him, blinded him, and cut words into his chest.”

Damien overheard this and stepped away from the window.  “Someone carved words into him?  That’s harsh, man.  What’s it say?”

Harry shrugged.  “Something about sin.”

Steph slid another chair up against the barricade, reinforcing it further.  She turned to face Harry.  “Sin?  I don’t understand.  What exactly did it say?”

“God knows,” Harry said.  “Just the words of a psychopath.”

Jess spoke up.  ”It said, send out the sinner.”

“The fuck that mean?” Damien demanded.  “Does someone in here know what’s going on out there?”

Harry pointed his finger at Damien.  “Calm down.  It probably doesn’t mean anything.  We just need to stick together and everything will be fine.  No one needs to panic.”

Damien snarled.  “Point your finger at me and I’ll break it off.  I ain’t panicking, I’m pissed off.  It’s obvious that this is personal.  Whoever’s running around out there, like Freddie-Krueger-on-acid, has a grudge against someone in here.”

“Nonsense,” said Harry.

“Maybe not,” Lucas chimed in.  “You don’t use a human being as a meat-memo-pad and hurl them through a window unless you’re trying to send a wee message.  Maybe what’s happening tonight is all down to one person.”

A silence fell over the group as they scanned one another suspiciously, trying to work out who was ‘the sinner’.

Harry wondered if it was him.

Chapter Seventeen

Nigel Sutcliffe had sat and watched the unfolding situation for the last half hour.  He’d retreated to the outskirts of the group to try and gain some insight into what was happening.  Things had started out strangely enough that evening, if only for the unnatural weather, but when the lights blinked out, things got even more bizarre (culminating with a body flying through the window like an extra in a Bruce Lee movie).  None of that particularly bothered Nigel though.  What did bother him was all this talk about the ‘sinner’.

He sat, shivering, on a stool by the bar, listening and watching as the others argued incessantly about what the injured boy’s chest carvings meant.  Who was the sinner, they demanded, and who was it outside?  Nigel decided it was a conversation he was better off avoiding because he knew that he indeed was very much a sinner.  In fact, sometimes, he felt as though he was born a sinner.

But was he the sinner?

Maybe it was worry over nothing.  Nigel didn’t care what happened to his immortal soul.  All that mattered to him was how much pleasure he could find in this life.  The skinny bitch he’d screwed and murdered in Amsterdam last week had been a particular highlight.  God how she’d screamed.  Especially when I went in the back door.  He smiled at the thought.

His reminiscing was interrupted by the arrival of Steph at the bar beside him.  She handed him a beer and said, “It just about defrosted in front of the fire.”

Nigel thanked her.  “Just what I needed.  Things are a little crazy around here tonight, huh?”

“Tell me about it!”  Steph swigged from her own bottle.  “I feel like I’m in a horror film.  Still haven’t decided on an emotion yet, but I’m stuck somewhere between dazed and terrified.”

Nigel put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed; his pinkie ring slid over the fabric of her delicate blouse and stirred deep emotions within him.  The gold ring featured a dolphin insignia at its centre and was his most prized possession: a memento of his first victim, a twelve-year-old blonde, pretty, with chubby cheeks like a prepubescent Drew Barrymore.  He’d bitten it off her finger as she wailed and squirmed in the back of his lorry.  He’d worn the dolphin ring ever since, enjoying the way it felt on his penis as he masturbated over his dying victims.

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” he reassured Steph.  “I think whatever’s going on tonight is personal.”

“Personal?  You mean ‘the sinner’?”

The word made Nigel swallow a lump in his throat.  “Whoever’s out there causing trouble obviously has it in for one of us; but you know what I think?”

Steph shook her head.

Nigel pulled his hand away from her shoulder, already missing the warm throb of her flesh.  He picked up his beer and took a deep gulp before placing the near empty bottle down on the bar.  “What I think is that this is a tiff over drugs.  The only people I know sick enough to smash a kid to pieces and lob him through a window are smack-heads…and guess what?  We just happen to have our very own aspiring drug lord right here with us.”

Steph looked across the room at the others then looked back at Nigel.  “You think this is all about Damien?”

Nigel shrugged.  “He’s the biggest sinner I know.  Beat some kid into a coma last year, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Steph admitted.  “I heard that too, but whether or not it’s true…”

“Well it’s certainly within his nature from what I’ve seen tonight.  He’s been glaring at Harry all night, plus he threw a punch at the Irish fella.”

Steph looked over at Lucas.  “What do you make of him?”

“Lucas?  It’s strange how he turns up for the first time on a night like this.  Maybe he’s the eyes and ears for whoever’s outside.  Could be a drug lord looking to come into the area and put Damien out of business.  Maybe they’re making their move tonight because they’re hoping the snow will keep the police away.”

“You’re really sure it’s about drugs aren’t you?”

Nigel shrugged.  “I don’t know anything for sure.  One thing I do know is that if whoever’s out there is looking for a sinner – and that’s not me.  I’m a decent, God-fearing man.”

Steph laughed.  “Good for you, but I don’t believe anyone’s innocent one hundred per cent.  No one’s perfect.  It’s where people’s hearts are that matters.”

“That’s a lovely way of seeing the world and it’s no doubt why you’re such a lovely woman.”

“Nigel, you’ll make me blush, you charmer.”  She gave him a quick hug around the waist.  “I best go check on the others.  There are more beers to hand out.”

Nigel laughed.  “Vital work, you best get started.”

Steph walked away, leaving Nigel to enjoy the sight of her lithe figure fading into the darkness as she left the candle-light of the bar.  He kept his eye on her rump as it wiggled and shifted in her jeans.  Nigel felt himself get hard.

Is tonight the night?

Nigel knew how lucky he was to be in the pub tonight.  If he was on the road right now he would be fighting hypothermia in the cramped confines of his lorry’s sleeper cabin.  He felt even luckier for the opportunity he found before him tonight.  The only reason he continued coming to The Trumpet during his days off was to see Steph…or, more truthfully, to stalk her.  From the first time he’d seen her alluring presence behind the bar Nigel knew he was going to have her.  The more he watched her sexy little ass saunter around the bar, the more certain he became that he needed to have her soon.  He’d just been waiting for the right opportunity.

And it’s finally come around.

Tonight was the night.  It had to be.  The lights were off, the roads were closed, and a group of psychopaths roamed the streets outside.  If he did Steph tonight, he could make it look like somebody else’s doing with the slightest of ease.  Even if the others were to find out…then he would just have to deal with them.  Even if he turned the pub into a blood bath, he could get in his lorry come morning and be a hundred miles away by the time anybody noticed.

Nigel put his hand in his trouser pocket and rubbed at the flick knife pushing against his throbbing erection.  He grinned ear to ear.

Yes, my little prize, tonight is most definitely the night.

Chapter Eighteen

“What the hell do we do?”

Harry heard Jess’s voice, but had no answers for her.  Peter’s condition was bad, that much was plain to see.  He’d remained unconscious since they’d patched him up earlier and his condition had only seemed to get worse since then.  His ruined eye was almost certainly lost.  Medical attention was desperately needed, but when everyone at the bar tried their mobiles they were met only with static.  Steph had found the exact same thing with the pub’s landline.  With the snow outside, along with the boy’s attackers, they were stranded, and alone.

“We just need to do the best we can for him, right now,” said Harry.  “Then in the morning maybe we can go get help.  There’s a main road nearby where we can wait for someone to drive past.”  Harry could see the anguish in Jess’s eyes but was powerless to do anything about it.  He wasn’t a doctor and could do nothing about the snow either.  All the same, he felt like he was letting the poor girl down.  Harry just hoped she didn’t see the flaw in his plan: that the main roads were closed and that nobody would be driving by tomorrow, or probably even the next day.

“He’ll be okay,” said Jerry, coming over and placing an arm around her.  “We just need to keep him warm.”

Harry watched the two of them walk back to where Peter lay and it dawned on him that his entire body was becoming numb from the cold.  The only place in the pub left with any warmth at all was by the fireplace, and that was now taken up by their causality.  Harry decided to move over to the bar and joined the others that had gathered there on the stools.  Steph was busy handing out fresh beers.

“Got one for me?” he asked her.

Steph smiled.  “Sure, Harry, here you go.”

Harry thanked her and took the stool beside Nigel, who himself was sitting next to Lucas, then asked the question that was on his mind: “Say, is anybody else wondering what we’re going to do for warmth now that Peter is taking up the fire?”

Steph winked at him.  “Already on it.  Damien and Old Graham are down in the cellar looking for anything we could start a fire with.  I’m pretty sure I saw a steel barrel down there once, so I was thinking we could stab some holes in it and use it as a furnace.”

Lucas laughed.  “This gal is something else, don’t you reckon?”

Harry looked at Steph for a moment and their eyes met.  “Yes, Lucas, she most definitely is.”

“You think the kid’s going to snuff it?”

The comment came from Nigel and Harry was taken aback by the man’s harsh wording.  “What?”

“I overheard you talking to the girl,” said Nigel.  “I could tell by your voice that you don’t hold out much hope.”

The negativity irritated Harry, but he assumed it was only natural in the situation they were all in.  “I can’t say for sure – I’m not a doctor – but I know enough to see that the poor lad’s suffered more than anyone ever should.”

“You ever seen anyone in such a state before?” Lucas asked.

Harry conjured up images from his memory but quickly stopped himself.  “No, I haven’t,” he lied.  “I’ve never seen injuries like it before, which is why I’m not sure if he’ll last the night.”

“Well then,” Lucas replied, “perhaps we should be worrying more about whom – or what – did this to the lad.  There’s someone out there looking to do us all harm, and we’ve got enough on our plates with just the weather.”

“I agree,” said Steph from the other side of the bar, still assuming her job role was valid (in a way it probably still was).  “I don’t like any of this.  I feel like we’re cut off from civilisation.  The phones are dead, the electric’s off, we’re freezing our tits off, and we can’t go outside because some madman is knifing people up.  I don’t even want to think what the rest of the country is like.  I’m starting to get really freaked out.”

“We don’t know there’s a madman outside,” said Harry.  “Perhaps Peter made an enemy and they’ve got what they wanted just by hurting him.”

Nigel posed a question that made Harry’s logic falter.  “Why throw him through the window?”

“Yeah,” said Steph.  “If they wanted to kill Peter they would have been better leaving him to freeze outside in the snow.  Throwing him through the window makes it pretty obvious they were trying to frighten everyone in the pub.”

Lucas put his beer down on the bar with a clink!  “Maybe it was a message for the sinner,” he said.

“More talk about this bloody sinner,” said Nigel, banging down his own beer on the bar.  “Why are we buying into this nonsense?  If someone is crazy enough to carve words into someone’s chest then I think it’s fair to say they’ve lost a certain amount of marbles – probably an entire play set.”

“You’re probably right,” Harry admitted.  “How would we even know who’s a sinner and who isn’t, anyway?”

“Exactly,” said Nigel, seemingly satisfied.

Steph pushed another recently-thawed beer over to Lucas, who was about to finish his current one.  “We already spoke about that,” she mentioned.  “Nigel seems to think that it’s all about drugs, and that Damien is the one they want.”

“Well, well, well.  Is that right, now?”  Damien entered the bar area from a room in the back.  Old Graham was stood behind him and seemed to be cringing.  Harry cringed too when he realised that Damien had just heard the accusation.

Damien stepped through the hatch at the side of the bar and ambled over to Nigel.  “So you think I caused all this, do you?”

Nigel shifted on his stool.  “I didn’t say that.  I…I was just talking to Steph about who could be out there and…and…”

“…and you thought you’d blame everything on me?  Why’s that then?  Is it because you think you’re better than me?  That I’m just some fuckin’ mug?”

“No, I just thought…”

“You thought shit!”  Damien snarled, tensing up like a wild animal.  “You’re a dead man.”

Nigel got off his stool and backed away.  Lucas leapt up too and stood between the two.  “I had your word,” he said to Damien.

Damien stopped his pursuit of Nigel and looked at Lucas.  “What are you talking about, you stupid Mick?”

Lucas put a hand on Damien’s neck and pulled him in close.  “I had your word that you’d behave – at least for tonight.  The only reason Nigel is looking to blame people is because he’s afraid.”

“Hey,” Nigel protested.

“We’re all afraid,” Lucas continued.  “If you’re not then my hat is off to you, but the rest of us are.  And when people are scared they run their mouth.  It’s nothing personal, just what people do to try and make sense of things.  Stops their minds floating away with them.”

“Yeah,” said Nigel.  “I don’t know what’s going on tonight.  I was just talking shit.  I figured that because you’re a tough guy, you’d have some tough enemies.”

Lucas released Damien from his grip and stepped away.  Harry wondered if Lucas had done so to allow a fight to happen, but all seemed okay when Damien remained in place.  The young lad seemed to be thinking something over.

“You better keep your accusations to yourself from now on,” Damien told Nigel, “because I’ll tell you something: I’m bloody cold tonight, and kicking your arse would be a nice way to warm up!”

Harry was glad that, yet again, Damien had been reigned in.  In fact, he started to wonder whether the thug was as unreasonable and bloodthirsty as people made out.  He considered giving the lad the benefit of the doubt.

At least for now.

“Can we get a beer for Damien?” Harry asked.

Damien shook his head.  “I’m good.  I found that old drum in the basement, Steph, but I need help dragging it up.  Then we should be able to start a decent fire and get some goddamn heat in here.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.  “Really?  That’s great.  I’ll come and help you.”

Damien nodded and walked back through the hatch, disappearing through the narrow door behind the bar.  Harry followed him into the rear corridor and then down the stairs into the cellar.  At the bottom, he found Damien and Old Graham waiting next to a rusty old drum that appeared to have been dragged out of a cluttered corner (if the trail of candle-lit debris was anything to go by).  The cellar was a mess, with mounds of rotting wood and cardboard promotion stands for various beer companies making up several piles around the small square space.

“You going to help or not?” Damien asked, tipping the drum onto its edge.

Harry hurried over and grabbed the barrel’s rim, while Old Graham kicked away any obstructions that covered the route to the stairs.  Turned out the old man was quite spry for his age.

“After three,” said Harry.  “One…two…three…”  He and Damien heaved, and began rolling the drum along on its edge, heading for the bottom of the stairs.  It was empty but still substantial in weight; Harry felt his hands chafing under the pressure.  “How are we going lift it up the stairs?” he asked as they neared the bottom step.

Damien laughed.  “Back giving out on you?  We’ll just lift it, step by step.  Piece of piss.”

The two of them stopped at the stairway and righted the drum back onto its base, dropping it down with a Wong!  “Okay,” said Harry.  “You ready?”

“Ready for what?  A bit of lifting?”

Harry shook his head, unwilling to get into a pissing contest.  He turned to look at Old Graham.  “Maybe you could gather up some of this cardboard so we can use it for the fire?”

Old Graham nodded and got to work.

Harry signalled to Damien and the two began to lift.  They hoisted the drum onto the first step with little effort, and then again onto the second and third.  By the fourth, Harry was starting to lose his breath.  “Can we stop a sec,” he said.

Damien shook his head.  “Can we bollocks!  Come on, I’m freezing.  Maybe if you didn’t drink so much, you’d have more stamina.”

Harry felt his pulse quicken as he fought the urge to slap some respect into the cretinous little sod, but decided to let his actions argue for him.  “Right, come on then!”  He tried to sound full of vigour, despite the tightness in his chest.  “Last thing I want is for your delicate little body to get cold.”

Damien snickered but didn’t rebuke.  The two of them continued hoisting the steel drum upwards.  They scaled the fifth step and then the sixth.  The seventh and eight were hard work but they managed to shift the deadweight up using their feet underneath to kick it upwards.  With two more steps left, Harry looked forward to finally releasing the drum at the top.  His shoulders burned with fire while his lungs had started to cramp up.  Damien was right; a year of constant drinking had left Harry in the physical state of a man twice his age.  He felt ashamed.

Just two more steps though and it’s done.  You can make it.

They hoisted the drum once more, jarring it upwards with their arms.  The barrel rose and Damien began to slide it up onto the next step.  As he did so, the bottom edge of the barrel struck against the lip of the step.  Harry pushed his side up, trying to clear the two centre-metres needed to get the drum up onto the platform, but found himself unable to move.  He strained harder, willed his arms to move, but instead they lowered against his control.  Harry’s strength diminished; his grip gave out completely.

Damien cursed as the weight in his hands doubled.  Harry watched helplessly as the lad tried to keep the drum under control, attempting to trap it with his leg.  Somehow, despite Damien’s best efforts, it twisted sideways and rolled away from them both.

Harry tripped backwards onto the step above as the drum fell past him and began a spiralling journey back down the stairs.  His spirits plummeted further as he realised all of the hard work his weakness had just wasted, all the time it would take to try and get the drum back up the stairs again – time the people freezing in the other room did not have.

But Harry felt a hundred times worse when he realised that Old Graham was bent over at the bottom of the stairs, gathering cardboard, oblivious to the danger hurtling towards him.

The barrel picked up speed.

Chapter Nineteen

Jess couldn’t stop worrying about Peter.  She also worried about her mum and dad, who would be in turn worrying about her.  They were usually still awake now, despite the late hour, finishing off a bottle of wine and arguing.  She hoped they were too drunk to notice that she wasn’t home yet, or that the world was slowly being swallowed up by an endless snowstorm.  Jess old herself they would be fine, but still she worried about them all the same.  Mostly though, right now, she was worried about Peter.

She looked down at her sleeping friend and was surprised to find that his injuries still had the ability to shock her.  Peter’s left eye was caked in a thick veneer of canary-yellow, custardy puss.  It wasn’t what disturbed her most however; it was the deep carvings sliced into his clammy flesh.  Send out the sinner.

Whatever it meant, it was the work of sickos, for sure.  Peter never did anything to hurt anyone.  He was sweet and gentle, probably the nicest boy she’d ever known.  Not like the usual football-obsessed dickheads she usually met online.  She looked down at Peter’s gore-crusted face and saw that, despite the blood, she could still make out his gentle features and soft lips.  Before tonight, she had sometimes thought about what it would be like to kiss them.  She wondered if he’d ever thought about kissing her too.

Bloody Hell, Jess!  Peter’s lying here, dying, and you’re thinking about making out with him.  Jeez!

At that moment, Peter opened his eye.  Jess didn’t notice at first, but when he started to moan it startled her.  He continued moaning until the strangled noises eventually began to form words.  “Jess…ica.”

Jess nodded and smiled, tears gushing down her cheeks.  “Yes, yes, it’s me.  I was so worried about you, Peter.  What on Earth happened to you?”

Peter focused intensely on her for a moment, lips puckering as if preparing for some great speech.  She hoped it wasn’t going to be a final one.  “Jessica…” he grimaced, “listen…to me.”

She put a hand against his cheek.  It throbbed heat like a radiator.  “I am, Peter.  I’m here.”

“Get away,” he said, “out of here.”

Jess blinked.  “What do you mean?”

A hiss of air whistled in Peter’s nostrils as though forcing its way past a blockage.  He repeated himself, but more weakly, like he was going to lose consciousness again at any moment.  “Get away.  They are…coming.”

Peter’s good eye rolled back in his head and then disappeared behind his drooping eyelid.  He was gone again.  Maybe forever, Jess contemplated sadly.  Before she had time to consider what Peter had been trying to tell her, she was alerted by a crash.

Followed by cries of pain; screams of agony.

What is happening now?  I don’t think I can take any more.

Jess felt numb and moved sluggishly.  Making her way over to the bar area, she could see that a commotion had already begun to take place.  Harry, Damien, and the old man were missing, but Lucas, Steph, and Nigel were milling around the bar looking concerned.  She searched for Jerry and found him on his own, sitting at a table in the corner.  He was shivering and didn’t seem to be paying much attention to anything that was going on.  She made a mental-note to check up on him later.  Kath sat nearby too, also seemingly uninterested in anything that was going on.  When Jess reached the bar she found herself face to face with Lucas, who was making his way through the bar hatch to the staff side.  He stopped when he saw her.

“What’s going on?” she asked him.

“Dunno, lass.  The menfolk went downstairs to get us something for a fire.  Next thing we know there’s a load of caterwauling.”  Lucas moved into the doorway behind the serving area that led into the back of the pub, leaving the candlelight of the bar and fading into the shadows.  Before disappearing completely, he turned back to her.  “You coming or not, lass?”

Jess stood for a moment then nodded.  She followed after Lucas into the unlit corridor, groping against the wall to keep herself steady.  Further on down, the sounds of someone in pain became clearer, and so did other sounds…people bickering.  It sounded like Harry and Damien.  She hoped everyone was alright, but worried that Damien had lashed out and hurt somebody; broken Harry’s nose or worse?

Lucas sparked his lighter and the corridor lit up in a flood around them.  He reached out to stop Jess before she bumped into him.  “I think they’re down there,” he said.

To their left was an open doorway leading to a narrow staircase.  A breeze seemed to wisp up from the cellar and tickle Jess’s cheeks and the inside of her nostrils.

Lucas placed his hands either side of his mouth and shouted down the stairs.  “You fellas okay down there?  We heard yelling.”

After a few seconds a voice that Jess recognised as Harry’s floated up the stairs.  “We need help.  Graham is hurt.  It was my fau-”

“Just get some light down here and some blankets.”  The new voice was Damien’s, cutting off Harry mid-sentence.  “We’ve had a slight screw-up but everything’s going to be sound.”

Jess couldn’t help feeling that things were most definitely not going to be ‘sound’.  Peter was on death’s door and now the old man was injured.

Two down…  How many more to go?

Jess gut told her they were all in for a long night and that their troubles were not yet over.

Not by a long shot.

###

Kath almost felt bad.

Almost.

It had, after all, been Peter’s decision to run off to look for the stupid girl; no one had made him do it.  Ironically, Kath was the one who ended up finding Jess anyway, and that had just proved even more how idiotic the boy was for not listening to her.  Still, she couldn’t help but ruminate about what had happened.

Someone messed him up real good.  Probably crossed the wrong people; Polish Mafia or something.  Kath suddenly had another thought: Or there really is a psychopath stalking us all?

If there was a sadistic madman running amok out there, was she going to be safe here in the pub?  It didn’t feel like it.  The Trumpet was full of degenerates from what she’d seen so far.

You had Lucas, prancing around like a drunken leprechaun; Nigel, an ugly man that lacked any personality she could discern of; Steph, a low-class tramp; and that insufferable girl, Jess.  Of all the people Kath could be trapped with, Jess would have been last on her handwritten list.  Her little buddy from the video shop was no less irritating, backing up her absurd stories just so he could get into her filthy knickers – if the slut even wears any.  Next was Damien, a walking billboard for dysfunctional youth and petty crime.  Finally, you had the pensioner, stinking of piss and beer, and the alcoholic loser, Harry.  She could tell Harry was a drunk because he had that same weathered look on his face that her father used to have.  A slow, draining sickness that killed a man one drink at a time; made him neglect everything important.

Maybe if Kath’s father hadn’t been such a deadbeat she could have finished her History degree and actually done something with her life.  Instead she ended up supporting him until she hit twenty-eight.  The day she found her father lying on the floor, fading from a heart attack had been a turning point for her.  The thought of him pleading with her to call for help, while she stood there shaking her head and watching him die, was significant to her.  It was the day she decided she would no longer let anyone take advantage of her.  She would look out only for herself from then on.  Selfish, lazy drunks like Harry could go right to Hell.

All around Kath, the degenerates scuttled around like displaced ants, clutching blankets and bottles of water, carrying them in a line.  Something was happening in one of the backrooms of the pub, but Kath couldn’t say she really cared.  She was only with these people for safety, and the last thing she wanted was to be involved with them beyond that.

Maybe the thug has finally thrown a punch at the drunk, she thought.  Punch drunk!

She laughed out loud, but secretly hoped that harmless bickering was all that was happening in the back, but when she thought again about who had thrown Peter through the window, and why, she started to worry that there was far more danger lurking in the air tonight than a simple punch up.

“Well,” she said out loud. “I’d best go see what those idiots have gotten themselves into.”

Kath stood up and headed for the darkness of the corridor.

Chapter Twenty

“I’m so sorry, Graham.”  Harry looked down at the old man’s twisted leg and felt the urge to punch himself in the face.  How could he be so stupid, getting caught in a testosterone contest with a kid ten years his junior?  He was pathetic and for the first time was finally realising it.  He put his hand on Old Graham’s shallow chest and could feel the man’s ribs through tissue-paper skin.  The scar below Harry’s knuckles reminded him that he had a habit of hurting people.

“Harry,” Old Graham whispered, not to be quiet but because the old man was obviously winded by his sudden ordeal.  The pain from his damaged leg was probably sapping the breath from his aged lungs too.  “Harry, don’t worry.  I’m okay, it’s just me leg.  Get it fixed up in the morning, good as new.”

Harry didn’t want to lie to him.  “I don’t think tomorrow’s going to be any better.  I’m not sure if we can get you help.”

Old Graham snorted.  “Then just put me in a bath full of whiskey.  By the time I drink meself dry, the snow will have gone and the ambulances will be back on the road.”

Harry smiled.  “I’m really so-”

“If you say you’re sorry one more time, son, I’ll break my other leg just to shut you up.”

