Congregations Of The Dead
Author: James A. Moore
Date: 2013-01-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Vampires
Description: It’s one of the hottest summers on record and a storm is brewing over the small town of Wellman, Georgia. Still reeling from the horrific events of the previous October, all Sheriff Carl Price wants is to get back to a normal life. Unfortunately things aren’t working out. He’s got the Brennert County’s DA breathing down his neck for answers about what happened in Crawford’s Hollow. He’s been served with a lawsuit by the Blackbourne family. And just after he witnesses a child abduction, the one person who always puts his life into a tailspin shows up to add to the pressure. Meanwhile, against h
Publisher: Arcane Wisdom (an imprint of Bloodletting Press)

ALSO FROM COHESION PRESS

Action/Horror:

SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror
– Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding (eds.)

SNAFU: Heroes
– Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding (eds.)

SNAFU: Wolves at the Door
– Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding (eds.)

SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest
– Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding (eds.)

SNAFU: Hunters
– Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown (eds.)

SNAFU: Future Warfare
– Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown (eds.)

SNAFU: Unnatural Selection
– Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown (eds.)

SNAFU: Black Ops
– Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown (eds.)

Blurring the Line – Marty Young (ed.)

American Nocturne – Hank Schwaeble

Jade Gods – Patrick Freivald

The Angel of the Abyss – Hank Schwaeble

Sci-Fi/Thriller:

Valkeryn: The Dark Lands – Greig Beck

Cry Havoc – Jack Hanson

Forlorn Hope – Jack Hanson

Creature Thrillers

Into the Mist – Lee Murray

Fathomless – Greig Beck

Primordial – David Wood | Alan Baxter

Coming Soon

Snaked – Duncan McGeary

A Hell Within – James A. Moore & Charles R. Rutledge

SNAFU: Judgement Day

– Amanda J Spedding & Geoff Brown (eds.)

Lysan Plague – Alister Hodge

CONGREGATIONS OF THE DEAD

James A. Moore & Charles R. Rutledge

Cohesion Press

Mayday Hills Lunatic Asylum

Beechworth, Australia

Congregations of the Dead

© 2017 James A. Moore & Charles R. Rutledge

Cohesion Press

Mayday Hills Lunatic Asylum

Beechworth, Australia

Dedication

For Rick Hautala and Bob Booth. Absent friends.

Acknowledgements

The authors wish to thank beta readers Cliff Biggers, Nancy Roberts, Ned Roberts, and Ellen Roberts for reading the manuscript and helping make a better book. And special thanks to Donald F Glut for permission to use his creation, the Ruthvenian.

“The man that wandereth out of the way of wisdom shall abide in the congregation of the dead.”

~ Proverbs 21:16

Autumn.

Isaiah Blackbourne chose the wrong moment to come home. He didn't know that of course. He was still savoring the death of Whit Gramling, the tired old man who had been a thorn in the Blackbourne family's side for far too long. Isaiah grinned at the memory of Gramling's tough exterior finally crumbling when Isaiah had told him of his brutal plans for the old man's family.

Isaiah paused to look at the ancient family house. The place started as a log cabin in the 1800s and had been built out ‒ room by room ‒ over the years, so that its exterior was a mishmash of wood, brick, and tin, with multiple roofs that didn't quite line up. He was rarely there, preferring a more stylish lifestyle in Atlanta to the Blackbourne's traditional home of Crawford's Hollow.

Even Siobhan, the matriarch of the Blackbourne family, didn't really like to stay there. Little brother Merle and his drooling pack of backwoods dope peddlers fit right in though.

Of course every available Blackbourne was inside now. The whole pale skinned, glowing eyed clan. Few were as pale as Isaiah, eldest son and self-styled family enforcer. Most people thought him an albino with his white hair and skin, and his ever-present sunglasses. It amused him to let them think that. They had no way of knowing he was a member of an ancient, pre-human race whom the Cherokee tribes of Georgia called 'the Moon-Eyed Ones'.

The world would know soon enough though, once the ritual inside the house was finished. Isaiah looked at his watch. Mother Siobhan ought to be building things to a climax even now. He'd have to hurry or he'd miss the best part of the show ‒ Siobhan opening the way and bringing one of the outer gods to Earth. When that happened, the Moon-Eyes would reclaim the control over the world they had enjoyed in the old times.

Isaiah stepped over the threshold and into a hallway that seemed to extend forever. Had he been human, and accustomed to living in only one dimension, then the shifting, extra-dimensional nature of the house might have bothered him.

He had to give Merle credit. He had been the one who had thought of using one of the ancient rituals to open an almost endless series of doorways into other worlds within the confines of the house. Doing so was the only way to create an environment that would sustain one of the Old Ones.

The summoning ceremony was being held in a ballroom that actually existed in an alternate-reality England. But the door that led to the room was right here in the Georgia Mountains. Isaiah was almost to that door when everything went to what his more human brethren might have called hell.

The floor began to shudder and a wave of coruscating light burst through ballroom door. Isaiah felt a shift in the dimensions around him and his limbs suddenly felt heavier than normal. It took him a moment to realize that he had been solidly trapped in one dimension. His ability to shift in and out of the planes of reality had been somehow neutralized.

The door seemed to be fading away and Isaiah hurried through it before he lost sight of it entirely. The interior of the ballroom was a shambles. Everywhere he looked he saw dead and dying Moon-Eyes. At the very back of the room, hanging above a wooden stage, a huge circle of energy was dissipating. Isaiah thought he could see a figure in the circle. The Outer One, straining to break through.

Behind the stage, where once had been large windows, was an endless plain of waving grass and squirming moss. Siobhan Blackbourne lay in the grass. She had partially manifested the part of her body that was in another dimension. Multiple limbs and appendages were broken and leaking black blood. Isaiah's freak of a brother, Frank, lay beside her. Both of them were moving weakly.

Then Isaiah heard a wail of utter despair. He looked up to see the form inside the circle fading away. He felt the air around him being pulled toward the circle and saw dozens of the dead forms of his people dragged upwards. He could only watch as both Siobhan and Frank, too, were pulled into the glowing vortex. Then the circle was gone. The summoning had failed and the outer god had fallen back into the void, taking Siobhan with him.

Isaiah's mother was dead, her dream destroyed. Isaiah didn't feel sorrow. He only felt a deep rage. And lo and behold, he saw someone to vent that rage upon. Sheriff Carl Price was limping toward Isaiah, supported by Wade Griffin.

Griffin had apparently been looking for the vanished door just as Isaiah had stepped through it. So the sheriff and the private eye thought they would get away after saving the day did they?

“No,” said Isaiah. “You're not going to get out of this one. I came home at just the wrong moment. Can't find my way out of this damn house of mirrors, so looks like I'm going down with the family ship.” He grinned at the two men. “But at least I can take you boys with me.”

Griffin let his friend slide to the ground. He was holding a long, slender sword, which Isaiah recognized as the weapon usually carried by Carter Decamp, an old enemy of the Blackbournes.

Without any warning, Griffin lunged forward with the sword. Isaiah was accustomed to using his ability to shift through dimensions as a way to move with incredible speed. Without that power he felt mired in mud. He just managed to avoid the sword thrust.

“You're a quick one,” Isaiah said. “Maybe the fastest human being I've seen. Not fast enough though.”

Despite his words, Isaiah knew he needed to get this over with quickly. Decamp's sword could kill him, and Griffin was just too dangerous. He leaped forward, slashing at Griffin with the claws he had cultivated on the tips of his fingers.

Amazingly, Griffin spun out of the way so that Isaiah's claws only grazed the big man's shoulder. He really was faster than a human had a right to be. And his next move almost proved deadly. Griffin continued the spin, whipping the glittering silver sword around and actually cutting through Isaiah's shirt. Isaiah felt a line of fire along his chest where the tip of the blade touched him.

“You actually cut me,” Isaiah said. “You won't get another shot.”

“Sure he will,” Carl Price said.

Isaiah felt strong fingers close around his ankle and he glanced down. Price had dragged himself across the ground and latched on to Isaiah's ankle. Isaiah gave a snarl and tried to jerk his leg free. Then he felt an even sharper pain and looked down to see that Griffin had buried the silver sword in his chest. A terrible heat seemed to be radiating outwards from the weapon, and Isaiah remembered the mystic runes inscribed on the blade.

All the strength seemed to drain from Isaiah's legs and he fell to his knees. His hands fluttered weakly around the sword. If only he could pluck it out. Blood seeped from Isaiah's lips as he said, “Take more than that... to kill me.”

Isaiah looked up. Griffin was staring down at him. In the distance, the horizon seemed to tilt and Isaiah head a loud roaring noise. The ground shook again.

“I believe you,” Griffin said. Then Isaiah felt another flash of agony as Griffin jerked the sword from his chest. The big man swept the blade back in a glittering silver arc, then swung it back toward Isaiah's neck.

The world went away.

CHAPTER ONE

August in Georgia is its own special kind of hell.

Carl listened to the sound of the ceiling fan rhythmically clicking above him and felt the rush of slightly cooler air on his chest and face. He refused to open his eyes. If he opened his eyes he’d look at the damned fool alarm clock and realize that all of four or five minutes had gone by since the last time he’d looked and that would just piss him off.

He tended to spend enough time pissed off already, thanks just the same.

Outside of his house the wind barely moved; the thick, humid air was still ungodly warm, even at almost three in the morning, and the sky from time to time strobed with a distant flash of heat lightning. Inside the house the air was almost as sticky and the alarm clock kept up its siren call, mockingly calling him to just open one eye and check out the glowing numbers. It couldn’t possibly be as bad as he thought it was.

He finally opened one eye, peeked, and saw that a total of three minutes had slipped past since the last time he gave in. “Son of a damn bitch.” Out of bed then. Into the shower for a blast of cold water to wake him up and then he’d go on his early morning run. He didn’t want to, not really, but there wasn’t much choice in the matter. Sitting in an empty bed and listening to his own brain trying to cover everything he had done in the last week and all the stuff he still had to do was not getting him any closer to sleeping, and he didn’t feel like soaking in his own sweat for one more second.

Ten minutes later he was dressed in his shorts and t-shirt and jogging out the door and into the sultry air of an early morning. His cell phone was clipped to his hip and he had the ear buds in place so he could listen to music and answer the phone if he had to. The sun was hours away from up and the temperature was already in the low eighties. Oh, yes, a hell of a fine summer. He hadn’t made twenty feet from his driveway before he started sweating.

The job was working its way to hellish and disgusting just as fast as the weather lately. Though it seemed like the dust had barely cleared from the situation at the end of the last October, the spill out was getting uglier and uglier. The county prosecutor’s office had called to warn him there were possible repercussions to the way he’d handled the whole situation with the Blackbourne clan. That was to be expected, really. He and Wade Griffin had put an epic hurting on the people, and more than a dozen members of Brennert County’s premier criminal family were dead as a direct result of their actions.

Some people have no sense of humor when you kill their loved ones. Of course that was a two-way street and the death of an old high school buddy had led to the investigation that in turn ended up in a bloodbath last Halloween. Sometimes you get easy cases and sometimes you get the sort that leaves ripples in your life for months. This was definitely a ripple situation. As the Sheriff of Brennert County Carl had to deal with those waves in the way things were supposed to be. He rather envied Wade the title of private investigator in this situation, partially because he’d done everything he could to keep the affair from blowing back on his old friend.

You do what you have to.

The road curved and Carl followed the flow, stepping onto the sidewalk when he saw headlights coming.

The second he saw the vehicle’s headlights, he suspected the driver of the car saw him. That was when the headlights suddenly died away. Carl felt himself tense. As a rule you don’t kill the headlights on a moving vehicle in the middle of the night. Not unless there’s a reason. In his not inconsiderable experience, that reason normally meant you didn’t want to get seen doing something you knew you shouldn’t be doing.

Carl tended to be exactly the sort that paid attention to shit like that.

Before he could do more than acknowledge the potential problem, the car engine revved hard and the entire thing lurched forward, gathering speed. Not a car, a pickup truck. The engine whined as the vehicle increased speed, and even with the lights gone and his eyes still adjusting to the sudden darkness Carl figured there was a good chance the driver intended to paste him. Eyes left, nothing but road. Eyes right, two very large oak trees. He ran to the right, hurtling a small picket fence and moving into a front yard where the trees waited like islands of possible safety.

The truck came closer, bouncing against the curb and then rising up to the level of the sidewalk – recently installed in the neighborhood to encourage joggers like Carl from standing in the damned road, thank you – and came for him, the engine’s desperate note getting louder and the sound of the tires hissing across the pavement loud enough at last to be heard over the sound of The Beatles playing in his ears.

Carl made it behind the first tree, cursing the lack of a pistol on his hip. Damned hard to carry a holster with your running shorts.

Rather than trying its luck with the tree, the truck swerved back onto the road and accelerated. Carl looked carefully, staring at the rear of the Ford F-150. He could see a tag, but couldn’t make out a single number or letter. Ford pickups were damned near the official truck of Brennert County and the town of Wellman. Might as well look for a blade of grass in a well-mown lawn.

Carl chased after the truck, running as hard as he could in the heat of the early morning, his eyes focused on the tag, without which he would have nothing. It was too damned dark to even make out the color. It could be white, it could be yellow or gray. The tag was a Georgia tag, but beyond that he needed to get closer.

The truck did not agree, moving faster as it took the next curve in the road. Carl spat a curse as the vehicle slowed just enough to avoid flipping over. In the back of the truck a flash of motion, a pale face and wild hair and then a hand slapping the glass of the window, fingers wide apart.

And then a voice screaming, but too far away to hear what was said, only a tone. A desperate, frightened tone.

And then the truck was gone.

Carl cursed a second time and pulled his cell phone free. He had the office on speed dial. He called the number, breathing hard in the humid air and glaring after the truck that was now gone from his sight. “Brennert County Sheriff ’s Department, Deputy Austin.”

“Ryan, this is Carl. You got any cars around my neighborhood?” He looked at the street sign a bit down the road. “Euclid Street. Got a truck down this way that just tried to run my ass down.” He ignored the man’s shocked tone and recited the few details he had, demanding a car in the area as soon as possible. Then it was back to the house. He had to get dressed and quickly if he was going to join the pursuit himself.

Two hours later the sky was growing light and Carl’s eyes were growing tired. Nothing. No sign of any truck with a convenient hostage in the back seat to help identify, and there were too damned many trucks parked to examine them all. Carl pulled into the parking lot of the Rabbit Hutch Diner and scowled as he climbed from his truck – a Ford F-150, of course – and headed for the front door. Breakfast and a couple of gallons of coffee would help. He was absolutely willing to convince himself of that lie if it would get him through the day.

Despite the early hour several of the tables and booths were already occupied. Carl sidled up to the long counter and smiled at Becky, the skinny little thing that served him five days of the week. The woman was in her fifties and looked like a long-time anorexic, but that was just the way she was built. Her hair was exactly the color of red that comes from generic hair dye and her makeup brought to mind a few of the clowns he’d seen the last time he went to the circus – not a comforting thought as he absolutely hated clowns – but aside from the artificial attempts to look twenty years younger she was a sweet lady.

“Mornin’, Carl! Same old thing?” He nodded and smiled his thanks. She smiled back and called to Zeb in the kitchen to set up his usual.

He drank two cups of coffee while he was waiting and checked in at the office to see if anyone, by some miracle, had had more luck than him at spotting the elusive driver from a few hours earlier. Nope. He wasn’t surprised.

The little bell over the door jangled as another patron came in. Normally Carl might have bothered to look, but he was exhausted. He would have completely ignored the door, but just as it rang Becky was heading his way with a plateful of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and a lethal dose of extra-crispy bacon. Becky looked at the door, looked at Carl then shook her head in warning. The expression on her face said it was bad, very, very bad.

Carl turned to the door and saw Hell in high heels heading in his direction.

It was much worse than he’d expected.

CHAPTER TWO

Calvin Martin tipped the beer can back to get the last of its contents, then crumpled the can and tossed it onto the floorboard of his truck to join its eight brothers. For the umpteenth time he looked out the side window at the house that had once been his. Parked in back of a currently empty house, Calvin had been waiting for night to fall. It was full dark now and lights had come on in his former home. Good. That meant Leslie was home.

Calvin opened the door and the dome light illuminated the cab, allowing him one more look at the restraining order. That bitch. She thought a piece of paper could keep him away. He’d show her. Nobody could keep him away from what was his. Not her father. Not the fucking cops. She hadn’t been much of a wife, truth to tell, but she had been his and nothing was over until he said it was over. Plus there was no way he was just going to let her take everything he had.

Calvin shut the door and started down the driveway. He barely felt the beers. He was a big man and he could handle his drinks. Maybe he would have something stronger later, after he had taught little miss fucking bitch how the world worked.

He looked around as he reached the bottom of the drive. No one about. Great. He could cross the street and come at the house from the side where there were plenty of trees, and that would get him to the back door. Leslie had changed the locks but Calvin knew he could kick the door in. Hell, he’d done it before.

He had just crossed the street and was stepping into the yard when a voice said, “Mister Martin.”

No questioning tone. Whoever the hell it was knew who he was looking at. Calvin turned. In the dim light from a street lamp he could make out a big man standing near the trees. A damn big man. Calvin moved closer. The big guy had close-cropped brown hair and pale eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?” Calvin said.

“That’s not pertinent at the moment.”

“Huh?”

“Pertinent,” repeated the man. “It means it’s not important.”

“I know what the fuck it means, wise-ass.”

“Good. Just making sure. You look a little slow.”

Calvin grimaced. Had that fucker just called him slow? “Listen pal. I don’t know what your deal is, but you better close that smart mouth or you’ll be spitting teeth.”

“That’s unlikely,” the man said. “But back to our discussion. What is pertinent, is that you’re currently under a restraining order, which states that you’re not to come within one hundred feet of your ex-wife. You’re in violation of that order as of now.”

“You a cop?”

“Not anymore. Now why don’t you trot on back to your truck and go home and finish getting drunk.”

“Or what?” said Calvin.

“Or I’ll hurt you.”

Calvin’s face grew hot and he could feel the old anger welling up. He had hoped to let a little of that anger out on the former Mrs Martin, and later he would, but here was a bigger target. Yeah, the asshole was big, but he wasn’t that big. Calvin started toward the man, balling his fists as he went. “Oh so you’re going to hurt me. Gee, I’m all scared.”

The man didn’t answer and his silence only made Calvin more pissed. “I’m going to stomp your ass all over this street, fuckhead.”

Calvin lunged, swinging a long, looping right at the man’s head. He’d always been good at punching. He had big thick bones. Never even broken a knuckle pounding on some deserving head. But there was a problem. The man wasn’t there anymore. Calvin’s punch met only empty air, and he stumbled forward, almost falling.

“Last chance, Mister Martin,” the man said. “Go home.”

Calvin spun. Somehow the man had gotten behind him. “Fuck you,” he said, and threw another punch.

He was never sure exactly what happened after that. His nose exploded into a pulpy mass and then something that felt like a cannon ball slammed into his stomach. Calvin went to his knees, vomiting up his nine beers and the cheeseburger that had preceded them into his gullet.

He looked up just in time to see a foot coming at his face and then the world went dark.

* * *

Wade Griffin grabbed a fist full of the back of Calvin Martin’s work shirt and dragged the man back across the street to the truck. Griffin opened the passenger door and threw the two-hundred-plus-pound man into the cab. Griffin slammed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. He smiled. The keys were still in the ignition. Griffin got in, started up the truck and pulled out onto the street.

Leslie Martin had been right. She had told the county sheriff that her ex-husband would just ignore the restraining order and would find her and give her another of the beatings he had handed out so often over the two years of their rocky marriage.

The sheriff had told Leslie that he would step up patrols in her neighborhood but had also recommended she hire a private investigator. In fact he had recommended one specifically. Griffin grinned, thinking of Sheriff Carl Price sending the woman his way, telling her that she could trust Wade Griffin, a local boy who had just moved back to town.

He had only to watch the house for two nights before Martin showed up. Griffin had waited for the man to build up enough courage and when Martin had finally come strolling over, Griffin had intentionally pissed him off. It had made it much easier to deal with him. Anger makes people stupid and reckless. That was one of the first things Griffin’s sensei had taught him.

He drove Martin’s truck to the parking lot of the Brennert County Hospital emergency room entrance. He had noted that the late-model truck had an anti-theft alarm. Griffin pulled a four-way lug wrench from behind the front seat, locked both doors, tossed the keys into a storm drain, and then threw the lug wrench through the truck’s passenger side window. The alarm began to wail as Griffin vaulted the parking lot’s chain-link fence and disappeared into the darkness.

Griffin took a cab to a gas station a few blocks from where he had parked his own truck. As he walked to his ride he checked his cell phone. He had turned it off during his surveillance of Leslie Martin’s house of course. Three calls. All from Charon, the light of his life.

Griffin hit the button that dialed Charon’s number. She picked up on the second ring and Griffin said. “Looking for me?”

“In all the wrong places apparently. Did you have your phone turned off again?”

Griffin grinned; he could hear the scowl in her voice. She had a really cute scowl. “Yeah, I was on a job.”

“Anything I should ask about?”

“What do you think?”

“We’ll call that a no. Well I may have something a bit more respectable for you. A man named Paul Traylor called. He said his daughter is missing and he wants to hire you to find her.”

“Hmm. I’ll talk to him but I usually stay clear of missing person’s cases. Nothing I can do that the cops can’t do a hundred times better.”

“I figured that,” Charon said. “But I told him I’d relay the message, just like I was your secretary.”

“I bet you’d look good in a little yuppie business suit.” Charon tended to dress in what could best be described as funky Goth-light.

“Dream on. However, if you pick up some Chinese takeout on your way home, I’ll wear whatever you like later.”

“Even if it’s nothing at all?”

“Especially that.”

“Consider it done.”

“See you soon, wild man.”

CHAPTER THREE

Nervous? No shit she was nervous.

Carl Price was facing away from Tammy when she came through the door of the diner and she was glad of that. She didn’t want to see him in the first place, but it was necessary.

How long had it been since they’d parted company? A little over four years this time around. Four years since she’d packed up and left while he was at work. Not that hard, really. She’d never moved all the way into his house, so making a clean getaway wasn’t really a challenge.

He looked the same from behind. Broad shoulders straining his shirt. His posture relaxed but ready. Was there gray in his hair? Hard to say. He was out in the sun so much it might have just been a little sun bleaching. She hoped it was gray, it would serve him right.

And then the man turned and looked in her direction and she froze, and all the thoughts she had been working over in her head went out the window. How the hell could any man look so angry all the time?

Carl froze, a scowl on his face. Not an angry expression really, just thoughtful, cautious. And then it was gone. The puzzled expression that bordered on looking like he was ticked off dropped away, replaced by cold, unmoving stone. The only part of his face that showed anything was his eyes and those were, well, those showed all the anger and hurt she’d have expected from him.

“How are you, Carl?”

Carl’s eyes didn’t move from her face. His muscular arms were spread apart, one leaning against the counter where he sat, the other near his hip and the service pistol he sported all the time. Did his fingers twitch near the grip? Best not to think about that too much.

Carl waved his hand, the one resting on the counter. “Becky? Hon, I’m gonna need that breakfast to go. Can you do that for me?” There had been a time when they were in bed together, after what could only be called a marathon weekend of sex, when they shared secrets and observations as only lovers do and only after just that sort of encounter. When they were in that afterglow, still wired, but too wiped out to do much more than talk Tammy told Carl that she could always tell when he was getting seriously angry, because those were the times when he seemed the calmest. His face was calm, his posture was relaxed, and his voice? Well, his voice got all soft and quiet, like Clint Eastwood before everything went to hell in one of his old spaghetti westerns.

He’d found that funny, but she was deadly serious.

Just then, when she came into the diner and Carl was ready for breakfast? Good old calm Carl was about ready to break shit into little bitty pieces. She felt the hairs on her neck rise in warning of the absolute danger of the moment.

Not that she had anything to worry about. Carl had done a lot of things in their relationship that had left her worried, but he had never once raised so much as a finger to her.

Not that it mattered. Too many miles, too much left unsaid the last time.

“Carl? Can we talk?” She walked a few steps toward him, but carefully.

His face was still stone. His eyes flickered, looked her over from head to toe. Finally he nodded, a barely perceptible twitch of his head. “Talk if you want to.”

Damn that voice was just above a whisper, really. She had to strain to hear him. “I was thinking, maybe at your office?”

The waitress slid a Styrofoam tray with built-in cover to Carl and he nodded a thanks and dished a ten spot from his pocket. He placed the ten on the counter and picked up the food without ever taking his eyes off of Tammy.

He slid away from his seat with that fluid grace he reserved for when he was about to get extremely hostile — she’d seen him crack more than one head in their years of off and on romance — and moved toward Tammy. His eyes finally broke from hers as he walked past.

“You know where the office is,” he said, then he was out the door and heading toward his truck.

She stood where she was and watched him climb in and drive away. And then, finally, she exhaled, not even aware until that moment that she’d been holding her breath.

* * *

Carl drove calmly away from the diner, his hands clenching the steering wheel in a death grip. His teeth ground together in his jaw and the muscles in his skull clenched a vice around his temples. The food from the diner sat in its little foam tray and he knew even then that it would go cold and go to waste. His appetite was gone.

“Gotta be fucking kidding me.” He felt his lips forming words but they weren’t important. Instead, he forced himself under control as best he could.

Hadn’t seen that one coming, had he? But then he never did with her. Every damned time he thought he knew where he stood with Tammy she did something to prove him wrong, like disappear from his life without warning, or run off to have an encounter with some asshole she used to know, or just show up out of the goddamned blue when he thought he was finally over her.

“Every fucking time. Every fucking time.” His knuckles popped as he shifted his grip on the steering wheel. He could feel himself falling. All it took was seeing her. What the hell kind of way was that for a man to live?

The phone rang and he grabbed it off the car seat like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. “Price.”

“Carl? It’s Vince.” Vince Carlson was the poor bastard currently stuck with desk duty. That was Carl’s way of handling a deputy with a medical reason for not driving these days. Vince had dislocated his shoulder in a car wreck. He wanted to work. Carl made it happen.

“What’s going on, Vince?”

“Got two things going on. First, we just got a call from Corey Phillips. His little girl, Amber, is missing. She went to bed at nine last night and when they checked on her a few minutes ago her bed was empty and the window in her bedroom was open.”

Corey Phillips. He knew the name, but it wasn’t clicking. “Who is Corey Phillips?”

“Says he lives in your neighborhood, over on Euclid Street.” That brought everything into focus. Phillips owned a little photography studio in Wellman. Mostly he did weddings and the like, but he also took family portraits, did a lot of the school pictures for the locals. Good business and a nice enough man.

“How old is his daughter?” It was always possible the girl had run away. It would hardly be a first in the area.

“Eleven.”

Too young to fall into the runaway category easily, but it was still a possibility. “I’ll head his way in a few minutes. I’ll need the proper address. What else were you calling about?”

“Well, when he went outside to look for his little girl he realized his truck was gone. Looks like someone stole his Ford F-150.” Carl pulled to the side of the road and shook his head. Of course someone stole the man’s truck. He thought back to the night before, to the face in the back of the truck, and the screamed, unintelligible words, the hand that slapped the back window. The face, the hand, they could have belonged to a little girl. It was hard to say for certain, but if he had to bet, Carl would have placed a few dollars on being right.

“Give me that address.” Vince called out the street address and Carl jotted it on an envelope sitting in the passenger’s seat. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Meanwhile, I want everyone looking for that goddamn truck. Everyone. Got me?”

“Yessir.”

Carl spun the wheel on the truck after checking both ways, and headed back toward the other side of Wellman. There was good news in this at least. Tammy wouldn’t be able to follow him to a crime scene. If he played it the right way maybe he could avoid the bitch for a few days. Or just maybe forever.

Of course his mind was not agreeing with him. Even as he drove away from her, away from the very thought of being near her, he felt the memories of her in his arms rising in the back of his head like bubbles escaping the mouth of a drowning man. “Every fucking time I’m almost over her. It’s like she plans it.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Traylor home was a two-storied, rambling house of pale white brick. It wasn’t quite a McMansion, but it was close. The house sat on a tree-lined street in one of Wellman’s newest subdivisions, surrounded by thirty or so identical houses. Griffin parked in front of a two-car garage and stepped out of his truck. He was immediately assaulted by the late-August humidity, and he could feel a trickle of sweat on his back. He shook his head. Nine in the morning and the temperature was already eighty-eight degrees. Welcome to summertime in Georgia.

Griffin climbed three stairs to the front door and knocked. A moment later the door was opened by a tall man with thinning, sandy-blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses.

“Mister Griffin,” the man said. “I’m Paul Traylor. Thank you for coming.”

Traylor motioned for Griffin to enter and he stepped into the welcome oasis of air conditioning. Traylor said, “Amazing how hot it is this early, eh?”

“It is,” said Griffin, following Traylor into a tastefully furnished living room. Everything was done in pastels and shades of gray. Soothing. Griffin sat on the edge of a gray chair and Traylor took the couch across from him.

Traylor said, “My wife Claire may join us, or she may not. She’s extremely upset as you can imagine.”

Griffin nodded. “You said your daughter has disappeared. Any theories at all as to where she’s gone?”

“She ran away,” Traylor said. “Beyond that, I haven’t a clue.”

“But you’re sure she ran away?”