For reasons he couldn’t quite understand Harry felt like crying, breaking down right there and giving up.  All the times that he had labelled Old Graham a nuisance, he’d never taken the time to see what a kind, forgiving man he was.  Harry had stopped taking the time to find out anything about anyone after the car crash; now he realised that had been a mistake.

“Can I do anything?” he asked Old Graham.

“No, just get me a beer and a snog off Steph, and we’ll call it quits.

Harry laughed.  “Well I’ll do my best, but I’m thinking I’ll only be able to manage one of those.”

Old Graham opened his eyes wide like a startled rabbit.  “What?  You mean we’re out of beer!”

Harry stood up, wanting to laugh his ass off at the old man’s fighting spirit, but somehow finding it impossible.  Laughter was a luxury he’d run out of.

In the hallway above, a sphere of light began an ethereal descent down the dark-shrouded staircase.  By the time it got down to the last few steps, it revealed itself.  Steph was carrying a bar tray full of candles and nodded at him as soon as she saw him.

“Hey,” said Harry quietly, taking her to one side.  “I think he’s going to be okay for now.  He’s tough as old boots.”

“Old Graham?  Yeah, I could have told you that.  Took a bullet in the Falklands and didn’t even realise till he was back on base a day later.”

Harry frowned.  “He tell you that?”

“Yeah,” said Steph, keeping her voice down.  “That’s one of his stories I like to believe; makes me think of him as a hero.”

Harry thought for a moment then nodded.  “Yeah, I think it’s one I’d like to believe too.”

Steph stroked a hand against Harry’s shoulder and rubbed all the way from his elbow to his neck.  The feeling made his stomach flutter and filled him with a mixture of excitement and remorse.

“How you holding up, Harry?” she asked him.

He didn’t know what to say and felt sick as he tried to comprehend an answer to the question.  After a while, he said, “I really don’t know.  With all that’s happened tonight, I’m starting to wonder if I’m losing my mind.”

“Me too.  I feel like we’re the only people left in the world and we can’t go outside because we’ll either freeze to death or have some obsessed Clive Barker fan carve words into our chests.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.  “Clive Barker?  You read a lot?”

Another thing you never bothered to find out about her, Harry.  Nice going.

Steph nodded, the tray of candles bobbing in time with her head.  “Yeah, I love to read.  Everything from Stephen King to John Grisham; anything I can get my hands on, really.”

“You don’t find that enough nowadays,” said Harry.  “People treat reading like a taboo – television’s uncool relation.”

“Totally,” she agreed happily.  “I take it you’re a big reader as well then?”

Harry shook his head.  “No, not really.”

Steph stared at him for a moment looking confused, but then broke out in hysterical laughter.  After a moment, Harry was surprised to find that he was joining her.  Maybe laughter wasn’t a luxury he was completely out of just yet.

Or maybe Steph is just a master of getting blood out of a stone.

Or feelings from a torn heart.

“Oh Harry,” Steph patted him on the shoulder.  “You do make me laugh!  I’m really going to have to get to know you better when this is all over.”

Harry considered that and decided he would like it very much.  It was time to start living again, forgetting about the things he could not change.

“Anyway,” he said, starting a new subject, “got a plan on what to do next?”

Steph nodded.  “Damien said the barrel is just too heavy to get up the stairs so we should all come down here to start a fire.  He said a small windowless room like this would be easier to heat anyway.  We just need to leave the door at the top of the stairs open so we can breathe.”

“Good idea,” agreed Harry, immediately wondering why Damien hadn’t cried bloody murder over his earlier mistake.  The lad knew it was Harry’s fault; that when the drum had been only one step away from the top he had dropped it.  Yet, for some reason, Damien made out as though it had been an impossible task to begin with and nobody’s fault.  Tonight had muddled Harry’s entire opinion of the lad.  He wasn’t ready to trust Damien just yet, but had at least started to consider it.

“Everyone’s upstairs,” said Steph, “gathering stuff to burn.  We’re going to leave Peter in front of the fire.  Jess said she’d stay with him.”

Harry nodded.  “We’ll have to keep an eye on them both.  It may not be safe for her to be alone.  I’ll go see if she needs anything and then go help the others.”

“Okay, Harry.  I’ll get Old Graham nice and comfy then get this place lit up.  See you in a bit.  Mind yourself in the dark.”

Harry moved aside to let Steph past with her candles and then he started to climb the stairs.  He was taken back to earlier when he’d tried to climb up with the barrel.  He had a lot of making up to do to Old Graham that was for sure, but at least Damien had turned the disaster into a sustainable plan B.  It would indeed be warmer in the cellar once they got the fire going and Harry started to feel far more hopeful about their situation just thinking about it.  Prior to now, he had been scared that they would all freeze to death.  It seemed silly now.

The corridor at the top of the stairs was pitch-black, but Harry could make out a dim, flickering light coming from the bar’s candles at the far end of the hallway.  He felt his way towards them and found Lucas standing at the bar.  The Irishman was busy gathering beers and a big bottle of Famous Grouse whiskey into an empty crisp carton.

“Getting essentials, I see?” said Harry as he entered the bar.

Lucas held up an uncapped beer and swigged from it, letting out a lip-smacking sigh at the end.  “Don’t ya know it!  I asked the old fella what he needed and all he said was beer and plenty of it.  Can’t deny an injured pensioner now, can I?  What kind of man would that make me?”

“Never thought of it like that.”  Harry fired off a mock salute.  “Keep up the good work, private.”

Lucas returned the salute.  “Will do, Major Jobson, sir!”

Harry continued on from the bar and walked over to Jess at the fireplace.  She flinched, as though he had startled her.  It wasn’t surprising really; sounded as if the poor girl had been through worse than anyone tonight.

“You okay?” he asked her.

“Fine,” she replied, stroking Peter’s forehead with a damp cloth she had no doubt warmed in front of the fire.  “I can’t leave him here alone, and I don’t think it would be right to move him either.  Jerry has gone to find us some snacks.  He’ll be back soon to keep me company.  Anyway, I have this if I get into any real trouble.”  Jess reached down beside the sofa and came up with a great shiny piece of metal.

Harry nodded.  “The call bell.  Good idea.  Not a single man whose ears don’t prick up at that sound.  Just ring if you need help, okay?”

Jess seemed proud for a moment, but her sombre expression soon returned when she went back to nursing Peter.  When she spoke again, she did so without looking Harry in the eye.  “How is Graham doing?  His leg seems painful.”

Painful wasn’t a good enough word to describe the result of Harry’s stupidity.  He smiled to reassure her.  “Luckily, there’s no bleeding.  I think it’s broken, but he’s okay for now.  Chipper as ever, long as he has us bringing him beer all night.”

“He seems like a nice old man,” she said.  “I hope he’s okay.”

Harry nodded.  “Me too.”

He thought Jess was going to carry on the conversation a little longer, but instead of replying he caught her looking over his shoulder.  Her eyes went wide as if something concerned her.

Harry swallowed a lump in his throat.  Why is she staring like that?  Is something behind me?

He spun around, and found Damien standing up against him.  As usual the lad’s face was a thick, syrupy mixture of frowns and scowls, but there seemed to be something else in his expression too.  Harry felt his wariness of the lad return.  Had he really been thinking that Damien wasn’t dangerous?  That he was a good person deep down?

Idiot, Harry.  He’s probably looking to stamp your kneecaps in for dropping the barrel.  God knows I deserve it.

Damien’s expression didn’t change as he pointed over his own shoulder with a thumb.  “Come with me,” he said, walking off in the opposite direction and leaving Harry wondering what to do.

Should I follow?
Or should I grab a weapon and prepare to fight for my freakin’ life?  Harry didn’t know and decided that, until he did, it would be best to just play along.

Damien had headed over to the back exit corridor; the one leading outside or off to the toilets.  It also led to the seldom-used dance floor at the back of the pub.  Harry doubled his pace to catch up; managing to get there a second or two before Damien stopped and turned around.

“Take a look.”  Damien pointed to the exit door.  “Look through the window at the top.”

For a second Harry had visions of doing as he was told and having his head rammed through the glass.  Wasn’t that the kind of thing gangsters do?  Made you dig your own grave?  Harry sighed.  If something was going to happen, it was going to happen.  He stepped toward the door, waiting for an attack.

“Look through,” Damien ordered again.

Harry moved up against the door and put his face against the glass.  There was no prompting necessary on where to look or what to focus on.  It was clear for him to see.

Damien spoke again from behind Harry.  “We have big problems.”

Damn right we do!

Harry looked at the growing flames that seemed to rise from the snow in all directions – ten, twenty feet high.  The fire formed a wall around the pub like a fiery prison.

But is it meant to keep us all in?  Or to drive us out?

The fire was unnatural – Impossible!  Ferocious infernos did not rise from the snow in any world that Harry knew of.  What he was seeing could not be real.

But it was.

Either that or he was going insane.

What really terrified Harry, though, were the three crucifixes that sat within the flames, each with a struggling victim roasting alive.  The screams had no sound, but Harry could see their agony as skin peeled and blackened on their bones, leaving charred husks of flesh that were once arms, legs, and faces.  It didn’t take long for them to die.

Harry repeated Damien’s words in his head and then found himself restating them out loud.  “Big, big problems…”

Chapter Twenty-One

“I don’t understand,” said Harry, turning to face Damien.

But Damien had gone.

Where the hell has he gone?  Is the horror show outside not interesting enough?

Harry looked back out of the window.  The fires were still burning high, whipping back and forth in the growing blizzard while sizzling snowflakes filling the air like locusts in a cornfield.  It was bizarre and unsettling to see both unnatural flames and unnatural snow mingling in the same space, like two separate nightmares margining into one.

Harry started to feel like he was in a Salvador Dali painting.  He needed to make sense of the situation, but should he tell the others?  He wasn’t sure, but was astounded by the fact that he wanted Damien’s advice.  Say what you wanted about the lad, he was calm under pressure.

But where has he gone?

Harry looked back out the window one last time before moving away.  It seemed like a bad idea to take his eyes off the flames outside, but he couldn’t stay there all night.  Next to the exit it was freezing, and an aggressive breeze snuck under the door and rattled the wood on its hinges.  Harry left the corridor.

Back in the main pub area, the others were still milling around, seeking out fuel for the furnace they planned to build.  Nigel was busy tearing cushions from the chairs and snapping the legs into pieces, gathering them up on the bar in piles of wood and foam.  Kath was gathering up beer mats.  She obviously didn’t realise that they would burn only for about three seconds apiece.

“Hey, Kath,” Harry said to her.  “Maybe we can find something bigger to burn?”

The woman shot Harry a look that for a moment made him feel like she wanted him to die.  He shivered, but a second later was sure he’d just imagined it.

“I guess you’re right,” she conceded, smiling at him politely.  “I’ll go search for something else.”  She threw down the pile of beer mats and they hit the table with a slap!  Then she walked off towards the bar in a similar manner to what Harry would expect from a stroppy teenager.

Odd lady!

There was still no sign of Damien.  Harry tried to figure out where he had gone, and why so suddenly?  Also, why had he chosen only Harry to lead into the exit corridor?  It didn’t seem that anybody else knew about the flames outside, which led him back to his previously unanswered question: should I tell them?  Will they just panic?  Surely they have the right to know either way?

Harry clapped his hands together, making a decision.  “Everyone listen!”

Lucas and Nigel were nearby and focused their attention on Harry, whilst Kath reappeared from behind the bar.  At the far end of the room, Jess stood up from the sofa, leaving Peter asleep under the watchful eye of Jerry.  Harry moved into a spot that was roughly equidistant from them all.  He put his hands together again and tried to find appropriate words.  “I, um…I think there’s something that we all need to be aware of.”

“And what would that be, Harry Boy?” asked Lucas, lifting himself up onto a bar stool.  “Please tell.”

“Well…it’s, um, not easy to explain, but I think we can all agree that tonight is a strange night.”

“No argument there,” Nigel said.  “I’m starting to get a bad feeling.”

Harry pushed himself to continue, his palms sweating.  “I think we can agree that there are dangers tonight; I mean, beyond just the cold.”

“You mean what happened to that stupid boy, Peter?” said Kath in the kind of spiteful, bullying tone that Harry would expect only from a playground full of children.  “I’m sure whatever trouble he has gotten himself into was something he deserved.  That doesn’t mean that we’re in any danger.”

“You bitch!”

Harry turned to see that Jess was storming toward Kath from the other end of the pub.  Jerry strayed behind her but seemed unsure whether or not he should be following or staying put.

Lucas moved away from the bar to intercept Jess in the middle of the room.  “Calm down there, lassie.”

“I swear to god, Kath!”  Jess bunched her hands into fists.  “If you say one more thing about Peter – and I mean, one more thing – I’m going to scratch your goddamn eyes out.  This happened because of you, because you allowed him to wonder off alone.”

Kath snorted.  “I’m not his babysitter.  He’s a grown man, and if he can’t look after himself then he should have stayed in Poland.  God knows we don’t need his kind here.”

“You racist cow!”

“Call me whatever you like, dear.  I’m only saying what most of the country thinks.  Peter was probably just a petty criminal like the rest of them.  Tonight he got his comeuppance.”

To the obvious surprise of everyone, Jess’s small frame managed to get loose of Lucas’s restraining grasp and she leapt towards a nearby table snatching at the nearest thing she could find, which turned out to be an empty pint glass.  Harry watched in awe as Jess flung the object in a sweeping arc through the air, pitching it with all the aggression of a baseball player seeking their target.  It hit Kath’s with an almighty thonk!

Immediately, Kath hit the floor, clutching at her face and screaming, not like an injured person but like…

A furious person, Harry thought.

Without delay, Kath rose to her feet, almost like a boxer rising after being knocked down by a fluky sucker punch, ready to start swinging.  She was not happy and her blood-streaked face was a testament to it.  “I’ll kill you!” she vowed.

“Nobody is going to kill anybody!”

Everyone turned to find Steph coming out from behind the bar.  Damien was with her as she confronted them all.  “Now, what the hell is going on?  And why is Kath covered in blood?”

“The little bitch threw a glass at me.  She’s insane.”

Steph turned to Jess with such ferocity that the young girl took a step back.  “Is this true?  Are you causing trouble in my pub?”

Jess nodded and took another step back.

Steph pointed a finger.  “Go look after Peter, now, and if I see you move from there for the rest of the night I’ll throw you out in the snow myself.”

Jess moved so quickly it was almost a sprint.

Steph then turned to Kath.  “There’s a first aid kit in the back, sweetheart, and a little kitchenette with a sink.  Take a candle from the bar and clean yourself up.  Okay?”

Kath still bristled with fury, but her bile-filled hate was beginning to simmer down.  Not completely though.  “That girl should be locked in a padded cell.”

Steph sighed.  “Well, for now we don’t have that luxury, so the best I can do is keep you both separated.  Jess will be staying up here so you should come downstairs with the rest of us.  Now, go get that blood cleaned up before it freezes on your face.”

Kath nodded unhappily and left the room, while Lucas and Nigel went back to their tasks.  Steph and Damien approached Harry.

“What happened?” Steph demanded.

Harry ran a hand through his hair.  “I don’t know.  I was trying to get everyone together so I could tell them something and it all kicked off.  Those two really don’t like each other!”

Steph shook her head wearily.  “Tell me about it.  I’d call the police if I could.  There’s no excuse for that kind of violence.”

“It wasn’t just Jess’s fault,” Harry told her.

“I don’t doubt it.  But violence is violence; and on a night like this everyone is tense enough already.”

“Speaking of tension,” said Harry.  “There was something I was trying to tell everyone before it all went haywire.  Come with me.”

Steph nodded and followed; Damien too.

Good, he can back me up.  He already knows about the fire and the crucifixes outside.

The three of them made it over to the exit door in the rear corridor.  Harry pointed to the glass panel.  “Look through, but try to stay calm.”

“What do you mean?” Steph said.  “You’re worrying me.”

“Just…look, and then we’ll talk.”

Anxiety etched itself across Steph’s face, but she obliged nonetheless, moving up against the door and peering through the glass for several seconds.  “Jesus Christ,” she said finally.

“You see!  You see what I mean?”

Steph turned around to face him.  “Course I do.  The snow out there is getting insane.  We need to wrap up warm or we’re all going to freeze.  I don’t like this at all.”

Harry didn’t understand.  He pushed Steph to one side and peered through the glass himself.  The fire was gone.  In fact it was as though it had never been there.  The snow was deeper than ever and there were no shallow areas where the heat of a flame would have caused it to melt.  Everywhere Harry looked was cold, bleak, empty, and white.

But there was no sign of fire.

“There were flames!”  He shouted it.  “Flames everywhere.”

Steph looked confused and Harry didn’t blame her.

“Tell her, Damien.”

Damien shrugged.  “What you talking about?”

Harry blinked and shook his head in disbelief.  “What am I talking about?  You saw it too!  In fact it was you that showed me!”

Damien shook his head adamantly.  “Think there’s a stripe missing off your Adidas, mate.”

“No,” said Harry, still shaking his head and feeling more and more desperate.  “No, no, no.  You saw the flames too!  Why are you doing this?”

“Sorry dude!  I think you got me confused with someone else good looking.”

Damien walked away, leaving Harry alone with a confused-looking Steph.  He started to wonder if he’d imagined the entire thing.

No way!

“I swear it!” said Harry forcefully.  “Damien’s playing games.”

Out of the blue, Steph hugged Harry and whispered in his ear.  “If you say there was a fire out there then I believe you, okay?  Just don’t get yourself worked up, because I need you tonight.  I would have gone insane if you weren’t here.”

“You really believe me?”

Steph nodded.  “Yes!  Now go make yourself useful.  Old Graham was asking for you, so go see him.  I’ll get all the toilet paper and hand towels.  We’re going to get the fire going in a minute.”

Harry nodded and Steph left him there in the cold corridor, lost in thought about why Damien had not backed him up.  Just when I thought we were finally getting along, he makes me look like a lunatic, right in front of Steph.  Stupid, Harry.  Real stupid!  You should never trust a snake.

But Damien wasn’t worth the time right now, not when Steph had made it clear she needed Harry’s support.  She was playing nursemaid, host, and authoritarian all at the same time.  It was unfair that she had to put everyone else first when all they did was bicker.  Harry wanted to take some of the strain off her, but for now he was being summoned to attend other business.  Old Graham wanted to speak to him and Harry wasn’t going to keep the old guy waiting.  He owed him too much already.  He started walking, but couldn’t help thinking along the way:  Why did Damien lie?

Before he exited the corridor something caught Harry’s attention.  At the opposite end of the rear corridor was a light; it was coming from the pub’s unused dance floor.

Is somebody in the back room?

Harry stepped forward cautiously.  It was probably just one of the others, looking for something to burn; the light probably coming from their candles.  He couldn’t be sure though.  He needed to check it out.  “Hey, who’s there?”

No reply.  The light seemed to get brighter, pulsing rapidly.

Harry continued down the corridor, creeping anxiously as he awaited a response.  Once he was certain there would be none, he called out again.  “I said who’s there?”

Again there was no response.  Harry was left with the decision whether to go back or not.  Tonight was a night where strange things were happening in abundance; retreat was likely the most sensible option to take, yet for some reason Harry felt compelled to investigate further.  His feet carried him forward.

The pulsing light was blinding now.  Harry had to shield his eyes with a forearm as he took the final few steps towards the backroom.  When he eventually reached the doorway to the dance floor, Harry realised he was hot, sweating.

Inside the cavernous room it felt like a sauna, sticky heat clinging to his skin.  After hours of freezing cold, the aura of warmth was wonderful, but Harry knew it was unnatural as well.  There was no rational explanation for the backroom of an English pub feeling like a Mexican beach resort, especially when it was snowing outside like the end of the world.  Something was wrong.

Rather than run away, Harry stepped onto the stiff wood of the dance floor; it creaked beneath his weight.  From the end of the room the bright orange glow continued pulsing.  It was coming from behind an elevated DJ’s booth built up against the far wall, but as Harry got closer the light began to weaken.  He hurried over to the booth and hoisted himself up the three steps that ran beside it.  The light was still diminishing, fading like a setting sun behind a forest.  Harry had the feeling that if he didn’t get a look at its source immediately, he would miss something important.  He unhooked the latch of the DJ’s chest-level door and pulled it open.

His heart stopped.

It started beating again a second later, but Harry was still unable to catch his breath properly.  Looking down at the glowing visage before him, He did not know whether to laugh, scream, or give up and die.  It was, at the same time, the most wonderful and most painful thing he could have ever have hoped to have seen.  He choked back a sob, tried to find words.

A painful moment without air passed and Harry finally managed to splutter one word.  “Son?”

Cowering before him, lit by a rapidly fading glow, was his son, Toby.  The boy had not aged in the year-and-a-half since his death and now stared at Harry with deep, soulful eyes.

“Daddy.”  Toby’s voice was an echo, seeming to come from the walls rather than him.  “Daddy, I’m scared.”

Impossible!  An evil trick played by someone even eviler.  Yet, somehow, Harry found himself speaking affectionately, “It’s okay now, Toby.  Daddy’s here.”

The light around Toby had completely died.  He looked like a normal six year old boy now.  “You promise you’ll keep me safe?”  The question bounced off the walls before it entered Harry’s ears.

Harry nodded.  “Yes, son.  I won’t let anything hurt you.  I’ll keep you safe.”  He reached down to Toby, ready to take him up in his arms, but the boy shuffled backwards, out of his grasp.

“No, you won’t,” said Toby.  “You can’t keep anyone safe.  Daddy was a strong man.  He taught me to ride a bike and would buy me chicken nuggets whenever I wanted.  You’re not him, you can’t be!  He was strong, but you are weak.  Weak!”

The final word did not echo; neither did it sound anything like his son.  The word had crackled and hissed from Toby’s mouth like hatred personified.  Tears fell from Harry’s eyes.  His son was dead, but the words of this monster were still true.

I am weak, Harry thought.  I failed you, Toby.  I let you get hurt, and all I’ve done since is feel sorry for myself.

The apparition of Harry’s dead son was so accurate that it sent a chill through His bones.  But it wasn’t perfect.  Now, as he looked down at the hateful creature, Harry could see the lack of humanity in its eyes.  The dark vortexes swirled with dark knowledge and twisted intentions.  It was an abomination.

Harry backed away slowly.  “I have to go now, Toby.  I think you should go back to wherever you came from.”

The child looked at him with so much malice that Harry realised it was an entity far older than anything he’d ever encountered.  It laughed spitefully; the booming sound filled the entire room.

“Running away is all you’re good for, Harry Jobson.  You watched your family die and have been running away ever since.  You are pathetic, wasting the life that He gave you.  Death will be too good for you, but nonetheless it will embrace you soon.  Leave this place Harry Jobson and be done with it.  Your time is over.  Reckoning is upon you.”

Harry didn’t understand any of it, but he knew he had to get away.  By taking the form of his son, it was obvious the creature meant to drive Harry insane, plucking at his grief like chords on a guitar.  He didn’t take his eyes from the DJ’s booth as he sidled backwards along the dance floor, but it didn’t stop Harry from noticing a new source of light growing behind him.

He spun around.

His heart stopped again.

Thomas Morris stood before Harry, slowly coming into focus as the glow around his image lessened.  The man that took everything from Harry was now smiling at him like an old friend.

“Long time no see,” the apparition hissed like a serpent.  “You’re looking…older.”

Harry said nothing.

“You really going to ignore me?  With the history you and I have, I thought you’d have more to say.”

Harry spat.  “I have nothing to say to you!”

The apparition laughed again.  “You never were much of a talker.  You prefer to let your actions speak for you, am I right?”

Harry shook his head.  Whatever this thing was, it was not Thomas, and it could not hurt him.  If it could, it would have done so by now, instead of dredging up things from the past.  Harry stepped around the image of his enemy and headed for the exit.

Then hit the floor hard.

Thomas loomed over Harry, inhuman eyes filled with the same malignant intent that Toby’s apparition had.  “You will pay for your actions, Harry Jobson.  Everyone will pay.  It is time for…retribution.”

Harry cowered on the floor.  The thing had hit him, but how?  Ghosts, hallucinations, apparitions: none of these things could manifest physically.  Could they?  The occult was not one of Harry’s strong points and he decided not to hang around to find out.  He leapt to his feet and headed for the door.

Thomas shouted after him, words and tone both wicked with baleful intent.  “You will die tonight, Harry Jobson.  Death awaits you its cold embrace.  Go outside and face it.  Do not delay what is already certain.”

“Suck my balls!”  Harry shouted back.  It was a phrase he had never used before, but it summed up pretty accurately how he felt right now.  He reached the door to the rear corridor and glanced back.  It was something he knew would slow him down, but something he could not help.

Thomas was gone.

Harry sighed relief, but didn’t relax enough to trust the situation.  He needed to get out of there, get to the others and tell them about the things he’d witnessed.  He turned back around and faced the corridor.

This time his heart did not stop.  He was becoming too used to the horrors of the night.  Lying on the floor in front of him was his dead wife, Julie.  Her body and face were battered and bruised, bones splintered and askew.

Like a car crash victim.

Harry looked down at the twisted form and listened to his heart scream.  The final image of his wife’s dying form had always stayed with him, but never did he have to confront it face-to-face.  Not since the night it happened.

Julie turned her head up towards him.  Harry heard the broken bones scraping and grating against each other.  She was the very personification of agony.  “Harry,” she spoke in a condemning whisper.  “Why did this happen to me?  Why are you not with me?”

Harry shook his head.  He didn’t have time for this.  This wasn’t his wife.  Whatever it was, he owed it no explanations.  “Because you’re dead, Julie.”  He stepped over the twisted, shattered body and headed into the corridor.  “And I’m not.”

Chapter Twenty-TWO

Damien wasn’t sure why he lied; perhaps only because it was funny.  Harry had made himself look like a right muppet in front of Steph and Damien couldn’t help but laugh at the memory.  She ain’t going to shag you now, sunshine.

Was that why he’d done it?  Because of Steph?  Did the thought of her and Harry copping off together irritate him?  Steph wasn’t like the usual girls Damien boned.  She was strong, with a mind of her own, and took control of people in the same way he did.  He admired that.

Fact that she’s fit-as doesn’t hurt none either.  Too good for that drunk, Harry.

But it was more than simple jealousy.  Damien had actually gained pleasure from Harry’s predicament and that was what troubled him most.  Over the last few hours, Damien had seen that Harry wasn’t that bad a bloke.  The guy’s heart was in the right place, and it turned out that he did have a backbone after all.  Despite all that, Damien still couldn’t tolerate the way Harry always played the wounded soldier.  Always making people want to come up and ask if everything was okay.  Always moping and drinking himself into a stupor.  Oh, poor Harry, they would say.  That man is so full of pain and anguish, yet he still keeps going.  What a guy!

Damien scowled.  Screw that!  Everyone had it hard and Harry had no right to make out like his problems were worse than everyone else’s.

He did lose his son though...

Damien shook his head and stood away from the now-cushionless bench he was sitting on.  Nearby, Jess and Jerry sat with the dying polish kid.  Damien had chosen to stay nearby just in case the kids needed help.  He’d been impressed by the way Jess had glassed the old bird giving her grief and respected her for it.

Took balls.

Damien sat back down on the cold bench and carried on his brooding about Harry.  The man didn’t deserve sympathy because Damien had it just as bad as he did.  No one cared about his problems though.  No one had ever given a damn when his dad was wasted and beat him black and blue.  Trying to toughen you up, boy!  Teach you to be a man.  No one cared when Damien’s dad had made him deal drugs at ten years old.  No one will suspect a kid, so get yourself on that corner and don’t come home till you’ve sold it all.  And no one cared when Damien’s dad had tried to pin an assault charge on him.

The rage that flowed constantly through Damien’s veins began to hot up.  When his dad had gone to prison last year, Damien had felt free for the first time in his life.  But it didn’t last.  He’d been ordered to take over operations and report to his father in prison daily.  Keep the money safe for me, Dame, for when I get out.  Make me proud, son.

Yeah, I’ll make you real proud, dad!

Damien thought back to when his dad had gone down, and what for.  Kicking the shite out of that lad until he was a whimpering, bleeding mess.  Kid was no older than I was.

Gazz Brown had been a tough kid.  When he’d knocked Damien spark-out and taken his stash, Damien’s father was not happy.  Not happy at all.  So, in a drunken rage, his dad – along with a group of the ‘boys’ – had taken Damien to go find Gazz.  And find him they did.  The well-built lad was at the back of a local supermarket selling Damien’s supply to the warehouse workers.  His father saw red – had gone red.  Like a wild bull, he tore into the youth, cracking bones and shattering teeth, stamping and kicking long after the boy’s beaten body covered the ground, motionless.  It was almost ten minutes before Damien’s father was dragged away, and by that time someone had called the Police.

Even now, Gazz was still in a coma, and Damien’s father had gone to prison for the crime.  Who knew supermarkets had so many CCTV cameras?  The worse thing about the whole situation was that his dad had ‘the boys’ circulate rumours that it had been Damien to put poor Gazz Brown into a coma.  Damien’s father had even tried to convince him take the fall for it.  It would increase his rep, he’d said.  Despite the CCTV exonerating him, Damien had nonetheless become feared on the local estate as a vicious, animalistic thug.  His father had finally become proud.

But tonight was supposed to be the night where Damien did something to make himself proud.  He was going to disobey his father for the first time and do the right thing for once.  But instead he found himself trapped inside a rotten pub with a bunch of losers.

Like Harry.  A loser who only cares about his next drink.

Finally it clicked.  The reason Damien hated Harry was because the man cared more about getting wasted than anything else.  Just like Damien’s father had.  Every time he looked at Harry, downing another pint, night in night out, he had thought about his father.  He’d pegged Harry as just another, selfish – fuckface – father that would rather get pissed than look after his family.

But I got it all wrong, didn’t I?  Tonight Damien had learned that Harry was a good man and a good father; a bloke that cared so much about his son that, when he’d died – however it’d happened – he’d just given up on life.  Harry’s family had obviously been his entire world, and when they died part of him went with them.  Damien finally understood the man’s drinking.

And he could forgive it.

“I should apologise,” Damien told himself, “but first I gotta take a piss.”

###

This is it!  Nigel’s body teemed with excitement.  Harry had gone downstairs, freaking out about something, and Lucas had followed him.  The grumpy shrew, Kath, had disappeared somewhere to clean the gore off her ugly face and Damien was at the other end of the pub, along with Jerry and the young girl, Jess.  If he played his cards right, she would be next.

But first he had Steph to deal with.

I’m finally going to have her.

Nigel had watched with delight as everyone gradually departed, then Steph had gone into the toilets alone.  Now was his chance.  He would follow her in, knock her out cold, have his way with her, and then slit her throat with his trusty pen knife (sharpened to perfection).  By the time he dumped her body outside in the snow no one would be any the wiser.  Nigel would plead ignorance of Steph’s whereabouts and, while everyone would worry, that would be it.  What else could they do?

First thing in the morning, he’d hop in his lorry and get the hell out of there, spend a few months in France maybe; ensure that he never returned to the area.  Easiest thing in the world.  Raping and killing women had become as second nature to Nigel as taking a leak; just another bodily function.

Silently, Nigel pushed open the door to the men’s toilets where he’d seen Steph enter.  The door creaked ever so slightly, but the sounds coming from inside, of Steph gathering up supplies, drowned out the noise.  He slipped inside.

The toilets smelt of stale piss and the room was lit only by a single candle Steph had placed on the middle of three sinks.  She was at the far end of the small space now, gathering up bundles of handtowels from a storage cupboard.  Her back was to Nigel.

Perfect!  She won’t even see it coming.

With cat-like grace that belied his lumbering appearance, Nigel struck.  He punched Steph from behind, hooking his fist round into the side of her jaw and knocking her cold; the thick Dolphin ring on his pinkie figure helped with his purpose.  Steph’s limp body flopped limply to the side, falling into one of the cubicles.  Her head hit the toilet bowl inside with a resounding thump!

“Good, girl,” Nigel grinned, “helping Daddy like that.  You’ve found us a room and got yourself ready.”

He bent over and groped with his hands.  He couldn’t see Steph’s body very well in the dark but that only made it all the more exciting.  He’d dreamed of having her for so long that each touch of her flesh was enough to send small beads of ejaculate spurting from his swollen cock.  He hadn’t even noticed when he’d gotten hard.  It was a natural occurrence to Nigel, like breathing.

He rolled Steph onto her back and slid his eager, trembling fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans.  Despite the perishing cold in the toilets, the flesh of Steph’s belly and upper groin was surprisingly warm, almost hot.  Nigel’s swollen penis throbbed furiously, demanding satisfaction.

“Not long now, buddy.  Just a little longer while I get this whore naked.”

A soft murmur from Steph caused Nigel to halt.  Maybe she needed another whack?  He considered it, but then decided that he’d prefer her conscious; her quiet murmuring would only turn him on more.  “That’s it, you little slut, cry for Daddy.  You love it, don’t you?”

He fumbled excitedly at the buttons on her crotch and had to fight against his frustrations when they refused to pop.  Taking a deep breath, Nigel steadied his hands and tried again.  The buttons came loose one at a time.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

“That’s it, darling, let’s get you out of these clothes.”

Just as Nigel was about to start tugging down Steph’s unbuttoned jeans, he was alerted by a presence behind him.  He turned around.

Before he lost consciousness, due to the heavy blows that suddenly rained down upon him, Nigel heard someone ask the question: “What the hell is going on!”

What the hell indeed, thought Nigel as he unwillingly went to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-THREE

Harry had already been on his way to the toilet when he heard the ruckus.  After seeing the apparitions in the dance hall, he had hurried downstairs into the cellar to regroup.  The vision of Thomas Morris had reached out and struck Harry, but he was almost certain that was the extent of the threat.  If it could have done any real harm then it would have done so, he was sure of it.  Harry had no clue what was going on, but for now he decided to think on it.  There was no need to panic the others with what had happened just yet.  They would only think him mad anyway.  For now it seemed like something else was happening anyway, a scuffle from inside the men’s toilets.

It had turned out that what Old Graham wanted to speak with Harry about was a rather embarrassing matter.  The old man had needed to piss bad, but couldn’t get up with his leg the way it was.  Harry had understood the predicament, but at first didn’t know what to suggest.  Then he’d spotted the half empty bottle of Famous Grouse that Lucas had brought down.  He gave the bottle to Old Graham who immediately necked most of the contents.  “For the pain,” he had said.  Then Harry had given him the old man a few moments alone.

Now Harry was on his way to the urinals with a candle in one hand, and a whiskey bottle full of geriatric piss in the other, ready to empty the contents down one of the drains.  He hadn’t expected to run into trouble again so soon after his last encounter, but something was definitely happing inside the toilets.

The room was partially lit by candlelight when Harry entered, but it was still too dark to see clearly what was happening at the far end by the window.  There was a scuffle going on, and a soft wet thudding that he immediately recognised.

Someone’s getting a beating.

Candle in hand, along with the whiskey bottle full of urine, Harry ran forwards, lighting the room in a narrow sphere as he moved.  At the end of the space, he found…Damien…and then he found…Nigel.  Damien was beating the other man as though he were tenderising a piece of beef, hands covered by blood and ruptured skin.  His knuckles made soft whapping sounds as they bounced off Nigel’s swollen face.   What upset Harry the most was the sight of Steph also lying on the floor unconscious…with her jeans undone.

Finally, Damien looked up and noticed Harry – but it was too late for the lad to give any explanation.  Snarling, Harry smashed the whiskey bottle of piss over the young thug’s head, so hard that he wondered if he’d killed him.

Part of Harry hoped so.

###

In front of the fireplace, Jess watched over Peter with Jerry.  She watched her sleeping friend turn paler and paler, and could not tell whether it was due to the cold or loss of blood.  Most of Peter’s wounds were bandaged, but they still wept constantly and had even begun to emit a sickly smell.

“You think he’s going to wake up?” Jerry asked, tugging Jess away from her thoughts.  His usual child-like exuberance was absent from his voice now and it had been for a while.

Ever since he watched his best friend turn to blood and dust.

Jess shrugged.  “He woke up once before, so who knows.  How are you doing?”

“Me?  I’m cushdy?  It’s this one we need to look after.”  He pointed at Peter.  “He looks bad.”

Jess shrugged again.  “I think he might have it easiest of all, being asleep.  Right now, I want to know how you are.  You know...about what happened to Ben.”

Jerry’s face crumbled like a moist sandcastle and, for a short moment, Jess thought he was going to cry.  He didn’t.  “It’s stupid,” he said, “but I miss him already.”

“That’s not stupid at all.”

“Feels like it.  I just keep wishing it was me.  I wish I were the one who’s dead and he were still alive.”

“Now that is stupid,” said Jess, shaking her head.  “He wouldn’t have wanted you to be dead, would he?”

Jerry shrugged.  “Wouldn’t surprise me.  All I ever did was annoy him.”

“Then why did he always keep you around?”

Jerry looked away from her then and stared into the fire.  “Fate I guess.”

Jess wasn’t sure she understood.  ”What do you mean, fate?”

Jerry rubbed at his eyes and somehow succeeded in making them look even more tired.  “Ever seen the play, Blood Brothers?”

Jess shook her head.

Well,” Jerry explained.  “It’s a film about these two brothers that get separated at birth.  A mother has twins and can’t afford to keep them both, so she gives one away to a rich family that she works for.”

“Okay,” said Jess, still not following, but willing to listen.

“Somehow, the baby boy she gave away ends up making friends with the son that she kept – his twin.  They have completely different upbringings, one rich, one poor, but somehow they become best friends.  Despite everything, they’re really very much alike.”  Jerry stared at Jess and this time she was certain he would cry, but still he did not.  He smiled instead.  “That’s like me and Ben.  You get what I’m saying?”

Jess didn’t.  But then she thought about it a little harder and ventured a surprised guess: “You and Ben were brothers?”  Jerry didn’t answer her but Jess knew it was a hit and not a miss.  It still didn’t quite make sense though.  “Did Ben know?”

Jerry finally allowed a tear to escape his eye.  He blinked it away and it crept down his cheek.  “We…we had the same dad, but I never told him that.  My mom only told me when I was ten.  By then I’d already been friends with Ben for three years.”

Jess was shocked.  She thought this type of scenario was meant for cheesy films and dodgy talk shows, not real life.  “Why did you never tell him?”

Jerry wiped the tear from his face, but did nothing about the new ones that ran down to replace it.  “Ashamed, I guess.  My mom told me it was just a one-night stand and that it was whilst Ben’s dad was together with his mom.”

Jess understood and nodded.  “You kept it to yourself because you didn’t want to hurt Ben or break up his family?”

Jerry avoided looking directly at her and chose instead to carry on gazing into the fire as he spoke.  “He idolised his dad; respected him as this great businessman.  God knows why, the guy was a small-time jerk with more skeletons in the closet than Norman Bates.  If I told Ben what his father – what our father – was really like, it would have broken him.  I didn’t want to mess his life up like that – like mine.  He was my brother.”

Jess was emotionally winded by the story and had to remind herself to breath.  What a beautiful sacrifice for someone to make, she thought, before hugging Jerry tightly.

He yelled out in shock.  “Hey, what’s that for?”

Jess kissed his cheek.  “For being such a kind human being.  I don’t think you realise quite how rare that is.  Ben was lucky to have you as a friend, Jerry, and even more so as a brother.”  Jess realised that her comments had summoned fresh tears and even a little whimper from Jerry.  She patted him on the back.  “Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you.”

Jerry wiped his eyes.  “It’s okay.  Think I needed that.  Clears my head for what really matters.”

Jess frowned.  “And what’s that?”

“What do you think?”  Jerry spoke as if she were stupid.  “You saw what happened to Ben.  There’s something messed-up out there and it’s not going to stop till it gets us all.  I’m sure if Peter could wake up and speak, he’d tell us to get the hell out of this FUBAR situation.”

“He already did,” Jess blurted out.  “He said I needed to get away.”

Jerry was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath and said, “I think that’s good advice.  No one believed us about what we saw, and I guess we kind of just let it go because we were embarrassed, but we both know we’re not crazy.  There’s something out there that isn’t human.”

Jess considered for a moment that maybe she was crazy, but she knew Jerry was right.  Both of them knew what they had seen earlier.

They had to get away.

Chapter Twenty-FOUR

“Make sure it’s tight”

“I am!”  Harry tugged the curtain ties around Damien’s wrists and felt them dig into the boy’s flesh.  “Any tighter and I’ll cut his arms off.”

“Good,” said Nigel.  “Exactly what the dirty little rapist deserves.”

When Harry had swung the whiskey bottle at Damien’s head it had instantly shattered, sending streams of Old Graham’s salty piss all over the both of them.  Harry could still smell the vinegary pong on his clothes right now.  Once Nigel had regained consciousness, the two of them dragged Damien’s limp body into the bar area and heaved him onto a chair.  They were now currently in the process of restraining him to it as tightly as possible.  The last thing they needed was Damien waking back up and endangering anybody else.  They had enough on their plate as it was, and Harry still hadn’t forgotten about the incident in the dance hall.  Chaos, it seemed, had started coming at him from all directions.

Harry had placed Steph downstairs on a pile of blankets and covered her up with a duvet.  She had stirred briefly when he’d first lifted her from the toilet floor, but she was yet to regain full-consciousness.  Lucas had promised to look after her until Harry came back.

It was unbelievable that Damien had tried to rape Steph.  Harry had made a massive mistake in thinking that the lad was not capable of such evil?  At least he didn’t get away with it, Harry thought, shaking his head as he thought about what could have gone down if Nigel hadn’t walked in and disturbed Damien.

“Nigel, I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t walked in when you did.  Steph is so lucky you were there.”

Nigel’s chest puffed up proudly.  With the beating his face had taken, Harry thought he looked like a dishevelled bear hit with a shovel.  “I’m just sorry the little perv got the drop on me before I could take him down first.  My head’s still bloody banging.”

Harry gave the curtain ropes one last tug and was at last satisfied that Damien was restrained adequately.  “I’m not surprised,” he said.  “Vicious bastard really did a number on you.  Soon as the phones are working, we’ll call the police and get him squared away.”

Nigel seemed to flinch.  “Police, yeah”

Harry looked at him.  “You okay, mate?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.  Just a bit dizzy.  Need to sit down, I think.”

Harry stood up, frozen knees straightening with a click!  “I can keep an eye on things here, buddy.  You go and rest.”

“Thanks, Harry.  Can I get you anything?”

Harry thought immediately about another beer, but for some reason he said, “I’m good, thanks.”

Nigel walked away gingerly, clutching at his ribs.  Harry shook his head as he imagined the pain he was in.  Guy’s lucky to be walking after the walloping he got. We all owe him big time.

Harry stepped back and examined Damien, asleep in the chair.  What could make a person so violent as to want to rape and beat people?  It made his heart ache to think of the amount of hatred that infected the world.  Damien was just one tiny ant in a whole colony of remorseless monsters.  Harry started to wish that he’d asked for that beer after all.

A strangled snort came from Damien’s direction and for a moment Harry thought he was going to wake up.  The boy’s eyelids fluttered for a second and his nose crinkled as though a fly had landed on it.  But then he fell still again.

“What do we do with you now?”  Harry asked the unconscious lad.  “Can’t exactly leave you in the middle of the room to freeze, can I?”

Or maybe that’s exactly what you deserve.

Harry’s fists clenched themselves automatically as he thought about how frightened Steph must have been.  He had to take deep breathes until the moment passed.

Try to let it go before it drives you insane.

Harry needed to get away from Damien – just being near the scumbag made his stomach sick – but wasn’t an option just in case he woke up and tried to escape.  The only place warm enough to keep Damien prisoner was over by the fire, but that was already taken up by their casualty, Peter.

Prisoners.  Casualties.  What the hell is happening tonight!

The only other place that would be habitable was the cellar downstairs – once they got the new fire started at least.  But no way was Harry about to drag Damien to the same place as Steph.  In fact he was never going to let the kid anywhere near her ever again.  He’d have to leave the bastard up here, beside the fireplace.

Harry walked over to Jess and Jerry.  Both of them were on their knees tending to Peter, but they didn’t seem to actually be doing anything useful, other than merely keeping an eye on him.  What can they do?  Harry thought.  He noticed the two of them were both shivering and rubbing at their arms.  The fire was obviously failing in its task of keeping back the chill.  Jess looked up at him as he approached and he saw that, despite her obvious weariness, she could still manage a smile.

“Hey,” Harry smiled back, “how you two holding up?”

“It’s starting to feel a bit like that film, Alive,” said Jerry.

Harry raised both eyebrows.

Jerry sighed.  “You know…that movie where the plane crashes?  The one where they’re all freezing to death, one by one?  They all start to eat the dead bodies to stay alive?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders.  “Sorry.”

Jerry’s own shoulders deflated.  “Goddamn it, dude.”

Jess spoke.  “We want out of here, Harry.”

Harry hadn’t expected that.  Sure it was an obvious thing to say, given the circumstances, but Jess was an upbeat person and didn’t seem like the kind to complain.  “I know you do,” he said, “but that’s not possible right now.  You know what it’s like out there.  It’s not safe.”

Jess nodded.  “That’s what I mean.  It’s not safe here either.  The snow is getting deeper and deeper, and there’s something out there that wants us dead.  We weren’t lying earlier; there’s something really out there.”

Harry pictured the flames outside, growing from the snow like shimmering beanstalks, and felt a knot form in his stomach.  Then he thought about the thing pretending to be his son.  “I know, I believe you.” he admitted.  “So why on earth do you want to go out there?”

“Because here we’re nothing but sitting ducks.  I’d rather take my chances running to safety than waiting here to die.”

“No one is going to die,” Harry state firmly, “but I agree that we may not be safe in here either.”

Jerry’s face lit up.  The cold air, mixed with the licking heat of the fire, made his cheeks blush like cherries.  “So, you’ll help us then?”

“No,” Harry said quickly.  “If we go out there we’ll be frozen stiff in a matter of minutes or the victims of something even worse.  It would be insane to leave here before morning.  Even then I’m not so sure.  I agree we’re in danger here, but I think we would be even worse off out there.”

Jess seemed close to tears; possibly even full blown panic.  She looked at Harry pleadingly.  “So what do you suggest?  That we wait here until someone else comes flying through the window or Damien tries to rape someone else?”

Harry felt his face pull back in a snarl.  “Damien won’t be hurting anyone else, don’t you worry about that.”

Jess shrugged as if his assertion meant nothing.  “Okay,” she said, “but like I said, there’s something out there that’s less than friendly.  You really just expect us to wait here till it tries to get in?”

“No,” said Harry.  “We prepare, and if whatever is out there tries to get in…”

Jess and Jerry both looked at him.  “Yeah?”

Harry snarled.  “We make it wish it hadn’t.”

Chapter Twenty-FIVE

Jess decided Harry was crazy.  He had to be.  Why else would he suggest bunkering down in the pub and waiting for whatever was outside to get in?  He didn’t understand the situation, and perhaps that made sense.  Harry hadn’t seen what she and Jerry had seen, hadn’t seen Ben’s young body disintegrate into a billion bloody granules of sand.  No one else understood that there was a seven-foot psychopath out there with a film prop from Braveheart.

Jesus, I sound like Jerry.  Either way, if I ever see another sword again in my life it will be too soon.

Once Harry was far enough away, Jess turned to Jerry and said, “Are we really going to stay here?”

“You mean batten down the hatches like the kid from Home Alone?  That dude under the hood is a demon or a vampire or…something, and if we try to duke it out we’ll end up like Ben for sure.”  Jerry ran both hands through his messy hair and sighed.  “But what choice do we have?”

It was the first time Jerry had mentioned Ben without welling up.  Jess wondered if he was turning an emotional corner.  “Maybe Harry’s right,” she admitted, “that we’ll freeze to death out there as soon as we leave, but it isn’t much warmer in here.  I just…I don’t like feeling trapped, you know?”

“Me neither.”

“So what do we do?”

Jerry shrugged.  “Arnie-up, I guess.  Get some weapons and take it to the first thing that comes through the door, From Dusk till Dawn styley.”

“Whatever happens, I don’t think they’ll be using the door.”  Jess looked down at Peter who was still sleeping on the sofa.  He seemed more peaceful now than before and she wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.  “I think windows are more their style.”

Jerry laughed.  “No shit.”

“Well,” Jess put her hands on her hips, “should we get started?”

Jerry nodded and rose up from his knees.  Immediately he let out a shudder.  “I think before we do anything we need to refuel the fire.  I’m freezing, and I think Peter’s turning blue.”

Jess looked down at Peter once more and saw the blue tint at the edge of his lips like a thin line of biro.  She started to think that his peacefulness was indeed a bad sign.  “I’ll go and check with Harry,” she said.  “They’re building a fire downstairs anyway.”

She rose up from her knees and patted Peter on the forehead.  His skin was cold.

Over at the other end of the pub, Harry was standing with Lucas who’d come from downstairs to help watch over an unconscious Damien.  Jess couldn’t believe what Damien had tried to do to Steph.  She knew he was a jerk, but…

I dunno.  Something just feels a bit off about the whole situation.  Damien is a lot of things, but I never pegged him as a rapist.  Still, how much do I know about the guy, really?

“Harry,” she said, approaching him by the bar.  “The fire is struggling and we need something to burn.”

Harry nodded and rubbed at his chin.  The stubble there made his face seem dirty.  “Yeah, I know,” he said.  “We’ll get it going again soon with some of the chairs Nigel broke up.  I forgot to say earlier that I think I’ll have to leave Damien over there with you and Jerry.  The only other option is to put him in the cellar, but with Steph…”

Jess waved a hand.  “That’s fine, I understand.  We’ll keep an eye on him.”

Harry stared into her eyes.  “You sure you’ll be ok?”

“Yeah, course.  If he tries anything I’ll whack him with the fire poker or ring the bell.  You tied him pretty tight by the looks of things anyway.”

Harry looked down at Damien’s swollen wrists bound behind his back and saw that he had indeed done a good job.  “I knew the Boy Scouts would come in handy one day.”