“Lynn’s suitcase is gone and some of her clothes.”

“Sounds like you’re right then. Can you think of any reason she would run away, Mister Traylor?”

Traylor slumped back on the couch. “Meaning were we having any trouble at home. Fights and such.”

“I have to ask.”

“Of course. Well here’s the odd thing, Mister Griffin. Had you asked me that three months ago I’d have said yes, we were having problems. Lynn is sixteen and for the last year she’s been the stereotype of the difficult teenage girl. She got into a Goth phase. You know what that’s like?”

“I do,” said Griffin, thinking of Charon.

“She and her mother were fighting all the time and there were all kinds of problems, but then out of the blue it just all cleared up. Lynn stopped hanging around with her Goth friends and started dressing normally. Her grades improved and she suddenly seemed focused. Her mother and I were mystified, but obviously pleased.”

“You’ve no idea what brought about the change?”

“None. If we asked Lynn about it she would just smile and say she had just learned what was important in life. That was all we could get out of her. Since things were going well and she seemed happy, we didn’t press her.”

“Had she made any new friends by chance? Anyone who could have influenced her?”

“None that we knew of. She didn’t bring anyone home, as far as that goes. Thinking back, I probably should have paid more attention to where she was in the afternoons and evenings. But she wasn’t staying out late, and as I said, she seemed more normal than she had in a long time.”

Griffin said, “I’ll be honest with you. Finding missing persons is something the police are very good at. They have the resources and the manpower. I’m not sure you need a private investigator at this point.”

Traylor waved a hand as if dismissing Griffin’s remark. “I’ve already spoken to the Wellman police Chief. He said he’d put the wheels in motion, but he warned me that runaways aren’t classified as ‘critical missing persons’ unless there’s evidence the kid’s life is in danger.”

“That’s standard procedure. If she’s gone for much longer he’ll contact state authorities and the various organizations for missing children.”

“I know all that. Thing is, Mister Griffin, I’m a man who believes in doing everything he can. Don’t let my apparent calm fool you. My little girl is missing and my guts are churning. You were recommended to me by a business associate and he said you got things done.”

“Can you tell me who it was that recommended me?”

“He asked me not to use his name, but he said you helped him in a hostage situation once.”

Griffin had a good idea of who Traylor was talking about, and that meant Traylor traveled in some interesting circles. “What sort of business are you in, Mister Traylor?”

“Stocks and bonds. On an international scale. I get things done too. I’m not used to twiddling my thumbs when something goes wrong.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. I’d like to have a look at Lynn’s room if I could. And I’ll need a recent photograph.”

“I’ll take you to her room right now.” Traylor rose and Griffin followed him back into the front hall. They went up a flight of stairs and down a long hallway. Lynn’s room was large and built on one corner of the house.

“I’ll leave you to look around,” Traylor said. “And I’ll go find you a picture of Lynn.”

Griffin walked slowly, letting his gaze sweep the room. Pastels predominated here as well. The girl had apparently liked to read, as there were two bookshelves against one wall. The bed was neatly made and a poster for the movie Twilight hung on the wall behind it.

Griffin crossed to a chest of drawers and began going through them, carefully looking under all the expected contents. Nothing of interest. No drugs, condoms, or anything else that might give a clue to what had caused Lynn Traylor to take off.

In the closet, clothes hung in neat rows. Shoes lined up on the floor. Either the reformed Lynn really was a neat freak or her mother did her cleaning. Taller than most people, Griffin was able to look on the closet’s upper shelf without needing something to stand on. He saw a small cardboard box in the back corner behind some bedding and lifted it out.

He sat on the bed and opened the box. Not much to see. Some CDs. A few pictures of a blonde girl in black clothes and fishnets. Lynn as a Goth? Another young girl was in most of the pictures. She had raven dark hair cut punk-rocker short and sported a nose ring.

“Find something?” Traylor said as he came back into the room.

“Maybe.” Griffin held up one of the photos of both girls. “I assume this is Lynn and one of her Goth-phase friends.”

Traylor looked at the picture. “Yes, that’s Irene... Candler or Chandler. Something like that. They were really tight until Lynn gave up the black nail polish and fishnets.”

“Do you know if they were still in touch?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.” He held out the picture he had brought. “Here’s a recent picture of Lynn. You can see what she looks like without all the mascara.”

The photograph showed an attractive girl with a narrow face and a high forehead. She was wearing a pale pink sweater over a white, button down shirt. About as far as one could get from the girl in the other pictures. “She’s a pretty girl. If anyone has seen her, they’ll remember her.”

Traylor nodded, but said nothing. For the first time Griffin thought he could see a break in the man’s calm exterior. Griffin looked back in the box to give Traylor a moment. A bit of lavender colored plastic under the other objects caught his attention. He fished it out. It was a plastic bag. The logo was familiar. It read: Baba Yaga’s.

Traylor said, “That’s some store over in Gatesville. Lynn used to beg her mother to drive her over there. I think it’s some kind of occult book store.”

“I know the place,” Griffin said.

“That’s right. Your office is in Gatesville.”

“It is, but I’m living here in Wellman now.”

“Like I said, Lynn gave up the Goth thing. You think someone at that store might know something that would help?”

“You never know.”

CHAPTER FIVE

There were some seriously pissed off people in the world. Carl knew exactly how they felt. That said, he had to calm himself down if he was going to do his job. Officially the Wellman PD was in charge of the investigation as it happened inside the town limits. One phone call to Bob Stack took care of any potential problems. There’d been about seven too many missing children cases lately and as soon as Carl offered to look in and share information they were good to go. There were a lot of towns where it didn’t work out that well, but the main sheriff ’s office and the county seat were in Wellman and that meant he and Bob dealt with each other all the time anyway. Besides, he’d already forgiven Bob’s wife, Dina, for that unfortunate incident at the Stop & Go out on 41, and Bob was the sort that remembered favors when the time came.

Carl climbed from his truck and looked at the house that matched the address on Euclid Street. Nice place, one story starter, really, but sometimes that’s all a person can afford. Corey Phillips had a good business and a small family. The place was neat and kept in excellent repair. It was close enough in design to Carl’s that he could almost guess the layout. It might be tight for a family of more than three, but was fine otherwise.

Not that he knew anything about that of course. He was still flying solo. His mind jumped at thoughts of Tammy and he shoved the notion back into the darkness where it belonged. Best not to feed that sort of thing right now.

The moment he was heading for the door, Corey Phillips stepped outside to meet him. The man was a few years younger, going a bit soft around the middle and dressed like a small businessman who wanted to succeed in a small town. Phillips had the deer-in-headlights look on his pinched face that said he was dealing with something completely foreign to him.

“You Sheriff Price?” The man was nervous, worried about his daughter and even as he looked at Carl he was pacing with too much energy. It wasn’t caffeine this time; it was dread. He had an eleven-year-old daughter and she was missing along with his truck. Any possible combination of reasons could come up and they would all be the sort no one wanted to think about.

“You must be Mister Phillips?” The man nodded at jackrabbit speeds. Oh yes, he was nervous. “Why don’t we go inside where we can talk. I’ve already called a couple of my lab boys over. They’ll take a look around in just a moment.”

Phillips damn near jogged inside. He was a wreck, but it wasn’t sitting right with Carl. Not at all. There was something off about how he was acting. Then again, he had to allow that maybe he wasn’t quite himself right now, either. Tammy did that to him damned near every time she was around.

Once inside he saw the woman of the house. She was leaner than her husband and didn’t seem as completely wrecked as he did. There was always one in a couple that seemed to hold it together better, and he suspected he knew who that was in this case. The woman was dressed in a summer blouse and slacks with her sandy blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and a small, tasteful set of earrings glittering in her ears. A gold crucifix dangled around her neck and she turned toward him with a doubtful expression on her pretty face.

“Ma’am.” He nodded to her.

“Police Chief Stack tells me you’re very good at what you do, Sheriff Price.” She looked toward him with hard eyes. Her husband was an absolute wreck and she was holding herself together through force of will. He admired that. She moved her hands nervously around as she spoke, but otherwise was cool and professional.

“I do my best.” He moved closer to her. “I’ll do my best here, too. Tell me about what happened, please. Tell me how you realized something was wrong with Amber.”

The house was as clean inside as it was out, and Carl took in the details while he looked at the woman. There wasn’t much to tell. She’d gone to bed at the usual time and when they went in to wake her up for her day at the Lake Forest Summer Camp she wasn’t in her room. The window was open and the screen had been popped. After a quick check of the room and a glimpse outside the window they called the police.

Actually, Missus Phillips called the police. Mister Phillips freaked out a bit and ran out for his truck, doubtless planning on canvassing the neighborhood. That was when they noticed the lack of a truck.

Carl wrote the pertinent information in his note pad. He took his time and as he meticulously wrote his notes, he looked around the living room and the kitchen. Something was wrong, but he was having trouble figuring out exactly what it was.

Around the same time he was done with the interview two of his team showed up lugging a couple of canvas bags worth of equipment. He’d been wrong to say a couple of his boys. Nora Evans was there, a lanky woman with black hair and a perfectly-pressed uniform. She was a professional through and through, belying the stories he heard from her and others about her interesting weekends in Atlanta. She’d been born and raised in the city and moved here when a job presented itself. He never regretted the decision to hire her, though if he’d been pressed he would have pointed out that the sleeve of tattoos she wore on both arms was distracting as hell. They were currently covered, as one of his rules was that no one was allowed to show ink at work. You had a tattoo on your hand you wore gloves. You had a tattoo on your forearm you wore long sleeves. You tattooed your damned face, you’d be wearing makeup to cover it or you’d find a new job.

Nora had no problem with his guidelines. He admired that about her, too.

The man with her, Brett Collins, he could have done without. He did his job and followed guidelines, but he liked to talk shit behind everyone’s back and assumed no one ever passed on his comments to Carl. He was wrong. Carl would deal with him sooner or later, but for now he didn’t have the time or patience to handle the matter as delicately as he needed. Collins was exactly the sort to whine about how he was being done wrong at every turn.

The good news was that Nora took exactly none of his shit and she outranked the little prick. He left them to the task of examining the room and stood at the door long enough to get a feel for Amber. She was a little girl. She had little-girl interests, but he could see a few posters of twerps like Justin Beiber on the wall – along with a dozen other scrawny, androgynous boys he couldn’t have recognized on a bet – and knew she was starting the path to being a teenager. He wanted to make sure she got a chance to walk that particular path unscathed if he could.

He walked outside and the lady of the house followed him, her eyes as stormy as before. She kept her distance and that was good, because he wanted to leave the actual evidence untouched. Instead he just peered carefully around the side of the house until he could see the screen that had been pulled free.

Some asshole had cut it open before peeling it back. If he was lucky they’d pulled it free with bare hands and left some evidence behind.

“Evans?”

Nora’s head popped out of the window and she looked his way. “Yeah?”

“I’m leaving. Check the screen for fiber and prints. I know you know your job.” He held up a hand to prevent any possible snappy comments from the woman. “I’m just being a worry wart.”

“Got it, boss.” She vanished and he turned back toward the front of the house, pausing long enough to wipe at the sweat already forming on his brow.

A moment later he offered the usual platitudes. The man of the house fretted and bobbed his head. The lady of the house stared hard as if she might will a better result from him through sheer force of personality. If that were the case, she’d have her kid back in about ten minutes.

And as he pulled away he felt the pieces click.

The house was pristine. Everything was exactly in its place. The only exception was the little girl’s room, where the bed had not been made. They were smart enough not to touch the evidence.

The house should have been a mess. The people should have been a mess. Daddy looked ready for work. Mommy looked like she’d taken the time to get herself in perfect order before she even checked on her daughter. Or maybe she’d just made sure that everything was perfect after the fact. He wasn’t sure yet, but something about the Phillips family seemed wrong to him.

Carl tended to trust his gut when it said things like that. He had to. It had saved his bacon more than once.

* * *

Half an hour after leaving Paul Traylor, Griffin pulled into a parking space on the Gatesville town square. He locked his truck and jaywalked to the other side of the street to a row of trendy shops and restaurants. Gatesville had managed to survive the arrival of shopping malls and Walmarts better than some small towns by renovating the old town center.

Griffin headed for a narrow storefront with a large, single plate glass window. The logo Baba Yaga’s was emblazoned across the window along with silver decals of stars, crescent moons and other symbols. A wind chime hung motionless in the still hot air. An old fashioned bell jangled as he stepped inside the shop.

Charon was with a customer but she flashed Griffin a grin when she saw him. He never got tired of her smile. She was a petite woman with dark hair and eyes, and today she was wearing snug black jeans and a black t-shirt that had a picture of HP Lovecraft on the front. Not for the first time, he wondered how he had ever thought she wasn’t right for him. At twenty-six, Charon was about a decade younger than him, and that had been part of his problem. The other part was a previous relationship that had gone horribly, tragically wrong.

Griffin wandered around the store, looking at Charon’s stock of spell books, crystals, charms and statues. As always, he was amazed she could make a living selling that sort of thing. Charon rung up the customer’s purchase and as the patron left the store, she hurried over to him. She stood on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss that turned into a longer kiss.

“What are you doing here at this time of day?” Charon said, when she came up for air. Her dark eyes were shining. “Not that I’m not glad to see you.”

“Believe it or not, I’m here in my professional capacity.”

One of Charon’s eyebrows arched. “Nothing to do with what happened last October?”

“No, nothing like that. This has to do with that guy you talked to on the phone.”

“Oh, the missing girl. So you decided to help him.”

“I’m doing a little digging. And look what I found in the girl’s room.” He held up the plastic bag.

“One of my bags! What are the odds?”

“I don’t know but I have this too.” He brought out one of the photos of Lynn Traylor and her friend.

Charon looked at the photo for several seconds. “I remember these girls. They were in a few times. They mostly bought jewelry, but the dark-haired one bought some tarot cards I think. I assume one of them is the missing girl.”

“The blonde,” said Griffin. “Do you remember anything else about them that might help? I was hoping you might know who the other girl was. Her first name is Irene and her last name may be Chandler.”

“Hmmm. I don’t know but I think I can find out. You remember my friend Sandra? You liked her. She has big boobs. She’s a teacher at Wellman High School. She and I were talking about the Goth kids a while back and I remember saying I had two who always came in together, and she knew who they were.”

“I knew I’d come to the right place.”

“Well it’ll cost you, big boy.”

“Are we talking sexual favors?”

“And how.”

“But it can wait until you’ve talked to your friend.”

Charon blew out an exaggerated sigh. “It can. Sandra will be teaching right now, but I’ll text her and maybe she’ll call me back when she gets a break.”

The bell above the door chimed and two women loaded with shopping bags came in. “I’ll leave you to it, kiddo. Give me a call if you hear from Sandra. Otherwise I’ll see you this evening.”

Charon trailed her hand across his jaw as she headed for the new arrivals. Griffin headed back out into the heat of the day, and decided that while he was in town he might as well check his office. He walked the two blocks to the 1950s-era building, and by the time he arrived the back of his shirt was soaked with sweat as if he had been running a marathon.

The interior of the structure was cooler, though not by much. The building owners had installed central air conditioning a few decades back, but the old place hadn’t been built for it. Griffin took the stairs to the second floor and let himself into his office. The room held a musty odor that reminded him how quickly a place could deteriorate when no one was around.

He picked up what little mail was on the floor under the slot then crossed to the other side of the room and turned on the window unit air conditioner he had installed. While the room was cooling he sat at his desk and checked the mail. Nothing important. He’d had his mail forwarded to the house in Wellman once he had decided to stay, but the occasional letter still ended up here at the old office.

It had appealed to Griffin’s sense of the romantic to have an office in this old-style building. He figured he could sit with his feet on the desk as a private eye should and wait for some dame in trouble to wander in. Things hadn’t worked out that way of course. He was almost never here, even when he had lived in Gatesville. Still taking too many jobs in too many small countries no one had ever heard of. He had to decide what he was going to do about that eventually. Charon knew about his mercenary work, past and present. She didn’t say anything about it, but he knew she was concerned that one night he just wouldn’t come back.

Problem was, he wasn’t sure he was ready to give it up. The occasional job like Leslie Martin had allowed him to do the things he was good at, but those were few and far between. These days real private investigators spent most of their time doing surveillance, serving subpoenas, or hunting down deadbeats on the Internet. Griffin preferred being out on the edge, pitting his wits and his hard-earned skills against the odds. He didn’t know if he could give that up. What did that say about him? Griffin wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

CHAPTER SIX

On his way in Carl called for an amber alert on Amber Phillips. The information would hit the Internet, radio and television airwaves in a matter of minutes. There wasn’t much that could be done in a lot of situations – he often hated the rules for how long they were forced to wait on potential runaways, as an example, but at least the response time on obvious child abductions was much faster than it had been when he was growing up.

Despite his best efforts, Carl had to hit the office. He would rather have avoided any possible location where Tammy could find him. Like trying to avoid indigestion after too many helpings of spicy chili. But he could hope.

The Wellman County Sheriff ’s Department was part of a small cluster of government buildings off the main square in Wellman. It stood alone and was a red brick affair that looked like it was designed by somebody who didn’t much like anything that wasn’t functional. That was okay. Carl didn’t need all the extras.

Today, however, he got several that he could have done without. The first had been Tammy – who was now waiting outside of his office and looking just as contrite as she could manage. Next to her was Mike Lazenby, the District Attorney. Lazenby kept his hair perfectly coiffed, had stylish suits that were perfectly tailored, was showered pressed and clean every day and still managed to emit a quiet air of sleaziness. It must have been serious, because Mike almost never came over to Carl’s office.

Carl ignored Tammy completely. “What can I do for you, Mike?”

Mike looked away from Tammy, who he had been blatantly studying, and turned to Carl. “Morning, Carl. I needed to talk to you.”

“Figured that part out all by myself. Come on into my office.”

He unlocked the door and slid inside. As soon as Mike was through the door Carl closed it and locked it again. He did not like being disturbed.

There was a coffee machine on the counter next to his desk, and he wasn’t afraid to use it. As soon as the machine was bubbling and hissing he sat at his desk and looked at Mike. “What’s on your mind, Mike? You don’t normally come over here to chat me up unless there’s a reason.”

“Lament Blackbourne.” Mike’s blue eyes rolled toward the heavens for a moment and then looked back at Carl. “She’s planning on making your life a living hell, Carl.”

“We know that already, Mike.”

“Well, she’s gearing up with some serious lawyers, fellas from Atlanta, New York and Los Angeles.”

“I still have all the documentation, Mike. Everything. I made sure I even had extra copies made, so I don’t see what the problem is.”

“Earl is being, well, he’s being Earl. He wants this to go away.” Earl Perkins was the county commissioner. He was also a dick.

“Earl can’t always get what he wants, Mike. I know he’d like it if I somehow vanished, but I’m not gonna.” There was absolutely no love lost between the two men, and Mike was caught in the middle. Earl might not like Carl – and then again he might, Carl could never really get a feel for the man – but had to work with him. Besides, Carl made his life easier.

“Carl, you need to take this seriously.”

“Mike, I’ve had threats from the Blackbourne clan before. I will again. So she has lawyers? So do I. So does the county. I also have enough insurance to cover against any possible wrongdoings and as we’ve already had one run through by investigators that said I was clean and behaving myself, I don’t see where this is anything but more noise being made.”

“Lament Blackbourne isn’t like most of them, Carl. She’s smart and she’s connected. Not locally, maybe, but she has deep pockets and a lot of pull with the right people.” Mike looked like he was winding up for a long sermon. That was the thing about him that Carl normally didn’t much like. The man was good at his job, but he loved to hear himself speak a little too much.

“Tell her to bring it. I’m ready if she is.”

Mike looked at him long and hard, trying to get a read. Carl tried to look like an open book, the better to get the man on his way. Apparently it worked. “Well, okay then, Carl.” He held his hands up in mock surrender. Carl might have felt he’d hurt the man’s feelings, but he knew better. Mike didn’t have feelings.

“I’ll see you on Tuesday for lunch, Mike. We’ll go over a few things.”

“See you then, Carl.”

Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought he saw a smirk of satisfaction on the man’s fat face as he held the door open for Tammy.

Old habits die hard. Carl rose from his seat when she came into the room. It was his only kind gesture.

“How have you been, Carl?” Tammy’s voice was a bit nervous. That was fair – he was armed, after all.

“What can I do for you, Tammy?” He kept his voice level and calm. His pulse was jackrabbiting and his blood pressure was high enough that it was singing in his damned ears, but he could fake it with the voice at least.

“I...” She looked away from him, down at the tile floor of his office. He made a note to talk to the janitors about maybe actually mopping just for shits and grins. When she looked up at him he could tell that she wanted to say something, wanted him to say something. He offered nothing at all.

After ten seconds – a few hundred years, something like that – he looked at his watch pointedly and then looked at her. Damn it, she was beautiful. He hated her for that. The idea was to tell her to get the hell out of his office and maybe write a letter. He might even promise to read it if she would just get the hell out of town that much faster. She hated Wellman. She said so often enough.

But damn it. He looked at her face and saw the soulful expression in her eyes and all of the good came rushing at him, wanting to creep back in when he wanted nothing to do with it.

No. Not this time. Not again. Every damned time they got together she wrecked him.

“Tell you what. Write it down if that’ll make it easier.” His voice was colder than he expected. He was okay with that, too. She did that to him. He wanted to be there for her. He wanted to run from her. He wanted to send her packing. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted.

“It’s my dad, Carl. He’s sick.”

Tammy’s father was a down-to-earth man. He was a good man. He was also the coach of the football team back when Carl had played in high school. Despite all the fallout from Carl and Tammy over the years, he’d never had a bad thing to say or think about the man.

One gesture. One word, and they’d be back to talking. They’d maybe try to make amends and be friends again and from there, who could say what would happen?

“Yeah? Give him my best when you see him.”

He walked over to the door, doing his best to ignore the look of shock on Tammy’s face. She was shocked, too. She had to be, because it was killing him inside to say the words to her and he’d always been the one to break before.

He could feel Tammy’s eyes on his back as he held the door for her, carefully not looking in her direction. He felt her leave the room, smelled the faint scent of her damned perfume, the one that always made him want her so badly, and then closed the door to his office as soon as she was through the doorway.

Maybe she’d take the hint. Maybe.

And maybe he could remember not to answer the door when she knocked later. And maybe he’d check the caller ID when she called and not answer.

Yeah, because that always worked out so well.

“Damn. Just stay away from me. Do that for me, okay girl?” He spoke only to himself. He’d never have the nerve to actually say the words to her. She might listen.

* * *

Tammy walked through the blazing heat of the day to the car waiting outside for her. As soon as she saw the sleek black sedan, she heard the engine start.

It was a nice car, the sort she’d never be able to afford in a million years, and what she’d been aiming to buy for what seemed like almost that long. Some people knew how to handle money and some didn’t. Tammy most assuredly did not.

No one climbed out and opened the door for her, but Tammy slipped into the rear passenger’s seat of the oversized sedan and immediately sighed at the escape from the oppressive heat.

“How did it go with your friend?” The voice was soft and feminine. The woman who was speaking had a cultured accent that was hard to place. If forced, Tammy would have guessed somewhere in England.

She looked at the pale skin, the long hair, the creamy complexion and felt a flare of jealousy. Tammy knew she was an attractive woman; she certainly got her share of looks, but next to the woman she was facing she felt overweight and lumpy.

“He’s upset. I knew he would be.”

“Yes, well that was the idea wasn’t it?” The woman smiled. Even her damned teeth were perfect.

“Look, what’s the point of getting Carl upset?” Tammy needed to know. Much as she wished she could say this wasn’t screwing her up, it was. She loved Carl. He was her first, and they had a lot of history. There was nothing about the situation she liked.

The woman leaned toward her and put a hand on Tammy’s knee. Despite everything, she felt a tiny sexual thrill from the contact. “That’s not your concern. I have reasons for wanting your Sheriff Price distracted. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“You planning on hurting him?”

The woman leaned back and stared until Tammy finally looked away. Not a word was spoken. Instead the woman opened her purse and pulled out an envelope. “I’ll be in contact. In the meantime, if you see him try to keep him distracted. It’ll be better for everyone involved.”

Tammy took the money. She didn’t bother counting.

After a moment of silence the woman leaned forward. “Can we drop you somewhere?”

“Yeah. Just over at the hospital if you could. I need to see my father.”

“Of course.” The woman nodded and a moment later they were in motion, heading down the road to the hospital where her father was getting his chemotherapy. Tammy closed her eyes and tried to put herself into a happier frame of mind.

The last thing she wanted was for her father to be upset. He had enough on his plate already.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sandra called while Charon was having her lunch. “Hey Charon. How’s the good little witch girl?”

“Witchy as ever. How are things at school?”

“We’ve only been back for two weeks and I’m already dreaming of next summer vacation.”

“That good, eh?”

Sandra laughed. “It’s not really that bad. Always hard to get a new year started. Anyway, what were you calling about? I thought it might be important since you called during school hours.”

“It could be, Sandra,” Charon said. “Do you remember a while back when we were talking about Goth kids?”

“Oh yeah. We were discussing those two you saw in your store several times.”

“Right, and you said you knew who they were. One was Lynn Traylor, right?”

“That’s right. Is she in some sort of trouble? She didn’t shoplift something?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” Charon thought it best not to say that the girl was missing. “I was actually interested in the other girl. I think her name was Irene?”

“Irene Chandler. Sad case there.”

“Sad? How do you mean?”

“Classic case of low self-esteem. Never seemed to fit in anywhere. I think she only became a Goth because the requirements were so low.”

“Hey now.”

“Sorry. I keep forgetting you were a little Goth girl once.”

“I still am in some ways. Nothing wrong with my self-esteem though.”

“True, you’ve got Moxie to spare. What did you want to know about Irene?”

“You remember my boyfriend, Wade Griffin?”

“Mmm, do I.”

“Down girl. Griffin thinks Irene might be able to help him with a case he’s working on. He was trying to get in touch with her.”

“Oh, that’s bad.”

“How so?”

“Well Irene didn’t return to school this year. No one seems to know why.”

Charon felt a chill. There were any number of reasons Irene might not have come back for the new school year. She could have transferred to another school or she and her family might have moved. Charon said, “Listen, Sandra. Could you get me Irene’s home address?”

“I don’t know, Charon. That’s against school policy and all.”

“It could be really important. I can’t tell you more without talking to Griffin, but he really needs to talk to her.”

Sandra let out a long breath. “I’ll see what I can do. But you can’t ever tell anyone where you got the information or it could mean my job.”

“I understand. I really appreciate the help.”

“You’d better. Talk to you soon.”

* * *

Fry tapped his palms on the top of the steering wheel as Jimmy Reed sang Big Boss Man. Fry never got tired of that one. It had a raw, old-school blues sound to it that he liked. Not quite as unrefined as Robert Johnson, but still bone-deep blues. Fry had the windows up and the AC blowing as he rolled along the nameless back road. Or maybe it had a name, but Fry hadn’t seen any signs in all the time he’d been driving it and that had been a while. He liked to cruise out here. Helped him think.

Nothing but tall grass and pine trees on either side of the road. The area was still too rocky for much in the way of building, Fry guessed. The midday heat shimmered on the high brown grass and danced on the asphalt, making mirage pools on the black surface.

Fry slowed as he reached the crossroad. No road-name signs there either. There was a stop sign though, and Fry always obeyed stop signs. Best not to give old John Law a reason to pull you over. He rolled to a halt and turned the music up a notch as he began to dig through his stack of CDs. Thinking of Robert Johnson, it occurred to him that he ought to have a copy of Crossroad Blues somewhere in the car. Not the Clapton version but the old, old twangy Robert Johnson original. That was some serious shit.

The sound of a horn blowing brought Fry out of his blues induced reverie. What the hell? He was out in the middle of nowhere and this was his road. Who the hell was blowing a horn at him?

Fry glanced in his rear view mirror. Was that a fucking BMW? Damned if it wasn’t. Fry shook his head. Yuppies everywhere. Couldn’t get away from them. He reached up and put his car in park. Then he turned off the ignition, opened the door, and stepped out into the moist, hot air. Jesus, but it was hot. Whole damn summer had been a scorcher.

He put on his best ‘just folks’ grin and walked toward the BMW nice and slow. The driver was rolling down the window as Fry came. Perfect. Fry ran a hand through his hair in a practiced way. Just a good old country boy. Salt of the earth. No threat to anybody.

“What are you doing?” the driver said through the open window. “You’re blocking the damn road.”

Was that a northern accent? Yes it was, thank you Jesus. Fry could see some real estate signs in the passenger seat. Guy must be lost. Nobody had any land for sale anywhere near here.

“Hey, how you doing?” Fry said.

“I’d be doing a lot better if you’d move your mother fucking car,” the man said. Fry could see him clearly now. Not a yuppie. Too old. Early forties. A tad overweight. Nice, gray summer-weight suit. The jacket was in the back seat. Yeah, he was lost. Nobody to impress out here.

“Sure is a nice car you got there,” said Fry, all Gomer Pyle. Just let me get a little closer. Don’t think about being out in the middle of nowhere all by your lonesome.

“Thanks. Listen, guy. Sorry I spouted off. You don’t know where the Wickham place is do you? I think I might have made a wrong turn somewhere.”

He did not just call me ‘guy’, did he? As for the Wickham place, Fry had no idea. This fellow had definitely made a wrong turn. Fry smiled and leaned down, putting one forearm on the window. He said, “Wickham? Let me think.”