Jess laughed.  “I knew there was something outdoorsy about you?”

“No,” said Harry.  “That’s just the smell.”

Jess laughed again, this time louder.  “You’re in a cheery mood despite everything.”

Harry seemed to stare into space for a moment before making eye contact with her again.  “Guess I decided it was time to start taking part.”

Jess didn’t know what he meant.  There were a lot of things she didn’t understand tonight.  “Taking part in what?” she asked him.

Harry smiled.  “Life, I guess.  Now, let’s go find you something for that fire.”

“Sounds like a plan.”  She took Harry’s free arm as he grabbed a candle from the bar.  Lucas nodded to them both as they passed, letting them know he was happy to stay behind and supervise Damien.  As the two of them sauntered towards the bar, Jess felt a surreal feeling of safety that made her wonder if she was in some sort of denial about the fear she’d felt only minutes before.  It was peculiar, but Harry’s lightened mood made her feel that things might just work out okay.

Jess blinked twice and refocused her mind.  Her skin felt tight under the prolonged attack of the cold and the chill felt like razor wire pulled tight around her flesh.  She couldn’t wait to get in front of a renewed fire and would get as much paper and firewood as possible before settling in for the night.

Maybe grab a little nap then if Jerry doesn’t mind watching over me.

The fear that had been racing around inside of her for so long had finally exhausted her ability to care, at least for the time being – perhaps while her mind recharged itself.  Her emotions were being overridden by her physical needs for sleep and warmth.  She shivered and yawned almost simultaneously as if her body wished to reiterate its demands.

Just a couple minutes now and I’ll be nice and warm.  Just a couple more minutes...

Jess descended the stairs to the cellar, Harry lighting the way with his candle.  At the bottom they entered the cellar and were immediately met by Steph, who seemed to have recovered partially from her ordeal.  Old Graham lay on the floor under a blanket, seemingly drunk from the quiet little song he was muttering to himself and the empty beer bottles that surrounded him.  At the edges of the room sat Nigel, partially shrouded in shadow from the lack of candlelight reaching him.  Kath also sat nearby, but Jess didn’t care to pay attention to that old cow.

Steph took a step towards Jess and Harry and it became obvious that she was still a little shaky.  There seemed to be something she needed to say though.  “We have a problem,” she said directly to Harry as though Jess were not even there.

Harry’s happy demeanour seemed to sour slightly and it made Jess feel unsafe again.  Please no more problems. She thought.  Not tonight.

Harry sighed.  “Steph, you should be resting.  What’s so important that it can’t wait?”

Steph raised an arm behind her and pointed to a makeshift fire in the centre of the room.  The steel barrel was half-stuffed with flammable materials from around the pub, mostly cardboard boxes, some cushions, and wooden legs from the chairs upstairs.

Jess knew straight away what Steph was going to tell them and she didn’t want to believe it.  She shook her head in despair.  “That’s all we could find to burn, isn’t it?”

Steph changed her focus to Jess and nodded solemnly.  “The cardboard recycling was done yesterday morning and we’re all out of coal.  I was going to buy some from Kath’s supermarket tomorrow to stock up.  We have a couple of crisp cartons that went empty today, and some handtowels from the toilets.  But even if we burn the tables it won’t be enough for both fires.  In fact it’s barely enough for one.”

Jess was still shaking her head as she blurted out, “We’re all going to freeze to death.”

Chapter Twenty-SIX

“What the Hell do we do?” asked Nigel from the floor, still shrouded in shadow.

Harry thought for a moment.  “Steph, you’re absolutely sure that there’s nothing else we can burn?  What about in Graham’s place upstairs?”

Steph shook her head.  “Nigel already checked.  It’s like a closing-down-sale up there.  Barely enough furniture to fill one room.  We’ll burn what’s there, but it’s not much.”

Harry thought again, shivering as he did so.  He wondered whether he was as cold as he felt or if it was just his mind exaggerating.  Before he had time to decide which, his musings were interrupted by Jess.

She asked a question, “What about the supermarket?”

Harry looked at her.  “What do you mean?”

“Yeah,” Kath chimed in from the other side of the room.  ”What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Jess said, impatiently, “that the place is full of, like, a thousand cardboard boxes, plus all the bags of coal in the warehouse.  If we grab one of the trolleys we can cart it all over here.  There’s painkillers and other stuff too that we could give to Peter.”

Old Graham piped up from his resting place in the middle of the room.  “Don’t bloody forget about me!” he slurred.  “I could use some pain relief too.”

Harry smiled.  “Excellent.  Then we have a plan?”

“Not yet we don’t,” Kath objected.  “That is supermarket property you’re talking about.  I can’t just let you in to ransack the place.  It’s theft.”

Jess cursed out loud.  “God sake, Kath, you still don’t get what’s going on, do you?  Screw the supermarket!  Our lives are more important.”

Kath snickered.  “That’s debatable.”

Harry was starting to see why Jess hated the woman so much – she was wretched indeed – but before things got out of hand again, he decided to butt in.  “Come on, the both of you.  Fighting isn’t helping, is it?  Enough people have already gotten hurt tonight.”

“Yeah,” said Kath, rubbing the swollen cut on her forehead.  “I’m well aware of that, thank you very much.”

“Look,” said Harry in his calmest tone.  “We’re lost without you here, Kath, and if you were kind enough to let us into the supermarket then we’d all be in debt to you.  Our survival would most likely be down to you and we won’t forget that.”

Kath immediately seemed smug, as if her previously sour expression was just painted on and was now melting in the heat of the candle she held in front of her.  “Well,” she said.  “I guess I can’t just let you all freeze, but I hope you realise the sacrifice I’m making.  I have responsibilities that can’t be taken lightly.”

“Thank you,” said Harry.  “So, you’ll give us the keys?”

Kath laughed, as if he’d tried to convince her that the world was made of mashed potato.  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.  “The store keys are to remain on an authorised key holder at all times.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Steph.

“That should be obvious.  I’m going to have to be present at all times.  I’m coming along.”

Harry bit his lip, seeing no other way to proceed.  Great, I get to be escorted by Cruella Deville.

“I also must insist,” Kath added, “that Jess is to remain here.  Her employment was terminated earlier tonight and ex-employees are prohibited from entering the premises.  Petty vindictiveness is all too common these days, I’m afraid.”

Harry caught the sight of Jess about to explode and quickly moved the conversation on.  “Okay, that’s fine.  It’s too important that Jess stays here, anyway, to keep watch over Peter and Damien.  We can’t risk her going outside.”  Jess seemed to settle down, but Harry couldn’t help but wonder how long he could keep the two women from each other’s throats.  No time to worry about it now though.  He clapped his hands together, ready to get going.  “Okay.  Let’s get to work then.  I’ll go ask Lucas if he’s up for the trip too.  Nigel would you be okay to watch over the women and our two wounded?”

Steph laughed.  “Oh thank you, kind sir.  What would we ladies do without a man to protect us?”

Harry leaned in close to her and spoke so that only she could hear.  “After what you’ve been through tonight there’s no way I’m going to leave you on your own.  Nigel’s a big guy and I’d feel safer with him around.  It’s more for my peace of mind more than it is yours.”  Steph seemed emotionally affected by Harry’s words but he didn’t have time to wonder about how she felt.  He turned back to Nigel, who had now stood up.  “You okay with that, Nigel?”

The big man nodded.  “I’ll protect them with my life.  You can count on me.”

Harry reached forward and shook Nigel’s hand.  “I know I can.  Thank you.  And if that thug tries to get free, you have all of our permissions to throw him on the fire.”

Nigel nodded and Harry made towards the stairs, starting to climb them one by one.  As he ascended, he thought about whether or not it was really a good idea to leave the modest safety of the pub.  After what Jess and Jerry had said happened to their friend, Ben, and the fact that something outside was strong enough – and crazy enough – to throw a human being through a window, Harry was half-expecting to be met by fire breathing dragons the moment he set foot into the snow.  Not to mention giant plumes of impossible fire climbing into the sky while people burn to death on crosses.  He tried not to think about it too much, but deep down he understood that something was very wrong with the world, or at least his small part of it.  One thing for certain though was that they would all freeze to death without a constant fire going, so there was little choice really.  Any way Harry looked at it, the risk of death was definitely better than the certainty of death.  Whatever it was outside, he would have to face it.

It was time to start facing his problems.

“Harry Boy, I take it you’ve been informed of our grave situation?”

Harry entered the bar area to find Lucas still watching over Damien.  “Yeah, they told me.  Nothing’s going right tonight is it?”

“You can say that again.  Still, I’m guessing you’re a fella with a plan.”

Harry nodded.  “And you’d be right.  Kath and I are going to go raid the supermarket for supplies.  I wanted to ask you to come along.”

Lucas’ reaction was unexpected.  The man seemed afraid.  “Well, um, you sure that’s the best course of action now, Harry Boy?  Should I not stay here and keep an eye on the womenfolk?”

“Nigel will do that.  Plus, Jerry is over by the fire with Peter.”  Harry moved forward and placed a hand on Lucas’ shoulder.  “I really need your help, Lucas.  We need the bags of coal they sell at the supermarket and I won’t be able to carry them all on my own.”

Lucas shuffled uncomfortably, but slowly seemed to come round to the idea.  “Well, okay, I guess.  I have little choice in the matter, do I?  Can’t let an honest fella like yourself down.  Bring on the snow, I say.”

Harry patted Lucas on the shoulder again.  “I really appreciate it.  Anyway, we’ll be fine.  Quick in and out, military style.  Like you said earlier, I’m Major Jobson and you can be Captain Fergus.”  Harry snapped off a mock salute and stood straight.

Lucas chuckled.  “Sounds like a plan.  I just can’t help but worry about bumping into something unpleasant out there.  I’m not the bravest man, you know?”

Harry understood the man’s fear; in fact he felt it himself.  “I’ve been trying not to think about it too much,” he admitted, “but it’s either a quick trip to the supermarket or waiting until we all freeze to death.  Besides, we’ll go out there armed.  Anyone – or anything – that tries it on will soon regret it.”

Lucas clicked his fingers and did a little jig.  “I like your spirit, Harry Boy.  When do we depart?”

Harry shrugged.  “No time like the present.”

Chapter Twenty-SEVEN

A baseball bat and a handful of kitchen knives – that was the best they could do.  Harry hadn’t expected guns or a flamethrower, but still hoped for something a little more intimidating than kid’s toys and cutlery.  Still, what they had was better than nothing.

“Right,” said Harry, handing the baseball bat to Kath and arming himself and Lucas with a chef’s knife each.  “The plan is to get across to the supermarket quickly and quietly, sticking together at all times.  Once we get there it’s over to you, Kath, because you know where everything is.”

Kath nodded and took over.  “Our main priority is, of course, the coal, so we will gather that first.  There’s some on the shop floor, but it would be prudent to ignore that and get the main supply from the warehouse.  However, once inside, no one touches anything without my say so.”

“Would you mind if we breathe the air,” said Lucas.

Kath planted her hands on her hips.  “If you’re not going to obey my rules then we can just forget the whole thing.”

“Fine,” said Lucas.  “Although, we could just tie you up like our young friend, Damien, and take the keys for ourselves.”

Kath stared at Lucas and seemed worried.

Lucas chuckled.  “Just pulling your leg.”

Harry slid off his stool and straightened himself up.  “Okay, Nigel, you keep an eye on everything here and we’ll be back as soon as we can.  Jerry, you make sure that Damien stays tied up nice and tight.”

“No,” said Jerry.  He was holding the fire poker down by his thigh and shaking his head.  “I’m coming with you.”

Before Harry had time to object, he found that Jess had beaten him to it.  “Are you insane?” she asked her friend.

Jerry was still shaking his head.  “No, I’m not.  Just tired of being useless.  That’s all I ever was when Ben was around and I’ll be damned if I’m going to carry on being like it now he’s gone.”

“That’s very noble,” said Harry, “and we all understand you wanting to honour your friend, Jerry – but there’s no need to take the risk.  We’ve got it covered.”

“Dude, I don’t really know you and you sure as hell don’t know me, but one thing you’ll learn real soon is that all of the shit me and Jess told you about is real.  None of you have seen the dude in the hood up close, but I have.”

Harry rolled his eyes.  “What’s your point?”

“My point is that I am more qualified than you to go out there and face the crazy, so what right do you have to tell me anything?”

Harry shrugged and started to wonder if he actually had the energy for this.  “We don’t have time to argue,” he said wearily, “so I guess you’ll be coming along too.”

Harry watched Jess put a hand on Jerry’s shoulder and turn him to face her.  He couldn’t hear their conversation so he decided to take the remaining time to check up on Steph.  She stood behind the bar, relighting any candles that had gone out.

“You okay?” he asked her.  “You’ve been through a lot tonight.”

She smiled at him, her features so delicate and faded that she almost seemed like a shivering ghost in the candlelight.  “No more than normal,” she said.  “This place was never exactly Disneyland to start with.”

Harry took her hand and felt a jolt run through his skin when he felt her squeeze back.  The room was freezing, but her palm throbbed out heat.  He smiled at her.  “You don’t have to pretend, you know?”

Steph’s eyes welled up as though a tap had been turned loose somewhere inside of her.  “You mean I should just be honest and say that I think we’re all going to die tonight?”

Her words hit Harry like a haymaker to the kidneys.  Just when he’d started to find some strength and positivity inside of himself, Steph had lost hers.  It was tragic because he knew that his strength had, in part, come from being around her positivity.  He’d taken advantage of Steph’s emotional strength and now the poor girl was drained.  He squeezed her hand tighter.  “No one is going to hurt you, Steph.  I promise.  I agree that some weird business has been going down tonight, but things only seem bad because we’re all afraid.”

Steph laughed and wiped at her nose and face.  The skin of her wrist glistened as she pulled it away.  “There’s nothing to fear but fear itself, huh?”

Harry smiled.  “Something like that.”

“You just get back here in one piece, okay!  Then I’ll stop crying.”

“Okay, deal!”

Steph let go of Harry’s hand and pushed him away.  “Well, get going then.”

Harry turned around.  The others were waiting; Jerry, Kath, and Lucas forming an orderly queue by the door.  Lucas still seemed reluctant to go outside and Harry wished he had more time to find out why.  But time was something none of them had while temperature continued to drop.  Crisp layers of frost had started to form on the wooden surfaces of the tables and a pile of snow had formed at the foot of the exit door.  The weather was coming in to get them.

Harry moved to the front of the queue and placed a hand against the lock, ready to unbolt it and push open the door.  For one quick moment, Harry lost the nerve he needed to continue, but he took a breath, swallowed, and managed to continue.  “Let’s go,” he said, pushing open the door and stepping out into the snow.

###

Outside, the landscape was featureless and blank like an unused canvass.  Harry looked about himself but could see nothing but whiteness, so pure that its gleaming intensity made his eyeballs ache.  But despite the blankness, there was movement everywhere; shifting, dancing specks of snow fluttering in the air; each flake individual but also part of the same never-ending whole.  Harry thought about rushing back inside the pub, regretting the whole idea, but when he looked over his shoulder he could no longer see it.

Lost already!

Lucas, Jerry, and Kath were following closely behind, linking arms to form a human chain.  All of them seemed worried by what they were seeing; they we’re looking for Harry to lead them.

But lead them where exactly?  These people’s safety is in my hands and I don’t even know what to expect.

“You alright there, Harry Boy?”

Harry turned to Lucas.  “I’m just…thinking.”

“Well, perhaps you’d like to do your wonderings some place a bit warmer.  I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s a tad cold out here this evening.”

Harry nodded and got moving, the others shadowing him tightly.  The snow enveloped each of them past their knees, which led to them almost wading rather than walking.  It wouldn’t be long before the snow was deep enough to swallow them all whole.  The effort of every step left them panting.  They moved in silence, too laboured to speak.

Several minutes passed.

The snow went on forever.

Then: “Do you have any idea of where we’re going?” Kath shouted from the back of their human chain, struggling to be heard over the howling wind.  “We should have been there by now.”

She’s right.  Harry had been thinking the same thing just before Kath voiced it out loud.  He’d gotten them lost in conditions cold enough to freeze a penguin solid.

“We’re lost aren’t we?” said Kath, accurately reading in on the meaning of Harry’s silence.  It had been more an accusation than a question.

Instead of Harry answering, Jerry did so for him.  “Yes, we’re lost,” he said, “but Harry’s not to blame.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.  “What do you mean I’m not to blame?”

“I mean that the snow made us lost.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Kath.  “You sound just like that silly girl back at the pub.”

“Come now,” said Lucas, stopping and halting everybody in the line.  “Let’s hear the boy out.”

Jerry prepared to give his explanation and the others gathered around close, all of them shivering except for Lucas who was coping slightly better.  “It’s not normal snow,” Jerry explained.  “It’s a magic snow.”

Despite the brevity of the situation, everyone started laughing.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” said Jerry, deadly serious despite their mockery, “but I’m telling you that this snow is unnatural.  It’s a force being wielded by a force even greater.”

Harry decided to humour him.  “Wielded by whom?”

“Who you think?  The guy in the hood.  The snow is just his tool to trap us or get us lost and confused.  Then he comes to take us like he did Ben.”

“Okay,” said Harry, trying his best to remain open-minded.  “But, if you believe that, what the hell are you doing out here?”

Jerry smashed a fist against his open palm.  “Because me and the guy in the hood have unfinished business.  If he turns up, I’ll be the one to face him while the rest of you make a run for it.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Harry asked, seriously considering that Jerry may have lost his mind.  He was a teenaged boy, not Rambo.

But Jerry seemed more than sane as he continued.  “I need to take some responsibility instead of letting other people do it for me.  If this is the end of the world then the least I can do is make it hard for the bastard that started it.  I’m going to give him the ass-kicking of his life.”

“Erm….fellas?”  The group turned to face Lucas, who was looking unsettled.  “That bastard in question,” Lucas pointed over Harry’s shoulder, “is right over there.”

Harry spun around to see a shape in the distance.  The dark silhouette of a man taller than a man had right to be.  It was coming towards them, slowly and methodically, as if it had all of eternity to get there.  In the last year there had been numerous nights where Harry had drifted out of a nightmare and woken up with a stinking hangover, but this was the very first time he had ever felt as though he were drifting in to a nightmare.

And the nightmare was getting closer.

Chapter Twenty-EIGHT

“I better go check on Old Graham,” said Steph, leaving Jess and Nigel to look after Damien and Peter.  Jess had started to feel desperately lonely since their numbers had halved.  She just hoped the situation was temporary and that the others would return soon.  Everyone except for Kath, that is.  Jess wouldn’t care if she ever saw that woman again.  She turned to Nigel.  “Best settle in.  It’s already been a long night.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Nigel replied.

The two of them slid down either side of the fire, leaving the middle clear so that its warmth could reach Peter on the sofa.  Damien was still tied to a chair nearby, not as close to the fire as the rest of them.  They’d dumped an assortment of blankets on him to keep him warm and he now looked how Jess imagined a geriatric, old woman would look knitting in front of the fire.  She pulled a nearby duvet up over herself and let out a shiver.

“Not getting any warmer is it?” Nigel commented.  “Don’t they say you should all huddle together to share warmth?”

“Yeah,” Jess agreed.  “They do say that.”

Nigel patted the floor beside him.  “Well?  You want to come over?”

Jess tried to work the offer out.  What was he suggesting?  Nigel seemed like a nice guy – shy, if anything – so she assumed he was just being practical rather than intending anything else.  Still, the suggestion made her uncomfortable.

“It’s okay,” she said.  “I’m warm enough for now, but thanks for offering.”

For a half-second, Jess thought she saw anger flush Nigel’s face, but when he spoke, she realised it must have been her imagination.  He was harmless.

“Don’t mention it,” he told her.  “I just don’t like to see a young girl suffer.”

Jess giggled.  “What a gentleman.”

“Unlike some.”  Nigel nodded towards Damien.

Jess thought about that for a moment.  Something still didn’t sit right about what had happened earlier.  “I still can’t believe that he tried to hurt Steph.”

“Well, believe it!  The guy’s a sodding animal and he’s lucky I didn’t kill him.”

Jess was taken aback.  “Wow!  Calm down.  I was just saying it was a shock, that’s all.”

Nigel rubbed at his eyes and shook his head.  His gold pinkie ring glinted in the fire light, the image of a dolphin shining for a split-second.  “Yeah, course…I’m sorry.  I’m just so angry that I wasn’t there to stop him sooner.”

“You stopped him soon enough,” Jess told him.  “He never got to hurt Steph.  Well, not in that way, you know?”

He nodded and smiled, yet something about the gesture made Jess feel uncomfortable.  It felt as though she were being looked at through a mask.  That perhaps Nigel’s smile was just a way of hiding something else.

But what?

“Do you mind holding down the fort for a couple minutes?” Jess asked.  “I just want to see if Steph needs anything.”

Nigel’s smile never faltered.  “No problem,” he said, looking her in the eye.

Jess shivered again; she was certain it wasn’t because of the cold.  She stood up and hurried away, glancing back over her shoulder to check that she wasn’t being followed.  Past the bar, she approached the darkness of the staff corridor.  Jess felt even more then that something wasn’t right about Nigel, but her final glance back showed that the man was still seated in front of the fire.  He wasn’t following.  Jess felt stupid and paranoid.  Nigel didn’t seem like he could hurt a fly.

Neither do frogs until they shoot out their slimy tongues and pull you in and swallow you whole.

When Jess stepped into the cellar doorway at the top of the stairs, she immediately felt the warmth from the fire below, flowing up and over her face.  She shuddered at the pleasant feeling and started to take the steps downwards.

At the bottom, Steph sat near the barrel-fire with Old Graham.  The two of them were chatting away like they didn’t have a care in the world.  Steph looked up at Jess as she approached and asked, “Everything good up there?”

Jess shrugged.  “I wouldn’t describe anything as good at the moment, but things are…stable.”

“How’s Peter?”

“Bad.  I don’t know what to do for him.  I’m hoping that the others come back soon with medicine or something to help.”

Steph bit her lip.  Her face was swollen on one side where she’d been attacked and her right eye was half-closed.  Jess wondered quite how much Steph had been affected by tonight’s earlier incident.  It was obvious she was trying not to show her emotions, but the feisty barmaid didn’t seem quite as tough as usual.  “Are you okay?”  Jess asked her.

Steph seemed to snap out of a trance.  “I’m fine.  Just a bit worried, I guess, but that’s to be expected, right?”

“Hell yeah.  You’d have to be made of stone not to be worried tonight.  Speaking of which, how well do you know Nigel?”

Steph looked confused.  “Nigel?  Pretty well, I guess.  Why?”

“He just makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.”

Steph shook her head.  “He’s never caused any problems in the eight or nine months I’ve known him.  Keeps to himself, more or less.”

“A nice guy…f-from…what I seen…tonight.”  Old Graham had fallen into a drunken haze, but still managed to fade in and out of the conversation.  “A nice…guy.”

“Maybe, I’m just being silly,” said Jess.

“I’d say so.  The guy saved me from being raped tonight!”

Jess nodded.  There was a good chance she was just paranoid as she’d suspected earlier.  Having Steph confirm it made her feel much better.  She would go back upstairs now and look after Peter, thinking no more about it.  But first she wanted to check on Steph’s injuries.  Someone needed to look after her too, especially after what had happened.  “Let me have a quick look at your face, before I go back upstairs.  You look pretty beat up.”

Steph waved a hand.  “Don’t worry.  Just a bruise.”

“I’d feel better all the same.”  Jess slid down onto the floor besides her.

Half-asleep, Old Graham murmured something from the floor.  “Let the girl…have a…look.”

Steph sighed and leaned forward.  “Fine, just keep your hands away.  It hurts bad enough as it is.”

Jess leaned forward slowly and cringed at the sight of Steph’s bulging cheek.  Her misty blue eye above the injury was bloodshot and teary.  A second injury on her forehead seemed just as painful.  A throbbing, aggressive bump that was already turning purple.  “Jesus, you really took a whacking.”

“Think I fell against the toilet bowl.  Don’t really remember much more than that.  Someone came out of the dark and hit me.”

“You don’t remember anything at all?”

Steph sighed.  “No.”

She went to move her head away, but Jess stopped her.  “Hold on a sec.”  She looked closer at the wound on Steph’s cheek, suddenly noticing something as her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the cellar.  It was something at the centre of the bruise, lighter in colour than the surrounding tissue.  It formed a shape, maybe matching the surface of whatever had hit her.  The outline seemed to resemble a…

…

Jess’ eyes went wide.

A dolphin.

The image was familiar and Jess scratched at her head while she tried to understand why.  What could have hit Steph in the face that featured a small dolphin shape?

A ring with an engraving on it, maybe?

Jess’s breath caught in her throat at the realisation.  “Holy shit!  Nigel!”

”Did I hear someone say my name?”  Nigel was walking down the stairs into the cellar.

Jess’s stomach cramped as she tried to think of something to say.  All she could come up with was: “Hi, Nigel.  Yeah, we were just talking about you.  Steph just told me what nice guy you are.”

Nigel smiled at her.  Jess finally understood what the expression was designed to disguise.  It was indeed a mask.

Intended to hide a monster.

###

When Jess suddenly excused herself, Nigel had been concerned.  Maybe his fumbled attempt at getting the girl to sit beside him had eroded the harmless veneer he worked so hard to maintain.  It was possible that Jess had seen his true intentions.

Now, as Nigel entered the cellar, he wasn’t entirely sure.  Jess certainly seemed jumpy at his presence but, considering the events of the last few hours, that was perhaps understandable.  Steph seemed glad to see him, however, that much was clear; she’d smiled and waved a hand at him when he’d approached.  It wasn’t surprising she trusted him.  After all, he’d been working on gaining her confidence for the last eight months.  As far as Steph was concerned, he was as harmless as a three-legged kitten with pneumonia.

Dumb whore.

It didn’t matter if Jess suspected anything.  They were both just his prey now; more victims to add to his mental highlight-reel of rape and torture.  He figured he had at least an hour to have fun with them before he’d have to slit their throats, stash the bodies, and take a finger for his collection (and that was only if Harry and the others managed to make it back from the supermarket without freezing to death).  Even if they did come back he’d have a story ready for them (and his trusty flick knife ready in his pocket just in case they didn’t believe it).

“Everything okay?”  Jess asked him, still not giving away whether or not she suspected anything.  “Shouldn’t someone be watching Damien and Peter?”

Nigel nodded, trying his best to look solemn.  An emotion he couldn’t actually feel at all, but one he felt he was adept at emulating.  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, sweetheart.  I think Peter’s waking up.  I heard him say your name.”

Jess didn’t react for a moment and Nigel wondered how well his lie had gone down.  Finally, she replied, but made no attempts to get up and join him.  “That’s wonderful,” she said.  “Great news.”

“Well,” said Nigel, offering out his hand, “you going to come see the poor lad or not?  I’m sure you’re the first thing he’d like to wake up to.”

Jess shifted uncomfortably as if determined not to get up.  Eventually she had no choice but to concede.

“You’re right,” she said.  “Be right there.  I just need to talk to Steph about something first.  Girl problems, you know?  So, did you want to meet me up there in five minutes or so?”

She’s trying to warn Steph, the little bitch!

Nigel closed his eyes and fought away the urge to rip the girl apart right there and then, tasting her wet insides as she gulped her dying breaths.  He had to work real hard to control himself and keep his cool.  He would be nowhere without his control.  Far better to have fun once everyone was tied up and under his power.  That way there could be no surprises and the party could really get started.

“I think you should probably come now,” Nigel suggested, keeping his voice soft so as not to alarm an unsuspecting Steph.  “What if he doesn’t make it and this was his last chance to speak to you, Jess?”

Steph placed an arm around the girl, before frowning directly at him.  “That’s a little bit harsh, Nigel.  Let’s not condemn the poor boy just yet.”

“Thanks,” Jess replied.

“I do agree with him though, honey.  You should go right away.  Peter hasn’t been conscious much tonight and you wouldn’t want to miss out on anything he could tell us about what happened outside.”

Nigel grinned.  That’s a good girl.  Always so eager to help daddy, aren’t you?  Just like when you knocked yourself out for me in the toilets.

Nigel reached his hand out further to Jess.  “That’s what I was trying to say.  I didn’t mean to upset you.  I’m sure Peter’s going to be just fine, but right now he needs you.”

Jess looked like one of the cats Nigel used to strangle as a child (before he moved onto women and children).  Trapped and terrifyingly aware that death was quickly approaching, yet powerless to do anything about it.  The girl was afraid; the sight of it made Nigel’s cock throb.  He liked it so much better when they knew it was coming.  Love that look in their eyes.

Jess started getting up, ignoring Nigel’s outstretched hand and rising tentatively, as though she expected a strong wind to blow her over at any moment.  Nigel moved back and waited patiently by the stairs for her.   To his irritation, Jess instead turned to Steph and held out a hand.  “Will you come with me?”

Don’t even try it!  Just take what’s coming to you and stop making things hard.

Nigel was relieved when Steph shook her head.  Jess seemed to deflate like a leaking balloon.

“I can’t,” Steph told her.  “I need to stay here and look after Old Graham.”

“But he’s asleep,” said Jess, the pleading and desperation in her voice was clear to Nigel.  But is it clear to Steph?  Much to his dismay, Steph did indeed seem to pick up on the girl’s veiled pleas and was now staring at Jess as if trying to work her out.  Nigel held his breath, waiting for the outcome.

“Okay,” said Steph.  “I’ll come with you, but we’ll have to be quick.”

Damn it!

Nigel stood, irritated, as the two women huddled up and waited for him to lead on.  It was obvious Steph had picked up on something in Jess’s tone, but he doubted she suspected anything specific, anything close to the truth.  She knew something was up, but, as long as he didn’t leave the two of them alone, she wouldn’t figure out what until it was far far too late.

Nigel started to creep up the stairs, making sure the women followed.  He kept his steps slow so that Jess couldn’t fall behind and whisper something to Steph without him hearing.  When they reached the top, he stepped aside and ushered the women past him.  From behind, he moved them into the candlelight of the bar and was immediately hit by the sub-zero temperature.  It wasn’t even biting cold any longer, but a far deeper sensation that his very blood was turning to ice in his veins.  “Come on,” he said, “let’s get over to the fire.”

The women walked ahead and he kept close behind, rubbing his palms against his arms to try and generate some friction and heat – but the only thing getting him hot right now was watching Steph move.  He thought about all the things that he could do to that sexy, slender body that would warm him up for the rest of the night.  The only thing left to figure out was the best way to take Jess out of the picture.  For now he’d let things play out and wait for an opportunity to present itself.  The flick knife in his pocket made Nigel consider just stabbing the girl and being done with it, but that would be a waste.  He had to have his fun with her first.  If Steph was going to be the main course, then Jess would be dessert.  I’ll eat her nipples as cherries, Nigel thought as he let slip an excited laugh.  He quickly stifled it when the women looked at him.

“Something funny, Nigel?” Steph asked.

He quickly shook his head.  “Just the craziness of tonight making me a little loopy.  I get the giggles when I’m nervous.”

“And why would you be nervous?”  Jess asked in a tone that he didn’t like at all.  It was almost goading.

“Well,” he said, “there’s a lot to worry about tonight, isn’t there, sweetheart?”

Jess took a step backwards and was nodding as though she knew a punch-line to a joke that no one had told.  Nigel felt his blood pressure rising as he fought the urge to rip into the girl and punish her insolence.  She kept her eyes fixed on him as she continued stepping backwards.  Steph was watching from a few feet away, visibly unsure of what was about to unfold.  Nigel took steps of his own, keeping pace with Jess.

Like a predator stalking its prey.

“Or are you nervous,” Jess said, “because you lied about Peter being awake?  Look at him, he’s still unconscious.”

Nigel grinned.  Of course Peter was still unconscious; the kid was as good as dead.  He looked down at the boy and had to stifle another laugh.  Pity he isn’t awake.  He could have watched while I had my way with his girlfriend.

Jess took another step backwards, placing herself up against the wall beside the fire.  No more space to retreat.  Nigel continued approaching.

You’re trapped now, bitch.

“Or,” Jess continued, “are you nervous because I know that you’re the one that tried to rape Steph?”

Nigel looked at Steph and watched the sudden shock wash over her.  She took a sharp intake of breath.  Jess’s revelation had sucked the wind out of him as well.  He’d expected her to try and blow his cover, but the fact that she’d done right in front of Steph hurt him.  Nigel hadn’t wanted Steph to know the truth about him until the very last moment.

Nothing to be done now though.  Time to start ripping flesh.

Nigel lunged at Jess like a snake uncoiling.  Such momentum did he have that he was powerless to change direction as the teenaged girl swung at him with the fire poker she’d somehow grabbed from its rack without him seeing.

The last thing Nigel thought as the steel rod arced towards his skull was…

Chapter Twenty-NINE

“You want another piece of me, huh?  Well, if it’s Mortal Kombat you want then that’s exactly what you’re going to get, you cross-dressing freak.”

Harry managed to reach out and grab Jerry just before the lad ran off to his peril.  “Hold it,” he said, clutching the boy by the collar.

Jerry struggled to get free.  “Dude, not cool.  Let go of me.  Him and me have got a date with destiny.”

Harry shook the lad.  “This isn’t Star Wars and that’s not Obi Wan Kenobi.”

Jerry looked outraged.  “Obi Wan is one of the good guys, you dork!”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “I’m the dork.”

“Fellas, while I’d love to have a discussion on the many wee sides of the force, I think we should get going, pronto.”

Harry nodded to Lucas and then looked into the distance at the approaching figure.  “Okay, let’s get back to the pub.”

Everyone agreed.  They turned, ran…

…and stopped in their tracks.

“Holy shit!”  Jerry cried out as ten foot flames exploded from the snow before them, cutting off any chance of escape.  Harry felt the heat spread out in a wide semi-circle around them, leaving no place to go but towards the tall, hooded figure.

Jerry put his fists up.  “Time we entered the Thunderdome.”

“You reckon we should fight?” Harry asked.

“You got a better idea?” Kath queried.

“Don’t suppose anybody has a fire extinguisher?” Lucas asked, fanning his hands against the fire behind them.

Harry took several steps forwards.  It was probably a stupid idea.  “What do you want from us?” he demanded.  The hooded figure stopped moving, still too far buried by the blizzard for Harry to make them out clearly.  Despite that, he could feel the stranger’s stare boring into him, digging out the corners of his soul.  “I said, what do you want?”

Silence.

Then:  “WE HAVE COME FOR…THE SINNER.”

Harry shook his head.  What the hell is with this guy?  Did he overdose on bible studies as a kid?

“Who exactly is the sinner?” he asked.

More silence.

Then:  “YOU ARE, HARRY JOBSON.”

Harry fell down, for no other reason than his knees had ceased function.  He flopped, face-first into the snow like an awkward clown, dreading he would never get up again.  He was the sinner?  He was the cause of this madman wreaking havoc tonight?  It seemed insane, but…

He knows my secret; knows what I’ve done.  He’s right…I am a sinner.  But how did anybody ever find out?

“Come on, Harry Boy, time to go.”  Lucas lifted him up, and at first Harry thought it was to turn him in to the hooded stranger, but it wasn’t.  Lucas gained assistance from Jerry and the two of them dragged Harry through the snow, aiming for a small gap between the semi-circle of fire and the hooded figure.  Harry had every confidence that Kath was not part of his attempted rescue, yet he could hear her crunching footfalls following beyond.

Trying to keep her safety in numbers.

“What are we doing?” Harry asked wearily as they dragged him along by the armpits.  His legs trailed along behind him like boneless chickens and he felt dazed.

“Running for our lives,” said Lucas.  “What in the blazes do you think?”

“The supermarket must be nearby,” said Jerry, struggling with Harry’s weight.  “At least I hope so.”

“It is,” said Kath.  “We’re here.”

Harry looked up to see the dim shape of a building present itself through the snow, only twenty yards away.

We’re going to make it…

Harry craned his neck to look back behind him, but his joints would not allow sufficient movement to see anything clearly.  “Where is that…thing?”

Lucas and Jerry continued to drag him, their speed increasing as the sight of the supermarket spurned them on.  Kath overtook them all and started searching her pockets frantically, no doubt for the building’s keys.

Harry repeated himself.  “I said, where is it?”

They reached the supermarket’s locked fire door and dumped Harry down.  Lucas stared down at him and offered his hand.  “I don’t bloody know where it is.  We lost it on our way here and I was in too much a hurry to keep looking back, so get up and get ready in case it comes back.”

Kath pulled her keys from her pocket and started sifting through them.  “I can’t see a thing out here.”

Harry managed to stand, his legs solidifying from jelly to gradually-setting cement, not yet firm but getting there.  He looked back in the direction they’d come from, and found his heart stopping in his chest.  “You best hurry up and get us inside, Kath.  I mean right NOW!”

Harry waited anxiously while the others turned and saw for themselves.  Coming through the snow, with a steady and methodical purpose, was the hooded figure again; only this time, on either side of him, were others.  Dozens, in fact.   Their ghostly visages seemed to melt into the background of the thick, whirling blizzard that could have hidden an endless legion of them for all Harry knew.

Kath frantically tried keys on the lock.  Lucas fell to his knees, muttering.  Harry thought he heard the Irishman say something about ‘an army of Christ’, but there was no time to ask about it; the hooded figures were approaching.  Urgently, Harry turned to Kath at the door.  “How’s it going?” he asked her.

The chinking of keys.  Kath fumbled with the lock.  “I’m trying,” she said, sounding close to tears.  “I’m sodding trying.”

As if things could get any worse, Harry heard a sound that chilled his blood several degrees beyond the ice that already flowed through it.

Growling.

The sound was so guttural that it could have emanated from a pack of rabid wolves.  Or a dozen beasts from hell, thought Harry.  Alongside the hooded figures appeared several other beast-like shapes, moving faster and more erratically than their two legged companions.  They seemed like over-sized dogs, just as Jerry had described them.  Harry wished he’d paid more attention

“It’s the hounds of hell,” said Jerry.  “The ones I saw earlier with Jess.  Believe me now?”

Harry clutched the chef’s knife tightly in his hand, but had a horrible feeling that it would prove to be as useful as a handful of wet spaghetti.  “Jerry,” he said.  “If we live through this then I will be the first in line to apologise for not believing you, but now’s not the time for humble pie.”

Jerry seemed buoyed by the vindication and actually began to smile.  He moved over to Kath and picked up the baseball bat that she had propped against the supermarket’s door.

Lucas was still on his knees, but had stopped his incoherent rambling.  He fixed his gaze on Jerry.  “What the b’jaysus are you doing, lad?”

Jerry narrowed his eyes at the man.  ”I’m getting even.”

With that, Jerry trudged through the snow at a speed that was as close to running as was probably possible given the terrain.  He held the baseball bat high above his head as if it were a holy sword of Justice.  The strange army of unearthly figures continued approaching, led by the more quickly moving ‘hounds of hell’.  Jerry didn’t seem concerned by any of them and picked up speed.

“Jerry, get back here!” Harry shouted, but his words were wasted and almost faded into the blizzard.

Moments before Jerry was set to collide with one of the hounds, he stopped in his tracks.  Harry watched the boy stick out an arm and make a beckoning motion with his hand.  “Let’s go, Cujo!”

Jerry swung the baseball bat from over his head in a downwards arc.  It connected with the skull of his closest attacker.  With a snarling whine, the beast shot sideways into the snow, which quickly begun to melt around it.  Jerry swung the bat again and it connected with the beast’s hindquarters, causing it to yowl in agony.  Before he had time to swing again, it got to its feet and fled.  Jerry held the bat above his head triumphantly.  “Flawless victory, bitch!”

Harry watched the surreal image of the spotty, teenaged boy taking on a pack of hell beasts with a decrepit baseball bat and wondered whether he was stoned.  Had his drinking progressed to drug-abuse and he was now just lying somewhere, hallucinating the whole thing?  It was a thought he would’ve liked to have held on to very much, but he knew it wasn’t true.  They were all in very serious danger and none of this was imaginary.  It wasn’t a movie.

“Jerry!  Get your arse back here, now!”

Harry’s warning was too late.  He and the others watched in horror as a wave of dog-beasts swarmed over Jerry’s scrawny frame.  Harry was unable to take his eyes away as flesh and fat were shorn from teenager’s bones like meat from a turkey, razor sharp fangs piercing every inch of Jerry’s skin. Harry thought his ears would explode under the force of the boy’s agonised screams and was grateful that they only lasted a few seconds as the exertion eventually ripped free Jerry’s vocal cords.

Harry sobbed.

“Thank God!”  Kath said finally, unlocking the door and pushing it open so hard that she fell to her knees on the other side.  Harry himself did not move, too transfixed by the pack of wretched beasts that feasted on Jerry’s still-twitching body as though it were a packet of raw meat.  Despite everything that had happened that night, Harry was only now realising the situation they were in.  “They’re going to kill us all, aren’t they?”

“Maybe,” said Lucas, pulling him backwards and through the door.  “But there’s no reason for us to make it easy for them, is there?”

Finding a defiance inside of himself that he did not know existed, Harry closed the supermarket’s door behind them.  “No,” he said, “That’s the last thing we’re going to do.”

Kath locked the supermarket’s door while, outside, a dozen hooded demons surrounded them.

Chapter Thirty

“Damien…

“Damien, wake up.”

Damien opened his eyes, expecting light to stream in and burn his retinas; but there was only darkness.  Gradually, he remembered the evening’s events.  The unending snow, the power cut, and everybody freezing.  He could remember no more than that at first, but when he found himself tied to a chair he began to panic.  It all came flooding back to him.

“Steph!”

“I’m here, Damien.  I’m going to untie you, but you’ve got to stay calm.  We need your help.”

“That son of a bitch knocked me out.  Harry, I’m going to kill you.”

“Damien, I can only untie you if you calm down.  The only reason Harry hit you was because he thought-”

“I was going rape you.”

“Yes,” said Steph.  “We got it all wrong.  It wasn’t you, it was-”

“Nigel!”  Damien could remember; remembered finding the sick pervert about to stick it in an unconscious woman.  Not just any women either; it was Steph.  Damien was a lot of things, but a rapist he was not.  Sex offenders and nonces were a whole other level of scumbag; subhuman slugs.  He pulled at his wrist restraints, furious when they would not come off.  “Where the hell is that piece of shit?”

“I’m here princess, and guess what?  This time you get to watch.”

Damien strained in the darkness to see what was happening.  He heard Nigel speak and the girls cry out in fear, but his eyes were still too unadjusted to the lack of light.  He could only make out vague, shifting shapes in front of the fireplace.  He struggled at the ropes around his wrists.  Come on, come on.  Need to put a stop to this before it gets nasty.  Arsehole needs to pay.

The ropes were tight, too tight in fact, and the skin around Damien’s wrists was abraded and sore.  Nevertheless, he began sawing his arms back and forth, trying to create some slack that could set him free.  In front of the fire the struggle continued, punctuated by a wet slapping sound.

Damien flinched as a body fell down in front of him.  Steph lay crumpled on the floor, dazed and semi-conscious, blood seeping from a wound on the bridge of her nose.  She murmured something to Damien but it went by him.  It sounded like the word ‘poker’.  Damien continued rubbing his wrists back and forth and felt the ropes loosen a couple of millimetres.

Yes, come on.

At his feet, Damien could feel Steph squirming on the floor, slowly moving past his legs.  At first he thought she was making a run for it, but a tugging sensation at his wrists made him realise what she was doing: untying him.

He felt the ropes loosen.

Damien’s eyes adjusted to the scene in front of him.  Nigel had Jess up against the wall beside the fire, struggling back and forth as the girl held onto his wrists, keeping his hands away from her.  Jess obviously put up more of a fight than Nigel expected.  Damien almost smiled as he watched her spit and bite at his face, doing anything she could to defend herself.

Girl’s a fighter!

Damien felt the ropes come free from his wrists and, with a jolt that emanated from his knees and spread through his entire body, he shot up and leapt towards Nigel, landing hard against the man’s broad back.  It felt like hitting a barn wall, but the blow was enough to send Nigel face first into the wall.  Unfortunately, Jess was in the way and got squashed in between.  The air exploded from her lungs in a great ‘whooof!’ as she fell to the floor like a puppet without strings.  Taking advantage of the confusion, Damien swung his fist.

And missed.

Nigel turned and ducked the blow, countering with a punch of his own.  The man’s large, meaty fist connected with Damien’s ribcage with an echoing thud!  The air flowed out of him like a whistle on a steam train; a drawn-out, strangled wheeze that seemed to go on forever.  Damien fell to his knees and tried hard not to lose focus completely as the pain urged him to lie down and give up.

Nigel stomped towards him like a greasy-haired rhino, grunting and snorting.  There was still too little air in Damien’s winded lungs to launch an effective attack, and he was just about to resign himself to the oncoming onslaught when he spotted something.

Damien snatched at the poker that lay strewn at his feet.  It seemed to glow in the soft light of the fire like a gift from the Gods.  It was his salvation; his chance to knock the greasy haired rapist to hell and back.  Damien rose up, sweeping the poker up and over his head.

The clanging sound that filled the room as the thick iron poker struck Nigel’s skull was the most beautiful thing Damien had ever heard.  It was music.  Head banging music.

Nigel staggered backwards, half-conscious, legs wobbling like a beaten boxer’s.  Damien watched the whites of Nigel’s eyes roll back into his head.  Watched as his hulking body crumpled.  And watched as Nigel fell backwards into the fire.

With an agonising scream, Nigel’s eyes rolled back into their normal position as his mind was forced back to lucidity.  His head lay in the fire like it was a pillow; a pillow that quickly roasted and blistered his skin.  Like a greyhound out of the starting gates, Nigel shot forward, leaping away from the fire like it was trying to consume him whole.  The flames had died down to embers; most likely the only reason Nigel wasn’t a human fireball right now.  The whole thing happened so quickly that Damien couldn’t think fast enough to react to Nigel’s enflamed body hurtling towards him.

When the knife entered, it felt like a bee sting, followed by a huge amount of pressure.  Damien thought it was ironic.  About time I found out what this feels like. I always thought it would have been sooner

The pain was unbearable.

###

“What in the blue hell is happening tonight.  I mean FUCK!”  Harry felt like he was going to go insane, smash the place up like a coked-up rock star.  He’d just watched a teenage boy get ripped to shreds like minced beef on a taco.  This on a night where the world was being consumed by a never-ending torrent of snow and hooded demons stalked run-down English council estates for kicks.  On top of everything, it all seemed to have something to do with him.  They had called Harry ‘the sinner’.

“Seriously, can anybody tell me what is going on?  I just watched Jerry get ripped apart by God-knows what, and now we’re trapped in a pitch-black supermarket surrounded by a bunch of homicidal monks.”

“I don’t think they’re monks,” said Kath.

“Me either,” said Harry.

Lucas walked over to the front fire door and looked out into the snow.  There seemed to be movement outside.  He turned around and faced Harry.  “I think it would be shrewd if we thought a wee bit less about what they be and a lot more about how to get passed them and back to the pub.  The others need us.”

Harry let air flow slowly from his lips, trying to calm his beating heart.  It didn’t work and left Harry feeling even more anxious.  ”We’re screwed, you know that?”

Lucas nodded.  “Aye, but better to take a shagging standing up than to bend over and take it.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh.  “You’ve obviously spent some time in prison, right?”

Lucas grinned.  “You could say that, Harry Boy, and you wouldn’t be too far from the truth.”

“Okay,” said Kath.  “Can we just do what we’re here to do?  It’s even colder here than it was outside.”

Harry nodded and started moving.  “Okay.  Let’s get the coal, painkillers, food.  Anything we need to take back, let’s get it all piled up over here.”

Kath and Lucas nodded and got to work.  Before Lucas ran off into the darkness he saluted Harry and said, “Right away, Major Jobson.”

It was then that Harry realised something important; something he’d overlooked earlier.  He’d never told Lucas what his surname was and he was sure no one else had either.

Which begged one question for Harry:  How does
Lucas know me?

Chapter Thirty-ONE

Jess finally managed to take a breath.  It succeeded only in making her nauseous.  The sick feeling was due to watching helplessly as a badly-burned Nigel hacked his knife into Damien’s mid-section.  Jess was powerless to intervene as Nigel heaved a Steph’s groggy body onto the chair that had earlier held Damien captive.

Jess scanned the floor for a weapon, looking for a solution.  The only thing she could see was the trusty fire poker, but it lay several feet away, next to a wounded Damien, who writhed on the floor and gritted his teeth against his pain.

Poor Guy!

Despite Damien’s unscrupulous activities around the local estate, Jess genuinely hoped that he would pull through.  As things turned out, he wasn’t as bad as people made out.  Wishful thinking aside, though, Jess still had to make it over to the poker without being spotted by the 18-stone rapist currently taping Steph to a chair.  Even worse, she had to do it despite the cold sending her shivering body into awkward spasms.

So I have to be silent and stealthy while chattering like an over-excited monkey.  Jerry would just love this.  I’m sure they’d be a film reference that would fit perfectly.

God, how she would just love for Jerry and the others to come barging through the pub’s doors right now to save her from this wretched nightmare.  But if tonight had taught her anything, it was not to hope for the best because things had a habit of getting worse.

Without realising it, Jess had started to move, crawling carefully on her hands and knees, shivering every time she took her arms away from her body.  The chill was bad enough that even the fibres of the carpet had begun to freeze over; sharp and brittle, like tiny pine needles digging into her palms.  Up ahead lay the poker, and perhaps her only chance to protect herself from Nigel.  She looked up at the big man and saw that he was now trying to stir Steph from her fuzzy haze.  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” he was saying.  “I want you to be awake for this.  No fun if you sleep through all the fun.”

Steph opened her eyes and managed to focus on him.  She spat at Nigel.  ”Screw you!”  As soon as it had arrived, the fight seemed to leave Steph again.  She was too bruised and broken to keep it up.  Nigel slapped her hard, the sound filling the room and bouncing off the walls.

Jess closed her eyes and winced, but continued crawling forward, the poker just a few feet away now.