The driver leaned forward and Fry snapped his other elbow into the man’s nose. Blood sprayed as Fry grabbed the handle and yanked open the BMW’s door. He caught a handful of shirt and jerked the man forward to topple onto the asphalt surface. Fry kicked him in the side with the point of his steel-toed cowboy boot.

The man let out a wet gurgle and tried to scramble to his feet. Fry let him get up. Plenty of time to kick his ribs in later.

The man glared at Fry with wide eyes. Blood ran freely from his ruined nose. “What the fuck? Are you crazy?”

Fry kicked him in the balls. When the man bent double, Fry brought his knee up into the man’s face, causing him to stumble back against the car. Fry hit him with two quick shots to the gut. The guy started retching and Fry stepped nimbly back to let him vomit.

“What’s that, guy?” Fry said. “Crazy did you say? Crazy for being so lonely? Crazy for being so blue? That’s Patsy Cline you know. That woman could sing.”

The man held up his hand, palm out, imploring Fry to stop. Fry grabbed the fingers and bent them backwards until they broke. The man screamed and got another kick to the balls. Never got tired of that one. No sir. The man obligingly fell to all fours and Fry went back to work on the rib cage with his boots.

The man grunted and screamed and finally started coughing up blood. Fry just kept kicking until the man was sprawled on his belly on the hot asphalt. Fry smiled and began humming Big Boss Man under his breath. Just the right rhythm to stomp someone to death. Yes sir. Gotta love those blues.

* * *

Just after three and the day was getting hotter and hotter. The thermometer said the temperature was a mere ninety-three degrees, but Carl knew better. There was the humidity to consider and that brought the heat index up to a little over one hundred. “Just south of Hell,” he mused. That was what his father used to say when the worst part of the summer came around.

He was driving again. Always driving these days it seemed. That was what happened when you were the sheriff. You drove. In this case he was heading into Wayfield, Georgia, which was barely even a speck on the map. If it hadn’t been a part of his county he might not have even known it existed.

Normally he didn’t have to get out this way too often, but in this case they had something he wanted. They had the truck that belonged to Corey Phillips. The thieves had decided to leave the vehicle intact and while Carl wasn’t exactly the sort that didn’t trust his people to handle something like fingerprinting the interior of a stolen vehicle, this was a special case. He needed to see the truck to decide for himself if it was the one he’d seen the night before.

It was. He could tell in a matter of seconds by the wide fingered handprint in the rear passenger’s side window. Was there a rational reason to know so completely that this was the truck? No. But he felt it.

That said, he still took the time to very carefully dust the interior and lift the prints, sweating like a stuck pig the entire time. Deke Howard was chewing on a wad of tobacco as Carl worked. Deke was a short man who was leaning hard toward flab. His pants were the same size as Carl’s, but he wore them much lower and the belly he had trembled with each breath he took in the humid air. “Dunlap’s Disease,” that was another one of his dad’s favorite old sayings, as in ‘his belly done lapped over his belt’. Deke looked to be in the final stages of that particular disorder.

Deke wiped a handkerchief across the back of his neck, examined the sweat stains as if they might tell him the secrets of the universe, and then tucked it again into his back pocket. “Found this one just parked on the side of the road, right where we are now.”

“Been getting a lot of abandoned cars around here lately, Deke?”

“Goodly number.” Deke squinted at the sky and then spit a wad of black tobacco.

Carl closed his eyes, reminded himself to be nice and made a mental note to get on his deputies about personal hygiene, following the county regulations regarding weight limitations, and to reemphasize that tobacco use was to be limited to break times only. He’d let it go for now, but only because it was too damned hot to start an argument with Deke and the man loved nothing more than to argue over anything and everything under the sun.

“Yeah? Do me a favor and give me a list. Send it to my email, will ya?”

“’Course. You figure something’s going down?”

He resisted the desire to throw a snotty comment or two at the man. Deke was just bored and hoping for something exciting. Nothing much ever happened in Wayfield. That was one of the reasons he left the area for Deke. The man was harmless, and he certainly could handle the paperwork, but he wasn’t exactly super-cop.

“Might be. This truck was driven from Wellman. That’s a good-sized drive. I want to see where the other ones are coming from.”

Carl slid from the truck, satisfied that he’d gotten all of the prints that might be found. They’d get into AFIS – Automated Fingerprint Identification System – as soon as he got back to the office. Then he’d have to keep his fingers crossed.

“You get fingerprints from any of the other vehicles, Deke?”

Deke got a slightly startled and just-a-touch-guilty expression on his face. “I-uh, I think so. But if you want me to, I can double check on that and send the information to your office.” Yeah. Deke was going to be moving on soon. Maybe he’d be staying in town, but he probably wouldn’t be in charge of much beyond cleaning out the cells in the Wayfield Detention Center.

“Do that for me, okay?”

Ten minutes later, Carl was on the way back to the office. The air conditioning in the truck was straining to keep up, but that was all right. He’d stop somewhere along the way and get something cold to drink.

There was a lot to take care of. He had feelers out regarding the Phillips family. There was something that just plain wrong going on with them and he wanted to know what it was.

He stifled a yawn. Too many hours of working and not nearly enough sleep.

Too many bad things on his mind. A vacation was looking better and better of late. He was contemplating someplace where the temperatures never rose above seventy or so degrees when he reached the interstate and headed back for Wellman.

On the side of the road there were two cars pulled over. One of them had the driver’s side door open. The other had three younger men around the hood, and on the hood was the man they were currently beating the shit out of.

Carl felt his lips pull up in a smile for just a second and forced back the thought that now and then God answers prayers.

He pulled to the side of the road and started his flashers. What he should have done was called for backup, but now and then he just felt a need to handle things by himself.

If he had to guess, the boys were high school age. He climbed from the truck, moving at a brisk pace. Two of them were holding the man down, one on each arm, while the third looked like he was revving up to play the bongos all over the poor bastard they were pinning.

“Hey! What the hell is this?”

One of the kids holding the man in place looked his way and sneered. “Go back to your car, dickless.”

Seriously?

“Seriously? How about you knock that shit off.” It wasn’t a question. Two steps closer. The sun was too bright for them to notice the flashers, maybe, or they were just that stupid. Carl hated wearing his uniform and to that end he was wearing a blue shirt that said Sheriff ’s Department. He could almost forgive the idiot not noticing that.

The one that was speaking actually let go of the man he was holding so he could turn and face Carl. He had a look on his face that made clear he intended to cause trouble. The look faded fast as soon as he read the logo on Carl’s shirt. His eyes went wide, his mouth dropped open. Amazing, like he’d never in his life expected to run across a cop.

“I said knock it off!” This time Carl bellowed and the other two looked away from their good-time beating to notice him.

The first boy started to rabbit. His knees bent and he looked left and right in an effort to find the best way out of his situation. Carl jabbed a finger at him. “Move and I will drop your ass.”

Yeah. That worked as well as he’d expected. The skinnypup went left.

Carl grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind him. The kid screamed like he was being burned alive and Carl rammed him against the side of the car. Practice, practice, practice. Carl had the cuffs on the kid before he could so much as utter another profanity.

The second kid, the other one who was busily holding down their victim, tried a different tactic. He charged right at Carl, screaming out an incoherent battle cry.

Carl was willing to play it by ear. The first one tried to run, so he just subdued him. The second one actually attacked, and that meant Carl had to defend himself. Because his attacker was a kid, Carl just spanked him. He popped the kid in the solar plexus to slow his forward motion, and then, while the kid was gasping, he hit him a second time in the same spot. While he was folding over and trying to decide if he needed to vomit all over himself – he did – Carl swept his feet and dropped him to the ground.

Damned if number three didn’t want to up the ante. He pulled a hunting knife with an eight-inch blade off his belt. The blade was patently illegal unless the kid had a concealed weapons license and Carl would bet money he didn’t.

Carl stepped back and gestured the boy toward him. Better that the dumb ass come at him with the knife than at the man he’d been beating senseless. The kid took Carl’s backing up as a sign of cowardice and grinned as he came forward, swinging the knife in half arcs as if to ward off any attacks.

“Son, you can put that down or I can shoot you. Do the math.” Carl patted the weapon on his hip. He could almost see the kid’s neurons firing up in an effort to decide if Carl could draw before he could reach him. Most of the time kids who were suddenly that brave were on something. He didn’t doubt for a second that all three were indulging in something, and judging by the pinpoint pupils on the kid, it probably wasn’t a couple of beers that were making the kid courageous.

Worst case scenario, he could take the kid and disarm him with minimal damage. He just didn’t want to. Knives were unpredictable and the kid being on something only made the situation more volatile.

He waited for the kid to decide.

Dumbass charged.

The kid swung in a wild arc, and Carl stepped in closer, blocked with his left hand, caught the kid’s arm at the shoulder and then brought his right elbow into his attacker’s face. The first two he dealt with went down with minimal damage. This one got a shattered jaw for his troubles. That took most of the wind from his sails. After that it was just a matter of bagging the two. He called for backup, called for an ambulance, and then checked on the man they’d been beating.

The man was unconscious and his breathing was labored, but his pulse was steady. They’d pulped his face properly and he was having trouble breathing through his nose was all.

Carl resisted the urge to work all three of them over a second time, but it took an effort.

Now and then he envied the hell out of Wade. Wade took a few assholes down and he had a few minor issues – okay, sometimes because Carl helped – but Carl? Now on top of everything else, Carl had more paperwork.

He hated paperwork.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The apartment building sat on a hill behind a Pizza Hut and an all-night pharmacy. The place had been built in the sixties and looked more like a motel than an apartment. Two buildings formed an ‘L’, with apartments on lower and upper floors. Iron railings that someone probably thought looked vaguely Spanish lined the upper level.

Griffin parked his truck next to a rusted-out yellow Mustang and walked up to the door of apartment 7A, the address Charon had gotten from her teacher friend. He knocked on the door and stood looking around the area while he waited. Almost a full minute passed before he could hear the sounds of someone unhooking a chain latch.

“About time, Tadpole,” a woman with red hair said as she opened the door. Her mouth snapped shut when she saw Griffin. “You’re not Tadpole.”

“Not even close,” Griffin said.

“Well if Pete sent you, you’d better have the stuff.”

Griffin said. “I don’t know anyone named Pete, Missus Chandler. My name’s Griffin. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to talk to your daughter.”

The woman blinked at him. Then she said, “My daughter?”

“Irene. You are Missus Chandler, aren’t you?”

Mrs Chandler nodded before she could think better of it. “You said you were a private eye?”

Griffin thought he could see something shift behind the woman’s eyes as she said private eye. She looked, what? Scared? “Yes. Is Irene at home, ma’am?”

“No. She took off.”

“She ran away?”

“That’s right. I don’t know where she is. Now I’m expecting someone, so if there’s nothing else.”

“It’s important that I talk to Irene. You’re sure you don’t—”

“I said I don’t know where she is,” she cut Griffin off. She pulled back into the apartment and slammed the door.

Griffin turned and walked back to his truck. What in the world was that woman’s problem? Thinking back he decided she might have been high. Her eyes had held a glazed look, and she seemed to be having trouble concentrating. Griffin started the truck and pulled out like he was leaving. He drove around the corner of the building, out of sight of 7A, and killed the engine. Then he stepped out of the truck and moved to where he could keep an eye on the apartment. The Chandler woman had said she was expecting someone. Griffin decided to see who.

He didn’t have to wait long. A deep maroon SUV pulled up about ten minutes later and parked in the spot Griffin had vacated. A heavyset man with a lot of greasy-looking dark hair got out. He ambled up to the door with a loose-limbed sort of stride. He held a brown paper bag in one hand. Mrs Chandler opened the door before he reached it and snatched the bag out of his hand. The two had a hurried conversation and then the man went back to his SUV with considerably more urgency than he had left it. Griffin got the idea they had been talking about him.

Griffin got back in his truck and started the engine. He let the SUV reach the bottom of the hill and turn into traffic before pulling out. The man had no reason to think Griffin had waited for him, but Griffin knew it was best to keep your distance when tailing someone. Once they were out on the main road, he gave the SUV plenty of room. He wouldn’t lose him. He had done this too many times.

The SUV headed south, past the Wellman town center toward Marietta. But the driver didn’t leave Wellman. Instead he drove to an area that had once been prosperous but had now fallen on hard times. Small strip malls lined the road here, usually with half, or more than half, of the stores empty. Griffin read the signs. Discount Beauty Supplies. Dry Cleaners. Thai Cooking. Tattoos.

The SUV pulled into one of the malls and stopped in front of a squat, red brick building with a neon sign that read simply ‘massage’. Greasy got out of the SUV and started toward the place’s front door without a backward glance. That was good because Griffin pulled in right beside his vehicle and jumped out. He knew he couldn’t let the guy get far ahead of him now. There was too much purpose in the man’s stride and Griffin figured he knew why.

As Griffin went through the front door, the guy was disappearing through a door at the back of the front room. Griffin started after him. A large black man who had been sitting behind a small counter got up and headed Griffin’s way.

“Hey, you can’t go back there,” the man said, moving into Griffin’s path. The guy was a juice-ball and he puffed out his massive, steroid-induced chest. Griffin hit him in the sternum, forcing all the air from the man’s lungs, and he crumpled to his knees, trying to take a breath and failing.

Griffin stepped past him and went through the door. Greasy was coming his way, dragging a skinny young girl by one undernourished arm. She had spiky black hair and a healed over scab where a nose ring had been. Irene Chandler.

Greasy looked up and saw Griffin. He let go of the girl and fumbled with his shirt, trying to lift it up to get to a concealed gun. Griffin got his Beretta out quicker and said, “Don’t.”

Greasy froze. He took a long look at Griffin and said, “You don’t want to do this, pal. You are courting some major grief.”

Griffin stepped closer, jammed the barrel of the Beretta against Greasy’s throat and snatched Greasy’s gun with his other hand. He said, “You don’t look all that major.”

“I ain’t talking about me. I work for Pete Blankenship. You know who that is? I know a guy like you knows the name.”

Griffin knew. If the northern Georgia area had a crime lord it was Pete Blankenship. He had a hand in every illegal thing that went on in the area, from drugs to prostitution, to rings of car thieves. Everybody paid Pete’s toll. He had heard that even the Blackbournes paid Pete to stay out of their business.

“I know who he is,” Griffin said. “And I don’t care.”

“You’ll care when he comes looking for you.”

“Aren’t you a little old for the ‘my big brother can beat you up’ game?” said Griffin. “Blankenship isn’t here just now, so I’m taking this girl out of here.”

“You’ll regret it pal.”

Griffin hit Greasy in the side of the jaw with his own gun. The man went down and Griffin leaned over and said, “Guess we’ll see. Pal.”

Griffin looked at Irene Chandler. She had backed into a corner and was staring at him with wide, dark eyes. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Griffin said. “I’m going to get you some help. You believe me?”

Irene nodded. “Just don’t... don’t take me home.”

“You don’t want to see your mother?” Griffin didn’t blame her.

Irene made a noise in the back of her throat and shook her head. “She brought me here.”

“Your mother... brought you here?” Griffin felt something cold in the pit of his stomach.

“She brought me to this place. Sold me to that man.” Irene pointed at Greasy.

Of course. Griffin had thought that perhaps the girl was working off some debt for her drug-addict mother. He felt like a fool for not realizing the truth. For a moment Griffin had an image of himself kicking the fallen man until he was a bloody mess. He took in a long, slow breath and released it through his mouth, pushing the air downward, willing himself calm as his sensei had taught him. He wouldn’t kill the man. Not here. Not now. Get the girl out. That was what mattered.

Griffin said, “Come with me. I know someone who can help.”

The body builder was still on the floor when they went through the front room. Griffin resisted the urge to kick him in the head as they passed. He was dialing on his cell even as he helped Irene into the truck. When the other end of the call picked up, Griffin said, “Carl, it’s Wade. I’m heading your way. I need your help, man.”

* * *

“I still wish you’d called me,” Carl Price said.

Griffin said, “There wasn’t time. Once I realized Missus Chandler’s conversation with that lowlife probably involved Irene, I figured the guy was heading for where the girl was. Thought I’d see what was what before I called you, and when he pulled into the massage parlor I realized he was going to move the girl.”

The two men stood in a hallway outside an interview room in the Sheriff ’s Department headquarters. Griffin was aware of the dull drone of the air conditioning and the smell of stale coffee.

“Yeah, I’d have probably done the same,” Carl said. “I wish I could have gotten my hands on that guy though. I sent a car over after your call but the place was empty, as you’d expect.”

“They’ll turn up again. I can’t believe I was that slow on the uptake. I’ve certainly seen my share of human trafficking. I guess I just didn’t want to think a woman would sell her own daughter as a sex slave.”

Carl shook his head. “It’s a problem that just keeps getting worse. Even out here in the boonies. Thing is, Wade, most of the stuff that makes the papers is about illegals being brought into the country and forced into slavery. The homegrown variety doesn’t seem to get as much press. Hell, people have tried to sell kids on fucking Craigslist.”

Griffin said, “You ready to talk to her?”

“No. But we have to. I’ve got Thelma in there with her now. No one’s better than Thelma with scared kids. We just need to go easy as we can. How would you feel if a couple of big bruisers like us came in and started asking you questions?”

Especially you, Griffin thought. You look like hell warmed over and left out for a couple of days. Carl opened the door. Griffin stepped inside and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Sixteen-year-old Irene looked about ten with her hair washed and a Sheriff ’s Department blanket wrapped around her thin shoulders. Griffin felt that cold spot in his gut again. Someone needed to pay for this.

“Hey Irene,” Carl said, his voice gentle. “I’m Sheriff Price, but you can call me Carl. How are you doing?”

Irene shrugged. “What’s going to happen to me? Am I under arrest?”

“No, sweetheart. You haven’t done anything to be arrested for.”

Griffin stepped forward and the deputy, Thelma, shot him a look that said, you just watch yourself mister. Griffin liked her immediately. He said, “Carl’s a standup guy, Irene. He’ll see that you’re looked after. You can trust him.”

“Do you trust him?” Irene said.

“With my life. Now, do you want to tell us how you ended up at that place?”

“Do I have to?”

“You don’t have to tell us anything. But if we’re going to see that those men are punished we’re going to need your help.”

Irene said, “I wished you’d killed Tadpole. I wish you’d shot him in the head and killed him.”

“I do too, kiddo,” Griffin said. “But Carl here wouldn’t have been able to help you or me if I’d done that. Was Tadpole the man I took you away from?”

“Yes,” said Irene.

“How did you meet him?” said Carl.

“He started hitting on my mom at a bowling alley one night. Just walked up and started flirting with her. They went out a few times and then he started coming over to the apartment.”

“Just to visit?” Carl said.

Irene nodded. “He started doing things around the house. You know, fixing things like my dad used to do. And he gave mom gifts and... stuff.”

Carl said, “Drugs?”

Another nod. “One day mom told me that Tadpole had been so good to us and was helping pay our rent and that I needed to... I needed to...” Irene looked down at the floor. Thelma shot Carl and Griffin a look that was pure fire.

Carl held out both hands in a ‘wait’ gesture. After a moment had passed, Irene, still looking at the floor, said, “She said I needed to be nice to him. Do things for him.”

“She made you have sex with him,” Carl said, his voice a whisper. Griffin knew that voice. He knew that whoever Carl was thinking of just now had no idea what they were in for.

“What happened after that?” Griffin said. “How did you end up where I found you?”

“Tadpole started telling mom that he could make some money with me. Mom acted like she was shocked, you know? Like she would never allow it. But all she really wanted to know was how much drugs she could get. That bitch.”

Griffin gritted his teeth. Those words from one so young were like a cold knife in his heart. How had Irene’s mother allowed this? Griffin had seen more acts of cruelty during his years as a mercenary than he ever wanted to remember, but there was something about this that still managed to get through the outer shell he had developed. This wasn’t supposed to happen in small-town America.

Irene said, “So Tadpole took me to that... that place.” She put her head down and started crying.

Thelma said, “That’s it. Interview’s over.”

Griffin said, “I need to ask one more question.”

“No,” Thelma said. “You two need to clear out.”

Without looking up, Irene said, “He can ask. I owe him. He saved me.”

Griffin said, “Irene, do you remember Lynn Traylor?”

Irene looked back up. “She was my best friend.”

“She’s gone missing, Irene. Run away. I’m trying to find her. Do you have any idea where she might go if she ran away?”

Irene’s eyes looked cold and empty. “She got religion. That’s when she deserted me. Said she couldn’t hang around with me anymore if I did that Satanic Goth stuff.”

Griffin said, “You mean she joined a church?”

“She wandered into some sort of revival tent one night. She said she’d found the right way.”

She had found what was important in life. That’s what her father had said. Griffin said, “Thank you, Irene. You going to be okay?”

“No,” the girl said, and looked away again.

“Okay, seriously,” Thelma said. “I want you two out of here.”

They went. Out in the hall Griffin said, “Carl, do you ever want to just say fuck the rules and just go kill the sort of sons of bitches that would do that to a kid?”

“Every single day,” Carl said.

“Good. I knew I liked you.”

“What are you going to do now, Wade?”

“Guess I’m going to see who was holding a tent revival in the Wellman area within the last few months. You?”

Carl rubbed his jaw. “Well first I’m going to send a car to pick up that Chandler bitch.”

“Don’t suppose you could send Thelma?”

“Tempting, but right now I think that would be worse than sending me or you.”

“What about Irene?”

“That’s a tough one. She’s still a minor. I’ll give Susan Ortega a call down at DFACS, see if she can help me.”

Griffin turned to go. He looked back and said. “You all right, Carl? You don’t look so hot.”

“Lot of things on my mind, man. I’ll handle it. I always do. But do me a favor. Don’t go hunting this Tadpole guy in your spare time. The DA is on my ass and I don’t need another bloodbath.”

“Right now, the Traylor girl is my main concern. I truly hope she is staying at some church somewhere. I don’t want someone like Tadpole to recruit her.”

Griffin looked back through the window where Irene still sat with her face turned toward the wall. ‘He saved me’, she had said. Under his breath Griffin said, “Not yet, I haven’t.”

* * *

As a general rule when Wade Griffin made comments about how he looked, Carl knew he was looking like a rough patch of road. Felt like one, too. He could have blamed it on not sleeping. He could have blamed it on Tammy, but no. He could have blamed it on the coach getting hit with cancer, but that wasn’t it either. No it was both of those things and a lot more.

“No. Fuck it. It’s that damned bitch coming back around here again. I could do the rest of it.”

He’d almost told Wade, but he knew better. Wade had been the first to tell him he was better off without her the last time around and he would be the first this time around, too. It wasn’t that Wade disliked Tammy; they got along just fine most times. It was that he knew Carl was a useless lump whenever she was around.

Not fair. He couldn’t judge what Wade knew. He could only suspect.

Using the phone, he got in contact with Hennessy over at the records office. He could have walked, but it was too damned hot and he wanted to calm down before he looked anyone in the face. Just now if Hennessy made a comment about how hot it was Carl was likely to shove his face through a wall.

“Seriously, boy, you need to get a little sleep. You’re just being bitchy now.” He spoke to himself as the phone rang and then made sure to put on his happy voice. “Hey, Hennessy. What’s new?”

“Hot enough for you, Carl?” Oh, yes, that wit. “I think I could fry eggs on my desk.”

“Probably could, but like I told you before, you should actually use a frying pan. Your desk is messy enough.”

“What can I do ya for?”

“I need to know if we have anyone with the alias ‘Tadpole’ listed in our active records.”

“Well, that shouldn’t take but a minute. You know you could look this up on your own, right?”

“Billy, if I did that I’d have to make you get off your ass and actually do work.” He made sure it sounded like he was joking. He wasn’t.

“Well I can’t argue your logic on that one, now can I?” There was a pause and a series of key taps. “Got three for you. What sort of tadpole are we looking for?”

“White. Fat. Stupid.”

“Male or female?”

“Seriously? They come in both sexes?”

“Deadly serious, pardner.”

“Male.”

“That gives us only one. Boy’s name is Michael Norris. Got a long list of drug offenses, all small time. Looks like he’s been busted a few times for solicitation.”

“Sounds like just the winner I want. Shoot me his file will you?”

“Got it, Chief. Say, when are we going to the range together?”

“Maybe next week? I have too much shit on my plate this week.” Recertification time was coming up. That was Hennessy-code for time to warm up my skills and yours too.

“Cool beans. See you then.”

“Probably sooner. Gotta make sure you actually do work now and then.”

“You pretend to pay me, I pretend to work.”

Carl killed the call. Hennessy was okay. He was just too damned cheerful for Carl’s current disposition.

Another phone call. Hennessy answered quickly. “Now what? I’m trying to sleep, Carl.”

“I got a car with your name on it, boy.”

“I surrender. What do you need?”

“We had any permits filed lately for tent revivals?”

“Excuse me?”

“Tent revivals. You know, churches without all those annoying walls? They get up and scream about hellfire and brimstone and ask for money?” A deliberate jab. He knew Hennessy’s folks had tried their best to raise the boy to be a Southern Baptist. He also knew it backfired.

“You ask the goddamnedest questions.”

“I’m the sheriff. I’m supposed to make your life harder.”

“Bet that’s what you say to all the girls.”

“Hennessey, if you’re the only option I have for a sexual harassment suit, I’m just gonna go ahead and castrate myself right now.”

“Damn, Carl, that’s just cold.”

“Truth hurts. You need to cut back on the donuts and the cheeseburgers.”

“Man’s gotta eat.”

“Eat a damned salad, boy.”

“Two this time. Eight if you count in the county fair and the usual permits for carnivals.”

“Just revivals and anything that sounds particularly weird.” Some of the revivals might try a different name if they’d gotten a bad rep in the past. In this case the numbers did not change. Carl had the information sent to his phone.

He was heading toward reception when Mike Lazenby cornered him. “Carl did you beat the hell out of three teenaged boys?”

“Nice to see you, too, Mike.”

“Did you?”

“No. I beat the hell out of two of them. The first one didn’t resist, didn’t swing at me and didn’t pull a knife.” He looked the man up and down. “Thanks for asking. I’m fine.”

“Carl, how old were those boys?”

“Sixteen. All three of them. They were also high as kites. Got blood tests being processed right now. My guess is it’s one of the new synthetics, you know the ‘legal’ ones.”

“You break a kid’s jaw?”

“Yep.”

“You know how that looks?”

“Like I was stopping three little fuckwads from beating the shit out of a man they decided they didn’t like on the side of highway 41?”

“Jesus, Carl, you aren’t making my job any easier.”

“Mike, damn it, it’s not my job to make your life easy. It’s my job to enforce the law of the county and state. Three kids beating on a man is against the law. Two of them trying for felony elude is a crime. Assault on a county law official is a crime. Assault with a deadly weapon is a crime. Resisting arrest is a crime. Most of those are felonies last I checked. I am all for civil rights, Mike, but I’m not gonna let the fact that they were under the age of eighteen stop me from defending myself or protecting their victims.”

“It’s almost time for elections.”

“Two fucking years from now. Both of us are on the same ballot. Two years. Stop worrying about the damned elections and handle those boys. You got the damned paperwork on your desk.”

“Calm down, Carl.”

“I’m very calm, Mike. Hell, I’m positively chilly. Want to know how I know?”

“How do you know?” Mike looked at him with a dubious expression, fully expecting a punch line.

“I didn’t just shoot the little fucker with the knife. That’s how I know. See? And you thought I wasn’t looking out for your job.” Carl put on his brightest smile and headed for the door. He needed to go look for a man who was named after a baby frog and have a chat with him about how you were supposed to handle teenaged girls.

No, damn it. He did not. Just now he’d be as bad as Wade. He needed to actually leave the fucker alone. Instead he told Austin to put out a call on the man as a person of interest in an ongoing investigation. Anyone running across him was to bring his ass in. It would be best if a deputy handled the matter. Preferably one who didn’t know exactly what the asshole had done.

One more phone call. DFACS. Turned out there were a few good people around. Susan Ortega managed to find a place for the Chandler girl that was local and basically anonymous. A safe house where she could get proper protection and where she could be kept safe from Tadpole and his ilk.

No men were allowed on the premises. Carl was an exception to that rule, of course, but he didn’t like to bend the rule anyway. He let Thelma make the arrangements.

With that taken care of, he went back on the road and headed for the massage parlor Wade had told him about. Despite his run-in with Mike he had no trouble getting a warrant. Not that he was expecting to have any luck, really, but he wanted the place at least rooted through before it was too late.

The sun was finally starting to set and that was a good thing. It had been a damned long day and Carl was looking forward to the darkness and maybe even a little respite from the heat.

CHAPTER NINE

When Griffin reached his house he went straight to the room he used as an office. He booted up his PC, and after checking email he clicked on a bookmark and brought up a link to the Wellman Tribune website. He felt a slight pang, thinking of his lifelong friend Jerry Wallace. Wallace had been a reporter for the Tribune until the previous October, when he had been murdered under bizarre circumstances. Griffin and Carl had found the killers, or some of them anyway, and gotten revenge, for what that was worth.

Griffin clicked on the archives feature. Back in the day he had spent hours in the Wellman Library, scrolling through the old microfiche files of the Tribune. Now he could access the entire archive of the paper from his desk. Hell he could do it from his phone. Griffin typed in ‘tent revival’ and hit enter. Lucky the first time. There was an article about a revival that had been staged for three nights at the old fairgrounds in May. That would coincide with the sudden change in Lynn Traylor almost exactly.