Nigel slapped Steph again, this time a backhand.  “Spitting is very unladylike,” he shouted, “and anything ill-befitting of a lady will not be tolerated.  If I wanted a bloke for entertainment then I would have tied Damien back up in the chair.  Speaking of which, how are you big man?”  Nigel turned to Damien who was still moaning on the floor.  “Not so hard now, huh?”  Then he took a run up and booted the lad in the chest.  The air exploded from him like a car backfiring.  Jess winced again, glad she wasn’t on the receiving end.   She carried on shuffling towards the poker.  It was nearly at arm’s length now.

Almost there.

Almost…

Jess cried out as a heavy work shoe crunched down on her hand.  She knew right away that she’d blown it and that she would most likely pay for it with her life.  Nigel twisted his heel and pushed down harder, cracking and bruising the small bones in Jess’ hand.  She wailed in agony and struggled to get free.  Nigel laughed sadistically, the sound more chilling than the cold night air.  Jess’s screams increased as she felt a rough hand tangle itself into her hair and yank.  The pressure removed itself from her hand and she was hoisted to her feet, finding herself face to face with Nigel who was snarling like a feral beast.  She tried to pull away.

“Not so fast, sweetheart.  Now that Steph is nice and comfortable, you and me have some time on our hands.”

She fought to twist herself free, but it was like being held in a vice.  “The others will be back at any minute,” she warned him.  “You’re going to get your arse kicked, you sicko.”

Nigel smiled.  “By who?  Harry, the alcoholic?  Jerry, the loser?  Or Lucas, the thick mick?  I don’t think so, sweetheart.  They’re probably already dead, and if not then I’ll see to them later.”

The thought of Nigel killing the other’s filled Jess with rage.  She decided to take a leaf out of Steph’s book and spat.  Nigel flinched as the saliva missile hit his cheek and she used this opportunity to try and get free, driving her knee as hard as she could toward Nigel’s groin.  The blow missed the intended target but still managed to plant firmly in his mid-section.  He staggered backwards, releasing her, as the air escaped from his lungs.  Jess used the time to make a grab for the poker, diving to the floor and reaching out with her hand.  Her fingers closed around the metal and Jess’s heart skipped a beat as she realised she’d actually managed to get the weapon.  Now she had to use it.  She leapt to her feet and turned around, poker in hand, ready to let Nigel have it.

But he was gone.

Jess did a double take of the room.  She knew that Nigel was hiding somewhere, waiting to pounce.  But from where?  With the poker held out in front of her, she took a tentative step forward, expecting an attack at any moment.  Her nerves were tattered and frayed by the constant jolts of fear.  If she lived through tonight, Jess decided she should write a book.  The Winter Rapist?  The Ice Killer?  She’d have to think about it later.

Moving past the sofa, she prepared to swing with all her might, sure that Nigel would jump out at her any second.  She moved carefully, watchfully, deciding that the most effective hiding place for a serial killer would be behind the bar.  There was only one entrance to the area behind it so, if she was quick enough, she could take Nigel out before he could manage to do anything to her.  Jess slowed her pace, not relishing an encounter that was life or death.

The bar loomed closer, lit by a number of dwindling candles.  The struggling light shone on the liqueur bottles that lined the shelves, making them look like rows of crocodile teeth.  The final few steps were nerve-wracking and she had to come to a halt before she reached the bar fully.  Deep breaths, Jess.  Nigel must be behind there, but you’re going to be ready for him.  Armed and ready.  She squeezed the poker in her right hand, anxiety forcing her to check it was still there even though she knew it was.  Okay, here goes.

Jess took the final steps towards the bar area and quickly sidestepped to see behind it.  As she suspected, Nigel was crouched and waiting for her.  What she hadn’t expected was how quick the big man would be – and how much it would hurt having a vodka bottle smashed over her head.

Straight away, Jess felt the blood cascade from the top of her head.  It ran into her eyes, blinding her, and then into her mouth.  She could hardly believe she was lucid enough to even taste the coppery, metallic taste of it, and that somehow the blow had not knocked her out.  It had certainly dazed her.

She teetered backwards, legs folding as she hit the floor.  Her ears picked up the heavy clunk of the poker skittering across the floor.  How many times is that thing going to get dropped?  Despite everything, Jess found herself laughing at the thought.  No need to lose her sense of humour now, not when she needed it more than ever.  She collapsed onto her back, too dizzy to get back up.  Not that it would have mattered because Nigel was on her like a shot, pinning her arms down with his knees and straddling her chest.  Held to her throat was the broken remnants of the Vodka bottle.

Nigel sneered at her.  “Time to die, bitch.”

Jess sneered right back, blood covering her teeth.  “See you in hell, you small prick mummy’s boy!”

The comment seemed to hurt Nigel and Jess started to laugh again.  Right now, the over-sized, sexual predator looked like an insecure little boy.  She would take that satisfying image to her grave happily.  Even as the jagged bottle descended towards her throat, Jess continued to cackle out loud, closing her eyes and waiting for it all to be over.

Jess had expected a sharp, ragged pain, but instead was jolted by a heavy force hitting her instead.  She opened her eyes tentatively and at first could not understand what had happened.  Then she realised that Nigel had collapsed forward, her face now buried in his stomach.  What the hell?  She punched and prodded at Nigel’s lumpy body, trying to move it, but when it didn’t budge, it became obvious that he was unconscious.

What the hell happened?

After several attempts at rolling the dead weight aside, Jess finally managed to slump Nigel over to one side and slide out from under him.  She still didn’t understand what happened.  At least not until she saw…

“Peter!  You’re okay?”

Her friend was standing over her, gripping the poker that now dripped goblets of blood from its tip onto the floor.  He smiled at her, although his ruined face made the expression look ghoulish and grim.  He released the poker and dropped to his knees, letting out a long breath.  He managed to speak.  “Are you…okay…Jess?”

“Yes, yes.  I’m fine, Peter.  Thanks to you, that is.”

Peter nodded and his smile widened.  Then he lost consciousness, pitching forward and hitting the floor face down.  Jess felt like doing the same.

Chapter Thirty-TWO

When Harry found a pile of children’s sledges he thought that things were looking up, but only slightly.  Sure it would make getting the coal and other supplies back to the pub easier, but it didn’t change the fact the supermarket was surrounded by god-knows-what.  To make matters even worse, Harry had just realised that Lucas was not who he said he was.  Before Harry said anything, however, he’d decided to complete the task they’d come here for.  Between the three of them, him, Lucas, and Kath had managed to pile up more than enough coal to keep the pub going till morning and beyond, along with a bag full of over-the-counter painkillers.  They’d even found a couple of torches and two dozen packets of batteries.  Now that they were done and ready to go, Harry was ready to confront Lucas about the secrets he was keeping.

“Hey, Lucas?  How do you know my surname?”

Lucas turned to Harry, confusion on his face.  “What’s that now?”

“I said how do you know my surname?  I didn’t tell you.”

Kath huffed.  “Do we really have time for this, Harry?  We need to get going.”

Lucas shrugged.  “I didn’t realise it was such a secret, fella.”

“It’s not,” Harry admitted, “but I never told it to you.”

“The demon monks outside said it, didn’t they?  They said, HARRY JOBSON YOU ARE THE SINNER.  Or something like that.”

Harry thought for a moment.  “No, Lucas, you knew before that.  You called me Major Jobson earlier at The Trumpet.”

Kath looked pissed off, but at the same time seemed a little interested also.  It appeared she wanted to see what Lucas’s answer would be.

But he gave none.

Harry took a quick breath, trying to stay calm.  “Lucas, I asked you a question.”

The Irishman scratched at his head before letting his arms loose to swing by his sides.  “Do you really want to do this now, Harry Boy?”

Harry’s stomach churned as he wondered whether he really did want to do this now.  He really had no idea who Lucas was, what he was planning, or what he was capable of.  Harry swallowed.  “Yeah, I want to do this right now.  Who the hell are you and how do you know me?”

Lucas walked over to the cash register and hopped up onto its surface, then took a long, deep breath.  “Who I am is something we really don’t have time for right now, but how I know you is a little easier.”

“Well, get started then,” Harry demanded.

Lucas nodded.  “I know you, because you’re the sinner.  Same reason them outside know you – who, might I add, have nothing to do with me.”

“You expect me to believe that?  You must have something to do with them.”

“I really don’t.  You have my word, for what it’s worth.  What happened tonight was going to happen whether I turned up or not.”

Kath stepped towards Lucas.  “Who are you?  What’s going on?”

Lucas looked tired of the questions already, but he still gave answers.  “Both questions we don’t have time for.  All I can say is that the fellas outside came for Harry.  Does the ‘what’ or the ‘why’ really matter?”

“It does to me,” said Harry.  It felt like his stomach was going to burst open and release his organs onto the floor.  The scar on the back of his hand throbbed; it always did when he was losing control, as though it were trying to remind him what could happen when he let his anger run away with him.

“Why me?” Harry asked, trying to keep his focus on what mattered.

“B’Jaysus, we’re going around in circles.  Because you’re the sinner.”

Kath shook her head.  “Why is Harry ‘the sinner’?”

Harry would tell her why.  It was time to own up.  “Because I murdered a man.”

Lucas acted as though he knew this all along, but Kath recoiled in horror, stepping away from Harry and towards the door.

“Calm down, woman,” said Lucas.  “He’s not intending to kill you.”  He looked at Harry.  “Are you?”

“No, of course not!  The man I killed destroyed my life.  It was revenge.  So why is this all because of me?  There’re far worse people in the world,”

“I agree,” said Lucas.  “In the grand scale of things, you’re pretty low down on the Sin scale, but murder is murder.”

“But why did my sin cause all this?  If that’s what you’re suggesting?”  Harry felt dizzy.  This morning he’d woken up expecting the day to end in a drunken stupor just like the 365 days before it.  He never expected it to end like this.

Lucas stared at Harry intensely.  The man’s blue eyes seemed to light the darkness around him.  “Because yours was the last.  The sin that finally tipped the scales.”

Harry was about to demand what the hell that meant, but, before he could grab Lucas around the throat and force him to speak sense, the doors blew inwards.  Not a gust of wind swinging them open, but an actual concussive force that ripped them from their hinges and flung them across the room.  The wind and snow flew in through the gap like the breath from a dragon.

Harry ran to Lucas and grabbed the man by the arm.  “What the hell is happening?”

Lucas had to shout to be heard above the howling wind.  “They’re coming to get you.”

Harry shook his head.  “But inside the pub we were safe, they left us alone.  Why are they coming inside now?”

“They couldn’t enter the pub, but they can enter here.  That’s all I can tell you, right now, but I can help you get out.”

“I’m listening.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow and smiled.  “Go and get all of the porno magazines.”

“What?”  Kath joined them over at the cash desk.  The wind had blown her dark hair into a freakish mess of tangles.  She looked like a homeless witch.  “This is no time for self-gratification.

“Just go and get me all the smutty magazines,” Lucas reiterated.  “You’ll see why.”

Harry lacked the energy to ask more questions.  The monsters outside would be inside any minute, led by the insidious dog beasts that had shredded poor, stupid Jerry to pieces.  He turned, ran, and then sprinted over to the magazine aisle.  It was closest to where the fire doors had been and the nearest racks were shedding their contents under the harsh wind attacking them.  Harry almost slipped on a Gardening Annual as he made his way over to the far end, where the shining images of bikini clad women lay three deep.  Why on earth Lucas wanted all the lad mags, he could not fathom, but it seemed as though the man know what was going on a lot better than anyone else.  Harry saw little choice but to do what Lucas asked.

He picked up a copy of Nipples and then quickly gathered up several more publications of ill-repute.  He clutched the pile to his chest and turned back in the opposite direction, making sure not to slip on the Gardening Annual as he ran back to Lucas.  When Harry got there, the Irishman was accepting what looked like cello tape from Kath, who’d obviously been sent on her own errand.

Harry stood in front of Lucas and waited.  “Well?”

“Set the pornos down on the counter, fella, and pass me that broom behind the counter.”

Harry played along, leaning over the service desk to grab the wooden handle.  “Okay, got it.  Now what?”

Lucas took the broom and placed it on the counter with the magazines.  Then he began to tear out the pages featuring naked women (as well as a few men).

“What are you doing?” Kath asked him.  “We need to hurry.  I can hear them growling out there.”

Lucas ignored her and carried on tearing the pages.  Once a modest pile of immodest pictures had accrued, he grabbed the cello tape.  What he did next was the most bizarre.  Lucas began to wrap the broom head up in the naked pictures, fastening them with the tape.  He wrapped the handle too in the same way.

Harry couldn’t take it anymore, the growling from outside was too close.  “Okay, Lucas.  I’m all for arts and crafts, but what is this helping?”

Lucas shoved the porno broom into Harry arms.  “You’ll see.  Right, that sorts out the choir; now something for the hounds.”
Harry raised an eyebrow.  “The choir?”

Lucas ignored him and disappeared into one of the aisles.  When he came back he was holding something in each hand.

“Salt?” said Kath.

“Aye,” said Lucas.  “It’ll deal with the growly fellas, trust me.”  He handed one of the tubs of salt to Kath and kept one for himself.  Apparently, the broom was going to be Harry’s weapon.

“Fine,” Harry sighed.  “Let’s just get out of here before those things get in here.”

“Too late.”  Lucas pointed over to the doorway at one of the ‘hounds’.  It sat watching them all, ears pricked up like an over-sized spaniel.

Except spaniels don’t have so many teeth.

When the beast saw that it had caught their attention, it began to snarl; a low, buzzing sound that increased to a full-blown rumbling.

“What should I do?” asked Kath, holding the salt tub out in front of her with a shaking hand.

“Watch and learn,” said Lucas, who walked forward slowly, almost casually, towards the beast.  As he got nearer, the creature bunched up, muscles tensing as it prepared to attack.  Lucas was unconcerned and met the hound head on.

Harry swallowed in anticipation.  Insane.  The man’s insane.

Lucas looked back at them and nodded, as if to say ‘watch this’, then flicked the salt container back and forth, spilling out a long stream of granules through the air.  Instantly, the beast began to howl, its whimpers no different to a beaten puppy, weak and subservient.   Harry soon smelt burning and realised it was the animal’s flesh.  Like sausages grilling on a barbeque, but with a hint of something else.

Eggs?  No, something else.  I remember it from school…

The smell was sulphur.

The hound bolted; turning and running back through the doorway and into the night, leaving behind a cloying puddle of dissolving flesh that made Harry want to retch.

“Now we can go,” said Lucas.

“What about the ‘choir’?” Harry asked.

“That’s what the broom’s for.  Make sure you use it when the time is right.”

“And how do I know when that is?”

“It’ll be when something starts trying to kill you.”

Right, thought Harry.  I’ll just use my broom kung fu on them.  Fuck sake, when we get back to the pub Lucas better have some goddamn answers.

Unless he stabs me in the back before we even get there.

“Okay,” said Harry, looking out into the freezing dark night.  “Let’s do this.”

Chapter Thirty-THREE

Jess held Peter in her arms, amazed that he was actually awake.  Nearby, Steph was looking after Damien, who was doing okay despite having been stabbed.  As things turned out, the blade had lodged between his ribs and hadn’t gone in more than an inch or so.  Damien said it hurt like hell but he’d be okay, despite the heavy bleeding.  She’d wanted to have a look at the wound but Damien was too macho to allow it.

When Jess untied Steph, she’d had to wake her up and coax her from unconsciousness.  Once she’d snapped back to reality, though, Steph was visibly horrified by what Nigel had done.  She’d started weeping.  Damien had then sent her away to tend to her wounds.  Jess had a feeling that he’d only suggested it to give her something to concentrate on other than the attack.

Nigel was out cold in the middle of the floor.  They would have to tie him up soon, but, for now, everyone would have one eye on him, ready to beat him down if he dared make the slightest move.  Damien stood over him now, poker in hand.

After saving her, and losing consciousness, Peter had slowly stirred back awake, semi-lucid again.  Lay across Jess’s lap, his body-warmth pulsed through her clothing.  He was burning up badly and she worried about his temperature being so high.  She looked down at him now with more concern than she’d ever felt for a person.

“Did the nasty man…hurt you…Jessica?”

“No, Peter.  You saved me.  You’re my hero.”

Peter smiled a grim, broken-toothed smile.  “I am…sorry I let you go out alone.  I…looked for you.”

Jess smiled down at him.  “I know you did.  It wasn’t your fault.  No one could know what was going to happen tonight.  I think it’s the end of the world or something.”

Peter closed his eyes for a few seconds and Jess worried that he would not open them again.  The boy’s breathing was uneven and shallow.  She shook him gently.  “Peter, are you okay?”

He opened his eyes again.  “I am…fine.  The world is not ending, Jessica.”

“No?”

“No.  As long as there are still beautiful things, we will be…okay.”  He was looking at Jess and she realised that he meant her.  “Can I…ask you…something?”

“Yes,” said Jess.  “Of course you can.  What is it?”

“Can I…kiss you?”

Jess was taken aback.  After all Peter had been through tonight, the only thing he wanted was a kiss.  And from me?  Did he have feelings for her before all of this?  Or was he just delirious?  Of all the times Jess had thought about kissing Peter, the whole time he had perhaps been thinking the same.  It hurt her soul to a point where she felt like she couldn’t go on, that she was ready to just lie down and wait for death.  First though, she had a question from a dear friend to answer.

“Yes, Peter,” she said, “you can kiss me.  Peter…”

Jess looked down at her friend and realised that he was dead.  The only thing stopping Jess from screaming was how peaceful he looked.  She was glad that his pain was finally over and smiled down at him one last, final time.  “Yes, Peter, you can kiss me.”  She leant down and placed her lips against the soft, delicate mouth of her friend, sad and angry that he would never get to be anything more.  “Goodbye,” she said, finally, placing him down on the floor.  Jess was surprised to find an empty, hollow place inside of herself.  Part of her had just died.

Jess stood up and Damien noticed her.  He asked if she was alright.

Then Steph came back from wherever she’d been and immediately noticed Peter lying dead on the floor.  She looked at Jess and shook her head solemnly.  “I’m sorry,” she said.

Jess nodded, feeling numb.  “It’s okay.  At least I got to say goodbye…in a way.”

Steph nodded.  “Can we do anything?”

Jess was about to answer when movement from the corner of her eye startled her.  “Nigel’s up.”

The three of them grouped together as Nigel staggered about like a wounded animal, his skin blackened and weeping pus.  Jess waited for him to run at them, wailing and screeching like a demon, but thankfully he hurried away instead, bumping into tables in an effort to escape.

“He’s trying to do one,” said Damien.

“Let him,” said Jess.  “He can go and freeze out there.”

Nigel bumped into more furniture and fled towards the door.  Jess wasn’t sure if he’d fully regained his senses from the blow to his head yet.  He certainly seemed disorientated and unsettled, but somehow he managed to find his way to the door, flinging it open and staggering outside.  Then he was gone, disappearing into the night.  Jess prayed never to see him again.

“Good riddance!” she said.

Steph put an arm around Jess.  “Come on, sweetheart.  We should get ourselves downstairs in front of the barrel fire now that we don’t have to worry about him.  The fire in here’s about to go out anyway and that broken window is going to freeze us to stone.”

Jess agreed.  “Plus, Old Graham will be wondering what’s going on.”

Steph’s eyes suddenly widened.  “I forgot all about Old Graham.  Hopefully he’s drunk enough to not have heard any of this.”

”We best get down there,” Jess said, turning with Steph, towards the bar.  She took two steps and then stopped.  “Shit!  Are you okay?”  Damien was doubled up against the bar, taking in long, laboured breaths.  “You’re still bleeding?”

He waved a hand dismissively and Jess saw that it was soaked with blood.  “Just a flesh wound,” he said and then laughed.  “I always wanted to say that.”

“It’s not a joke, Damien.  Are you okay?”

“I’ll live.  Just a bit sore.   The blood is probably to be expected after getting stabbed and everything.  Like I told you though, it isn’t deep.”

Steph didn’t seem convinced.  Jess wasn’t either, but what could they do?  Jess was thinking that maybe the wound was worse than he was letting on, but having never seen a stab wound before there was a chance she was just overreacting.  If Damien said he was fine then all they could do was believe him.  “Let’s go downstairs,” she said finally.

The three of them gathered candles from the bar and entered the rear corridor.  The air seemed no warmer inside, which was strange as earlier it had been filled with a warm air current flowing up from the stairs.  Now it felt as cold as the rest of the pub.  Steph took the staircase first; Jess and Damien followed.  When they reached the bottom together, darkness greeted them and Jess realised the fire had gone out.

“Oh no,” said Steph, lighting the room with her candle.  The image of Old Graham shone into view, still lying on the floor where they’d left him.  Even in the poor light, Jess could see the waxy blue tinge that travelled the lines of the old man’s face and, particularly, his lips.  Old Graham was dead.

Steph leapt down onto her knees, dropping her candle on the cement floor where it quickly extinguished. In the darkness, Jess and Damien had no choice but to listen to her scream.

###

Outside it was as Harry had feared.  They were surrounded.  In all directions, the tall, hooded figures loomed over them, standing motionless, shoulder to shoulder, forming a wall of towering bodies.  In front of them the hounds sat obediently.

“What do we do?” asked Harry.

Lucas shoved him forward.  “Just swing for the first bugger that comes for you.  Kath and I will handle the hounds.”

Harry willed his legs to take him forward and after several false starts got himself moving.  The monsters remained in place but watched him with great interest.  Harry felt like a lowly ant beneath their stares.  A low growl emanated from the hounds but they made no attempts to attack, heeled to their hooded masters and waiting for commands.

Harry got closer and wondered what to do.  Did Lucas really expect to take on this army with just a broom and some salt shakers?  They were going to die; any other outcome seemed impossible.  Still, Harry wasn’t going down without a fight.  If they wanted him, they would have to take him down, biting and screaming.

Once he was within a dozen metres of the hooded figures, the hounds at their feet became agitated, hackles rising as they paced back and forth.

“Ready with the salt?” asked Harry.

“Bring it on,” said Lucas, taking hold of Kath and bringing her forward.  Together, the two of them hurled salt into the air.  It caught on the wind and dispersed in a thousand directions, disappearing into the blizzard.

Harry watched and waited as nothing happened.  Then hounds began to squeal, their skin smoking and burning, dripping into the snow and turning it a dark, mottled brown.  The beasts began to edge away, colliding with their masters who were still unmoving.  After a few moments, the hounds managed to weave between the hooded figures and flee into the night.

Satisfied, Harry looked at Lucas, who nodded at the broom he was holding.  Really?  Should he really be so willing to trust his survival on a domestics implement?  Harry decided it was time to find out.  The three of them lined up and marched forward, meeting their attackers head on.

Harry raised the broom like a pike, images of naked women fluttering in the wind.  The hooded men remained motionless, their seven-foot frames like stone statues.  When one of them finally moved, Harry thought he was going to soil himself.

The tallest figure, at the centre of the wall, stepped forward and flung out a hand.  Harry curiously noticed that the creature’s outstretched arm was human, yet twisted and talon-like.  It pointed at Lucas as its owner hissed the word, ‘WORMWOOD’.

Harry turned to Lucas who was grinning ear to ear, not out of good nature, but seemingly out of defiance.  Lucas winked at the figure addressing him.  “How you doing there, Mickey?  Been keeping well?”

“You know this…this thing?” asked Kath, the disgust in her voice not even slightly hidden.

“Aye, but now is not the time.”

“It never is with you,” said Harry.

“Harry,” Lucas whispered over his shoulder, “now would be a good time to sweep up the trash.”

Harry didn’t understand at first, until, finally, a light bulb went off in his head.  He rammed the broom forwards, aiming for the hooded man’s head.  The blow missed by a mile and that seemed impossible.  The intended victim had gone from motionless stone to dodging the blow in an unearthly blur of speed; a glowing wisp of light that didn’t actually seem to move so much as simply disappear and reappear somewhere else.

Harry cursed out loud.  “Damn it!  I missed.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Lucas.  “Get your bloody arse moving.”

Harry realised that his attacker’s evasion had left a gap in the wall of hooded bodies.  The three of them ran, stumbling through the deep snow and almost having to claw themselves along.  Despite their early lack of movement, the hooded men were now giving chase, screeching and wailing as they did.  As one got close, Harry swung out with the broom.  It blinked out of existence and reappeared out of harm’s way just as his brethren had before.  Harry didn’t mind if the swings were making contact or not, they were warding off the danger regardless.

As he clambered through the snow, Harry came side by side with Lucas.  He turned and looked at him.  “What the hell are they, Lucas?”

Lucas looked back and smiled.  “Angels.”  He said it casually, as if the explanation was not completely insane.

Harry almost fell, just about managing to right himself with his next steps.  “Angels?”

“Like I said, Harry Boy.  Now’s not the time.”

The three of them continued making their way forward, not really knowing where they were heading other than away from danger.  As Harry looked back, he saw that they were no longer being pursued.  The ‘Angels’ were apparently in no rush to get their ‘sinner’.  But, despite the lack of pursuit coming from behind, Harry could clearly make out something ahead of him.”

“Something’s up ahead,” said Kath.

Harry nodded.  “I know, I can see.  Ready with the salt?”

“Yes.  Ready with broom?”