Griffin read through the article. The man behind the revival was a pastor called the Reverend Lazarus Cotton. Some name. There was a picture of the good reverend standing behind a pulpit, hands raised dramatically to the sky. He looked to be in his early fifties, with a bald skull and a fringe of white hair. According to the article, Cotton had a church in Northern Brennert, right in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Mount Zion Church of Faith. As Griffin copied down the address, he heard Charon’s car pull up in the driveway.

He headed back through the house and met Charon at the door. She had an armful of grocery bags and he took them, then leaned down and kissed her.

“You,” Charon said, “look like a man who’s had one hell of a day.”

“That bad, eh?”

“You can fool most people with that poker face, but not me, buster.”

Griffin placed the bags on the small table in the foyer and put his arms around the slender woman. “Yeah, it hasn’t been a good one.”

Charon pulled her face back far enough to look up at him. “What happened?”

“You remember last year when we learned that monsters really do exist? Well today I was reminded there are human monsters too. I’ll tell you about it in a bit. Right now let’s just cook dinner and act like normal people for a while.”

* * *

Morning found Griffin driving north toward the mountains. Traffic was light. Not too many folks willing to commute from this far out. Griffin checked his GPS and turned off the highway onto a narrow, two-lane, asphalt road. The route took him through dark pines and wild fields of tall grass. He was beginning to wonder if he had taken a wrong turn when he saw something white through the trees ahead. He rounded the last curve and saw the church. A flock of pigeons exploded from somewhere behind the building as he approached.

The place was obviously old, and Griffin doubted that Reverend Cotton was the first preacher to claim that particular parish. He noted, however, that there were a couple of newer-looking square buildings behind the church. One had the look of a dormitory. That interested Griffin quite a bit. He pulled his truck into a gravel parking lot in front of the main entrance and parked under an ancient oak.

Griffin stepped out of the truck and started toward the church. So far he hadn’t seen any signs of life around the buildings, but then again it was early. As he neared the front steps of the church he noticed that a length of heavy chain was passed through the door handles of the front door and secured with a serious padlock.

As Griffin was about to go up the steps for a closer look a man came walking around the side of the church. He was tall and lanky, with red hair trimmed in a crew cut. When he saw Griffin he grinned and started toward him.

“Morning,” the man said. He walked in a kind of ambling gait, as if he had all the time in the world. But Griffin noticed the walk was a bit too pat, as if the man had practiced it for a play. He also noted the calluses on the sides of the man’s hands and the slightly enlarged knuckles. The man stopped about three feet from Griffin with his body turned slightly to the side, instinctively protecting the front of his torso where all the vital areas were.

“Morning,” Griffin said. “I’m looking for Reverend Cotton.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” the man said. “The Reverend isn’t here just now. I’m the caretaker. My name is Fry.”

Griffin fished out a business card and handed to the man. “Can you tell me when he’ll be back?”

“A private eye, eh? Never met a real life one before.”

“We’re just regular folks,” Griffin said.

The man grinned again but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The Reverend won’t be around until this evening. He’s gearing up for another revival, so he’s very busy just now. Anything I can help you with?”

Griffin said, “Maybe. I’m looking for a runaway girl. A friend thought she might have joined some church that she discovered at a tent revival in May.” Griffin held out Lynn Traylor’s picture.

“Well now. Sure is a pretty little thing, isn’t she? Sorry to say I haven’t seen her.”

“Do church members ever stay on the grounds, Mister Fry? I notice you have a couple of good-size buildings behind the church.”

“Now and again,” Fry said. “Folks get themselves into trouble and the Reverend gives them a place to stay.”

“Anyone staying there now?”

“One or two, I think. I try to give them their privacy.”

“Mind if I go talk to them? Maybe one of them has seen the girl.”

“No, sir. I’m afraid not. The Reverend wouldn’t like that. He protects his flock. I couldn’t let you do that.”

“And were I to go over there anyway?”

Fry’s grin got wider. “Like I said, I couldn’t let you do that.”

And you’d enjoy trying to stop me, I think. Griffin said, “I see. Guess I’ll just have to come back and talk to Reverend Cotton.”

“That would be best. Yes it surely would. Tell me something Mister Griffin. You like the blues?”

“I like some of the old stuff. Blind Willie McTell. Howling Wolf.”

“Thought so. You struck me as a certain kind of man, right when I saw you.”

Griffin said, “I’ll let you get on with your caretaking.”

“Appreciate it. Like to get things done before the day gets too hot.”

Fry stood and watched until Griffin got back in his truck, just as Griffin had known he would. Fry had said he recognized what kind of man Griffin was. That went both ways. One wolf could always recognize another. Interesting guy to be caretaker for a church. And what was with that padlock? Most churches in Brennert didn’t even lock their doors at night.

Well, Griffin would definitely be back to talk to the Reverend Lazarus Cotton. Yes sir, as Fry would say, he surely would.

* * *

Carl slept like the dead. He needed it. If he dreamed, he had no remembrance of the visions that filled his night.

Much to his annoyance, the day was filled with paperwork, more paperwork and a few encounters with bureaucracy. The night got a bit more interesting.

* * *

The Mount Zion Church of Faith was lit with electric lights, but by the reverend’s orders they were subdued, to look as much like candles and lanterns as possible. The building was old and the air was simply too hot to allow that many real open flames in the structure.

The pews were full, the faithful were in abundance. That was not always the case, of course. Some nights they had only a few of the faithful with them, because the rest had to go forth and find the lost and wayward and lead them home.

“Got a full house tonight, ‘Rus.” Fry’s voice was mellow and laid back. He was very good at seeming to be as serene as his voice.

Lazarus Cotton preferred to be called Reverend or Reverend Cotton or even Lazarus, but for Fry he made exceptions. Truly the man was his right hand, and Lazarus knew he meant no disrespect.

“The numbers don’t matter, Fry.” The Reverend’s voice was soft, but deep and melodious. His voice was an instrument of the Lord, and as such he had been blessed. Truly, he had been blessed. Hallelujah.

He stood from the chair where he prepared himself and contemplated his words. The chair groaned a bit. He was not a small man, but he carried himself with ease. His dark pants were creased just so, and his suspenders were in the right place. His tie was perfect. His shoes were polished. He was presentable, and that was an important thing. He spoke often to his flock about the need to be presentable. The Lord did not ask that his children be dressed in spectacular fashion, or that they paint their faces like harlots. No, his children were to be humble, and that meant they should dress the part as well.

“What did you want to do about that Wade Griffin fellow,‘Rus?”

He looked toward Fry with a small frown. “This close to my sermon you should address me properly, please, Fry.”

The man’s smile was quick and thin. He knew Fry was not quite a true believer. He wanted to be, but Faith, true Faith, did not always come easily and Fry had been through so very much in his lifetime. “Of course, Reverend Cotton.”

“Much obliged, son.” The Reverend nodded his thanks and headed for the door to the stage at the front of the congregation. It was a simple affair. There was no need for preposterous pomp. There was no need for elaborate draperies. Jesus did not find a need to robe Himself in wealth or in finery and if it was good enough for the Christ, it was certainly good enough for His followers.

The pews were indeed filled with the faithful, and with the lost souls they’d brought with them to be saved.

Lazarus Cotton smiled as he looked to the faces staring in his direction. A few were looking elsewhere, but mostly they turned and faced him as he strode across the hardwood on his way to the pulpit. He raised his hands and waved, and the faithful turned toward him and grew silent, waiting for the words he would speak. “Welcome! All are welcome here. Welcome to old, familiar faces and to the new faces I have never seen before.”

He walked as he spoke, for Lazarus Cotton was filled with the Lord’s glory. He felt as strong as a dozen men and as mighty as any man could be when blessed by the Lord and that, friends and neighbors, was mighty indeed. Can I get an amen?

“I’m looking at you, too, you know. Oh, I know you’re looking at me, and I know what a few of you are probably thinking. You’re asking yourselves what you’ve gotten yourselves into.” He looked around and got a comically worried expression on his face. After holding it for a second, he let the expression change to one of mild disgust. “‘Lookit that man! He dresses like Colonel Sanders’ country cousin.’” There were a few snickers out in the audience when he hooked his thumbs into his suspenders and popped them against his beefy chest. “Or maybe you’re thinking about my age.” He waved a hand dismissively, a sly smile blooming on his broad, friendly face. “Oh, I know I’m a bit older than most of you. In fact I’m older than I look, but we’ll get to that part. What you’re wondering about is why you should be spending an evening listening to another fat, old minister talk to you about Jesus and the Lord Almighty. Don’t look so surprised… I’ve been on your side of the pulpit too, you know. I went through a lot of my life as a sinner.”

Lazarus Cotton’s face grew serious and he looked from person to person earnestly. “I’ve done my share of blaspheming, and I was known to indulge a bit too much in wine and women and song.” Once again that expression of mild shock moved across his broad features and transformed into a comical look of disgust as if he realized he’d just swallowed a fly while yawning. “’Why would anyone ever? Lookit him! He’s old and fat.’” He stood taller and patted his round belly. While he was never going to be a model for Calvin Klein most of the audience could see his hand hit solid flesh and realized that it wasn’t really a matter of being flabby so much as it was being barrel-chested. He was solid. “Just you remember, Marilyn Monroe wore a size eighteen dress, and when I was growing up a certain amount of belly was a sign of success. It meant you could afford to eat regular meals.”

That one earned him a few more laughs and he could see the newer faces laughing a bit more, relaxing as they got to know him.

“That one hits home with a few of you, doesn’t it? The need to eat? The need to know where your next meal is coming from? It’s a big thing when you’re flat broke and living in an alleyway. And that’s an even bigger thing when you have heat like what we’re handling right now. Well, I’m not so worried about the heat. I can assure you there are places that are a lot hotter.”

A few eyes rolled. Yes, of course he was talking about Hell. They were in a church after all.

“Know what’s funny to me?” He looked at them and planted his big fists on his broad hips. “What’s funny is how many of you just rolled your eyes. Bet you think I’m gonna talk about sin, and hellfire and brimstone.” He shook his head and frowned with a deep enough expression to make sure that even the people in the back of the congregational hall could see the expression. “Well, you’re wrong about that. You look at the Good Books in front of you, on the back of the seats before yours, and you look good and hard. And you find a spot in there where it says you’re going to burn in Hell for all eternity.” He held up a finger. “I don’t mean a reference in the Old Testament that talks of a burning lake without mentioning Hell by name. I mean you find a spot in the New Testament where it says that anyone alive is going to burn in Hell for all eternity.” He crossed his arms and tapped a foot on the floor beneath him. “I can wait if you want to try to find the spot. But I have to tell you, back in the days when I was a bit more of a sinner I would have charged you hard cash for the bibles I’ll let you have for free now. Back then I was a bible salesman and I could have convinced your daddy to give me a month’s pay for a cheap bible and I could have had him writing me the check while you momma was pouring me a whiskey and sitting in my lap.”

He paused while they considered that and the mischievous grin crept back to his mobile face. “Told you I was a sinner, didn’t I? Back in the day? Believe me, I got around and I met more than one lonely wife back in my heyday. We none of us start off as sinners and we none of us start out as saints. One way or another we have to work our way down the proper path to get where we’re going.”

He walked again, treading heavily on the small stage and waving his hands about with every word he spoke. “The Lord doesn’t promise us eternal damnation. What He promises, what His only begotten son Jesus Christ promises, is the chance for eternal life. If we just do the right things, if we treat people the right way and we can manage to stay properly humble, the meek shall inherit the earth.”

And now he stopped and he looked out at the crowd with wide eyes. “Eternal life. Think about that. The chance to live forever, to never grow old and die, to never suffer disease, to never again suffer the pain of illness, or to know the endless misery of losing our loved ones. Think about how amazing that promise is.”

Oh, there might have been a few who were doubting him, but Lazarus knew when he had a crowd that was listening, and nearly to the last they were paying close attention.

“Jesus Christ died for our sins. He died and He promised us that if we would but love Him and ask His forgiveness for our sins…” He paused and held up one finger again. “And mean it, that part is important, well, then, we could live forever in the glory of the Lord’s blessings.”

Several of the devout called out from the audience with a smattering of Hallelujahs and amens.

And Lazarus Cotton smiled lovingly to his children as they responded. “Would you like to know what makes me different from other ministers and reverends and pastors?” Oh, the grin he offered was a sly one, positively conspiratorial. “Would you like to know what separates me and all of my followers from the rest of the glad-handers who are offering Salvation?”

Several people whispered and looked around and finally one of the young lads in the audience looked toward him and asked, “What?”

Lazarus Cotton’s smile grew into a thing of strange and wondrous beauty. “Well, now, the difference is that I don’t just tell you what you can have. I can show you the Glory of the blessings of the Lord Almighty.” He stood tall and spread his arms wide. “I don’t offer false promises, my children. I offer proof.”

And then did the children, the wayward and the lost lean in closer. And then did they listen with rapt attention to the words of Lazarus Cotton.

Can you say amen?

* * *

Three in the morning Charon awoke. She felt a tingling at the back of her neck and it took her a few moments to realize what had happened. What was still happening. Something was testing her wards. She had never had the sensation before, but Carter Decamp had warned her what it would feel like. She resisted the urge to wake Griffin or to leap out of bed.

Instead she did what Carter had been training her to do. She relaxed and let her mind go to the place where the warding spell registered. He had told her to visualize the spell like a series of laser beams crisscrossing the doors and windows of the house she shared with Griffin. She did this now, seeing the glowing red filaments in her mind’s eye. All were intact. Nothing had gotten though. Charon breathed a little easier, but she didn’t stop checking the wards. She could tell by the way they seemed to vibrate that something was still testing them. Should she wake Griffin? Not quite yet.

If anyone had told her a year ago that she would go from selling old books and charms to actually practicing a form of magic, she would have told them they were crazy. But then Halloween had come and torn the roof off the rational world, showing Charon there were things waiting in the outer dark. Carter Decamp, a former English literature Professor, an Olympic fencer, and a man steeped in occult knowledge had come into her life. He had sensed in Charon a latent talent for magic, and he had begun to teach her how to do many things she had once thought mere folklore. She had kidded for years about being a witch, and now she really was one.

Never, since Charon had placed the wards around the house, had anything tampered with them. Now something was circling the house, checking every window and door. She could feel whatever it was probing, seeking.

“Griffin,” she said. He woke as he always did, totally aware and with no trace of grogginess. He sat up and looked at Charon and she told him about the wards.

“Is it one of the Moon-Eyes?” Griffin said.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. I think I would recognize their aura.”

“Okay,” Griffin said. He opened the nightstand’s single drawer and lifted out a big, silver revolver. “This one’s loaded with some of Decamp’s special bullets. If it is one of those pasty bastards, this will take care of it.”

Griffin slipped out of the bed and pulled on a pair of gym shorts. He told Charon to stay put, then stepped into the hallway. He moved quickly through the house in a shooter’s crouch, the barrel of the gun pointed down, ready to be brought up into target acquisition. Griffin checked the windows on the house’s single floor one at a time. His night vision was good and the scant light from streetlamps outside gave him enough illumination to avoid turning on any lights.

The windows and doors were all secure physically, and if Charon was correct, they were all still warded against any supernatural visitors. Once Griffin would have scoffed at the idea of anything beyond the natural world, but he had learned the hard way that there were beings and forces he simply didn’t understand.

Griffin unlocked the front door and went out fast. He leaped down the front steps and dropped to one knee, gun at the ready. No one tried to shoot him. No pale white forms drifted out of the darkness. Griffin stood and scanned the outside of the house. He didn’t see anyone or anything.

He walked back up the steps, and just as he was reaching for the doorknob he had a sudden feeling of being watched. Griffin spun, but the feeling was gone just as quickly as it had arrived. He stepped back into the house and locked the door.

He met Charon coming down the hall. She had pulled on her jeans and she held a leather bag in one hand, which Griffin knew contained some of the tools of her trade. Since she had been training with Decamp, Charon had amassed quite a collection of items supposed to be of use against things that went bump in the night.

“Coming out to rescue me?” Griffin said.

“Just in case.”

Griffin was reminded yet again of one of the reasons he loved Charon. When things went bad she didn’t run away. She gritted her teeth and waded in.

Griffin tilted Charon’s chin up and kissed her. She said, “What was that for?”

“For being brave.”

“Yeah, you can’t see how my knees are knocking.”

“That’s the definition of being brave. Doing what has to be done even when your knees are knocking.”

“Do yours ever knock?”

“No, I’m too tough.”

“Of course you are. So you didn’t see anything outside?”

“No, I had a moment where I felt like someone was watching but it was just a moment. How are the wards?”

“Intact, and nothing’s probing them now.”

“Can you tell what it was that was testing them?”

Charon shook her head. “Afraid not. Carter says I’ll be able to one day. He could probably tell by checking them, if he were here.”

“Maybe you can give him a call come morning.”

“He’s out of town.”

“No way to reach him?”

“Nope. Like some other people I know, out of town means out of touch.”

Griffin didn’t miss the comparison between him and Carter Decamp. He had often wondered about the nature of Decamp’s out of town trips. The man had an impressive collection of weapons, everything from a Scottish claymore to a US Army M18 claymore mine in his Victorian-era home, along with a vast library of books on the occult. And he often disappeared for days just as Griffin did. Griffin wondered if Decamp, too, was a mercenary. If he was, he wasn’t fighting in petty wars in third world countries.

“Back to bed then,” Griffin said. When they got back to the bedroom, Griffin retrieved his cell phone from the pants he had hung over a chair.

“Calling someone?” said Charon.

“Going to leave Carl a voice message. If it was one of the Moon-Eyes out there, they may be lurking around his place as well.”

“The wards there haven’t been touched,” Charon said. Griffin’s eyebrows went up.

“You warded Carl’s house?”

“I did.”

“Without telling him or me?”

Charon’s dark eyes sparkled. “Can’t trust us witches, wild man. We’re just wicked.”

She was trying to keep things light, but Griffin was willing to bet that Charon was wondering the same thing he was. If it hadn’t been one of the Moon-Eyes looking for a way in, what had it been?

* * *

Carl didn’t much like working the graveyard shift but he also believed that now and then he had to know what his people were up to when he was supposed to be asleep. There were some who’d call him a touch paranoid, but that wasn’t it as far as he was concerned. He just liked to know for certain that the people he’d hired – the ones who had been working for a long while and the new hires he’d taken on to replace the deputies who died last October – were ready for anything. Sometimes that meant him coming in and surprising them.

Also, he couldn’t sleep worth a damn right now. Tammy kept popping into his head. He’d be almost down for the night, drifting down into La-La Land, and the next thing he knew she was filling his mind again, whispering half-remembered conversations in his mental ear and he’d feel his blood rise and his eyes pop open.

He couldn’t sleep. His people got to suffer the consequences.

He inspected the offices under the guise of checking his personal office. Then he went back to the holding area, which had been rebuilt very nicely since last October. Currently they were having a busy night. There were seven visitors. Three in regular holding and three in the drunk tank. They could be processed into other rooms or let back into polite society once they were sober enough. In the meantime they got to share the big room with the open drains in the floor to hose down whatever they couldn’t keep in their stomachs.

One of the teenagers he’d clocked earlier was still in a holding cell. On the street with his friends and hopped up on Meth he’d felt indestructible. Now, off his chemical bravado and all by himself he looked like what he was – a skinny kid who was barely even beginning to shave, and who was currently terrified of what his life was turning into. The odds were he dearly wanted to be back home. His folks couldn’t front the bail. They were still trying to find a way. Until then, as the only under-aged offender currently in the place Daniel Jenkins had the room all to himself. He’d been crying.

Carl left him alone. The kid’s life was already turning into enough shit without any help from him.

Back in his actual office Carl booted up his computer and did a bit more research on the little he knew about the Amber Phillips case. The fingerprints from the truck had come back. The rear passenger window handprint did match up with Amber Phillips. Her folks had the common sense to get her picture taken and kept her prints available for any situation where she might end up exactly where she was now, missing. The other fingerprints found in the truck were almost useless. There was one good partial that matched up with a number of other abductions in the northern Georgia area, but the match just meant it had shown up before, it didn’t provide a name this time. Damn it.

Tammy crept into his head and started dancing around again. He pushed her aside and then got up from his desk. Time to go.

Restless didn’t even begin to cover it.

He got a text from Wade warning him about possible lurkers on the home front. He nodded. Not surprising, really. The Blackbournes were not known for their forgiving nature.

He made a note to himself to check up on the clan and see what they were up to. They meddled in damned near every sort of illegal activity, but he’d never heard about them dealing in child abductions – for sociopaths they had their own unique code of conduct. Just the same he’d look into it.

There was still something about the Phillips family that bothered him. Instead of leaving his office he decided to do a little web-surfing to see what he might run across. Corey Phillips’ business was steady and slowly growing. That was a good thing, of course. What was his wife’s name? He dug a bit until he found it. Sarah Phillips. Sarah had a small record for traffic fines and aside from that was squeaky clean. Corey Phillips had exactly no criminal record. They were, in other words, perfectly normal people.

It still didn’t sit well. Something about the two of them didn’t feel right. He just hadn’t figured out what it was yet.

He would. He was nothing if not determined.

More searching. Criminal records had shown him nothing of importance.

As he was heading back out of the office Ryan on the desk waved him over and held up a piece of paper. The man was on the phone and talking in a calm, professional voice. Professional enough to let Carl know it was business and decidedly not pleasure.

The scrap he held up was a scrawled note: Call Bob Stack on his cell.

Carl looked a question at him: How long ago? Ryan jotted ten minutes ago on the paper. He nodded and headed out.

As he moved for the truck he called Bob’s cell. The police chief answered immediately. “Stack.”

“Bob. It’s Carl. What’s up?”

“Strictly second-hand news, but I’m hearing that Amber Phillips had a couple of teachers who reported her folks to DFACS for possible abuse.”

“Really?” Carl frowned. “I was just looking at the files on the family and I didn’t see a damned thing about that.”

“I can’t swear to the validity, Carl. But there’s a woman you could talk to if you wanted. Ellie Campbell. She’s a teacher at the girl’s school. The one who made the report. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her myself. I have another couple of kids who are missing, probably runaways this time, but you know how that goes.”

“This is starting to get stupid.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the damned missing kids. Brennert County isn’t exactly the worst place to live. What’s with all the runaways?”

“Grass is always greener, bubba.”

“Yeah.” Carl thought about Tammy and nodded, despite the fact that Bob couldn’t possibly see him do it.

They said their goodbyes and Carl set his phone down just in time for it to ring. This time it was Ryan. “You ever get tired of seeing me Ryan?”

“Sorry, Carl. But we’ve got most of the cars tied up and there’s reports of a possible homicide out near the Hollow, on 41. Near mile marker 26.” Carl closed his eyes and flashed for just a second to the body of Jerry Wallace, crucified a mile down the road from where he was now heading.

“On it. Make sure you keep off the radio on this one. Our local citizens like to wag their jaws too much.”

“Not my first day at this you know.” Ryan was whining.

“Won’t be your last either if you give me lip.” He got the rest of the details and headed for the crime scene. It was a good-sized drive, but the roads were nearly empty and his flashing lights kept what little traffic was out and about well away from him.

A reed thin man standing next to a pickup truck – a Toyota this time – waved as he saw the flashing lights. Carl pulled over and left the lights going. The man moved from foot to foot nervously, and licked his lips roughly a dozen times. Carl grabbed his flashlight and headed in that direction.

“You here about what I found?”

Carl looked the man in the eyes. “Probably. What did you find, Mister…?”

“Ted LeMarrs.” The man nodded nervously. “I found a body. I don’t think he’s been there very long.”

“Can you show me where?”

The man nodded and Carl gestured for him to lead the way. They didn’t have far to go.

The man pointed to where a truck had pulled off the road at an angle. A Ford again. An F-150. Damned if it didn’t seem like someone was out to prove his theory about the state truck. LeMarrs gestured for Carl to look on the other side of the truck and Carl approached carefully, making sure to give consideration for any possible marks on the long, dried out grass that surrounded the truck.

It was definitely a body and there was no denying that said body was dead and very likely murdered.

“Well, what the hell.” Carl beamed the light over the body and looked around for possible evidence. There were definite signs of a scuffle.

The body was of a man in his mid-forties at a guess. Dressed in jeans and a baggy shirt that was now rolled up to his armpits. Hardly in good shape even before the death, but now it looked like someone had folded the body over on itself, backwards. The man’s abdomen was stretched and his stomach was distended. His back folded almost over on itself and the man’s head was resting near one cowboy boot. The other leg was spread away from him.

Carl managed not to let out a scream. Unsettling as the image was, he’d actually seen worse. Once again, Jerry flashed through his mind for a moment.

“You been anywhere near the body, Mister LeMarrs?”

“Hell no!” The man shook his head. “I mean, no sir.”

“How did you find the body, sir?”

“Well, I saw some kids running down the road and when they saw me they kind of cut into the woods.”

“Kids?”

“You know, teenagers.” He shrugged. “I was heading home from, well, I was on my way home.” He’d been drinking and didn’t want Carl to notice. Too late. But there were larger considerations just now.

“You had a few beers?”

“Yessir.” He sounded defeated.

“You too drunk to drive?”

“Nossir.”

“Then we don’t have a problem, not tonight, anyways.” LeMarrs sighed with relief. “So tell me what you saw, okay Mister LeMarrs?”

“Like I said, I saw them kids. They were teenagers, but they were dressed in nice clothes. Not prom nice, but like they were going out for dinner with the folks. Good suits and proper skirts.”

Carl nodded and resisted the temptation to tell him to get on with it. While the man was speaking Carl was still checking over the area. It looked like there were several sets of prints out there, but he couldn’t be certain. He’d be calling for a Crime Scene Unit.

“I saw them running and when I passed them, I saw the truck. I thought maybe they’d been in a wreck or something or someone needed help and then I looked around and when I saw that fella’s leg still twitching, I figured I better call it in.”

“His leg was still twitching?”

LeMarrs nodded and licked his lips again. Small wonder he was okay to drive. Either the man was very, very nervous – a distinct possibility – or he was just possibly hopped up on speed of some sort. He was doing an awful lot of nervous twitching, and the way he kept licking his lips was a possible indicator.

“I can’t say for sure, but the way them kids ran, I figure they must have at least seen him.”

“Which way did the kids go?”

LeMarrs pointed away from Crawford’s Hollow. The Hollow was decidedly Blackbourne territory. That might mean nothing in this case, but it might also mean someone running from the clan.

“Did you see anyone other than the kids and this man?” He pointed toward the body.

“Nossir.”

Carl nodded and pulled out his phone, prepared to call for the team to investigate properly and for the coroner.

“How many kids were there, Mister LeMarrs?”

“Two girls and one boy. So three.” He seemed inordinately proud of his mad math skills, once again leading Carl to believe the man was probably a good ways from completely sober. That was all right. He’d likely not be going anywhere for a while. The way these things normally ran, LeMarrs would have plenty of time to get sober before he was allowed to go anywhere at all.

“You know what age they were?”

“Not a one of them looked old enough to drive.” He frowned and shook his head. “What are kids that age doing out this late at night, anyways? Don’t folks pay attention to their kids anymore?”

A damned good question.

He looked at the body. Either three adolescents had literally folded a man over himself until his spine broke and his internal organs ruptured in the process, or they had just found him that way. In any event it was almost four in the morning and kids had no reason to be out.

Carl made his phone calls. The air was still and hot and damned sticky. The corpse let out a flatulent noise and LeMarrs squeaked at the unexpected sound.

Carl sighed and scratched at the back of his neck. This was not going to end well. He could feel it.

* * *

Reverend Lazarus Cotton. Griffin typed those words into the search engine and hit enter. Plenty of hits. He switched to the image setting and gazed at dozens of pictures. Cotton behind a pulpit. Cotton lit by firelight with the walls and roof of a great tent behind him. Reproductions of fliers advertising Cotton’s revivals from all over the south. The man got around.

Griffin switched back to the web search and read a few random articles. Mount Zion wasn’t Cotton’s first church. The reverend had apparently had a good size congregation in Florida at one point. Florida had also been the host to many of the man’s tent revival meetings. Checking the dates on various newspaper articles Griffin saw that there was a gap of several months between the time when Cotton left his church in Florida and when he popped up in Georgia. No mention as to why he had pulled up stakes. Interesting.

Charon came wandering into Griffin’s home office, putting on a pair of hoop earrings as she walked. She was dressed for a day at the shop. A black skirt. A deep purple t-shirt with a close up image of Boris Karloff as the Frankenstein monster. Charon had the most amazing collection of t-shirts Griffin had ever seen. He had asked her once if t-shirts weren’t a bit casual for a business owner, but she had explained that people expected her to dress funky. It was part of the ambiance of Baba Yaga’s.

Charon looked over Griffin’s shoulder at the screen. “That’s the guy who runs the church you told me about?”

“That’s him. Down home as all hell isn’t he.”

“Mmm hmm. Looks like he’s been raiding Colonel Sanders’ closet. But I have to say, the look works for him. He looks, I don’t know, natural in those old time clothes. I bet he can preach up the fire and brimstone when he wants to.”

“Speaking from personal experience?”

“My grandmother took me to a couple of big tent revivals when I was a kid,” Charon said. “I know my fire and brimstone. Tell you what. If I have time today, I’ll do a little digging on Reverend Cotton myself.”

“I didn’t think you were interested in modern organized religions.”

“One man’s religion is another man’s cult, Griffin.”

“Good point. By all means, see what you can come up with. I’m going to try and get an interview with the man himself.”

Charon leaned over and kissed him on the side of the mouth. “Okay, well I’m off. See you this evening. Try and stay out of trouble.”

“Don’t I always?”

“No.”

Once Charon was gone Griffin got out his cell and dialed Paul Traylor’s number. He had been putting off talking to Traylor but he owed the man a report.

“Mister Griffin,” Traylor said when he picked up. “Do you have some good news for me?”

“I’m afraid not. I have a couple of leads I’m following but nothing definite. I did have some results from the shopping bag we found, but they weren’t good.” Griffin gave Traylor a brief description of finding Irene Chandler and the circumstances of the discovery.

Traylor said, “Good Lord. You don’t think Lynn has been taken by people like that, do you?”

“I don’t,” said Griffin. “I believe Lynn left on her own and that hopefully she’s somewhere safe. But I thought I ought to let you know what had become of her friend Irene. Also, I have a question. Did Lynn have anything to say about religion recently?”

“Religion? Not that I recall. Her mother is a lapsed Catholic, and I’ve never been much for churches. Why do you ask?”

“Just something Irene told me. One of the leads I’m following. I’ll let you know more if anything pans out.”

Griffin rang off without giving Traylor any more information. He didn’t want the man muddying the waters by perhaps trying to contact Lazarus Cotton himself. A man like Traylor might do exactly that.

Griffin checked the clock. Not even ten in the morning yet. The man, Fry, had indicated it was best to seek audience with Cotton later in the day. Griffin would wait until afternoon before heading back to Cotton’s church. That way, if things didn’t go well, perhaps he could have a look at the dormitory building under cover of darkness. Griffin’s gut was telling him Lynn Traylor was there. One way or another he would find out.

CHAPTER TEN

Ten AM. At the current rate, Carl figured he was good for another week before his completely screwed up sleep schedule caused his brain to shut down. Of course there were plenty of people who would have argued that his brain had faded out a long time ago.

Anyone who needed proof would have looked no further than him driving into Crawford’s Hollow without twenty backup units. Sometimes it’s about who has bigger balls. Carl couldn’t afford to be nervous about the Hollow. He was the sheriff. Even if he was nervous, he could never let it show.

Really, what was there to be nervous about, except for the whole killed-half-the-family-that-lived-in-the-area thing? The Blackbournes weren’t going anywhere. They were the equivalent of cockroaches as far as he was concerned. You could kill as many as you wanted and more of the damned things just showed up to take their place.

Last October he’d been in the unpleasant position of taking down a lot of the family. A lot of them. Sometimes when he was lucky he could go to sleep without seeing some of the less pleasant members of the family in his mind’s eye, parading around to remind him that he had either killed them or lead to their deaths. And if he tried very, very hard he could almost forget about the nightmare that was Frank Blackbourne.

And then there was Siobhan. Yeah. No issues there.

So he was driving down into the verdant hell of the Hollow to meet up with the new leaders of the clan. Or at least the interim leaders. He wasn’t really quite sure what was going on with the clan and that was an issue. Of course there was some question as to whether or not they knew themselves.

All of which just led to the fact that kids were missing and there was a slight chance that they were responsible. He had to check on that or he wouldn’t be doing his job. He also wouldn’t be keeping tabs on the people who were in the best position to make his life miserable.

The house that had been the center of the Blackbourne family’s empire was still in the same place but these days it had an abandoned look. It was just as good a place to check as any, however, and that was where Carl parked.

The sprawling house had been built in stages, and some of the spots where the house had been added to looked different than they had a year ago. They looked lifeless. As far as Carl was concerned that was a good thing.

He climbed from his truck and looked around carefully. Oh, yes, there were Blackbournes around.

One of them approached, a stocky bruiser named Gideon. He had seen the boy before, but not in a long while. Last he’d heard Gideon was off at a private school in England. Apparently he’d come back home.

Gideon Blackbourne was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He sported combat boots and mirrored sunglasses. He was wearing a battered straw hat on his head, not because it was fashionable, but because it kept a little of the sun off his face. Like so many of the clan, Gideon was a bit on the pale side. Unlike a lot of them, he still had actual pigmentation to his skin and his hair was a dark red color. He wasn’t as far from human as a lot of them. That alone made him a decent spokesperson for the family.

The boy was maybe drinking age. Not that it mattered. He approached with his arms at his sides and a deliberately blank expression on his broad face.

“Been a few years, Gideon.”

The boy nodded. “Yes sir. It has.” If he had developed any sort of British accent in his travels he hid it well. His voice had grown deeper. A lot deeper. Then again, he looked like he was sporting roughly fifty more pounds of muscle than the last time Carl had seen him. “Eight years since I was home last.” That explained it. Puberty and that whole growing up thing made a difference. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“I just came to ask a few questions of whoever is in charge around here these days. Who would I want to talk to, Gideon?” He kept his eyes locked on the sunglasses. He couldn’t see the eyes behind them but he knew better than to think the boy was looking anywhere but at him. He was also aware, uncomfortably so, of the sounds of other people moving around behind him and around him. Shit. There were a lot of people around him that wanted him dead just now. Carl resisted the urges to run, lick his lips, hide in the truck or even pat his firearm affectionately. No signs were permitted that would show anything like fear.

Gideon looked up at the canopy of trees above them, the light and shadows adding freckles to his face and a dozen different reflections to his glasses.

“Well,” said the boy, “you could talk to me about what’s happening in the Hollow. You could talk to my Cousin Jolene about what’s happening in town.” The boy looked back at him again and a very small smile flickered around his lips and then died. “Or you could ask Lament what’s going on. She’s pretty much in charge these days. Overall, I mean.”

“Lament?” he frowned.

“Not keeping up with things these days, Sheriff? Lament. She came back with me when I got back from London.” That little half-smirk again. The boy didn’t know his place. He’d learn soon enough. Carl couldn’t exactly teach him right that moment. The other members of the clan surrounding them guaranteed that.

“You’d be surprised the things I keep up with, Gideon.” He gave a little half-smile of his own. “Merle had the common sense to remember that. Don’t go being less intelligent than Merle if you want to stay in charge of things, son. That little bit of advice is free.”

Gideon’s face grew dark, but he kept his tongue.

“Had a murder not far from here last night. A few kids were seen leaving the area where the body was found. According to the eyewitness they were pale. According to what I saw, they were also strong. Very strong.” He let that sink in for a few seconds. “Sound like anyone you might know?”

“Pale and strong aren’t enough to make any real connections, Sheriff. I’ve been gone for a while. What else have you got?”

“Nothing much. That’s why I wanted to ask around. I wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea and pointing fingers where they shouldn’t be pointed.”

“How old were the kids, Sheriff?”

“Early teens, maybe.”

“Hazael was out late last night. Said he had business to tend to. Hang on. I’ll send for him.” He gestured with one hand and called out. “Get Hazael over here.”

Carl didn’t bother looking around. He knew well enough what was going on. Somewhere behind him one of the clan was passing on the orders or seeing to them personally.

“So rumor has it Lament has it out for me.”

“Lament heard unpleasant stories about what happened when we were gone. Some of those stories might have put you in an unfavorable light.”

“Mmm hmm.”

There was a rustling to the left and Carl looked that way for just a moment. Long enough to see the rapier-thin boy that showed himself. He was pale, he was plain. He dressed like he’d never left the Hollow in his life. Maybe he hadn’t.

“Hazael, do you know of anyone who was out last night causing mischief?” Gideon looked to the boy with a calm expression.

Hazael looked at Carl with a deep hatred on his narrow face.

“Hazael!” Gideon’s voice was sharp and demanding. The boy looked his way. “I asked you a question. Answer it.”

“But he—”

Gideon raised a hand to silence the boy. “Answer the question.”

“Where?” He directed the question to Carl.

Carl described the area, the local mile marker. Finally Hazael answered, “Not ours. There’s others. It was them.”

“Others?”

Gideon cleared his throat. “The point here is that it’s not one of ours.”

Carl looked at Hazael. “What do you mean ‘others’?”

The boy glared pure venom in his direction. “Figure it out your damn self.”

Hazael turned and stormed away, not looking back. His narrow shoulders locked and his small hands clenched into fists.

Gideon shrugged his broad shoulders. “Hazael has no love for you or yours, Sheriff. His father and his mother were both lost last Halloween.”

“What did he mean ‘others’?”

Gideon smiled and shrugged. “Been out of town for a while. I couldn’t harbor a guess.”

Carl nodded and headed back for his truck. There were a dozen members of the Blackbourne family between him and his vehicle. Most of them looked only a little unusual. The sole exception was Haradah, a man he’d had the misfortune of dealing with in the past. Currently there were four outstanding warrants on Haradah Blackbourne, including one for breaking out of his holding cell last year. Like several members of the Blackbourne clan, Haradah must have been born with the ability to shift between realities. He didn’t break out of his cell the year before; he just stepped away from it. One on one he might well have been willing to go after the man. Certainly if he had the right equipment with him, but just at the moment there were too many possible allies for the man. And then there was the problem of keeping him if he caught him. There were ways, but nothing had been prepared.

He’d have to look into that.

Carl kept his eyes locked on Haradah the entire way back to the truck and then climbed in and backed away from the old house. He was almost certain the house was empty now, but there were things that had happened there he still didn’t like to think about.

He drove very carefully away from the house and up the winding road that led out of the Hollow.

He tried not to hyperventilate on the way up.

He succeeded, but it wasn’t easy. Mostly he kept seeing the hatred in Hazael’s face. Sometimes people died. That didn’t make him feel any better about leaving a kid no older than twelve without parents.

* * *

A little after four in the afternoon Griffin started for the mountains. It didn’t take long once leaving Wellman proper to hit the foothills. During the time he had lived in Gatesville he had forgotten how the mountains informed everything about living in the northern part of Georgia. They loomed in the background and after a while, you didn’t notice them but they were always there, permanent and implacable, and he had been reminded all too recently of the secrets they could hide.

Traffic thinned the farther north he traveled, and that made it easy to pick up the tail. A black four-door Lexus matched him turn for turn.

Griffin accelerated and the Lexus picked up speed. They weren’t being careful about it, which meant they didn’t much care if he spotted them or not. Not a good sign. For a moment he considered using his cell to call Carl, but a second later rejected the idea. Best to see what was what.

The Lexus put on a burst of speed as the vehicles reached a straight and lonely stretch of mountain road. Griffin knew his truck couldn’t outdistance the Lexus, so he concentrated on his driving. Checking his side mirror he saw the Lexus was close on his rear bumper and someone was leaning out the passenger side. Griffin gave the brakes a light touch and heard the squeal of tires as the Lexus’s driver adjusted his speed. A second later the truck’s rear window exploded. Griffin hunched low and steered off the road, hitting the brakes again so the truck skidded to a halt on the gravel shoulder. Griffin went out the passenger side, out of view of the Lexus, unholstering his 9mm Beretta as he went. He dropped to the ground behind the truck as the Lexus backtracked.

He had spoiled the gunman’s aim by putting on the brakes and the Lexus had had to swerve around him. Now the car was stopped a few yards up the road and by looking under his truck Griffin could see three men getting out of the car. They came his way quickly and in a few seconds he could only see their feet. Griffin shot the closest one in the ankle. The man screamed and fell to the ground and Griffin shot him through the head.

He saw another pair of feet leave the ground and he realized that shooter had vaulted into the bed of the truck. Griffin rolled to his back and as the man peered over the edge of the truck, Griffin shot him in the mouth. Blood, brains, and teeth splattered as the bullet tore through. The third shooter was coming around the front of the truck even as Griffin shot the man in the bed and he fired at Griffin’s prone figure.

The shot went wild, kicking up gravel and sand near Griffin’s head. Griffin took his time and aimed at center mass. He squeezed off three rounds, all of which slammed into the last man’s upper torso. The gunman slumped against the side of the truck and slid to the ground.

Griffin stood but remained crouched behind the truck. The shooters had left their doors open and now he could see that there was no one left in the car. The driver had been one of the shooters.

He considered his options. His truck was still drivable, so he could just drive away and get rid of the Beretta. No way the bullets in the dead men could be traced to him then. However, he was on a public road and someone could come along at any moment. Besides, he had acted in self-defense and the evidence would bear that out. Better to call Carl this time. Griffin got his cell out and made the call.

An hour later, Carl Price stood leaning on his unmarked car. Two lab guys had finished bagging and tagging, and now they were getting the bodies ready to go. Carl had dutifully looked at the crime scene and taken Griffin’s statement.

“I’m surprised you didn’t just disappear, Wade. Looks like you could have.”

“Considered it. But it was a righteous shooting and I figured you didn’t need the grief on top of everything else.”

“You got that right. The DA would love an unsolved homicide about now. Me and the lab boys figure things went down just like you said, so as you say, this one’s righteous enough. They shot first and you defended yourself.”

“Of course. I am a law abiding citizen these days.”

Carl snorted. “Let’s not get carried away. I don’t suppose you recognized any of these boys?”

“No, but you can bet that when you ID them, they’ll be some of Pete Blankenship’s men.”

“No doubt. Guess Pete hasn’t forgiven you for busting up one of his operations.”

Griffin said. “Guess not. But if he’s going to keep making runs at me, I may have to talk some sense into him.”

“I’d just as soon he didn’t turn up dead anytime soon, Wade.”

Griffin shrugged. “We’ll see how things go. Maybe he’ll call it even now.” But even as he said it, he knew, and he knew Carl shared the knowledge, that Blankenship wouldn’t just let this go. The man couldn’t afford to.

“Anyway,” Carl said. “Got some other weird things going. Found a body last night that had been folded backward like a cheap jack-knife. Someone broke the guy’s spine like a broomstick.”

In the hot, August sun, Griffin felt something cold slide across his own spine. “The Blackbournes?”

“They say no. Said it was someone else, but they wouldn’t say who.”

“Who else could do something like that?”

“No one I know of, but I got the feeling the Blackbournes weren’t lying, you know?”

Griffin knew. Carl seemed to have a sixth sense about that sort of thing. Like a human lie-detector. He could almost always tell when someone wasn’t telling the truth.

“Wonder if it’s connected to whatever was trying to get into my house the other night?”

“I’d say that was likely. Best for us if it was, anyway. I’d hate to think there was more than one of whatever could do something like that.”

Griffin shook his head. “What the hell is happening to this town, Carl?”

“I don’t know, man. I mean there was always weird stuff in the Hollow, even when we were kids, but yeah, it’s like we’re spook central lately. Anyway, you need a ride back to town?”

“No, my truck will make it. Guess I’ll have to postpone my visit to Reverend Cotton.”

“You really think the Traylor girl is up there at the church?”

“My gut says yes.”

“Well you get anything a bit more substantial than a gut feeling, let me know. We’ll get a warrant. Do things proper.”

“Will do. Thanks for the backup, Carl.”

Carl nodded and headed for his car. Griffin still thought the man looked rough, but he knew from long experience not to press for details. Carl was a private man, just like Griffin. Time came he wanted to talk, he’d let Griffin know.

* * *

Carl saw the question on Wade’s face and was grateful for the silence. Most times he wanted advice, he asked Wade. This time, however, he already knew the answer.

Say, Wade, Tammy’s back in town and making noises like she’d like to be friends. What should I do?

Why, Carl, I think you should shoot the bitch and bury the body after the last four times she’s walked all over you and then left me to help pick up the pieces.

Okay, that wouldn’t actually be what Wade would say because despite common rumors, Wade could be very polite when he wanted. But that would be the sentiment. He knew Wade well enough that he didn’t have to ask. More importantly, he knew that Wade was right.

It was just his damned heart that kept squirming around in his chest and looking for a way to make things work out.

His phone rang. Saved by the bell. “Carl Price. How can I help you?”

“Hey, Carl! This is Travis!” Travis Cobb was a tech down at the forensics lab. He was a nice enough kid but a little too enthusiastic when it came to talking about the morbid shit in his job. That was okay. It worked to Carl’s benefit and he was so enthusiastic that Carl remained mostly sure he wasn’t actually involved in any of the dirty work himself. Mostly.

“What’s up, Travis?” he put on his happy voice.

“Got an ID for the guy you brought in this morning. You know, Broke Back Mountain?”

Sense of humor needed work. Had that comment gone out on the radio he and the boy would have had a serious talk. As it was over a phone line instead, Carl let it slide.

“So what do you have?”

“The man’s name is Vincent Fowler. He’s got a long rap sheet, mostly for trafficking in drugs and a few for prostitution. Not him. He likes to hire young girls.”

Carl nodded. He’d find out for himself but he wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Tadpole hung around with the man.

“Thanks, Travis.”

“Want to tell me what’s going on?”

No. “Can’t do it, Travis. I don’t even know myself.”

“Well if you need someone to take notes...”

Hell would freeze over first. “I’ll keep it in mind, Travis. Thanks.”

More notes to himself. There was a nagging feeling he was missing something and it was bothering the hell out of him. He hated feeling out of the loop, especially inside his own head.

The sky overhead was dark enough that it looked like nighttime. The clouds were gathering and festering. There would be rain soon, and that was a plus. Maybe a good storm would calm down the insane heat.

He jotted Lazarus Cotton on his pad. After that he put down the name of the dead man. The next line on the paper was photo shop. That was it. He looked at the two words and then aimed himself back toward Wellman. He needed to have a look around the studio of Corey Phillips. Keeping one eye on the road he typed the man’s name into the keyboard mounted inside the truck’s cabin and let the miracles of modern science play their games. Nothing. The man was clean. No record worth noticing.

Then he typed in Ellie Campbell’s name. She had allegedly reported the family to DFACS and he needed to know what she had reported. The records weren’t showing up in his system, and that meant he needed to talk to the woman himself.

Finding her wasn’t hard. Her full name was Eloise May Campbell.

She answered when he rang the doorbell and introduced himself. The woman who looked at him smiled warmly and looked up at him with hazel eyes. She had a very nice smile on her round face. “Well look who it is.”

Carl managed to avoid frowning. Her face clicked into his mental database, but there had been changes. He vaguely remembered a mousy little brown-haired girl in high school who went by the name Ellie May. It turned out they were one and the same. The differences were substantial. The grown-up version had filled out, had a couple of kids and was confident enough to look him in the eyes. The girl in high school had blushed when any male looked in her direction. She’d been pretty enough in high school, but now that she was older and actually had a bit of confidence, she was beautiful. It was amazing how that happened sometimes. He’d have never expected the girl he saw in the halls to become an attractive woman. Then again, to be fair, he hadn’t thought of her in years.

“Been an awfully long time, Ellie.”

“Longer than I want to remember.” She chuckled. She had a nice, relaxed laugh. “What can I do for the sheriff today? You trolling for votes already?”

He caught himself blushing. “No, still got a while before I do the door to door stuff for that. I’m actually here about a complaint you filed a while ago.” He lowered his voice just in case anyone might be listening. “You reported a couple of people to DFACS?”

Ellie shook her head and gestured for him to come inside, but she didn’t seem the least bit worried. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, Carl. I report a lot of folks to DFACS. It’s part of my job.”

He nodded and stepped inside. There were several pictures on the hallway walls of Ellie and a man who was likely her husband, and a couple of kids who progressed through infancy to preteen years in the span of the dozen or so pictures. The man was nice enough looking, but bland. The kids were kids. All kids were cute in photos. Long as they weren’t doing something deeply stupid or illegal, that is.

“Well, the couple I’m talking about is Corey and Sarah Phillips. They have a little girl named Amber?”

All the pretty faded from Ellie’s face and she got a nasty expression that made him reassess her completely for the second time in as many minutes. “Oh, I know the ones you mean.”

“Listen, can you tell me what that was about? I couldn’t find any information except that there had been a report once upon a time.”

“That’s because there were threats of lawsuits.”

Carl frowned. “Lawsuits? For what?”

“Slander.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head even as she walked into the kitchen and came back a moment later with a very, very large glass of iced tea. She didn’t ask if he wanted it, but instead just handed it to him. On the table was a matching glass, which she reached for as soon as he’d taken his. He nodded his gratitude and took a sip of the overly sweetened fluids. Southern iced tea was always overwhelmingly sweet, as if to compensate for the insane heat outside.

“Slander? What did you say about them?”

“Only what their little girl had told me.” She had a scowl on her pretty face. She pushed it aside. “She told me that her daddy liked to take pictures of her in the nude. Playing with things that no little girl should play with.”

“Child pornography?” He felt his skin tighten.

“That was the accusation. There was no evidence to be found and the Phllipses had a really good lawyer.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded and took a sip of her own tea. “Oh yeah, on retainer. Expensive fella, too. Has some serious clients.”

“Yeah? Like who?”

“You ever hear of Peter Blankenship?” She lowered her voice automatically.

“I am the sheriff.”

“Well then you have your answer.”

“Same lawyer, huh?”

“Same lawyer. On retainer.”

“Well, looks like I might have to look into matters a little more closely.”

“What sort of matters?” She looked at him and then looked away as if realizing what she was asking and of whom.

“Their daughter, Amber, was taken from their home a couple of nights ago. I’m trying to find out who took her.”

Ellie’s face softened, the anger fading behind an immediate sorrow. “Well, damn, but if anything’s happened and they’re responsible I’m gonna feel like Hell about it.”

He put a hand over hers and patted it. “Don’t. You can only do so much.”

“I could have pushed harder.”

Carl nodded. “Without proof you would have lost your job. I’m not saying you aren’t right, but I am saying there’re some things you can’t control no matter how much you might want to. I’ve been down that path a few times.”

“I’m a teacher. I’m supposed to look out for the kids I deal with.”

“Yes you are. I’m the Wellman County Sheriff. I’m supposed to look out for everyone in this county. And I do, but there are limits to how much you can do and how much I can do. Those limits are put there to make sure everyone gets a fair shake.”

“Well that’s stupid.”

“Sometimes I agree. Right now, if that girl’s parents have anything to do with what she’s going through, I couldn’t agree more.” He sipped his tea while he tried to find the right words. “But there are processes. You can make reports and I can make arrests but if they aren’t with good reason, we get slapped down for being too enthusiastic.” He shrugged. “They have to be there, even when we hate them. Or we get another McCarthy era. Or we get witch-hunts. Or we get cops kicking down our doors for reading the wrong books. Checks and balances. I hate them, but I understand why they’re in place.”

Ellie stood. “I just hate them. That poor girl.”

“Well, I’m gonna look into matters a bit deeper now. There are a few files I can look into, the sort of stuff I don’t want to look into.” Carl shook his head. There were a lot of files, actually, images and movies that he now had to look through that involved young children as yet unidentified, files that had been seized from different pedophiles and perverts throughout the county over the last few years. He could feel the muscles in his jaws and temples locking at the very notion. It was very possible the face of Amber Phillips sent off warning bells because he had seen her before, but not in the context of a family photo or two.

“Any chance you can keep me posted about what you find, Carl?”

“Officially? Probably not. Unofficially? You might have to hear about something to help prevent any possible lawsuits in the future. We’ll see.”

The woman reached out and gave him a warm hug. He was tempted to seize up and back away. Carl didn’t much like unexpected displays of affection. Just the same, she was doing him a favor and she was a nice, slightly familiar face. He put an arm around her shoulders and hugged back a bit awkwardly.

A few moments later he was on his way, hating that he was now thinking about Amber Phillips stuck in situations no child should ever be stuck in.

The drive back to the office was annoying. It grew worse when he saw Tammy in the reception area. She was as pretty as ever. That was the part that bothered the Hell out of him. She was older, she should have been less appealing. Her body was not in as defined shape and she had crow’s feet around her eyes, and damned if she wasn’t still attractive to the point of distraction.

No. She was just damned beautiful and he hated her a bit for that.

Tammy stood as he entered the building, a look of worry on her face. “Carl?”

“What can I do for you, Tammy?” He did his best to leave everything as formal as he could and if his voice sounded distant enough that the three coworkers who saw him every day were looking at him as if he’d just vomited fire all over the floor, well, sometimes you couldn’t quite hide your feelings.

“I was hoping we could talk?”

“What about?” Here it was, the part where his stomach twisted into a painful knot.

“About everything? About…” She looked around and stepped closer to him. He didn’t quite look away from her. He could see her in his peripheral vision. “About us?”

“I have work right now. I’m at work right now. Call me later. Maybe we can talk then.”

She wanted to say more. He didn’t give her the chance. Given a choice between looking over criminal evidence of the nature that made him want to commit violence on the offenders, and spending an hour or so of his life talking to Tammy about ‘us’ and ‘everything’ he wasn’t sure which idea had less appeal.

No, that wasn’t true. He did know. He was heading for the evidence lockers, after all.

The files were locked away and filed properly. He had Thelma McPherson and Nora Evans look into the files with him. He wanted company while he did it, and he wanted the sort of company that both helped him stay calm and simultaneously got just as pissed off as he did.

Unfortunately, he found what he was looking for. There were easily a dozen pictures that could be the same girl as the one in the photo Amber Phillips’s parents had provided.

He had the two women with him verify his findings and then he gave the pictures over to Nora with express and concise orders about getting computer matches using the facial recognition software. She knew the drill, but he wanted it done by the book.

While Nora was working on getting matches confirmed, Carl called DFACS again and talked to Susan Ortega. Then it was time to get a few search warrants handled. Two phone calls later and he was working out the details in his head. He was almost done with the paperwork when he decided on a whim to see about getting Wade’s church thrown into the equation. Different girl, similar problem near as he could tell. Either way, he figured it couldn’t hurt to at least start the process.

Tammy called him twice. He ignored both calls. His stomach tried to burn a hole through itself at the very thought.

Was it love? He had no idea. Felt more like a junkie trying for a fix if he was right in what junkies went through. He had never been addicted to a drug, not even tobacco, so he couldn’t really tell. He could just guess.

Whatever the case, Tammy felt a lot like withdrawal. And he hated her a bit for that.

The warrants were being worked on. He couldn’t rush Judge Harrelson and knew better than to try. Carl thought about the little girl in the pictures again and felt his hands clench. Christ, he wanted a drink. Quick math (booze plus Bad Crimes multiplied by Tammy in Town times Sleep Deprivation equals Carl Kicks The Shit out of a few people who maybe don’t deserve it) had him shaking that idea away.

When Tammy called again he answered. “Yeah?”

“Hi, Carl. Can we talk?”

“Talk to me.”

“I meant in person, Carl.”

“No. No, Tammy. We can’t.” His head felt like it was going to explode.

“What?” A long pause, which meant she was considering his words. He never said no. Not ever. That was one of the things that had maybe been wrong with the relationship from day one. “Why not?”

“There’s nothing to say, Tammy. You fucked me over. You dumped me. You walked away. Sorry your dad’s sick. Sorry you’re going through that, but I can’t be here for you.” He shook his head and tried to breathe. It wasn’t easy. “You can’t be here for me, and I can’t be here for you anymore. That’s all there is to say. Don’t call me again.”

He killed the call and shoved his phone into his pocket. Time to leave. Time to go home and maybe even manage a little sleep. If that was possible. He had doubts.

He barely acknowledged anyone as he left the building and headed for his truck.

So he missed the people that were watching him as he climbed inside and headed away from the office.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Griffin got home just as dusk was gathering. Charon’s bright red VW Bug was already in the garage when he pulled in. Griffin paused for a moment as he got out of the truck to look at the jagged space where the rear window used to be. There was no corresponding hole anywhere else in the cab, so he could only assume the bullet had partially ricocheted, probably because of the odd angle of the shot. Tomorrow he would take the truck to a mechanic he knew.

Griffin went through the garage door, which led to the kitchen. “I’m home!” he called.

“In the living room, honey,” Charon responded.

Griffin found her sitting on the couch, legs tucked under her. She was reading a gigantic book that looked to have been personally printed by Gutenberg on a slow day. He thought the title was Latin, but he wasn’t sure.

“A little light reading?”

“Something Carter loaned me.”

“I suspected as much.”

Charon patted the sofa cushion beside her and Griffin sat. She said, “I’m surprised you’re back so early. I thought you were going to see the preacher.”

“I ran into trouble on the way there.”

“I’m probably going to regret asking this, but what sort of trouble?”

Griffin told her. He didn’t hold anything back. He had long since learned that Charon wanted the truth. When he finished, Charon put down her book and leaned over and put her arms around him.

“God, Griffin. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, only one of their shots got anywhere close.” Charon drew back and looked him in the eyes. “You say that as if someone was throwing rocks at you and missed.”

“I’ve been shot at before.”

“And you just came in from killing three men.”

“They were trying to kill me, Charon.”

“I know that. I guess I just can’t see how you can be so calm.” And there it was. The thing that had driven his former love away. She had seen him kill a man with his bare hands and that had been the end of everything. Charon had seen him kill someone too, but she was still here.

Griffin said, “I know. Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with me. I’ve seen so much killing. Done so much myself. Maybe I’ve just become desensitized.”

“Maybe. It’s one of the things I have the most trouble understanding about you, Griffin. You’re the best man I know. I’ve seen you do things for your friends no one else would do and take risks that no one else would take. I know you’re a good man.”

But was he? Could anyone who could shoot three men, then come home and wonder what was for dinner truly be called a good man? “I hope you’re right. There are times I wonder.”