The three of them slowed down (not that they were making particularly great speed anyway).  The shape in the distance began to come clearer into view.  It was a person, heading towards them quickly.

Kath stated the obvious.  “They’re coming right at us.”

Harry focused as much as he was able to in the blustering snow.  “It’s…”

“Nigel!”  Kath shouted the word gleefully.  “Are we glad to see you!”

Nigel came up to them, huffing and puffing.  Harry noticed that the man had dried blood on his clothes as well as terrible burns on the left side of his face.  He looked like something out of a horror film.

“Are you...okay?” Harry asked him.

Nigel looked feral, like an injured fox.  When he answered, his words were slurred.  “I’m fwine.  Jush hash an asshident.”

Lucas stepped forward placed a hand on the Nigel’s shoulder.  “You don’t look fine, fella.  In fact you sound worse than a chorus of drunks.  And that head wound don’t look none too pretty.  We should get you back to the pub.”

Nigel seemed dismayed by the suggestion and lashed out.  “Get sh’fush offsh me.”

Harry didn’t like the way Nigel was acting.  “What happened to you?  Is Steph okay?”

Nigel’s face scrunched up in a snarl at the mention of her name.  Harry tried to understand why.  Then he saw the bloody knife in the man’s hand and wondered why he hadn’t spotted it sooner.  Harry’s eyes widened.  “Did you hurt her?”  Harry went to approach Nigel, but the man raised the knife at him.

Lucas put his hands out in front of him placatingly.  “Whoa, whoa, there, fella.  We just want to know the lass is safe.”

Nigel spat blood into the snow and began backing away as he spoke.  “You tell that bitch, I’ll be back to finish what I started.  I’ll slice her fingers off and keep them in my truck with the other pathetic sluts I’ve killed.”

Harry’s entire body contorted with rage as he realised what the man’s words meant.  He began to wonder whether that knife in Nigel’s hand had been used on Steph, and if Damien had been innocent all along.  Harry found both questions too hard to think about.  “I’m going to kill you.”

Nigel continued backing away, holding the knife out in front of him in defence.  Harry went to get after him, but Lucas stopped him.  “No need, Harry Boy.  Look!”

Harry looked past Nigel and saw the shapes behind him.  Gathering in the distance was a group of hounds.  Nigel was walking directly at them.  Harry relaxed and waited for the inevitable to happen.

It took about three minutes for Nigel to realise he’d been surrounded.  The things attacked him as one, enveloping him as they had done Jerry.  Harry watched with grim satisfaction as Nigel swiped impotently with his flick knife, managing to take a chunk or two of flesh from one hound, but failing to keep away the other dozen.  Although it was hard to see past the writing bodies of fur, Harry could clearly make out Nigel’s intestines being fought over in a macabre tug of war.  But once the grim satisfaction begun to wane, the scene merely made Harry feel sick.  He turned away and continued on into the snow, back towards The Trumpet.

Back towards Steph.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Despite the three of them being huddled together, Jess felt no warmer.  Damien managed to get the fire going again by setting fire to some of the surplus duvets.  They wouldn’t burn for long, but they were better than nothing.  Now the three of them lay shivering beneath a dozen sheets and blankets, trying to hold on to as much warmth as possible.

“Poor Old Graham,” said Steph, still upset but past the worse of it.  She’d wailed for almost twenty minutes when she first discovered the old man had expired.  Jess knew that Steph felt responsible for it, but the truth of it was that it was all because of Nigel.

Pervert.  Hope he’s frozen to death out there or being eaten alive by one of those monsters.

Jess thought about the things she’d seen outside with Jerry and found it hard to imagine them clearly.  With the hours that had passed it all seemed like some absurd hallucination.  Monsters under the bed did not exist, she’d told herself, but she could not deny the death and bloodshed that she had occurred tonight.  Ben.  Peter.  Old Graham.  They were all good guys.  She prayed that the others would make it back safely.  She’d do anything, right now, to sit and listen to Jerry’s inane pop culture references.

“How long did you know Old Graham?” she asked Steph.

Steph let out a huff that was almost a laugh.  “Whole time I worked here.  Eighteen months, I guess.  He could bore you to death something awful, but he didn’t have a bad bone in his body.  Complained a lot; but never about anyone, or anything, in particular.  I think he was a lonely old man that just wanted to be around people.”

“Least he lived a long life,” Damien chimed in, his voice jittery from the chill that affected everyone’s lungs.

“He didn’t deserve to go like this though.  He survived a war and this is how he dies?  It’s such a waste.”

Jess squeezed Steph’s hand under the blankets.  “I think he went the way he would have liked.  Drunk as a skunk and the centre of attention.”

Steph and Damien laughed.

“So, Damien,” Jess moved on, “are you really as much of a hard-knock as you like to make people think?”

Damien was silent for a moment, but eventually answered.  “Who says I want people to think that?”

“Guess it’s just the impression you give off.  It confuses me though because, after tonight, I’m starting to think it’s all bull.”

Jess didn’t know why she felt the need to goad Damien, but she wanted a serious conversation to keep her mind occupied.  Plus, she was intrigued about the kind of person Damien actually was.

Damien cleared his throat.  “You reckon?”

“Yeah,” said Jess.  “I actually think you’re a nice guy.  You just don’t want people to know it.”

“I agree,” said Steph.

Damien was silent again for a moment.  Jess could feel him rustling beneath the sheets.  When he finally spoke up, he sounded tired.  “Maybe the only reason I’m not a nice guy is because people think bad of me no matter what I do.”

“But you make people think like that.  You chose to make people think you’re a thug.”

Damien laughed.  “You think I made people see me this way?  I had no chance of ever being anything other than a thug.”

Jess sighed.  “Is this the part where you say your daddy never hugged you enough?”

“No,” said Damien.  “This is the part when I tell you my dad had me selling drugs for him at eight years old.  No one would ever expect a kid, huh?  Or how about how my dad put a lad in a coma a couple years ago and made me take credit for it around the local estate.  ‘It will make people fear you’, he said.  You’re absolutely right; my dad never hugged me because that’s not what monsters like him do.”

“Are you shitting me?” Steph asked.  She sounded mortified.

“No, Steph.  I’m not shitting you.  Truth is I was glad the day he went to Jail.  Thought it would set me free from his demands, but I was just wishing on a bleeding star.  He called me at least once a day, making sure I was running his little empire for him ‘til he got back.  Selling the merchandise and bringing in the dough.”

“You can’t blame everything on your dad,” Jess told him.  “I saw you cause enough trouble to see that you enjoyed being the big man.”

“Yeah, course I did.  The only love and respect I got was from the guys I hung with.  If people on the estate don’t fear me then I’m nothing.  I’m alone with nothing.”

“Why didn’t you get out?” asked Steph.  “You could have done something, I’m sure.”

Damien was quiet once more but the sound of his breathing was heavy and distinct, laboured.  “I was getting out tonight.  I had a bunch of money stashed and I was going to stay with an old girlfriend that moved to Edinburgh a couple years back.  I just had one last thing to do tonight and then I was out of here.”

“One last thing?” asked Steph.

“Warn someone.”

“Who?”

“The guy who gave evidence on my old man and sent him down.  Took over a year but my dad’s mates finally managed to find out who it was.  My orders were to kill the guy tonight; take him outside and stick a knife in him.  Guess my dad was beginning to doubt my loyalty.”

“Jesus,” said Jess, not believing her ears.  “You weren’t going to do it though, were you?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”  Damien raised his voice and it seemed to cause him pain.  “I was…going to warn him, tell him to get the hell out of…town.  Soon as the snow stopped I was going to get on a train and never come back.  Maybe go to college and do business or something.”

No one spoke for a while.  It was a revelation, for sure, and not one Jess had expected.  She felt sad that Damien might not get the chance to fulfil his plans for atonement; such things were important.  Jess closed her eyes, feeling more tired than she’d ever felt in her life.  The cold was no longer bothering her as much; in fact she was starting to feel quite numb.  Maybe now she could finally rest for a while.

So tired...

###

Harry’s legs ached and he wasn’t sure how much further they would take him.  He didn’t know whether the pub was two yards away or two thousand.  All he could see was snow, and although he could see nothing following, angry growls and wailing from unseen beasts filled the air all around him.

Harry could no longer feel his feet from the cold and it felt as though he was walking around on nerveless stumps.  Kath was obviously suffering too.  She hadn’t spoken since they’d watched Nigel die.  Lucas however seemed fine, unaffected by the cold for reasons that Harry was eager to find out.  Was the man any more human than the hooded figures?

“So,” said Harry.  “If the things wearing hoods are Angels, what are the dog things?”

Lucas continued looking forward as he walked, but answered the question promptly.  “Hounds of Hell.”

Harry scratched his chin.  “But don’t Angels come from Heaven.”

“Aye, they do, Harry Boy, but Angels have dominion over both heaven and hell during certain circumstances.”

Harry felt himself confused already.  “Circumstances such as what?”

“You know, family reunions, birthdays, The Apocalypse.”

Harry spluttered.  “The Apocalypse?”

“Aye, you know, Armageddon and all that, but it’s not as dramatic as you might think.  There’re no horsemen, none of that fire and brimstone nonsense.  The old man upstairs likes to do things a bit more efficiently.  Biblical floods and such are more His style.”

“Or biblical snow storms,” Kath added glumly.

Lucas smiled.  “Indeed, lass.”

Harry was trying to follow, but things still didn’t add up in his mind.  If this really was the end of the world, and God intended to simply freeze the world to death, then why did he need…?

“The Angels,” said Harry.  ”Why are they here?”

“Call them overseers if you will.  God can’t just make the snow fall unendingly without having a presence on earth.  He needs vessels to channel his power through - conduits.  That’s why the Angels have come down here, to exercise His will.”

Harry nodded, an idea forming in his head.  “So if we take out the angels, we can stop this?”

Lucas laughed, loud and hearty.  “Do you know how many of them there are?  We’re talking tens of thousands, and they don’t play nice.  You can’t kill an Angel anyway.”

Harry sagged.  “I still don’t understand why they are doing this.  It can’t be because of me?”

“I already told you Harry Boy, it’s not just because of you, strictly speaking.  It’s because of everyone, really.  God gave Noah a second chance, but that’s all the big man had in his pocket of goodwill.  He vowed that if the human race threw it in His face one more time then they wouldn’t get another reprieve.  But that’s what you all went and did anyway, with your sinful ways and what not.  Shagging, murdering, raping, stealing, cheating, Facebook.  You name it; you people have over indulged in it.  Over time, you all tipped the scales way past the point of no return.”

“But not everyone is like that.  Why can he not just punish the bad?”

Kath sighed.  “Because there were probably too few to make it worthwhile.”

Lucas nodded.  “Aye, there are a few decent souls, admittedly, and He took that into consideration.  He allowed man to pass judgement on man.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harry.

“I mean, that he decided to judge mankind by its own values.  Harry, after your wife and son were mowed down you made the choice for everyone.”

Harry spat.  “I had no choice.  The guy had lost his license a year before, but got behind the wheel anyway.  He was a lousy drunk and had probably mowed down a dozen children before he killed my son.  He was an alcoholic.  No good to anyone.”

“Sounds like you, Harry,” said Kath, spitefully.

It made Harry angry, but what was the use in arguing?  “Maybe it is,” he conceded.  “What would you have done after losing your family?”

“That’s the point,” said Lucas.  “You had a choice.  Did you get on with your life and make the memory of your family proud or did you give in to vice, rejecting the gifts God gave you?  Did you know that the reason Thomas was a drunk was because he too lost a son in a tragic accident?  Just like you, Harry.  Ironic, no?  Have you really behaved any differently than him?”

“No,” said Harry, understanding the hypocrisy.  “But I never drove drunk.  I never let my problems endanger anybody else.”

“No, you just got hammered one night and murdered the chap who accidently killed your family.  Understandable, I guess, but definitely not the right path.  God decided to judge humanity by your actions and your choice was vengeance.  Now vengeance has been reaped upon you all.  You committed man’s final sin – the last one that counted anyway - and you picked a gem: Though shall not kill.”

Harry thought about the night he’d murdered Thomas Morris; the night he crept into the hospital ward where the man had been admitted for a simple hernia operation.  Getting past the lone prison guard was easy.  It wasn’t as if they were going to place a highly-paid special detachment outside the door.  It was just one guard who didn’t want to be stuck at a hospital at 3:00AM on a Friday night.  Harry easily snuck past him and entered Thomas’s room.  The man was in a deep sleep.  Even after Harry shoved the plastic bag over his head.

It took several moments for Thomas to wake up and realise what was happening.  The last thing he would have seen, through the clear plastic smothering his face, was Harry’s dark, grinning expression as he suffocated the life out of him.

When it was all over, Harry had vomited in the en-suite toilet, before hurrying out of the room and snagging the back of his hand on the sharp edge of an unused gurney in the corridor.  The blood had gone everywhere and a nurse in a nearby ward had sat him down and stitched the wound, remarking on how much it resembled the shape of a star.  Harry had been silent the entire time the nurse looked after him, staring into space like a zombie until she was done.  Somehow he had walked out of the hospital that night without incident.  He’d just killed a man and no one noticed a thing.

Harry had then gone home immediately and drank for seven days straight.  Later he sold his successful furniture business, as well as his house and car.  The sales left him with just over half-a-million-pounds to drink himself to death with.  He had hoped it wouldn’t take long.  A year later, here he was, responsible for the death of mankind.

“Bull!” he said finally.

Lucas put his hands up.  “Hey, I don’t disagree.  I don’t want the world to end any more than you do – I’d miss Manchester United playing, for one – but it is what it is.”

“And there’s nothing we can do?” Kath pleaded.

Lucas shook his head.  “Unless you can convince the big man to change his mind – but I don’t think he’s listening.  You can hold the choir off temporarily with objects of depravity like the porno mags.  Same reason they can’t enter the pub: it’s a den of inequity and they can’t step their holy toes in it.”

“How do you know so much?” Harry demanded.  The snow was sapping his strength and he needed answers before he was too tired to ask for them anymore.  “How do you know so much about Angels?

“Because I used to be one, laddie.  Long time ago.”

Harry understood.  It came to him in a flash of inspiration.  “They called you wormwood.”

“That they did, but I prefer you to use my rightful name; the name given to me by my lord.”

“And what’s that?” Kath asked, obviously not yet understanding what Harry did.

Lucas turned to the woman and grinned, pointy teeth shining.  “Please allow me to introduce myself.  I am Lucifer, the Prince of Hell.  Pleased to meet you.”

Harry frowned.  He should have been shouting ‘bull’, but somehow he knew it was true.  Somehow the reality of the situation just could not be denied.  He was trudging through the snow with the Devil, pursued by murderous angels.  There was just one more thing that didn’t make sense.  “Why the whole Irish jig then, Lucas Fergus?”

“Would you prefer I had horns and a red suit?  Let’s just say that Ireland is close to my heart.  Good, fun-loving, people that love a good time.  Although I can take many forms, and appear however I wish, Irish is my favourite.  Plus the chicks dig the accent.”

“Why are you here?  Are you helping the Angels?”

Lucas shook his head vehemently, snow falling from his hair.  ”Those righteous do-gooders?  Hell no.  They may be my brothers, but we parted ways a long time ago for good reason.  Any of the choir that were any fun joined me in Hell.  It’s the place to be, as long as you haven’t been sent there for, you know…treatment, as it were.”

“So, we’re all going to Heaven or Hell after this?”  Kath sounded hopeful.  She obviously thought she was destined for Heaven.

“Afraid not, luv.  After the final sin was committed, God forsook you all.  You’re all coming downstairs with me to whichever level you deserve.”

“Level we deserve?”  Kath sounded worried.

Lucas nodded.  He seemed to be getting a bit impatient now as they continued through the snow.  “The levels dish out appropriate punishment.  A murderer gets murdered.  Over and over.  Forever.  A rapist gets raped.  A bully gets beaten.  You get the general theme here, right?”

“Yeah, I get it.” Kath shut up and stayed that way, seemingly lost in disturbing thought.

“That just leaves you,” said Harry.  “You still haven’t told us what part you have to play in all this.  You’re the Devil, which means you’re evil and can’t be trusted…doesn’t it?”

Before Lucas had chance to reply, Harry realised that, once again, they were surrounded.

Chapter Thirty-FIVE

“They’re not going to give up are they?”

“No,” Lucas confirmed.  “Not until they have you.”

Harry raised the broom in front of him, hoping it would work as well as last time.  “What will they do to me?”

“Send you to Hell.”

Harry nodded.  “Thought so.”  He eyed up the line of Angels, wondering which one he should go for first.  He decided to do as he did last time and aim for the middle, but before he had chance, a pillar of fire zigzagged towards him, sending him into a sideways dive.  The snow cushioned his fall but was still jarring enough to knock the smut-handled broom from his grasp.

Harry looked up just in time to see another wall of flames arcing in his direction.  He rolled over, barely managing to dodge the burning death, but found himself even further away from his only weapon.  ”Lucas,” he shouted.  “The broom.”

Lucas nodded, searched the snow, located the broom, and then went for it.  He was too slow though and Kath got to it first.

“Great,” said Harry.  “Throw it here.”

Kath drew her arm back and looked as though she was going to hurl the broom in his direction, but then she didn’t release it.  Instead she held it in front of herself and started to examine it.  “Without this, you have no way of defending yourself, right?”

“Yes,” said Harry.  “That’s why I need it, now!”

Kath walked away from him and, incredibly, started making her way over to the row of Angels.  Specifically, she approached the one in the centre, the one that Harry had intended to attack.  She held the weapon in front of herself, keeping the Angels at bay despite the fact that none of them moved an inch.  “You just want Harry, right?  What will you do for me if I give him to you?”

She waited for an answer from the thing, but received none.

Kath jabbed and wiggled the broom in the Angel’s face, not getting close enough to hit, but making her willingness to do so clear.  “I asked you a question, so have some manners.  Remove your hood and answer me!”

Harry was in shock.  Firstly, that the woman was betraying him, but secondly that she was addressing an Angel like an impolite five-year-old.  It was surreal.  Even more surreal was that the Angel did as it was told.  It removed its hood.

Beneath the old, grey cloth was something Harry had not expected.  Maybe if he thought about what an angelic stereotype would look like it would have been less surprising, but seeing the beautiful face appear from beneath the tattered hood was not what Harry had expected.  The Angel had shining yellow hair that fell in thin tresses across a flawless complexion.  His eyes were a breath-taking cyan and the darkness seemed to light up around their gaze.  The Angel’s piercing blue orbs were currently studying Kath.

Kath was immediately mesmerised and Harry could see the same shock in her face that he no doubt had on his.  She still held the broom out in front of her, but it was slowly lowering as though the weight of it was becoming too much.

Lucas moved up beside Harry, “That would be Lord Michael himself.”

Harry considered for a moment.  “You mean from the bible?”

“No, I mean from real life.  That is God’s Field General himself, Archangel Michael.  My brother, the Angel of death.”

Harry looked at Lucas.  “If he’s your brother can’t you make him stop?”

“You really don’t understand family do you, Harry boy?  One thing about Michael is that the only person he listens to is his Daddy.  That’s why he was always favourite.  Bloody eejit!”

Harry didn’t have time to play agony aunt, something was happening up ahead.  The Angel in front of Kath – The Archangel Michael.  Jeez! – was producing something from within his cloak.  Something long and metal that ignited in flames as it was pulled free.

”There she is,” said Lucas.  “The beauty herself.  You know that back in the day that sword belonged to me?  Bastard took it from me during the Holy war.  Still, I guess it looks better on him anyway.”

Harry shook his head.  “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“The fiery sword of damnation.  The very sword that turned Sodom and Gomorrah to ashes.”

This is really it, isn’t it?  The end of the world.  God has finally called last orders and I’m stuck here facing down the Angel of Death with his flaming penis extension.  If it wasn’t so goddamn insane, I think I’d be laughing my ass off.

Harry watched as the Angel raised his sword, burning the cold air and changing it to a thick, acrid smoke.  Kath was still mesmerised and Harry wondered if she was under some kind of thrall or if she had just gone into shock after finally realising the situation she was in.  The answer was unimportant as Michael brought down his flaming sword in a vicious snap.  It hissed and spat as Kath’s blood congealed on its shaft, turning to black powder and peppering the snow.  Somehow Kath managed to turn around and face Harry, and for a moment he thought he had only imagined the sword going through her neck.

Then her head started to tilt forward, independent of the rest of her body.  Harry saw that the blade had indeed gone through her, so seamlessly that she obviously hadn’t felt a thing.  Kath’s head fell to the snow, spewing it’s fluids into the air like a decorative garden feature.  Her body remained standing however, gushing blood more heavily, spraying it into the air like a gory water cannon.  The cracked end of her spine pocked from her neck, flapping its severed spinal cord like an agitated cobra.  Harry winced when Kath’s lifeless body finally fell forward and buried itself in the snow and turning it red.

Despite the fact Kath had clearly been a bitch, Harry suddenly felt very isolated by her loss; a lone man surrounded by callous Angels and a wisecracking Devil.  He needed Steph more than ever.  If this really was ‘the end’ then he wanted to be with her.

Harry ran for it, leaving Lucas behind and not seeing any reason to ask him to follow.  He ploughed through the snow with all his energy, kicking and clawing with one thing on his mind: Steph!  He had no idea where he was going and only hoped that it was towards The Trumpet and not away from it.  With the apocalyptic freeze, as well as an apocalyptic army of beautiful Angels trying to send him to Hell, Harry knew that the rest of his life was most likely measured in minutes rather than hours.  For so long Harry had wanted nothing but to die, to leave the world and all of its pain behind, but right now staying alive long enough to get to Steph was the only thing on his mind.

The snowfall seemed to increase every second.  It was up to Harry’s waist and still rising.  Before long, there would be no world left.  No buildings, no roads, no rivers.  Nothing.  Just unending snow, rising. Rising.  Rising.

Harry struggled onwards, each step seizing up his calves and stabbing the tender muscle with icy daggers.  If only he could go back and do the right thing.  He knew back then that killing Thomas Morris was wrong, knew it hours before he had watched the glistening light of life leave the man’s eyes.  He knew it was wrong even more when he saw the regret and the sorrow in the man’s eyes just before he died.  Thomas Morris killed Harry’s family, but at the moment Harry started to murder him, he knew that the man was sorry.  He knew because Thomas never struggled.  He accepted the punishment for what he had done and even seemed happy about it.

Now the whole world was accepting punishment for what Harry had done.  He imagined the billions of people that had frozen to death in their homes already or that had been callously reaped by the Angels.  He wondered how many people were still alive also, trying to convince their children that the snow would stop soon and that everything would be okay, that it was just bad weather.  Harry started to weep, but wiped the tears away.  He had to keep going; didn’t deserve time to stop and cry.  When the Angels finally sent him to Hell he would welcome it, because that was where he belonged, but not now.  Not yet.

Up ahead, Harry saw the dark rectangle of a building up on a hill.  It had to be The Trumpet, looking down at him from its elevated resting place.  With renewed vigour, Harry began to dive and leap through the snow, sinking and wobbling with every step.  He was going at a snail’s pace, he knew, but gradually the building was coming into view and it did indeed turn out to be the pub.

“Thank God,” said Harry, before considering the words he’d spoken.  “Actually, screw that and screw God.”

He reached the bottom of the hill and looked up at the pub.  It was dark, deserted and lifeless.  A dead building in a condemned world, but inside could be the only person Harry cared about anymore.  He started to wade through the snow and up the steps, feeling the broken brickwork beneath his feet.  Inside his stomach, butterflies rioted.

As he neared the top, Harry felt their presence.  He felt the Angels.  “Damn you,” he shouted, turning around to face them.  They stood at the bottom of the hill, appearing from nowhere.  Each had their hoods down now, exposing an endless row of beautiful faces and full heads of blonde and brown gossamer hair.  They were flawless – angelic – but Harry knew that they brought only death and misery.  “Damn you,” Harry shouted again.  “Just let me see her.”

He turned and ran, determined to make it back into the pub where he would be safe.  Lucas had said the Angels could not set foot inside a den of inequity and that meant Steph must still be safe inside.  Nearly there, just a few more feet.

Harry stopped in his tracks, falling into the snow and looking up at the figure that blocked his way.  He thought about defending himself before realising he could not.  There was nothing he could use, not even the porno-wrapped broom.  Harry looked down at the snow, defeated and not wishing to witness the method of his execution.  “Okay, you got me.  Just get it over with.”

“Get what over with, Harry Boy?”

Harry looked up.  “Lucas!”

“Aye,” Lucas offered out his hand.  “I thought you were never going to get here, fella.  Took your sweet time.”

Harry smiled, happy to see the Devil.  He took Lucas’ hand and hoisted himself up, quickly pushing past and barging against the pub’s door.  It was frozen shut.  He was just about to cry out in defeat when Lucas strolled up to join him.

“Keep your hair on, lad.”  Lucas placed a hand on the door making steam immediately appear.  The frost on the metal was melting.  After a couple of seconds, Lucas banged his fist once on the door and it swung open slowly.  Lucas looked at him and grinned.  “Three millennium in the Hellzone Boy Scouts.”