“Well don’t. I know you. You wouldn’t kill anyone who wasn’t trying to kill you. I guess it just amazes me that you can go on as if it was just part of your day.”

“But you’re still with me.”

“For as long as you’ll have me, wild-man.”

“That would be a long, long time.”

“Good. Not to kill a romantic moment, but do you think this Blankenship guy will try again?”

“It’s probably better to assume he will and act accordingly.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m giving that some thought. It sort of depends on how hard he tries next time.”

“I don’t mind telling you this scares me to death, Griffin.”

“Try not to worry. I’ve brought Carl in on this. Between the two of us, we’ll work it out. Anyway, let’s talk about something else. What would you like for dinner?”

“I was going to cook, but I’m out of the mood now. Let’s just order pizza.”

“Good plan.” Griffin got out his phone and saw that he’d had a call from Paul Traylor. In the excitement of the afternoon’s events he hadn’t thought to check his phone. He activated the voice mail and heard Traylor’s voice.

“Griffin, I found something in Lynn’s room that I think you might want to have a look at. Call me when you get this message, please.”

Griffin punched in Traylor’s number, but no one picked up. When Griffin got Traylor’s voice mail he left a message saying he would call Traylor back later. Then he got down to the serious business of ordering pizza.

* * *

A few hours later, when Charon had fallen asleep on the couch, Griffin slipped back to his home office and tried Traylor again. Still no answer. He left another message and then put down his phone. He opened the top drawer to his desk and lifted out another phone. This one wasn’t on any plan anyone would ever be able to trace.

There were only a few numbers on the menu and he selected the top one. “It’s Griffin. I’m going to need a favor.”

The voice on the phone said. “You’ve got it. Give me the particulars.”

Griffin started talking.

* * *

The following morning, after Charon had left for Baba Yaga’s, Griffin tried yet again to call Paul Traylor. When he again received no answer, he decided he had better go to the Traylor home. He made sure he had extra ammunition for the Beretta and he grabbed his .357 revolver too before he went out. Pete Blankenship wouldn’t be pleased about losing three men and he might try harder next time.

Griffin just shook his head at his rear window as he got in the truck. Fixing it would have to wait. He pulled out of the garage, and five minutes later he was tooling down Highway Five on his way to Traylor’s neighborhood. The air outside his broken window was muggy and full of portents of rain. Low-hanging dark clouds rested above the mountains. A storm was building.

When Griffin reached the Traylor home he parked in the same spot in the driveway he had used the last time. The Traylor’s two-car garage was closed. Griffin got out of the truck and went up the white brick steps to the front door. He slowed as he saw that the door was ajar. Not good.

He drew his Beretta and pushed the door inward with his foot. He went in, gun at the ready, and paused inside the foyer. He said. “Mister Traylor!”

Nothing. Griffin moved down the hall to the living room. A coffee table was overturned and there were some papers and magazines strewn on the floor. There had been a struggle, though apparently only a brief one. Griffin made a slow circuit of the room but saw nothing else to give him any idea what had happened. Why would anyone attack the Traylors? His thoughts flashed to Blankenship, but as far as he knew there was no connection.

Griffin left the living room and made a quick search of the other rooms on the ground floor. Everything seemed normal. Aside from the open front door and the slight mess in the living room, there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Griffin pulled out his cell and checked the time of Traylor’s last call. 5:45 in the afternoon. And he had called Traylor as night was falling, so whatever happened had happened between Traylor’s call and seven or so.

Seeing the phone reminded him of what Traylor had said. The man had found something in Lynn’s room that he thought Griffin would want to see. Griffin went up the stairs to the girl’s room. He stood in the doorway, allowing his gaze to travel around the room, checking for anything different since the last time he was here. The bookcases. Last trip all of the books had been neatly arranged, the edges of their spines even. Now some of the books on one shelf had obviously been pulled out and not replaced with care.

Griffin crossed to the bookcase and pulled the first of the misaligned books. He flipped through the pages, looking for anything hidden inside. Finding nothing, he began to go through the rest of the books. When he opened the fifth one, a folded sheet of paper fluttered to the ground.

Griffin picked up the paper and unfolded it. It was a flier advertising a tent revival sponsored by the Reverend Lazarus Cotton of the Mount Zion Church of Faith.

* * *

Two hours of cruising the streets did nothing to calm Carl down. Four additional phone calls told him he wasn’t going to get his warrants until the next morning, and an additional phone call from Wade made it clear that he’d been smart to work in the warrant on the church. After that it was time to go home.

He stopped long enough to get himself some barbeque from Woody’s Smoke Pit BBQ, a place he hadn’t visited since his friend Nichole Ward got herself killed last October. He’d been bringing the stuff back for both of them to eat when she was murdered and he hadn’t quite had the stomach to look at the food there since. Enough. He’d eat what he damned well pleased and not let the ghosts of old friends stop him.

He saw the same car on the road repeatedly as he drove and figured he was being followed. A quick phone call to the office took care of that. As he left Woody’s – promising Woody he wouldn’t be such a stranger from now on – he pulled onto the road, watched the car pull out after him and then watched them stop when a squad car pulled them over amid flashing lights and sirens.

Allan Chambers was his second in command. He’d ask them a few questions and keep them busy for the next twenty or so minutes. When he was done he’d let them go as long as they weren’t being too blatant. The important part was knowing that he’d get a tag and a license so he could know who was following him around. It paid to know who was gunning for you, even if they weren’t actually sporting any weapons.

By the time he got home Allan called him back to let him know that he was being followed by a couple of Blackbournes. He couldn’t bring himself to be surprised. They’d just been keeping tabs, apparently. His own fault for cruising down into the Hollow. It was practically an invitation for trouble, even if it was part of his job.

The Blackbournes knew where he lived. Nothing to be done about that. He wasn’t going to run from them or anyone else.

One last stop before he headed for home.

The old house on Scufflegrit Road belonged to Andrew Hunter, an old friend of Carl’s father who had become a friend of his somewhere along the way. Andy Hunter was a curmudgeon with an attitude problem, but he was also a nice man when you caught him at the right time. It was just sometimes challenging to know when he was happy and when he was angry because he almost always had the same ornery scowl on his face.

Andy actually smiled when Carl knocked on the door and offered him a bag of barbecued pork. When in doubt, bring presents.

“Haven’t seen you in months!”

“Yeah, well, last time I was here I was busy replacing the boards on your porch. I got enough chores in my life without you adding to ‘em, Andy.”

“You’re young. You’re supposed to do chores. I’m too damned old to replace the boards you get smashed up fighting with people around my house.”

There was some debate as to whether or not Frank Blackbourne qualified as human, but Carl let it go. “I’m just checking in to see how you’re managing.”

Andy waved an impatient hand. “Liar. You’re just here for the iced tea.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t turn some down.” It was still slightly hotter than Hell outside. The air conditioning in Andy’s old house felt like a breath of pure heaven in comparison.

Andy walked through rooms filled with books – some being refinished by the retired archaeologist – and antiquities from a dozen different cultures, and led the way into the large kitchen. Andy had the sort of kitchen that was meant to be the center of a family’s world, with tables and chairs aplenty. He just had no one living with him to occupy the space. For that reason Carl came by now and again to check on the old man. Also, he liked Andy. Andy reminded him of his father in a good way.

Two glasses of iced tea were filled and one was placed in front of him. They sat together and shot the breeze for a while and Carl caught Andy up on the minor drama in his life, including Tammy.

Andy scoffed. “Told you before to keep away from that one. She’s a nice enough girl, I suppose, but she’s never been right for you.”

“See, everyone says that to me.”

Andy looked at him past the glasses perched on the edge of his nose and shot him the sort of withering glance that had doubtless made him a terror as a teacher. “And did it ever occur to you that everyone might be right?”

“Not really, no. Most times everyone is far from right.”

“Now and again it can happen.”

“Well, I told her to stay away from me.”

“That works every time, doesn’t it? I mean until the next time she shows up out of the blue.” Andy took a sip of his tea.

“Sarcasm isn’t always the answer, Andy.”

“Of course it is. Sarcasm is the perfect tool for talking to fools.”

“Are you saying I’m a fool?”

“You’re the one who chose to run for reelection instead of early retirement.”

“I’m a bit too young to retire, Andy.”

“Man has a job that requires gunplay and handcuffs, he’s never too young to retire.” The old man paused for a moment and his eyes softened. He held up his glass of tea in a salute and then took another sip. “If your daddy had listened to me, he might have actually gotten around to retiring.”

“It was a heart attack that took him, not a damned shootout.”

“Watch your mouth around me, boy.”

“Yessir.”

“Your daddy died of a heart attack, yes, but the stress of his job didn’t help.”

Carl nodded. Of course the fact that he ate as badly as Carl didn’t help either. Carl at least had the sense to keep up with his exercises. Next step he’d worry about eating healthier. One crisis at a time.

“So did you ever go to the old tent revivals around here, Andy?”

“Of course I did. Everyone did. That was what you did when I was growing up.” He snorted as he spoke and waved one hand as if trying to shoo away a fly.

“You believe those are still going on? I thought they were a thing of the past.”

“Carl, the past is exactly and precisely one degree away from you at all times. Some people bring it back for nostalgia’s sake, and others are just too damned stupid not to repeat it.”

“Well, we got a man named Lazarus Cotton who thinks tent revivals are all sorts of neat in the area. He’d done a couple of them in the last few months. Part I don’t get is how anyone could even consider the idea in this weather.”

“You act like hot weather is a new invention, boy. It’s been around for as long as there’s been a sun in the sky.” He spoke in a distracted way and then frowned. “Did you say ‘Lazarus Cotton?’”

“Yeah.” Carl nodded. “Pretty sure that was the name.”

“Must be a family name. I remember an old preacher by that name from when I was a kid.”

Carl grinned. “I guess it must be.”

Andy gave him the stink eye. “Watch yourself, boy.”

Andy pushed himself out of his seat with a bit of obvious discomfort and Carl made himself not worry. The man was up in his years. A bit of arthritis was almost a guarantee. He wandered into the next room, his fingers tapping at his chin as he looked over the books on his shelves.

“Thing about dealing with an old fart like me is I can probably find the proof to go with whatever claims I make. You should remember that, Sonny Jim.”

Carl raised his hands in surrender. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to me, Andy.”

“Hell I don’t. You’ll start thinking you know something more than me and that’ll lead to all sorts of crazy thoughts in your bony head.”

The old man kept tottering along slowly, tapping at his chin as he looked. After a couple of minutes he came back into the room carrying a rather large photo album. “Archaeology. It’s another way of saying I like to scrapbook.”

He set the oversized book down and started flipping pages. Carl looked at old pictures of Wellman from well before he’d been born as they flapped past at high speed. There was the town square, well before the new courthouse and government complex had been built; there was the Luxor Theatre, before it had been converted into loft apartments. There was the spot where the Rabbit Hutch Diner sat now, back when it had been a gas station and a Rexall pharmacy. The town kept changing. Some people called it progress. Carl wasn’t sure what he called it, but he didn’t always like it. Christ, he was starting to sound like Andy.

Andy stopped and pulled a couple of sheets of paper from one of the clear plastic spots for pinning photos in place. They were yellowed with age and Andy handled them carefully. When they were opened up completely he showed them to Carl and grinned that little I-Told-You-So smirk of his. “There you go, smart ass.”

They were cheap print jobs. One of them was for a tent revival back in 1962, the other from 1966. Both of them advertised the locations at different spots in the county and both of them were led by one Lazarus Cotton. There were no pictures of the man in question.

“Family name indeed,” said Carl.

“I remember him. He was all about the fire and brimstone. Do right by Jesus or suffer the consequences.”

“Well, we’re probably gonna meet the man tomorrow, see if he has any connection to a girl that’s gone missing in the area.”

“Didn’t strike me as the sort that kidnapped people. More like the sort that liked extra money in his pocket.”

“Well, maybe his grandson is a bit more into the romance aspects.” His voice was calm enough, all things considered.

“Now who’s being all sarcastic?”

“I learned from the best, Andy.”

“Shut up and drink your tea.”

“Only if you eat your barbeque.”

“That’s a deal.”

* * *

The sun had set by the time Carl got home. That was okay, he was feeling a bit better about life after seeing Andy. The old man always had that effect on him.

He slept peacefully and when he woke in the morning he got showered and ready for the day. After a quick cup of instant coffee he was out the door and ready to serve a few warrants. He’d be getting plenty of help on that front.

What he was not prepared for was the massive hole that someone had dug in his front yard in the late night hours. Carl looked for several seconds before he approached it. Seven feet long, four feet wide and nearly perfect along the sides. Looking down into that hole it was at least six feet deep.

Damned if it didn’t look just like an open grave.

There was no dirt anywhere around it. None. Just a hole carved into his yard.

How the hell did someone come along, dig the damned thing and not even leave a pile of dirt?

He wasn’t sure.

Just because, he called the crime unit boys out to take a few photos and look the area over. Then he headed for the office. It was going to be a very busy day.

There were warrants to serve on the Phillips family.

And then if all went well he and Wade would be stopping by an old church and having a chat with a certain reverend.

Some days it was good to be the sheriff.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Just tell me what it is that you want,” Paul Traylor said. He jerked at the ropes that bound his wrists and was rewarded with a twinge of pain. He had already rubbed the skin raw over the last few hours.

The man called Fry gave him a smile. “Nothing, sir. Nothing at all. In fact, like I already told you, I’m going to do something for you. You just have to be patient.”

Traylor slumped in the straight-backed wooden chair. He and Fry were in a bare room in one of the buildings behind an old country church. Fry had brought Claire and him there after forcibly taking them from their home. Traylor’s face burned in humiliation at the memory of his brief fight with Fry. He had always thought he knew how to handle himself, but Fry had easily dealt with Traylor’s attempt to defend himself, smiling that infuriating smile the entire time.

Traylor glared at the red-headed man. “Then untie me.”

“Can’t do that, Hoss. You might assault me again and then where would we be? Just stay calm for a bit longer. Almost dusk. Once evening arrives I’ll show you why I brought you here.”

“And after that you’ll let us go?”

“I will indeed. Won’t be any reason to keep you here after that.”

And I’ll go running to the nearest police officer. You are out of your fucking country-boy mind if you think I will let this slide. Traylor said, “Will you just let me talk to Claire, then?”

“At dusk, Hoss. Don’t worry. She’s fine. Do I look like the sort of man who would hurt a woman? Hell, boy, I wouldn’t have slapped you around if you hadn’t come at me.”

“You broke into my home!”

“Yes, well, the reverend says I have a problem with um... impulse control. Then again, he told me to bring you here and I don’t think you’d have come along just on my say-so.”

“If he wanted us here so badly why hasn’t he come to talk to us himself?”

“Reverend Cotton is a busy man. I expect he’ll be by before too long though.”

Maybe this is all a mistake. Maybe Reverend Cotton hired this backwoods lunatic without realizing how crazy the man was. With any luck, Traylor would be able to talk sense to the reverend.

Fry sauntered over to the window and raised the old-fashioned shade. “Guess it’s getting about that time. You just wait here nice and quiet and I’ll go get your missus.”

“Don’t hurt her. Please.”

Fry’s face took on a pained expression. “I wouldn’t do that, Hoss. You’ve got me all wrong. Back in a sec.”

Fry went out the door and Traylor began struggling with the ropes again. He had no better luck than on his previous attempts. The tough cords were bound tight. His feet were similarly bound to the legs of the chair, so he couldn’t even try to get to the door or window. How in the world had he ended up in this situation? What did Fry and his boss want? Fry kept saying they were going to do him a favor. What the hell was that all about?

Traylor heard footfalls outside the door and he stopped struggling. The door swung inward and Traylor breathed a sigh of relief as Claire came in. Her hands were bound behind her but she didn’t seem to have been harmed.

“Oh Paul,” Claire said. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, dear. Just fine.”

Fry stepped in behind Claire carrying a second straight-backed chair. He placed it on the floor beside Paul and told Claire to sit down. When Claire was seated, Fry said, “See? I told you I wouldn’t hurt her. You got me all wrong, Hoss. Right now I’m your best friend.”

“What are you talking about?” Traylor said. “You attacked us. Kidnapped us.”

Fry said, “All for a good reason. I’m about to reunite you with your little girl. How does that sound?”

“Lynn is here?” Claire said. “You kidnapped our daughter, you son of a bitch!”

“No ma’am, no. Wasn’t like that at all. Your little girl came to Reverend Cotton seeking guidance. He helped her find the Lord, ma’am, and she came here to escape the temptations of the world.”

Traylor suddenly recalled the flier he had found. In all the excitement it had slipped his thoughts. And Griffin had asked if Lynn had said anything about religion. Was that it? Had she joined a cult of some kind?

Traylor said, “You’re saying she’s here though?”

“Yep, just down the hall.”

“If you’re lying to me, or if you’ve hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

“None of that now, Hoss. She’s just fine. I’m going to go now and tell her to come see you.”

Fry stepped out and Traylor turned to his wife. “Do you think Lynn’s really here?”

“God, I hope so. She can untie us and we’ll all get out of this terrible place.”

Traylor wondered if things would be that easy. If Lynn was here she had apparently come of her own free will. Had she been brainwashed? He had heard of such things. And if so, would she be willing to help them escape?

The door swung open slowly and there stood Lynn. She was wearing jeans and a crisp white shirt. Her hair was brushed back from her face and she looked perfectly fine. Maybe things would work out after all.

“Lynn!” Claire said. “Oh, sweetheart. Thank God you’re all right.”

Traylor said, “Come and untie us, honey. Hurry before that crazy man comes back.” Lynn stood looking at them but made no move to approach. Had they drugged her? “Did you hear me, Lynn? Come and untie us.”

Lynn reached behind her and closed the door. Then she started toward her parents. Traylor smiled. Once he was out of the ropes he would find a way to get them away from this lunatic asylum.

“That’s the way, hun,” he said.

Lynn stopped directly in front of the two chairs and looked at her parents. Then she smiled a wide, wide smile, and Paul Traylor started screaming.

* * *

Carl woke extra early. Not because he had to, nor even because he felt the need to prepare himself for a day that would, as he’d later learn, be immensely difficult. No, he woke early because he wanted to. He wanted to savor a couple of cups of coffee, wanted to have a good breakfast and finally, he wanted to be as bright and alert as possible when he knocked on the front door of the Phillips household.

He needed to be as alert as possible.

Allan Chambers took a few of the best crime tech guys with him to the photography studio. They were ready and they hit hard. Carl knew they would, because Allan didn’t make mistakes. Not when it came to the big stuff. Everyone can screw up now and then, to be sure, but not Allan and not when it came to the sort of thing that meant prosecuting child pornographers. Why not? Because Allan had three beautiful little daughters. Even mentioning the situation to the man had him ready to draw a weapon and put several bullets through skulls. That was why he got to go to the studio before the place was open. There was less chance he’d be tempted to actually follow through with that particular desire. Allan preferred it that way, too.

So it was Carl, along with Nora Evans and Thelma McPherson and four other deputies to cover the house and Allan with eight more to cover the office. Nora knew where the computers were. Thelma knew how to properly frisk and interrogate the lady of the house. There was a little overtime involved this time around. He’d make it work out. You had to work fast with this sort of situation and they wanted all of the evidence bagged, tagged and catalogued before anyone outside of the teams knew what was happening. Any connections between the Phillips family and any outside influences had to be isolated, clarified and followed up on as quickly as possible to avoid the destruction of possible paper trails.

Corey Phillips and his wife were both still in bed when the warrant got served. Carl knocked once, waited exactly three seconds and then had Dave Osbourne hit the door with the battering ram. The door lost the argument. The Phillipses were still in bed and just starting to panic when Carl opened the bedroom door and served them the warrant.

Corey Phillips looked all kinds of terrified from the second Carl entered the room. His wife on the other hand? She only started looking scared when he showed her the warrant. All the calm and cool she’d offered up when he’d asked questions about her daughter Amber vanished as soon as she knew she wasn’t going to get out of the bed and manage to reach any other part of the house.

The fear on her face, in her eyes, that was what had set off his alarms before. She hadn’t been the least bit worried about her daughter. No kind of concern on the woman’s pretty face at all until she saw a piece of paper.

He was glad he brought Thelma along. Thelma would handle talking to the woman. Thelma was a damned tough woman – he’d seen her drop a few men bigger than him when she had to. But she was also a lot better at being calm than he was, even under the circumstances.

Always know your weaknesses and prepare for them. It was best to have Thelma there, because she’d stop him from pulling the trigger the same way he’d already stopped Allan.

Some people just need to get shot. It’s best to make sure there’s a reason before you start shooting. By the time most of the neighbors were out of bed and getting ready for work the worst of it was over. Most of the evidence had been collected and the loving parents of Amber Phillips were sitting in separate holding cells, waiting for a conversation with Allan Chambers and Chief Stack’s finest detectives. The GBI was likely going to bring someone in to have a little palaver with them as well.

That was just fine with Carl.

He and Wade had another warrant to serve. It was going to be one of those days.

* * *

A slow day at Baba Yaga’s. Charon didn’t mind the occasional off day. Her little business did surprisingly well, and her side business as a dealer in rare books, was booming. Besides, the lack of customers gave her time to do a little digging on Reverend Lazarus Cotton.

Seated at her desk in her small office in the back of the store, she kept trying different Internet searches on Cotton. So far she hadn’t turned up much. Griffin had said the reverend had moved from Florida to Georgia fairly recently. Charon wondered why the move. Since he seemed to operate independently of any governing body, it wasn’t like some church elders had transferred him.

The address of his former church was in Clearwater, Florida, on the Gulf Coast. Charon had taken a few vacations there with her folks when she had been a kid. She found a link to the Clearwater Herald and hoped the newspaper had a searchable archive. Bingo, it did. She typed in Cotton’s name and got half a dozen results. Most were articles about various revivals, but the last headline read ‘Church Fire Still Unsolved’.

Charon clicked on the article and read the contents. Apparently Cotton’s last Mount Zion Church of Faith had burned to the ground. The authorities suspected arson, but they didn’t have any leads. There was one more interesting bit of information. When the burning church had collapsed, it had sunk unusually far into the ground, as if the foundation had been very deep.

She bookmarked the article, then copied the link and emailed it to Griffin. Ah, Griffin. The man was fighting some inner battle, and he wasn’t telling her about it. She tried not to feel hurt about his lack of communication. One of the things that had drawn her to him was his brooding nature, but sometimes the strong, silent thing could be a bit much to bear. Still, he had become far more open in the time they had been together. She would just have to hope he would tell her what was bothering him.

Charon had learned to walk a fine line with Griffin about what he did and didn’t tell her. Cliché as it sounded, there were things about his past she was probably better off not knowing. Hell, she had a few skeletons of her own. Of course Griffin’s skeletons were often literal.

She knew that was part of what was bothering him. She could tell from things he said that he feared alienating Charon because of the things he had done. The things he still did.

That was what had happened with Beth, the woman who had once shared the same house that Charon currently shared with Griffin. But she hadn’t just been trying to make him feel better when she had called him the best man she knew. He stood up for what he believed and he never let his friends down. Yeah, he was a little scary at times, but Charon always felt safe with him.

She heard the shop doorbell jingle and got up and headed toward the front of the store. Enough introspection. Time to make like a grown up and earn a living.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Griffin sat in his living room, phone at his ear, listening to Carl tell him about his morning. Griffin had to fight the urge to seek out the people paying for the product the Phillipses were manufacturing and leave them all in pools of blood. He hated the term ‘child pornography’. It was a misnomer, giving the term a legitimacy it didn’t deserve. Pornography to some degree implied consent. Not in all cases obviously, but quite a few adults willingly created porn. There was no question of consent where a child was concerned. An image of a child involved in a sexual act was a picture of a crime. Period.

When Carl wound down, Griffin said, “That conversation I mentioned with Pete Blankenship may be coming sooner than I thought. Odds are when you get the Phillipses singing, you’re going to find a connection to Blankenship.”

“You’re probably right, Wade,” Carl said. “But don’t go off half-cocked. When it comes time to confront Blankenship, I want to be there. We’ll go together. Speaking of which, you feel like taking a ride up to the Mount Zion Church of Faith? I have a warrant all ready to go.”

“I do indeed.” Griffin smiled, remembering how the man Fry had refused to let him search the grounds. We’ll see about that Mister Fry. We surely will.

Carl said, “Think I should bring Thelma along? Just in case we do find the girl.”

Griffin considered that for a moment. “No, better make it just you and me. We might have to do something slightly illegal.”

“And wouldn’t that be a shame? Me being the Sheriff and all.”

“Scandalous.”

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour, Wade.”

“I’ll be ready.”

* * *

The sun cut blades of light through the caul of clouds that blanketed the sky, and pools of brightness lit parts of the road and the surrounding trees, a reminder that it was barely noon and not almost most time for the sun to set. The storm that had been threatening for the last few days looked like it was about ready to unleash a proper torrent, and the rumble of thunder not far away echoed a proper agreement.

They talked as they rode up to the church and Carl let Wade know about Tammy being in town and what he had decided to do. For just a moment he half expected his friend to pat him on the head and tell him he was a ‘good boy’. Happily that did not happen. It would have been a shame to shoot Wade. It would also be a shame to defend himself from Wade if he missed.

Simple fact of life: Wade Griffin was a scary motherfucker when it suited his needs. Happily they’d never been the sort to try killing each other. It went against the grain of their friendship.

Instead of risking life and limb Wade pulled a normal Wade stunt. Nodded and said, “About time, Carl.”

Carl returned the nod. That was pretty much exactly what he’d expected from his long-time friend.

Griffin pointed to the church’s parking lot and Carl pulled in and eyed the place. It was a small, whitewashed church with a couple of satellite buildings attached. Wade was right; they looked to be dorms or apartments. They could check them out after they’d searched the church if needs be. One step at a time, and from what Wade had said and what Carl could see, it was the Mount Zion Church of Faith that had the thick padlock and the chain through the reinforced doors.

“Not really standard equipment on most churches.” Carl looked toward the other buildings. The odds were good they were locked up tight as well. The difference was the bolt cutters in the back of his truck would handle the padlock with the greatest of ease. Proper deadbolt locks took a bit more effort. Push came to shove, there was still a battering ram back there, too.

The locked compartment in the back of the Ford gave up the bolt cutters and Carl slung the long-handled device over one shoulder. The warrant was in his shirt pocket.

There were no cars to be seen in the parking lot. Just Carl’s truck.

“Cheery place, isn’t it?” Carl squinted as a beam of sunlight prodded him in the eye.

“Oh yeah. Real homey.”

“Might have to see about booking this place when you and Charon get married.”

“We’re thinking about eloping. Saves all the fuss of decorating the church and renting a tux.”

“Thank God, because I hate weddings.”

“Well, then the good news for you is that we’re nowhere near that level yet.”

“You’re sounding a little defensive there, Wade.” One Cheshire-Cat grin was provided at no extra charge.

Griffin eyed him up and down, taking his measure. “Which knee was it you wrecked back when you played football?”

“Left one, why?”

“Just checking. Hate to hit the same one you already got fixed.”

“You wouldn’t hit a man in uniform, would you?”

“You wearing a uniform? Looks like jeans and a shirt to me.”

“You know damned well I never wear the khakis unless I have to.”

“I’m just saying, that doesn’t look like a uniform. Be a shame if someone mistook you for a civilian.”

“I got the hat back in the truck.”

“Too late now. We’re already to the door.”

“Why’d I bring you along again?”

“You didn’t bring me along. I allowed you to work as a consultant on my case.”

“So you’re paying me, Wade?”

“It’s like an honorary doctorate. It doesn’t really mean anything and it doesn’t give you any money.”

“That line used to actually work for me back in college.”

“Well, that was before you got the beer gut.” Wade flashed a shit-eating grin at him.

“Not funny.”

“It is from here.”

Carl looked at the padlock. Someone really, really didn’t want anyone getting into the church’s main building.

Just because he felt like being polite, he knocked. No one answered.

He looked to Wade and his friend nodded. They were both armed, they were both perfectly willing to deal with anyone who might not appreciate them going inside.

It was a good lock. Took all of four seconds to cut through the metal.

Wade went in first. Carl hadn’t really planned for that to happen – officially he should have gone first as he had the warrant, then again, officially he shouldn’t have a civilian going in with him so screw it – but Wade tended to do as he felt best and Carl seldom felt a need to argue with the man.

Wade took two steps into the building and stopped. Damnedest thing: someone had the air conditioner set so low in the place that Carl could actually see Wade’s breath. “What the hell? Cold enough?”

There was a small foyer that led to the main church. They were in that area and looking toward another closed door. It was from there the cold seemed to emanate. Carl stepped in next to Wade, could actually feel the air in front of him change temperature. Colder than it should have been, pure and simple.

Wade moved to the door and touched the handle. The door to the interior of the church was not locked. Wade moved forward, pushed the door open carefully and stepped into the main area. He took four steps and slowed to a standstill. Carl stepped after him and moved with a careful attention to all that he could see. And like Wade he stopped in his tracks, just as stunned by what he saw as his partner was.

The inside of the church was dark. The only windows were stained glass and the images were all dark red and blue, and the light from outside was faint enough that the images couldn’t even be deciphered with a casual glance. That was the only sort of attention the windows were getting from either of them.

The bodies sitting in the darkness of the church took away from the desire to look at the décor.

Wade was completely silent, his eyes looking at the same sight as Carl’s.

The pulpit was at the far end of the large room, emptied now, except for the large cross adorning the back wall. The cross was easily seven feet tall and almost five wide, and a wooden carved figure of Jesus Christ hung from the cross, hands and feet pinned to the cross by thick nails and a halo of stylized thorns cutting into his wooden brow. His mouth opened in a silent moan of sorrow, his eyes turned toward the heavens above and silently implored the Almighty to offer him mercy, perhaps, or at least some sort of wisdom. Whatever the case, the figure was gaunt and reflected a man who suffered the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

A double row of pews led from the raised pulpit toward the area where both men stood. The space between the pews was easily fifteen feet wide and led straight to where the effigy of Christ suffered perpetually.

The cold in the room was worse still, and the air was motionless. Carl wondered absently how it could be so damned cold in the room without even the hum of an air conditioner unit to break the complete silence.

There was enough space in the pews to handle perhaps a hundred people seated comfortably. Most of those seats were taken. From their perspective all Carl and Wade could see was the backs of the parishioner’s heads. For one crazy moment Carl tried to make himself believe the figures in the seats were mannequins – surely that would explain why they did not move, did not breathe – but the hair was too disarrayed, too imperfect to allow for that. The hair on those motionless heads was real, damn it. Hairspray, gray roots, false colors and all. Besides, who the hell would ever make mannequins that had receding hairlines and bald spots? No. They were not dummies or dolls. They were people.

But not a one of them moved. No one took in a breath of air or exhaled. No one coughed or shifted in their seats. They all, to the last, faced the crucified Christ.

Wade spoke very softly. “Not good. Not good at all.”

Carl nodded in agreement, trying to remember how to speak. The cold in the room. He was beginning to suspect he knew why it was there. There was an odor under the thin miasma of old incense. He knew the scent well, having been around it far too often in his time.

Death has a scent. It is neither good nor bad, though most would agree it was unpleasant. That smell was strong enough that even though Carl made himself breathe through his open mouth, he could still smell it. Oh, hell, he could damned well taste it.

A quick look toward each other and a mutual nod and the two of them started forward. They moved with light treads, as if afraid they might somehow wake the dead around them. That thought wanted to become a bad joke in Carl’s mind, the sort that becomes unpleasant laughter, that leads to just possibly screaming. Not one or two bodies. No, closer to a hundred of them. South of a hundred but north of eighty. Enough that Carl didn’t want to look, didn’t want to identify the corpses. Christ, how many of them did he know? How the hell did this sort of thing happen in his county without him knowing or even suspecting?

Gonna have to call this in. Gonna have to make some serious adjustments to the budget because the overtime for this sort of cluster fuck is going to be epic. He shook his head and made himself take a deep breath. His thoughts were trying to slide into the irrational zone. He couldn’t let that happen.

Wade wasn’t looking any calmer. Oh, most people would have seen the expression on Wade’s face and thought only that he was a man in control, calm and rational and downright chilly, almost as cool as the interior of the church that was refrigerating corpses – ha ha ha, isn’t that a fucking scream? But Carl knew better. He knew Wade’s face, his expressions, well enough to know that even the man who had dealt more than a few times in shady situations was not at all comfortable with their discovery.

They moved in unison, both of them looking at the dead around them, seeing the bodies, the nice clothes, the way that each corpse was positioned to look as if it were simply waiting for the Reverend Lazarus Cotton to step forward and start sermonizing. Maybe the bastard would tell them about the wages of sin. Perhaps he was the sort who liked to talk about why he was killing people and placing their bodies on display. Maybe he thought he was somehow saving the parishioners he’d murdered from some fate worse than death. Jim Jones had offered poisoned Kool-Aid for the Jonestown Massacre. What had Lazarus Cotton offered? Not a one of the bodies seemed to have any marks on them. A full autopsy would tell of course. And wouldn’t that be some hefty damned overtime? He shook his head. No. No time to worry about bills. This was too big. This was, well this was the sort of shit that would put Brennert County on the map for all the wrong reasons.

There was a family to his left. A pretty enough woman, a little round in the face, sat with a young boy on either side of her. To her right, not even seven feet from Carl and holding hands with the younger of the two children, a burly man was dressed in his Sunday best, his eyes staring at nothing.

His eyes were staring. The dead man’s eyes were open and staring.

Hadn’t they been closed before?

“What the fuck, Wade?” Carl heard the faint tremor in his voice and hated it.

“Something’s very wrong here.” Wade was sounding a bit shaky too. That made him feel a wee bit better.

Well wasn’t that a goddamned epiphany! He pushed the thought aside.

“Wade, I think there’s something really, really screwed going on...”

He looked to Wade for only a moment. When he looked back toward the loving family the father’s head had craned toward his voice and the dead man was looking right at him. The mother’s eyes were open. They had been closed, damn it! They had been closed! Neither of the children had stirred, but he could barely focus on them. Mother and father alike were doing the impossible.

“Carl…” Wade’s voice rose half an octave. He felt Wade’s fingers slap lightly at his forearm in an effort to get his attention. It worked. Carl looked right at him.

The interior of the church flashed into full color for a moment, the light so bright that both of them blinked their eyes at the sudden illumination.

And an instant after that the explosive BOOM of thunder shook the entire building and echoed off the nearby hills, bouncing back and forth like demonic laughter.

Carl didn’t actually piss himself, but it was close. His heart was hammering frantically to get out of his ribcage. Nothing doing. He needed it to stay where it was.

“Carl. We have to go. Now.”

Carl nodded. He didn’t quite trust himself to speak.

The sound of wood creaking, cloth rustling. Carl had looked away again and when he looked back the burly father was standing, looking right at him. The calm, expectant expression was gone from the man’s face, replaced by a deepening look of rage.

He could see the man well enough. He could see the lack of color in the skin, the slightly waxy translucency to the flesh that was a sign that blood was not flowing through the epidermis. He wasn’t an albino. He wasn’t pale the way the Blackbournes were. He was dead. His skin was a dead man’s skin. The flesh was cold and lifeless, but the man was standing up, heading for Carl and Wade alike.

Several of the dead people had turned their heads to watch as Daddy Dearest moved with slow, deliberate intent. He wanted a piece of Carl, a chunk of Wade. They were both too damned stunned to consider retreating, even though the man was moving slowly.

Carl shook his head and felt anger starting to swell irrationally in his chest, in his brain. “You’re dead. You hear me? You’re dead.” It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement of fact, a solid denial of the impossible.

The dead man did not seem to care. He reached out and grabbed at Carl’s arm.

Carl backed up a step and then drove his fist into the dead man’s face. He pivoted at the hip and slammed his knuckles against flesh that was even colder than the air. It wasn’t refrigeration. The cold seemed to come from the dead man’s skin.

He may as well have hit a brick wall. The man’s head barely even moved to acknowledge the force used.

The dead man’s expression shifted from anger to a nasty little grin. Dead Daddy spoke, his voice soft and low, barely above a whisper in the silent church. “Do you know Jesus?”

Carl took a step back.

Wade slipped in closer and drove his foot into Dead Daddy’s stomach and ribs. Simple rule: Wade Griffin kicks a man, the man feels it.

Dead Daddy didn’t seem to care in the least.

The dead man grabbed Wade’s wrist and tried to pull him closer. Revulsion clear on his features, Wade went with the motion and used the added momentum to drive his elbow into the man’s forearm.

Carl heard the bones in Dead Daddy’s arm break. He had no doubt at all that Wade felt the bones give way. The dead man kept grabbing, not the least bit concerned about the way the bones were jutting at an angle under his dress jacket.

Wade hit him again. Again. Again. Each time with just a bit more frantic desperation.

Simple rules should not get broken. When Wade Griffin hits a man, the man should feel it. Should stop. Should, goddamn it, let the hell go of Wade Griffin’s wrist. Dead Daddy refused to follow the rules. He hauled Wade closer still and might very well have done the man permanent damage, but Wade also knew how to break most holds a person tried to use on him and he twisted his hand and shifted his arm and slipped free from the grip. Carl could see the white, outraged flesh that had been gripped hard enough to force the blood from the surface for a moment.

Wade backed away, looking at Dead Daddy.

Dead Daddy looked back and moved toward them. His hands were ready for round two, his broken arm should have been dangling uselessly, but no one wanted to make him follow the rules, damn it, and he lifted that ruined limb without any show of effort and took another step toward them into the aisle.

A few rows ahead of them, another dead person was looking in their direction, one hand gripping the back of the pew as the parishioner started to stand, to come to the aid of Dead Daddy, as if the bastard might somehow need help.

Too much. Too damned much. Carl drew his pistol and leaned past Wade. Carl said, “Fuck you!” From four feet away he put three holes in Dead Daddy’s chest. The jacket kicked, cordite burned in the cold, cold air and Dead Daddy took another step toward them, not the least bit bothered by the lethal wounds that should, by God, have killed his sorry dead ass. His smile was bigger, meaner than before. It showed the changes to his teeth. They had to have changed because there was no way in Hell any man living in Brennert County had gone his entire life with a mouthful of knife-sharp fangs where regular teeth should have been. Every damned one of those pearly whites ended in a nasty looking point and the incisors looked like they belonged on a vampire bat. His eyes were wide open and he looked damned eager to get his dead damned hands on Wade and Carl.

Wade and Carl looked toward each other and then turned on their heels. The door wasn’t that far away and they needed to not be surrounded by dead people who were intent on adding them to their ranks.

* * *

Griffin hit one of the two doors with his shoulder and Carl slammed into the other, and then they were out in the daylight. It was still overcast, but compared to the interior of the church the sunlight seemed very bright. They went down the stairs and then Griffin turned to look at the doors. If these... people were what Griffin thought they were, then they wouldn’t come into the sun.

Griffin’s heart was still pounding and he was as close to blind panic as he could ever remember coming. He looked at Carl and saw that the Sheriff was staring at the door just like he was, hoping that it would stay closed.

Slowly the door swung open.

The burly man in the dark suit staggered out. He stood for a moment on the top step, his hand shielding his eyes. Then he caught sight of Griffin and Carl and grinned again, showing that mouth full of impossibly sharp teeth. He began to make his way down the stairs like a man wading through heavy surf. He was coming slow, but he was coming.

“Son of a bitch,” Griffin said. There had to be some way to stop this thing. Even the Moon-Eyes, for all their power, reacted to some forms of physical force. Griffin drew his .357, suddenly very glad that he had loaded it with hollow points. Maybe if he blew a limb off, that would do the trick.

The man took another step closer and Griffin aimed at his left knee and squeezed the trigger. The bullet tore a hole through the man’s pants leg and exited through the back of his knee. It should have blown the knee apart, but if the man felt any discomfort, he didn’t show it. Griffin put one more round through the same knee and got about as much reaction from it as the first. The man was still coming, and two more of his brethren had appeared from within the church. Time to get the hell out of Dodge.

“Head for the truck, Carl,” Griffin said, backing away so he could keep an eye on the man.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” said Carl, hurrying to the driver’s side.

The burly man seemed to be picking up speed, as if he realized his quarry was about to get away. Griffin fired off two more futile rounds and then ran to the truck. Carl already had the engine going and as he spun gravel, Griffin had a nightmarish moment where he was sure the truck was going to get stuck in the loose stones. But a second later, the truck went hurtling backwards. Carl wasn’t even bothering to turn around. He backed into the road and then wheeled the truck around and shot back down the narrow two lane roadway.

“Jesus,” Carl said. “What were those things?”

Griffin, who still didn’t seem to be able to take a proper breath, looked out the back window. The burly man had stopped in the driveway and was watching them go.

Griffin said, “I think they’re vampires.”

“They can’t be fucking vampires, Wade. They were sitting in the middle of a goddamn church. Big crucifix on the wall. And I thought vampires couldn’t move around in the daytime.”

Griffin shook his head. “I don’t know about any of that. But that mouthful of teeth on that bastard sure looked like a vampire to me. And those people were dead. They were just sitting there dead and then they woke up. We need to talk to Charon.”

“How about your buddy Decamp?”

“Out of town. Charon will be able to fill us in on what vampires can and can’t do. And more importantly she’ll be able to tell us how to kill those sons of bitches.”

“I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation,” Carl said. “Vampires, Wade? Vampires?”

Griffin looked over at his friend. Carl’s eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging open. On the edge. Way out on the edge. Griffin doubted if he looked any better.

“We’ve seen stranger things. Hell, maybe I’m wrong. I’ll call Charon. You get us to Gatesville without killing us on these mountain roads.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Carl pulled to a stop in front of Baba Yaga’s. The closed sign was in place, but Griffin could see Charon standing inside the front door, keys in hand. Griffin opened the door and slid out of the truck, almost falling as his knees buckled from delayed reaction.

He noticed Carl didn’t look too steady himself as the two men walked up to the door. Charon opened the door to let them in, then relocked it after they were inside.

“Griffin you look terrible,” Charon said, giving him a hug. “What happened?”

“Let’s go in the back and we’ll tell you all about it.”

“You don’t look so good either, mister,” Charon told Carl and she hugged him as well.

“Rough afternoon,” said Carl. “Don’t suppose you have any coffee, Charon?”

“Just so happens I made a pot when Griffin called and told me to lock up and wait for you two. Now tell me what’s going on.”

Griffin and Carl helped themselves to coffee and then Griffin gave an account of what they had witnessed in the Church of Faith. Carl pitched in whenever he thought Griffin wasn’t giving enough details, which was often.

Charon sat very still, and Griffin could almost see her mind working. When he stopped talking she said, “What is it with Wellman? First the Moon-Eyes and now vampires.”

“We were asking the same thing,” Griffin said.

“The Moon-Eyes have always been here,” Carl said. “The vampires are new, if that’s what those things were.”

Charon said, “From what you guys just told me, I think that’s the most likely scenario.”

Griffin said, “I didn’t think vampires could move around in the daytime.”

“And they were in a church,” said Carl. “All seated in front of a great big cross.”

Charon said, “Keep in mind guys, I’m theorizing here. I haven’t had any practical experience with vampires. I wish Decamp were back. But here’s the thing. Most of what people think they ‘know’ about vampires comes from Universal horror movies and the novel Dracula. If you go back to the original folklore, there are as many kinds of vampires as there are cultures.”

“I though most of the legends were European?” Carl said.

Charon shook her head. “No, they go way farther back than that. There was a guy named Montague Summers who wrote a couple of books about Vampires back in the early 1900s. He made all kinds of studies of folklore and he found accounts of creatures that lived on human blood as far back as ancient Greece and Rome. An idea like that, one that keeps resurfacing in every culture, has to have something behind it.”

Griffin said, “Even seeing what I just saw, I’m having trouble believing that vampires actually exist. I mean, wouldn’t someone know about them?”

“Someone probably does,” Charon said. “But look at it this way, sweetie. You and Carl not only ran into a pre-human race. You also came face to face with one of the Great Old Ones, and those aren’t supposed to be real either.”

“Girl’s got a point,” Carl said.

“Believe in one, believe in all, eh?” said Griffin.

Charon said, “Or at least be open to the possibility.”

“Okay,” said Griffin, “so say there is a church full of vampires in the mountains. What do we do about it?”

“I think the first thing we better worry about,” said Charon, “Is what they may try to do about us.”

“Meaning?” Carl said.

“You remember Griffin telling you a couple of nights back that something was casing our house?” Carl nodded and Charon went on. “We thought it might be the Moon-Eyes, but what if it wasn’t?”

“You think it might have been one of the vampires? How would they know where to find you?”

“I told them,” Griffin said. “I gave the man Fry my business card.”

Carl said, “Hmmm, in vampire movies, the vampire always has to have a living, breathing human to look after him during the day. You think Fry does that for the Reverend Cotton and his flock?”

Griffin said, “Seems likely. And since I was snooping around, maybe Cotton sent someone to check me out.”

“Question is, what might he send now he knows that we know his secret?” said Carl.

“That is indeed the question.” Griffin turned to Charon. “Your wards will keep vampires from entering won’t they?”

“They should stop any supernatural being, though I’m not sure a vampire could come in without an invitation anyway. That particular bit of folklore is common to most countries.”

“Then what was a vampire doing at the house?”

“Who knows? Maybe he was trying to get a look at us, or just checking security. Like you said, Griffin, they have a human being working for them. Maybe more than one. My wards won’t stop them.”

Griffin smiled. “If anything human shows up, I won’t need wards.”

Carl said, “Which brings us to the million dollar question. How can we kill these things? Wooden stakes? Silver bullets? What?”

“A lot of that stuff comes from movies too,” said Charon. “The only things I’m pretty sure will work every time are fire and decapitation. There may be more, but we need Carter for that.”

“So a head shot might have done it?” Griffin said.

“I think you’d have to blow the head off. I don’t think just shooting them in the head would do any good.”

“I got guns that can do that,” said Carl.

Griffin said, “Keep calling Decamp, Charon. Let him know we need to see him as soon as he gets back from wherever the hell he is.”

“My friend Andy is pretty up on his folklore too,” said Carl. “I’ll quiz him about vampires. He’ll probably tell me I’m crazy, but he does that anyway.”

“In the meantime, don’t invite anyone into your house, Carl,” said Charon.

Carl made a face. “Only people who’ve come to visit me lately are Blackbournes and ex-wives. At this point a vampire might look pretty good.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Vampires. Carl didn’t know if he should laugh, cry or scream. All three seemed like viable options. Eventually, tongue firmly planted in cheek, he decided the idea of dead people feeding on the living was rather soothing really. After all, if the dead could get up at any time and come chomp on a person’s neck, the occasional risk of an ex showing up to mess up your world seemed somehow less like a major event.

That mentality helped when it came to dealing with Allan Chambers. Not that he had any problem dealing with his second-in-command, of course, but it helped him keep his calm.

“How’d the interviews go?”

Allan coughed through the phone. “Not so great, but it could have been worse. Sarah Phillips lawyered up as soon as we got her in a room. Corey Phillips was heading in that direction until we showed him the pictures of his little girl we got from his computer at work. Then he started talking.”

“Did we get anything we can use?”

“Oh, yeah. But we’re gonna have to move fast. The missus of the household wants to get out.”

“Bitch can’t get out on bond if we don’t charge her. We have forty-eight hours to come up with charges. Make it linger.”

“Thought you might feel that way. Their lawyer is Louis Ives.”

“Yeah? You say that like I should know the name.”

“You should. Does a lot of work for Blankenship.”

Carl nodded slowly before he responded. Allan couldn’t see him nod, but some habits are hard to break. “Can’t say as I’m surprised. Not happy, but not surprised.”

“He’s making all kinds of noises.”

“Let him make noises. He wants to breathe any fire, tell him we’re looking at tax evasion and drug trafficking.”

“Are we?”

“No. But now and then I like to pretend I’m a lawyer and muddy the waters. While that asshole is thinking about how to handle those problems, we’ll get on the trail of the people they’ve been working with. Lean harder on Corey Phillips. Guilt him. Remind him we don’t know where his daughter is and let him know I’m probably going to look at this situation as him selling her to pay off some kind of gambling debts.”

Allan grunted. “You think that’s what happened?”

“I think it’s possible. I think it’s just as possible that Sarah Phillips is the one who’s got her nose into something she can’t get out of. She was the one playing it cool when Amber was reported missing. She’s the one that lawyered up.”

“I’ll see if I can’t break him.”

“Make sure you have someone with you at all times and keep the cameras rolling. No gray areas. Got me?”

“Got you.”

Carl killed the call and pulled into Andy’s driveway.

Andy was delighted to see him and puzzled by the second visit. Andy was one of the very few people who knew something of what had happened with the Blackbourne clan. That meant he was slightly more open to insane notions.

By the time he’d covered the basics of the story about the church, Andy had poured them both a new glass of iced tea and made cold ham sandwiches to boot. Despite the firm belief that he would never have an appetite again, Carl wolfed down two of the sandwiches.

Andy looked at him over the edge of his glasses. “There’s an old phrase about congregations of the dead in the Bible.” He stood and wandered over to his shelves again. Instead of actually pulling a volume off the shelves he tapped a couple of books as if referencing them through contact alone. “You tell me about a church full of corpses, I can’t help but think about that quote. But the interesting thing is that it’s a matter of translation. Some of the versions of the Good Book call it a congregation of the dead and others refer to the same quote as a gathering of the Rephaim.” The old man was moving into lecture mode, and Carl settled back, once again drawn by the strength of the man’s speech when he was talking about the subjects closest to his heart.

“What are the Rephaim?”

“I’ll get to it, Carl,” Andy shook his head. “You lack patience.” Carl nodded sheepishly. “There are a lot of phrases that are lost in vagaries. The original term is ancient Hebrew, I believe. The problem there is that the language as written had no vowels, and that means some terms get muddled. We don’t know exactly what was meant because the people who wrote the words down the first time might have assumed everyone would understand, might have misspelled something, or might have simply used a term that no longer exists. One of the possible translations refers to the Rephaite – possibly the same root word as a race of giants the Israelites had to run out of the Promised Land when they got there. Another possible translation refers to recently-dead kings and long-dead kings. Got another that says it’s a race of people who spoke in a language that sounded like buzzing to the ears of most people.”

Andy paced back into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. “I had many a conversation with an old colleague of mine, man named Crowley, about all sorts of supernatural jibber jabber back in my day. That man loved to go on about the nature of things that go bump in the night. He was the one that told me a slightly different definition of the Rephaim that runs back to the Bronze Age. We’re talking well before Christ came on the scene. I point this out solely because you said there was a cross on the wall and they were in a church and you’re all worried about Hollywood and Stoker and why Christian paraphernalia isn’t affecting the monsters in question.

“Well, Crowley once told me there were as many types of vampires as there were races of people or species of dogs. Not really a comforting thought but maybe he’s right. If he is, you might be dealing with a species of vampire that simply does not fear religious icons or any particular god. I’ll keep it simple as I can, but the Gilgal Rephaim refers to a burial site in the Golan Heights area, and that particular burial site is possibly the start of the legend I’m referring to. As I said, there’s a goodly deal of time distortion to consider. But the Rephaim, if they come from there, would possibly refer to ghosts or spirits, in particular ghosts or spirits that were hungry. Which could be another name for vampires.”

Carl shook his head, trying to make sense of what the man was saying. “Want to dumb that down?”

“Son, that is dumbed down.” Andy cast another withering look at him. “What exactly did you study in college, boy?”

“Law enforcement, martial arts, criminal psychology and a few dozen other subjects you probably never considered.”

Andy nodded, as if the smart ass answer was the best possible response. Carl decided that was a victory.

“Good for you. Now then, I’ll go ahead and lower it to the idiot level for you. You said the vampires, if that’s what they are, were not hurt by bullets or by getting bones broken. So what you might be dealing with would be something more along the lines of a hungry spirit. Remember, there’re a lot of vagaries and you’re dealing with something that has little or nothing to do with the more typical ‘European’ vampire as described by Bram Stoker and adopted and then bastardized by Hollywood. There are no sparkling vampires here, is what I’m saying.”

Andy sat back in his seat and took a bite of his sandwich before continuing. “If these are more like ghosts or spirits, then the same rules that apply to ghosts and spirits from the Middle East might better apply. No crosses. No holy water. Sunlight wouldn’t necessarily kill them or make them catch fire if that’s even a real part of the standard legends. Instead it might weaken them, or make them need to rest. You said the ones you saw seemed dead until they took notice of you. That might explain why. They are nocturnal in nature but not necessarily any more allergic to sunlight than most people are to moonlight, if you see my point.

“The area I’m talking about was allegedly used as a burial site. There’s evidence of tombs there, but no one ever found so much as a single bone to show that anyone was actually buried. It’s possible that if vampires are real, they might have originated there and moved on after, well, after whatever made them into vampires happened to them.” He shrugged. “Who can say? We’re dealing with hypothesis here. At any rate, let’s go back to the concept of hungry spirits. Some legends say that running water will stop a ghost. Some say salt will do the trick. I’ve heard legends of vampires being taken out with wooden stakes, same as you, but some say it has to be a particular type of wood, often with religious significance. If that doesn’t work, try cold cast iron, which is also supposed to have an effect on spirits.”

Andy crossed his arms and got that disapproving look on his face again. “Carl, son, am I talking for my own benefit?”

“I’m sorry?” Carl sat up straighter, suddenly feeling like he’d been caught cheating in class. Andy could do that to him.

“I’m talking for your sake, boy. Take notes.”

Carl nodded and Andy went over the details with him again. “So another friend said beheading might work?”

“That’s another fairly typical response to ghostly assaults. Behead or desecrate the corpse. Also, sometimes, that could mean the spirits are tied to certain locations, like where they were buried, so you might want to look around for a cemetery near the church.”

Carl wrote as quickly as he could. And when he was done, Andy was staring out the window.

“You think there’s anything to the whole idea of invitations, Andy?”

Andy nodded without even bothering to look back his way. “Oh, I don’t doubt that one for a second.”

“No?”

“No. That man I told you about, Jonathan Crowley. He once told me there are always rules the supernatural must follow and that one of the reasons there are still people left in the world is that a lot of the evil things out there have to be invited into your home or your heart before they can do any harm.”

“Makes it sound easy.”

“Oh, no, son. It’s not easy at all. Humans still don’t need an invitation to cause damage. They can just do as they please.”

Carl shook his head. “That’s why we have laws.”

“That’s why we have you, son. You and the rest of the police.”

“So who polices the monsters?”

“Well now, I guess maybe you do these days.”

“Think I can demand a raise?”

“Good luck with that.”

Carl saw the man still staring out through his window and frowned. “Are you okay, Andy?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I was just thinking I should pull in my Welcome mat. You know, just in case.”

Carl nodded. “I’ll take care of it on my way out.” He also thought he’d pull the one from his own threshold, and maybe burn the damned thing while he was at it.

* * *

The sun had set and Carl had finished a late-night meal of cold breakfast cereal and two boiled eggs before the knock came at his door. He answered with caution in his heart and a .357 held at the small of his back.

The man standing on his porch was not familiar to him. He was a stocky man, solidly built and dressed in clothes that would have worked just as well back in the 1940s or 50s. The man had a fringe of hair around the sides of his head and a bald pate, a broad, friendly face and a faint smile plastered on his generous mouth.

The stranger gave a small nod. “Good evening, Sheriff. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”

Carl stared at the man for several moments, not quite sure what to make of him. He looked more lively than the people Carl had seen at the church with Wade, but he didn’t know if that was because the man was actually alive or if the vampires looked different in the night. He wasn’t sure if he was staring at a regular man or someone else, but whatever the case, he got an unpleasant shock when he looked the man in the eyes.

“Most times people can reach me at my office. How can I help you, Mister…?”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m being rude. I’ve had a very distressing day, you see. My name is Lazarus Cotton. I’m the reverend at the Mount Zion Church of Faith. Something has happened to my parishioners, and I was hoping I could discuss the matter with you personally.”

The reverend looked at him with dark eyes, an expectant half smile on his face. Under a lot of circumstances Carl might well have invited a stranger in that position into his home, but not this time. Two people he trusted had warned him against that notion and he intended to listen.

“You certainly can. Why don’t you come by my office tomorrow morning.”

“Well, I just thought since I was here…”

“You’ve caught me at a bad time, Reverend Cotton. I’m afraid I can’t help you just now.”

The man stared at him for several seconds, his face locked in an expectant expression. Clearly he was not at all used to being denied.

“Are you sure I couldn’t come in for just a moment?”

“If you absolutely have to speak now, you can do so from where you are. My house is a mess just now.” Carl allowed a tight smile on his face and wondered if the bullets in his weapon would have enough kick to take the man’s head off. It was an idle curiosity. He wasn’t foolish enough to consider the idea on his property, not unless the man got in his house somehow, and according to what he’d heard that couldn’t happen without an invitation.

Hell would freeze solid first.

For just an instant the façade of congeniality broke and the man in front of him sneered, an ugly expression that made him look more likely to kill than to try pleasantly conversing. Carl read that without any problem at all and felt his finger twitch on the trigger. Damn, but he was tempted.

“Perhaps I’ll see you at your office, then, Sheriff.” He smiled. The teeth, Jesus, the teeth. There was nothing kind about the expression on the dead man’s face.

“You have a nice night, Reverend.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt it will prove fruitful.” Hatred boiled off the man despite the pleasant words. “God be with you, son.”

Carl merely nodded before he closed the door.

Then he called Wade and let him know what was going on. He hated this.

There was nothing right about the situation. Not a damned thing.

* * *

Griffin sat at his desk in his Gatesville office. The night had passed without incident, despite Carl’s call. Still, he’d thought it wise to drive Charon to the shop, then spend the day in Gatesville. The vampires, or whatever the hell they were, knew where he lived and doubtless they knew about Charon. For that matter, so did Pete Blankenship. It was a little after ten in the morning, and Griffin figured he would get some paperwork done and then pick up some lunch and take it to Baba Yaga’s.

But the various forms and files he had planned to sort all sat untouched on his desk. Griffin kept thinking about Paul and Claire Traylor. They had hired him to find their daughter and now they were missing as well, and it was a good bet they were in the hands of Reverend Cotton. Odds were all three were already dead or undead. And others would follow if somebody didn’t do something. He had the seriously bad feeling those somebodies would have to be him and Carl Price.

Griffin heard the doorknob turn and he lifted the Beretta from where he had placed it on the desk and lowered it below the desktop, out of sight. Two men came in. The first, who had thinning blond hair and the beginning of a beer gut stepped to one side of the door and leaned on the wall. The second, a muscular fellow in a bright blue Nike t-shirt walked to within five feet of Griffin’s desk and stopped.