Harry frowned.  Then he made his way inside and headed for the bar, the sudden feeling of an even, solid floor disorientating his weary legs.  The entire room was dark and no longer lit by multiple candles, but Harry had been there enough times to know where he was going.  He made it to the bar in six blind steps and was shocked to find Peter’s dead body on the floor.  Harry could only just make out the boy’s features as all but one of the bar’s candles had extinguished.  It wasn’t something he had time to mull over now though.  He’d pay his respects later.

Grabbing the remaining candle, Harry made his way behind the bar and into the corridor behind.  Right away the freezing temperature told him something was wrong.  Earlier the corridor had acted as a flume for the warm air of the fire in the cellar, but now it was cold.  That meant the fire was out.

“Shit, shit, shit!”  Harry took the steps two at a time, luckily making it down to the bottom without miss-stepping in the darkness.  As his feet planted on the cellar floor, he moved the candle in a quick semi-circle in front of him.  The room smelt heavily of smoke, but the barrel fire was unlit.  Next to it was the unmoving form of Old Graham.  Until tonight, Harry had never seen a recently dead body before – not even his wife and child as they had died in the hospital – but he now knew without inspection that the old man had perished.  Harry felt his gorge rise, the fear and sickness taking a hold of him as his mind screamed out with grief.  He span around, illuminating the dark corners of the cellar, searching desperately

He found Damien first and crouched down to feel the lad’s cheek.  It was stone cold and Harry realised he was dead too.  What concerned Harry most was that Damien’s mid-section was covered in blood and that, despite the cold, the boy did not have on his thick puffer jacket.  Did somebody stab him?

The answer came to Harry quickly.

Nigel?  Damn it.  I can’t believe I knocked Damien out when he was the one who saved Steph all along.  Now he’s dead and I’ll never get to say sorry for my mistake.

Beside Damien, beneath the same pile of duvets, was Jess.  Dead as well, Harry immediately noticed.  He felt numb at the sight of such a young and pretty girl frozen to death like a block of ice.  He shone the candle to her face and saw that her lips were blue and starting to frost over.

Then Harry noticed a third body beneath the blankets.  He was paralysed, not wanting to move because that meant he would have to acknowledge whatever he would find beneath the final blanket.

Steph lay, swaddled up to the eyeballs by a lasagne of sheets and blankets, half-a-dozen layers deep.  She looked as delicate and as beautiful as Harry had ever seen her and he finally allowed himself to cry.  He reached out and touched her face.  Like the other’s it was ice cold.  She was wearing Damien’s puffer jacket.  Probably knew he was dying with or without it.  He must have wanted her to have it instead.  It wasn’t enough though.

Harry shook his head, a deep darkness spreading throughout his soul.  There was nothing else left.  “I’m sorry,” he said to Steph’s unmoving form.  “I’m sorry that I caused all this and that I never got to say goodbye.  I used to think I came here every night to get drunk and forget about the past, but tonight I realised that I kept coming back to see you.  You were the only person that allowed me to see that there would be a tomorrow and that it would be easier than today.  It was you that took away my pain, not the booze, but thanks to me there will be no more tomorrows.”

“…Harry?”

The word was soft, below even a whisper, but he heard it.  A few moments passed and Harry started to think that his crippled mind was perhaps just playing tricks on him.

But then he heard it again.

“Harry,” Steph whispered again, louder this time.

She’s alive!

“Steph!  Steph, can you hear me?”

It didn’t seem like she could, but she knew he was there.  It was obvious by the look in her eyes.  ”Harry…I…missed you.”

“I missed you too, Steph.”

She smiled.  “I knew you’d come back.  I always knew you were a good man.  That you…would end up being my hero…one day.”

Harry was stunned.  “I wish that were true, Steph.  I really do, but I let you down.  I let everyone down.”

Steph shook her head, eyes still closed as though she were reciting a dream.  “No, Harry.  The only person you ever let down is yourself.  You’re a good man, but you don’t…you don’t see it.”

Harry wiped the tears and snot from his face.  “You know what I wish, Steph?”

“No, Harry.  What do you…wish?”

“I wish that instead of killing Thomas Morris that night, I’d have met you instead.  Maybe you could have saved me…saved everything.”

Steph’s face lit up in a smile, but then went still.  She didn’t reply.

“Steph,” Harry said, softly.  “Hey, Steph, I just realised that you were my second chance.  I’m sorry I blew it, but I’m going to put it right.”

Harry moved forward and kissed Steph on her lips.  He wanted nothing more than for her to be alive a moment longer so that she could kiss him back, but he knew that she was gone.  At least I got to say goodbye.

Harry stood up straight, tensing his cold muscles and testing each one to make sure they were still working and not completely frozen yet.  Despite taking the steps two at a time on the way down, he took them individually on the way up, taking his time to digest just what he intended to do.  He lit the corridor above with his candle and made his way to the bar.  Lucas was already there waiting for him

Just the man I want to speak to.

“Harry Boy,” Lucas’s normal chirpiness was gone and he sounded solemn, like a guard on death row.  He handed over a beer and took one for himself, lids already removed.  Harry decided whatever happened, it would be the last beer he ever drank.  One for the road.

“Lucifer,” said Harry, sipping the beer.  “It’s time isn’t it?”

Lucas nodded.  “It’s up to you, lad.  To be honest I’m only here tonight because I’m duty-bound.  The apocalypse and all that, you know?  It’s kind of traditional.”

“That can’t be the reason.”

Lucas laughed his charming Irishman laugh.  “No, you’re right.  The truth of it is that Michael summoned me here to see the destruction of mankind.  I guess they think I had a hand in bringing down the ceiling – in leading men astray and all that.”

Harry shrugged.  “Well, didn’t you?”

Lucas swigged his beer down to the bottom third.  “Well, yes and no.  When I first fell from Heaven I hated you all – God’s most prized creation – and I sought to corrupt you all.  I wanted to spoil God’s work and his image that lived in all of you, but you know what I found out?”

“What?” said Harry.

“I realised that I was wasting my time.  Men were doing a fine thing of messing stuff up on their own.  I had a hand, here and there, sure, but Hitler, Bin Laden, Bundy, the nuclear-fuckin-bomb?  All that was on you lot.  The worst, most corrupt men that ever lived are mostly people I’ve never met.”

“Then why does Heaven blame you?  Why have they brought you here to watch us die?”

“Because I fell in love with humanity.  At first I rebelled against God because I wanted to live by my own rules and I sought about destroying you all, but after a while I realised that man wasn’t in God’s image, he was in mine.  Men have spent hundreds of years fighting for their freedom just the same way as I and some of my brothers did against Heaven.  Few hundred years ago, I stopped trying to destroy you and started living amongst you.  I buried my anger with God and stopped being the bogeyman you write about in your religious texts.  I’m no different to you all and just as sad to see that the party’s all over.  The only reason I’m forced to witness it all end is for them to make a point.”

“What point?” Harry asked.

“To prove that anyone that goes against God will not be tolerated.  Me included.”

Harry laughed.

“Why do you laugh, Harry Boy?”

“Nothing.  I guess I just find it amusing to find out that the Devil is benevolent and God is wrathful.”

Lucas laughed too.  “Well, I hope it teaches you to not always believe what the media says.  Especially the ancient Aramaic right-wing media.  The bible got me all wrong, I tell you.”

The two of them shared a laugh and finished their beers.  After a few moments, Harry put his empty bottle on the bar.”

“Time to go, I guess, but before I do, can I ask you a question?”

Lucas shrugged.  “You’ve done little else for the past few hours.  Why stop now?”

Harry took that to mean, yes.  “You mentioned the levels of Hell, earlier?”

“Aye.”

“Which is the worst?”

Lucas didn’t seem comfortable by the question.  “Well…it’s all relative, really.  The punishment tends to fit the crime.”

“I know that!”  Harry was becoming impatient.  He could feel his body shutting down under the constant attack of the cold and he had to finish this before he gave in to hyperthermia.  “But surely some layers are worse than others.  Where do the very worst go, like Judas Iscariot and Hitler?  People like that?”

Lucas thought before he answered.  “Well, if you listen to Dante Alighieri then there are just seven levels, but in truth the regions of Hell are never ending.  Time and space there is eternal, but there is a deepest level reserved only for pure evil.  Light does not exist there and neither does hope of any kind.  It is suffering and despair without beginning and without end; a place where Evil reigns and flays the skin of any soul that dare venture there.  It is a Hell beyond human understanding and no human, not even the vilest, has ever committed sin harsh enough to be sent there.  It is deserving of no man.  It was created to hold me.”

Harry raised an eyebrow.  “A Hell so bad that it was made to torture the Devil himself?”

Lucas nodded and seemed upset by the thought of it.  “Aye, they call it…The Abyss.”

Harry took that information in and held onto it.  The Abyss.  The darkest, most desperate level of hell that is fit only for the Devil himself.  A place of torture beyond anything a man could imagine.  Okay, got it.

“Lucas,” Harry said.  “It’s been a pleasure meeting you and I sincerely hope that the Abyss never claims you.  Sounds strange to say, but I think you might actually be one of the good guys.”

Lucas laughed.  “I have many names, but that’s a first.”

Harry shook the Devil’s hand and walked away, leaving his candle on the bar and entering the darkness.

Chapter Thirty-SIX

Harry opened The Trumpet’s door and looked out over the landscape.  The blizzard had finally begun to die down, its job almost completed.  The world had been rendered featureless.  Everywhere Harry looked was pure-white and buried beneath giant snow banks.  Across the street, the tops of buildings were just about visible, but their doorways were covered up past their tops.  Harry had a feeling that Lucas had something to do with The Trumpet not yet being buried.

At the bottom of the hill stood the Angels, lined up and stretching on forever like the Great Wall of China.

Although that’s probably buried along with everything else.  The world’s greatest achievements reduced to featureless, white, nothingness.

Harry hailed them.  “I’m coming over.  I give up, okay?”

The blond Angel in the centre – Michael? – nodded.  Then he lifted his arms out in front of him and shot fire.

“Hey!”  Harry protested.  “I said I’m coming!”

Harry thought he was about to get fried but soon realised that wasn’t Michael’s intention.  In front of him the steps had been cleared of snow, melted by a rapidly disappearing river of fire.  “Oh, er…cheers.”

Harry took the newly uncovered steps slowly, in no rush to test out the theory he had in his head.

I guess time doesn’t mean much when you’re eternal

The Angels stood patiently, seemingly happy to wait for him.  Michael had taken a step forward, exiting the line.  When Harry reached the bottom of the steps, he saw that Michael was smiling reassuringly, like a Dentist about to perform a root canal.

“Welcome, Sinner,” said Michael in a far softer voice than he had in the previous instances when Harry had heard him speak.  His presence was no less awesome.

“Can we just use ‘Harry’ for now, yes?”

“As you wish, Harry Jobson.”

“Just ‘Harry’ is fine…you know, don’t worry about it.”

Michael bowed his head at Harry as if there was a great pity that he was forced to acknowledge.  It made Harry angry, but he couldn’t let it distract him.

“Are you ready?  It is time.” said the Angel.

“I just have a couple of questions to ask first.”

Michael looked at him and something that Harry thought was anger streamed through the archangel’s eyes.

Obviously, The Angel of Death doesn’t appreciate being delayed by a mere mortal.  I bet he thinks it’s ‘impertinent’.

Harry wanted to laugh in the Angel’s face.

Michael seemed to calm himself as he spoke again.  “Ask your questions quickly, Sinner.”

There’s that word again.

Harry nodded, also wanting to hurry things along, before he lost his nerve.  “After what I did; after I committed the….final sin, or whatever, it condemned everyone to Hell, right?”

Michael nodded.

“Do you think that’s fair?”

Michael was visibly annoyed.  “It is His will.”

Harry nodded.  “Right, right, didn’t think appealing to your better nature would work, so I guess I should skip straight to plan B.”

“Plan B?” Michael repeated, confused.

“Yeah, I want to make a deal.”

Michael exploded, but managed to do so without moving an inch.  He seemed to oppress the air around him.  “YOU DO NOT MAKE DEALS WITH AN AGENT OF HEAVEN.  YOUR WILL IS INCONSEQUENTIAL TO HIS DECISIONS.  YOU WILL OBEY, SINNER.”

“Okay, okay, but my final wish is just that you hear me out.  If He ignores my offer then so be it and I will take what comes to me.”

Michael begun laughing and Harry was disturbed by how much like a child it sounded.  “Okay, mortal, I will allow you to amuse me.  Speak your deal.”

Okay, here goes.

“Send me to the Abyss.”  Michael actually seemed to flinch at the suggestion and Harry hoped that it was a good sign.  “Don’t send me to whatever Hell I deserve, send me to the Hell that no man deserves.  Send me there and leave me there forever.”

Michael seemed to soften, no longer angry.  It almost seemed like he was suddenly in awe of Harry.  “You speak of things that you could never hope to understand, Harry Jobson.  The Abyss is a punishment befitting no man.  Why would you ask for such endless suffering?”

“I’ll tell you, but first let me know, can it be done?  Can you send me there?”

Michael nodded.  “Yes.”

“Then my offer is that you send me to the Abyss in exchange for all of the souls that have been damned to Hell since I murdered Thomas Morris.  Save Steph, Jess, Jerry, and all the other people that don’t deserve Hell and instead send me to the Abyss to pay for humanity’s sin.  Will my torture there outweigh the debt needed by sparing these people?”

Michael shook his head and began to be sob.  The sight of it was almost heart-wrenching – the very act of an Angel crying seemed to be the embodiment of the word ‘tragedy’.  “The debt of suffering would be a thousand times more than that which is owed.  You cannot imagine the suffering.  You should not make such frivolous suggestions without knowing the full consequence of what you suggest.  It would be forever and you wish to make that decision on a romantic whim.  You are a fool, Harry Jobson.”

Harry stepped forward and was amazed to see Michael wince.  Apparently, talk of the Abyss was enough to make the Angel very anxious.  Harry knelt down.  “Then show me what I seek and then let me decide.”

“So be it,” said Michael, placing both of his hands upon Harry’s head.

What happened next was indescribable.  Images and feelings shot through Harry’s very soul, showing him inhuman tortures at the hands of even more inhuman creatures.  It was a place of endless and unimaginable pain and suffering.  A place where every single second lasted centuries and was enough to break a man’s mind into a million horrified splinters.  It was eternal agony in a place where only evil and sadness existed.  It was the heart and soul of Hell itself.

Harry shot back from Michael’s grip, falling onto his back and panting.  Tears fell from his eyes and already his soul felt damaged just from seeing images of the Abyss.

Can I do this?

Harry dragged himself up off the floor, weak and terrified.  He took the steps needed to take him toe to toe with Michael.  After what he had just witnessed, Harry found it hard to breath and even harder to talk.

But he had to do this.

“Spare their souls,” he said.  “Send me to…the Abyss.”

Michael seemed sad, in fact the Angel’s very being seemed to turn to sadness itself.  “So be it, Harry Jobson.”

God’s Angel of Death reached forward to place his hands on Harry’s forehead, but just as he expected to feel the touch of the Angel’s fingers searing his soul from his flesh, something else happened.

Michael took a step backwards and looked up at the sky; so did all of the other Angels, forming a never-ending line of stargazing figures.  Harry looked up at the black sky too, but could see nothing but stars and a full moon.  Harry wasn’t happy about the delay because it gave him an opportunity to back out of his crazy request for eternal damnation.

No Harry, you decided to do this, and that’s exactly what you’re going to do.  Steph and the others don’t deserve to go to Hell because of my crimes.

Michael was smiling and a feeling of joy seemed to cascade from the archangel in bright, colourful waves.  He looked at Harry and nodded, as if he knew something that he did not.  “Goodbye, Harry Jobson,” said Michael as he placed his hands on Harry’s skull.

The pain of Harry’s soul being ripped from his body was exquisite.  Like having a thousand fish hooks dragged through the insides of his body.  The pain’s already starting, Harry feared as his soulless husk of a body fell to the floor.

Epilogue

A news reporter came onscreen.  She was enveloped by an over-sized pink ski-jacket.  “Good evening, I’m Jane Hamilton, reporting for Midland-UK News.  Fortunately, after nearly 19-inches of snow, the weather finally seems to be improving.  Temperatures have already begun to rise and the snow is predicted to end soon.  Roads will soon be in the process of being reopened while rail links are expected to be resumed within the next few d-”

Harry found himself at the bar of The Trumpet.  It didn’t happen instantly and it felt as though he had flowed back into his body like gravy through a sieve.  At first he remembered nothing…

Until the person next to him spoke.

“How you feeling there, Harry Boy?”

Harry almost choked at the sight of the Irishman – The Devil – and started to panic as it all came rushing back.  Please, not again.  Is this hell?  Is this the abyss?

“Calm there, fella.  You made it.  All is well for another millennium or so.  The big guy gave you all another chance.”

Harry was stunned.  “He…he did?”

Lucas laughed and sipped a pint in front of him.  ”Don’t act so feckin surprised.  It’s what you planned, isn’t it?”

“Well…yeah, but I didn’t expect to be back at the bar.  I thought I really would go to the Abyss, or maybe, best-case-scenario, God would let me into Heaven for my good deed. I didn’t expect…this.”

“Well, as it turns out the man-upstairs loves a little sacrifice, here and there, and yours was a biggy.  He decided that your final deed was enough to convince him that maybe humanity still had a fighting chance.  Good on you, lad!  Though you’re the only one that can remember any of it, so don’t expect a fanfare.”

Harry shook his head, blinking, and feeling like he’d just awoken from a dream.  “So why are you here?  Here now, I mean?”

“Because I wanted to give my thanks.  I like this crazy, fecked-up world as much as anyone, and without it I wouldn’t have a thing to do but sit around in an overcrowded Hell.  Truth is I knew there was a chance you might turn things around.”

“That’s why you were here wasn’t it?  To help me?”

Lucas hushed him and looked left and right shiftily.  “Keep your voice down.  If Michael and his choir of gayboys heard that, they’d be after me with their self-righteous wings all in a flap.  I didn’t come to help you.  I just wanted to make sure you were…properly informed.”

Harry nodded and smiled, looking around the brightly-lit bar and feeling more hope than he had since Toby was born.  “Well, Lucas,” he said, “if you didn’t fill me in on what was happening then I wouldn’t have had a clue.  I certainly wouldn’t have made the deal I did.  If you hadn’t turned up we’d all be in Hell, so…thank you.  For a Devil you’re sure not what I expected…Lucas?”

The Prince of Hell had departed, disappearing without Harry or anybody else noticing.  Harry hoped Lucas had stayed long enough to hear him say thanks.

At the end of the bar, Harry noticed Old Graham sitting alone, drinking by himself.  Harry smiled, finding it ironic that he was so happy to see the old codger.  Harry made his way over to Old Graham who looked up as he approached.

“Hey, Harry,” he said.

Harry sat on the stool next to the old man.  “Hey, Graham.  You’re into History and all that aren’t you?  Weren’t you in the army?”

Old Graham beamed proudly.  “That I was, ten long years.  In the Signals I was.  Hit the Falklands a full hour before the SAS did.  Yet they get all the glory.”

“Brilliant,” said Harry.  “I wanted to learn more about the past, and about brave men like you.  I was thinking about going to the Imperial War museum at the weekend.  Would you like to come with me and be my guide?”

For a moment, Harry thought the old man was going to fall off his stool.  Then he gathered himself together and nodded enthusiastically.  “You know I haven’t been out of this bloody town in eight years.  I would love to come, Harry.  Thank you, I mean it.”

Harry patted him on the back.  “Good.  We’ll have to make a regular thing of it.  Right now though, I’ve got to go, so I’ll come by tomorrow night to see you.  You’ll be here right?”

Old Graham laughed.  “Does the Devil have horns?”

Harry raised an eyebrow.  “I think you’d be surprised.”

Old Graham obviously didn’t understand and Harry was glad about that.  Knowledge of the night’s previous run of events was a burden he was more than happy to shoulder alone.  He walked over to the centre of the bar where he had been speaking to Lucas before he disappeared.  Back to Hell or wherever.  On the other side of the wooden surface was someone he wanted to talk to very much.

Steph spun around and smiled when she saw him.  Harry couldn’t forgive himself for ever ignoring how beautiful she was.  He would make up for it though.

“Harry,” she said to him.  “Another drink?”

Harry shook his head.  “No thanks, I’ve given up.”

Steph looked at him in bewilderment.  “What since five minutes ago?”

Harry nodded and grinned.  “It seems like longer, but yes I have.  Time to start living my life in better ways.”

Steph seemed genuinely happy.  “Good for you, Harry.”  Then suddenly her expression flipped upside down and she seemed very sad.  “Does that mean you won’t be coming in here anymore?”

“Maybe,” said Harry.  “Which is why I wanted to know if you’d come to dinner with me on your next night off.”

Steph’s face lit up.  “I’d love to.  I’m free Thursday night.”

Harry reached out and took Steph’s hand.  She seemed embarrassed but he could tell that she also liked the feel of the two of them touching.  ”Then it’s a date.  You can tell me all about this pet grooming business you’re going to set up.”

Steph was surprised.  “How did you know about that?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, “but I want to learn all about it, and all about you.  Right now I have to go, so I’ll be back tomorrow night to arrange with you.”

Harry left Steph in a fluster behind the bar and moved towards the exit.  Damien was lay across the coach, enjoying the fire.  As Harry got closer Damien noticed him staring.  The boy stood up.

“The fuck you looking at?”

Harry smiled.  Finally he could see through Damien’s hardman disguise and see the lost boy beneath it.  “Hey, Damien.  I just wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Well, I used to have a successful business, but I sold it.  I was thinking of starting up again, though, so I need a partner – someone young and smart.  Guess I’m looking for an apprentice, but I don’t have a son.  I used to but he died.  His name was Toby.”

Damien’s eyes flickered back and forth, as if he expected a sneaky attack to come at any moment.

Harry continued.  “I know you’re a busy guy, but I don’t think you enjoy selling drugs.  You’re better than that and I’d really like to help you be successful in a less dangerous way.  I need a man like you.  I think we can make a lot of good honest money together.”

For a while it seemed like Damien was going to strike out and hit him.  Harry wondered for a moment if he’d misjudged the boy and was relieved when his demeanour finally softened.  “You serious?” he said.

“Very!”  Harry went for a handshake.  “Deal?”

Damien smiled and shook Harry’s hand.  “Yeah, deal.”

“Great, I’ll speak to you about it soon.”  Harry walked away, but Damien stopped him.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.  You know, for the opportunity and everything.  Most people just think I’m a thug.”

Harry nodded.  “You and I are going to change their opinion.”

He made it over to the pub’s door and prepared to leave.  There was a lot to do in order to get his life back on track, but first he needed to find a phone.  Harry was going to make a call to the Police and tell them about a rapist named Nigel.  The sicko’s truck was parked off the main road right now and if they came quickly they would find enough evidence inside to put the man away for a very long time.

Harry was going to start living his life, putting the world right and making things better, one thing at a time.  For the first time in a long time, he was finally looking forward instead of back.

THE END

About Iain Rob Wright:

Published author and member of the Horror Writers Association, Iain Rob Wright was born in 1984 and lives in Redditch, a small town in the West Midlands, UK, with his loopy cocker spaniel, his fat old cat, Jess, his many tropical fish, and his wonderful wife, Sally. Writing is the passion that fills his life during the small periods of time when he isn’t cleaning up after his pets.

He is currently one of the UK’s most successful horror writers and his current novels include the critically acclaimed: THE FINAL WINTER, the deeply disturbing bestseller: ASBO, and the satirical screamfest: THE HOUSEMATES.

He will soon be releasing the first book in an exciting action-thriller series; featuring acerbic protagonist, Sarah Stone, and her ongoing mission to stop a terrorist threat.

Check out Iain’s official website for freebies, news, and updates at: www.iainrobwright.com or add him on facebook where he would be glad to meet you.

LINKS:

---ASBO:  UK  US

Innocent family man is targeted by a gang of sadistic youths.  Your fear is their entertainment.

--ANIMAL KINGDOM:  UK  US

The animals have turned on us and the human race has found itself on the bottom of the food chain.

--THE HOUSEMATES:  UK  US

A reality TV show gone bad.  There can be only one winner.  Everybody else must die.

---SEA SICK:  UK  US

A virus escapes aboard a luxury cruise liner.  Welcome aboard the Spirit of Kirkpatrick.

---SAM:  UK  US

A young boy seems to be possessed.  But is he?  Sammie has a secret.

---RAVAGE:  UK  US

Apocalyptic horror that culminates in a fight for survival at a hilltop amusement park.  Say goodbye to the world.

---THE HOUSEMATES:  UK  US

Reality TV gone wrong, and deadly.  Let the games begin.

Table of Contents

Virgin
(by F. Paul Wilson)

Haunted House (by J.A. Konrath & Jack Kilborn)

Wolf Hunt (by Jeff Strand)

Eerie (by Blake Crouch and Jordan Crouch)

Speed Dating with the Dead (by Scott Nicholson)

The
Final Winter (by Iain Rob Wright)

Table of Contents

Virgin

Haunted House

Wolf Hunt

Eerie

Speed Dating with the Dead

The Final Winter