“You Griffin?” Muscles said.

“That would be me, yes.”

“Got a message for you from Pete Blankenship.”

“Ah. How is Pete? Haven’t seen him in forever.”

“You being a wise-ass or something?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Griffin could see a bit of color in Muscles’ face. Temper, temper.

Muscles said, “Maybe after I give you the message I’ll kick your ass.”

“Unlikely, but go ahead and tell me what Pete wants.”

“He wants you to back off. Leave his people alone.”

“Or what?”

“Or we kill you.”

“You personally?”

“If Pete says so, yeah. Don’t think I can’t do it. I heard what you did to Tadpole, but I ain’t Tadpole.”

“No, you’re not. You have a lower forehead and you’re more of a mouth breather.”

“That does it, asshole,” Muscles said, reaching for the small of his back.

Griffin raised the Beretta to where Muscles could see it. Muscles froze. Griffin stood, where he could see Blondy clearly and said, “You packing too?”

Blondy nodded. Griffin said, “Where.”

“Same as him.”

Griffin said, “Turn around and lift up your shirt.”

“The fuck I will.”

“One more chance and then I shoot the both of you.”

“Do what he says, Clancy,” Muscles said. “Pete says this fucker has killed a lot of folks. Two more ain’t gonna bother him.”

Clancy turned slowly and lifted his shirt with his left hand. He had a holster on the back of his belt with a shiny 9mm of his own. Griffin said, “Lift it out and drop it on the floor. Try to turn this way and I’ll kill you.”

Clancy did as he was told and then Griffin told Muscles to do the same. When both guns were on the floor Griffin walked around the desk. He had Muscles go and stand by Clancy and then he picked up both guns. He did a quick pat down to make sure neither man had a hideout gun or other weapon, then told them to turn around.

“Don’t think this means anything,” Muscles said. “We can get more guns.”

Griffin walked back to his desk and put the two guns into the bottom drawer. He said, “I’m sure you can.” He removed the magazine from his Beretta and put it in his pocket. Then he popped the last round out of the chamber and put the gun on the desk. He walked back to where the two men stood. “Now, I believe you were going to kick my ass?”

“You unloaded your own gun,” Muscles said.

“I did.”

Muscles looked at Clancy. “See? Pete said this guy was crazy.”

The look away was supposed to make Griffin drop his guard. Muscles turned back swinging, throwing a straight right. It was a good punch. Nice and fast, and Muscles got his weight behind it. Griffin swayed to the side and slapped the punch away with his lead hand, then whipped his rear hand up and over so that the bottom of his fist landed on Muscles’ nose, exploding it into a spray of blood and cartilage. He shoved Muscles backwards into Clancy, who was trying to launch a punch of his own. The two men went down together.

Griffin walked around to the side of the fallen men and kicked Clancy in the face as he was trying to rise. Clancy groaned and slumped back to the ground. Both men were still conscious, but neither could get up unaided. Griffin dragged them into the hall. “I’m sure you guys can see yourselves out. Tell Pete I’ll be in touch.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Paul Traylor awoke to darkness and the smell of damp earth. But no, darkness wasn’t exactly what he was seeing. He knew somehow that the space he was in was without light, and yet he could see. Traylor sat up. He was in a wide, long space, interrupted every once in a while by wooden supports. The ground below him was dank, dark earth.

And he wasn’t alone.

He could see the forms of other prone bodies lying all around him. He couldn’t tell if they were sleeping, drugged, or dead. How had he ended up here? It all came back in a rush. He had been tied to a chair in a room in one of the outbuildings at that church. Claire had been there as well. Then Lynn had come in and he had thought she was going to help him, and she had grinned and he had seen...

Her teeth. Oh God, her teeth. Lynn had shown Claire and him a mouthful of sharp teeth, like porcelain daggers. And then she had leaned over him, his little girl, and he had felt those teeth at his throat and he had screamed and then... nothing. Only darkness. Then he had awoken here in this dark, vile-smelling place. And he was hungry. God, but he was hungry.

Traylor heard footsteps above him and then a crack of light appeared in the ceiling. The crack grew wider and Traylor realized someone was opening a trap door. The light flooded in and Traylor noted that it didn’t hurt his eyes. That seemed wrong somehow. Two men were looking down at him from the rectangle of light. One was Fry, the man who had kidnapped him. Traylor didn’t know the other man. He was somewhat chubby, with a round jowly face and a mostly bald head.

“Come up, Brother Paul,” the bald man said. “Three days have passed since you were given the Lord’s blessing and like Him you have arisen from the grave. Come up, son, and give thanks to He that has delivered you from the darkness into eternal life.”

Come up? How the hell was he supposed to come up? The trap door was a good ten feet above him. Weren’t they going to throw down a ladder? Traylor got to his feet, and somehow, without really thinking about it, leaped up through the trap door, landing in a crouch on the floor above. He was in the sanctuary of a church.

“Well done, son,” the bald man said. “The spirit is strong within you.”

Traylor looked at the man. “What... what happened to me?”

“Like I said, Brother Paul, you were given the gift. Now you can join my flock. I am the Reverend Lazarus Cotton, and the Lord has worked through me to bring you into his Kingdom on Earth. ”

Traylor was suddenly aware of Fry. The man seemed to be radiating heat. Traylor could feel it coming off of him and he could feel something else. Not just feel it. Taste it. Smell it. The man was full of what Traylor hungered for. Traylor took an involuntary step toward Fry and the man swept a long, black spike into view. It seemed to be made of iron and in contrast to the warmth he felt emanating from Fry, the spike seemed to burn with a cold, blue fire.

“No, Brother Paul, no,” Cotton said. “Fry is one of the faithful. We never drink from the faithful, but only from those who dwell in sin.”

“I’m hungry,” Traylor said.

Cotton said, “Of course you are. You have fasted for three days and now you have come back to the world, but it is a far different world than the one you left, because now you are one with the Lord. And the Lord will provide, Brother Paul. Ask and it shall be given. Come. Walk with me, son.”

Cotton turned and started toward the front of the sanctuary. Fry closed the trap door and slid a heavy rug over it. Cotton stopped in front of the pulpit. A man lay on the floor in front of a small railing, which circled the front of the church. His hands were tied and he had a wad of cloth jammed in his mouth and secured to his head with a strap. His eyes were wide and full of fear. Traylor could smell the man’s sweat. More importantly he could smell the blood in the man’s veins.

Reverend Cotton said, “This man is an unbeliever. A sinner and one who has turned his back upon the Lord. But even men such as he have a place in the kingdom of God. Come, Brother Paul. Kneel here beside me and take communion with me.”

Cotton dropped to the floor next to the bound man with surprising agility. The man began to struggle and his eyes grew even wider. As Traylor watched, Cotton opened his mouth and it seemed the reverend’s lower jaw distended farther than should have been possible, and within that gaping maw, Cotton’s teeth grew long and sharp. Cotton drew his head back and then lowered it quickly, closing those knife-like teeth on the throat of the struggling man. The man gave a muffled scream and jerked around in agony as blood began to spurt from around Cotton’s mouth.

Cotton lifted his head and looked toward Traylor. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth and he said, “Drink ye of this, for it is my blood, which is shed for many for the remission of sin.”

Traylor could smell only the blood now, see only the blood. He hunched forward, and felt his own mouth gaping impossibly wide. The bound man’s struggles were growing weaker and Traylor lunged forward, sinking his teeth into the torn flesh of the man’s throat.

Through the roaring in his ears, Traylor could hear Cotton speaking. “This cup is the new testament in my blood. This do ye as oft as you drink it, in remembrance of me.”

Traylor drank deeply.

* * *

The night was ending soon and there was much that needed to be done. Lazarus Cotton stared at the church and shook his head, felt his lips press together with an anger he hadn’t actually felt since he’d come back from the dead.

Oh, that had been a glorious revelation indeed. He did not lie when he said he’d been a sinner. He most assuredly had. Whoring, drinking, gambling, beating down anyone who crossed his path, stealing. His was a litany of sins that stretched across years, possibly even decades.

His father had been a grafter, and Cotton was born into the family business. The only reason his father kept him initially was because a man with a baby automatically won a certain amount of sympathy. To this day he did not know how his mother had died – though he had a few suspicions and most of them revolved around his father’s temper – but he’d heard a hundred different tales of woe that his dear daddy shared with anyone who was willing to listen and especially the occasional lonely housewife. After all, the old man sold bibles door to door. How could he possibly be a bad man when he sold copies of the Good Book? Oh, how easily Cotton had lied back in those days. How easily he’d ignored the word of the Lord and the many opportunities he’d been provided.

To look at Cotton these days few would know that in his day he’d been a womanizer. He had forsaken that life of course, and even if he hadn’t there was no desire for fornication left in him. The need to share his seed with women was gone, taken when he was given a second chance at life. That seemed to be the case with most of the brethren. He felt that was merely a sign of righteousness.

Oh, yes, he’d lived a life of sin.

Cotton wandered the perimeter of the church, sniffing the air and taking in the scents of the vile men who had come here and tried to hurt the faithful. They had not made it to the brick buildings where he kept the uninitiated. That had now been handled. There were no new acolytes left. All had been given the blessings of the Lord. Can you say Amen?

They were resting now, would continue to rest in their safe places until the appropriate time had passed and the essence of the Lord came into them. Three days his namesake had been dead. Three days Jesus Christ rested in His tomb. How could anyone expect less time in the darkness than that?

He’d been in Savannah, Georgia, when he was saved. Four days on a drunken binge, and he’d lost everything he had to a group of men who wanted to take what was his without permission. He fought, he lost. And while he was crawling in the mud near the edge of the Savannah River, bleeding from a deep wound in his stomach and two more in his back, he begged God for another chance. Perhaps a chance at revenge, but most assuredly another chance at living, a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of the Lord.

And the Lord answered. The Beggar that came upon him was a thin man, pale and wretched, surely the exact sort that Jesus took to his breast and said would inherit the Earth.

The wretch looked at him and said, “Thank you for this. I love you.” And then he attacked. And three days later the man who renamed himself Lazarus Cotton arose from the deep muck near the river. The world that had been so unkind in his last years was new to him. He could see as never before, could understand the beauty of the world as he never thought possible.

The Beggar waited for him. Told him what he needed to know, and then left. He never saw The Beggar again.

But he found the men who took from him.

They were the first to fall before his wrath. They had fallen upon another, a woman this time, and they’d had their way with her. The pigs were still having their way when Lazarus came upon them. They did not finish their vile works.

Seeing her broken, bloodied, and crying in the alleyway, Lazarus understood what he was supposed to do. He gave her the same glorious offering of Christ that he had been given. He offered her salvation. She accepted gratefully.

Sometimes Sister Hope still wrote to him. She spoke of the great work she was doing in the Lord’s name down in Mexico. He was glad of it, grateful to her and to God Above for the blessings offered to him that he then shared. She wore the habit of a nun, because the Catholic faith was prevalent in Mexico, but she preached the truth, same as he did.

The Lord was kind.

Still, the Lord helped those who helped themselves. It was time to make a few changes.

He thought of the craven Sheriff who would not step from his house when Lazarus came to see him. He thought of the man named Griffin, who had led the Sheriff to the church. Griffin had not been home when Lazarus had dropped by.

A mere trial offered by the Lord. Another obstacle for the righteous. God offered tests and Lazarus Cotton did all he could to pass those tests and show that he was worthy of the blessings bestowed upon him by his Savior.

They were as ready as they could be. The sun was coming up.

Fry would have to be elsewhere. So much to do.

So very much to do.

“Praise the Lord. Praise Jesus. Amen.” Cotton’s fists clenched together with enough strength to bend steel. The bones within his thick hands creaked from the force but he never noticed.

The Lord had taken away the pain that he and the brethren suffered.

The Lord was kind that way.

Amen.

* * *

“Griffin, it’s Martha Lewis,” the voice on the phone said. Martha was a waitress at The Biscuit House, a local greasy spoon. “You know that guy you said to watch out for, the one called Tadpole? He’s here now.”

“Is he alone?”

“No, got a couple of folks with him. Looks like a mother and daughter. I don’t know them.”

Griffin said, “See that it takes a while to serve them. I’m on my way.”

“I’ll put Denise on their table. Takes her forever to do anything.”

Griffin turned off the phone and checked the time. Coming up on four in the afternoon. He could be at The Biscuit House in ten minutes if traffic was good. He hurried to the garage and was soon trundling down Highway Five. He kept the windows up and the AC blasting in the truck. Humidity level was like ninety-six per cent. If they didn’t get some relief soon people were going to start drowning in the open air.

Griffin recognized Tadpole’s SUV as he pulled into the parking lot of The Biscuit House. Putting Martha on watch had been a good plan. He had also alerted several other people at local eateries. Guy like Tadpole, in his role as procurer, would start by trying to get in good with a potential young target’s mother. Take her to lunch. Buy her some gifts. Make her think he was interested. Step two would be to start spending a lot of time at the target’s house. Just like he had done with Irene Chandler. But Tadpole wasn’t going to get to step two this time.

Griffin got out of the truck and crossed through the humid air to the front door. Once inside he ignored Martha Lewis so that no one would know she was his source. He spotted Tadpole in a booth near the back of the place. He was sitting by a slightly heavy blonde woman and across from a younger, slimmer version of the same woman. He was grinning at the girl, probably telling some tall tale. The grin faded when he saw Griffin.

Griffin walked up to the booth and slid in beside the young girl. He said, “Hey Tadpole. How goes things?”

Tadpole sat very stiff. He licked his lips and said, “What do you want?”

“Who the hell is this?” the blonde woman said in a high-pitched voice.

“Oh I’m a friend of Tadpole here, ma’am,” Griffin said. “Well, friend might be too strong a word. Saw him sitting here and just had to come over and say hi.”

Tadpole said, “Well now you’ve said it. You can go.” He was trying to sound tough and failing.

“Tadpole,” Griffin said. “Is that any way to talk to me? I go out of my way to be friendly and this is what I get. So, were you telling these ladies about your hobby?”

“What hobby?” said the older blonde.

“Oh you know. The one where he cons underage girls and their mothers and then sells the girls to low-rent brothels to have sex with older men.”

“Let me out of the booth, Tadpole,” the woman said. Her eyes had gone wide.

“Don’t listen to him Lisa. The guy’s out of his mind.”

Griffin said, “No, do listen to me Lisa. Tad wants to fuck your daughter, then turn her out so lots of other men can fuck her. He’s done it to plenty of other girls before.”

The girl beside Griffin had started to cry and Lisa was trying to get past Tadpole and out of the booth. She said, “Let me out you sick bastard! Let me out!” She managed to get past, and Griffin slid out of the booth to let the daughter go, keeping an eye on Tadpole as he did so. The man wasn’t likely to be carrying a gun, but ‘not likely’ got you killed in Griffin’s line of work. Lisa grabbed her daughter’s arm and practically dragged the girl toward the door.

“Pete’s going to kill your fucking ass.”

“Pete’s not here, Tad,” said Griffin.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I was considering shooting you and dumping your body in Tatum’s Swamp.”

Tadpole’s eyes widened and Griffin could see sweat beginning to slide down his face. “You wouldn’t do that in here. There are witnesses.”

Griffin smiled. “You have to leave here sooner or later. But don’t worry. It’s too hot and you stink too damn bad, so for now I’m just going to keep seeing that you don’t recruit any more girls.”

“Pete ain’t going to like this,” Tadpole said.

“I’m counting on that.”

Griffin walked back toward the door, ignoring the stares of the startled diners and keeping an eye on Tadpole. Tadpole sat very still. Pete Blankenship would indeed not like this. He’d already shown his displeasure at Griffin twice. Be interesting to see what he would do now. Griffin hadn’t meant to get involved in any of this. All he had wanted to do was find Lynn Traylor. But that was before he had seen what Blankenship and his people did to girls like Irene Chandler. He still hadn’t saved her, but he wasn’t going to let a piece of shit like Tadpole victimize anyone else. He was still trying to do things Carl’s way. But if that didn’t pan out, there was always Tatum’s Swamp.

* * *

Six in the goddamned morning and the phone rang. The thing about being sheriff, about working any sort of emergency work, is that you are seldom off duty. You never know when an emergency is going to pop up. Lot of people took that with a grain of salt. Carl did not have that option. And those who worked for him and failed to respond properly to emergency calls often found themselves either unemployed or wishing desperately they hadn’t pissed off the Sheriff of Brennert County.

He saw Tammy’s name on the caller ID. “Yeah?” His voice was raspy.

“Carl?”

“It’s me, Tammy.” Who the hell else would it be? Mike Perkins? Was that the name of prick she cheated with? It had been a long time ago and he’d been trying to forget. Trying and mostly failing.

“I need you.”

“You have an emergency situation, call the office, Tammy.” He sat up in bed and felt his stomach twist and turn and seethe. How could she do that with a damned phone call? How could she cripple him that fast? How in the name of God had he ever given her that sort of power over him?

“I don’t need a sheriff, Carl. I need you.” Her voice broke and his heart echoed the gesture. Damn her.

“No, honey, you don’t. You made that real clear to me.” His voice shook and he hated that sign of weakness almost as much as he hated her at that exact moment. Almost as much as he loved her.

“I do. I was wrong. I do need you.”

He closed his eyes and kept them closed. “Well, that really sucks. I’m sorry, Tammy, I am. But I guess maybe I’m over you. I’m done with this.” He ended the call and then turned his phone down to mute.

The sun was not up, but it was heading in that direction. Carl got dressed in his running shorts and t-shirt and then pulled on his sneakers. He made it to the driveway before he saw the headstone parked in his yard, lined up with the six-foot threat, but in comparison to some of the other shit going on in his world, it just wasn’t that scary.

Unless someone had dropped a body in there. Yeah, that got the blood running a little colder.

“Shit. Now I gotta go check.” He sighed the words and then walked carefully over to the hole, looking cautiously down into the depths. Nothing. Just dirt. He breathed a bit easier.

The jog was off. Instead he went back inside, called the office and told them he needed another CS unit to come print the headstone, just in case anyone was dumb enough not to wear gloves. On the one hand it was only vandalism, but on the other it was also an implied threat against a government official and despite not wanting to, he had to take the threat seriously.

Bullshit and more bullshit. There was always something. Still, he needed to not think about Tammy. And there was that whole congregation of dead people wanting to eat living people to consider.

Yeah.

That needed to be attended to. So he called Wade.

Wade answered on the second ring. “You up?”

“I am now.” Cranky. Wade was being cranky. That was allowed.

“Need to go back to that place we were at yesterday. I have a few things to discuss with you in private.”

Wade was not stupid. He got the idea. “See you there in around an hour?”

“We can meet and head over there together if you prefer.”

“I’ve got a few things to finish up with, Carl. Let’s meet there in an hour.”

“You got it.”

They met an hour later. Wade looked like maybe he’d slept a little less than usual. That was nice. Carl hated to feel like he was ahead of the curve.

Wade walked over carrying a bundle in a blanket. The bundle made metallic rattling noises.

Carl nodded and pointed to the bottles he’d filled with gasoline. While the two of them chatted, he took the lids from the bottles – carefully separated within a crate – and stuffed rags in their tops. He worked with evidence gloves on his hands, because you never know.

“Thought we might have a barbeque.” Carl looked toward the church as he spoke.

Wade unrolled the blanket, revealing the machetes inside. The blades had recently been sharpened. “Thought we might need a little something. Just in case.”

Carl nodded and then thought about Tammy and spat. “Ready for this?”

Wade looked at the building that sat like a bloated toad in the sunlight. “Nope. So let’s get going.”

Carl reached for the crate of bottles. “Got a light?”

Wade nodded. Neither of them smoked. Both of them normally had a lighter. Because, really, you just never know when you might need a fire.

* * *

Griffin fished the lighter out of his pocket but then stopped short of handing it to Carl. When Carl shot him a puzzled look, Griffin said, “It’s the Traylors. I’m wondering if they’re here somewhere.”

“If they’re in that church you know what they are now,” Carl said. “Best thing we can do for them is put them out of their misery with the other poor bastards.”

“Yeah, but what if they’re still alive? They could be in one of those outbuildings.”

“I suppose so. Guess we better have a look. But let’s make it quick, Wade. I want to get this over with.”

“Same here,” said Griffin. Together the two men crunched across the gravel parking lot. The day was turning into another scorcher. Griffin could hear the buzz of insects in the surrounding woods, an incongruous sound, too normal by far considering their errand.

As they passed the church Griffin saw that a new chain and lock had been put on the door. Good. Maybe that would make things easier. They rounded the corner and came to the first of the two outbuildings, the one built like a dorm. Griffin figured if the reverend had any living guests, this was where they would find them.

The front door was closed but not locked. Griffin hefted his machete, then swung the door inward and stepped into the dim hallway. Even as he entered, Griffin knew they wouldn’t find anyone. The building felt empty, the way an abandoned house feels empty. Still they made their way through the place, looking in all the rooms. The building was definitely a dorm. Many of the rooms held cots and chairs and small tables. None of the rooms were occupied.

They left the building through a side door and checked the other structure. That took even less time as they could see right off that the place was mostly used for storage.

“Satisfied?” Carl said.

“Yeah. Let’s do what we came here to do.”

They walked back to Carl’s truck and Griffin handed Carl his lighter. For a moment Griffin wondered why Carl had bothered with the Molotov cocktails when Griffin could have brought some more serious explosive, but almost as quickly he realized the answer. There would be no tracing a bunch of broken bottles. Anyone could make one of these deadly little missiles. And they were about to break the law. Again.

“I’ll light and you throw,” Carl said. “We want to hit the place with several of them quick.”

Griffin nodded and pulled on a pair of cotton gloves. Carl lit the first cloth fuse and Griffin grabbed the bottle, whirled, and sent the cocktail straight through one of the dark stained glass windows. In rapid succession he threw four more, each spinning through a window. The fifth he lobbed at the front of the church in case anyone tried to come out that way.

The first would-be escapee lurched through one of the windows Griffin had broken. He was a tall, lanky man with brown hair. That hair was ablaze and the man was howling as he stumbled away from the church.

Griffin said, “You ever decapitate anyone, Carl?”

“No.”

“Not as easy as it looks. These machetes are very heavy and should get the job done, but you have to strike hard and fast. Best if you can get a slight downward arc to the swing.”

“I don’t want to know how you know that.”

“No, you don’t.” Griffin rushed toward the lanky man. The man heard him coming and looked up. He hissed, showing a mouthful of teeth like razors. Griffin lunged and made a cut just like the one he had described to Carl. He felt the blade shudder as it hit bone, but he twisted his hip, getting his weight behind the stroke. The vampire’s head rolled from his shoulders and the body toppled.

“There’s another one!” Carl yelled.

Please don’t be a kid. Please.

A second man came weaving out of the acrid smoke. Griffin could feel the heat washing off the church in waves. All that old wood was going up fast. Griffin leaped at the second man, aiming at the side of his neck. The second vampire must have seen Griffin coming because he jerked aside at the last moment.

Griffin’s cut came in at a bad angle and though the machete bit deep, the head wasn’t severed. It dangled at an impossible angle as the vampire aimed a backhanded blow at Griffin’s face. Griffin rolled with it, but the impact still sent him sprawling.

The vampire staggered after him, eyes gone pale and jaws working spasmodically. A second later Carl drove his own machete into the same spot Griffin had hit and this time the head rolled.

Griffin scrambled to his feet. “Thanks, man.”

Carl gave a short nod. He stared at the machete as if unable to believe what he had just done.

The old church was blazing high now and Griffin thought he could hear a high pitched screaming over the roar of the fire, but that might have been his imagination. He hoped it was. He kept thinking of those people, sitting in the pews in their Sunday best. He and Carl watched for a long time, but no one else came out of the church.

Carl walked as close to the fire as he could get and tossed the last of the Molotov cocktails into the blaze, turning his head as the homemade bomb went off. Then he stripped off his gloves and threw them into the flames. Griffin did the same.

“Think that did it?” Carl said.

“We can only hope. Charon seemed sure that fire would kill a vampire.”

“Doubt if we got all of them. I’ve got a bad feeling that Cotton wasn’t among his flock,” Carl said.

Griffin said, “Still got most of them. That buys us some time.”

“The gravel will keep the fire from getting out of hand, but I’m going to call the closest fire department. When they get here, you and me were out for a ride and we saw the smoke. When we got here we were too late to do anything.”

“That works,” Griffin said. “What about the bodies?”

“What bodies?” said Carl nodding to where one of the vampires had fallen. Nothing there now but a pile of ashes that were swiftly being dispersed by a fire born-wind.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Deep down in the cold shadows, locked away from where anyone would ever easily find him – even Fry, whom he trusted with most things – Lazarus Cotton lay as still as the grave.

But inside, oh, locked away from the world and hidden by those same frigid shadows, a rage bloomed within his heart.

Had anyone seen his cold, dead body where it rested, they’d have thought the Reverend Cotton at peace. They would have been so very dreadfully wrong.

For now there could be nothing. For now he was silent and still.

But sooner or later, as was always the case, the sun would set.

Can you say Amen?

* * *

The lights were on. The shades were drawn, but the lights were on.

She took no comfort from that fact.

“I did what you asked.” Her voice hitched as she spoke, and the breath she let out afterward was a long, shuddery affair. Had she ever cried so much in her entire life? She was not certain. It surely didn’t seem she could have.

“I know.” The hand that caressed her forehead was cool and soothing and she closed her eyes for a moment and merely listened to the calm voice and felt the gentle, nearly loving touch. “I know you did. I’m grateful.” The hand vanished and she opened her eyes. The look of disappointment was enough to wound her. “But it wasn’t enough.”

“Please. Please, please, please…” Her vision broke apart, lost behind the broken prism of falling tears. Hot streaks ran down her face.

Another voice. The voice of the one with the brutal scars on his face. “Should we… I dunno. Should we clean her?”

There was a long pause and two of them lifted her from the ground, holding her arms with too much strength to be ignored. She wanted to struggle, but knew it would do no good. They’d done something. Given her something. Or maybe it was the way she’d looked into her eyes. There was something there. Something not right.

“No.” The tiniest shake of the head and she wouldn’t even look at her any more. “No. I think the tears add… authenticity.” How the Hell could she be amused? Didn’t she understand how much this hurt?

“So what now then?” Scar-face’s voice chilled her to the core.

One last look over the shoulder. She felt control start edging back into her muscles but it was a slow process, like waking from anesthesia.

“Just let her go.”

She did not fall far. But it was enough.

Oh how she kicked, how she struggled, but it was already too late and she knew it.

And she hated it.

And she hated that he was the last thing she thought about when it was all said and done.

* * *

It’s all processes, isn’t it?

Carl nodded and waved for Allan Chambers to take the lead. Allan wanted this, badly, and Carl could understand that.

Two knocks, loud and proud, and a bellow of “Sheriff ’s department! Open the door!” Then the sound of people scrambling. Always with the trying to get themselves together. Bob ‘Burly’ Campbell hit the door with the battering ram and blew the damned thing inward. No surprise, no one was waiting on the other side to let them in.

In a lot of the movies the guys inside would have been wearing suits and playing poker, maybe smoking cigarettes, drinking whiskey and looking like proper underworld thugs.

Instead they got four men who were dressed in baggy pants and shirts that were layered to help them strip out of one outfit into the next in an effort to blend in. Like wearing five different shirts in the hellish heat wasn’t a sign they were up to shit.

There was a back door and one of the losers tried for it. Chief Stack was waiting for him. He didn’t take the loser down gently. Stack had two sons, no daughters, but he had nieces he adored. They were the right age for these bastards to consider.

The rest of them scrambled around, trying to hide evidence, or possibly reaching for weapons. Whatever the case, Carl stood in the threshold and watched his people take them down hard and fast. There was maybe a little roughness to the frisking, but nothing got too out of hand. Carl would have stopped them if they got to the point where they were risking the warrant.

Corey Phillips didn’t know who was in charge of much, but he knew the address of one of the bastards who took his daughter.

There were no girls in the apartment, just four losers who were half-baked on pot and drinking cheap beer straight from the bottles.

When all four of the little darlings had been cuffed and their faces were pressed to the side of the hot brick exterior of the apartment, Carl pulled out his little card and recited their Miranda rights to them very carefully. Two white men. One Hispanic. One black man. Looked like trafficking in kids was an equal-opportunity trade.

He resisted the urge to line them up and shoot every last one of them in the balls. “Looks like it’s going to be a busy day for you, Allan. You up to it?”

Allan looked at the men and a slow, unkind smile spread across his craggy face. The deputy nodded slowly.

“Burly?”

“Yeah, Carl?” Burly looked down at him. Physically. Burly was a very respectful man, just really, very big. Not Frank Blackbourne big, but big. Carl liked to look at Burly as a damned good example for why he needed to stay in good shape. Burly looked like he could maybe eat a bear for breakfast.

“You wait for Nora. Then you follow her through every last room in this place. Anyone comes around, we’re going to answer the door just as politely as we can. If anyone decides to try running, I want you to very politely knock them on their asses and cuff them.”

Burly nodded grimly. He didn’t have a sadistic bone in his body, God love him. “Got it.”

“And Burly?”

“Yeah, Carl?”

“Try not to completely knock the doors off their hinges, okay? We have to pay for the damage we cause.”

Burly looked around sheepishly. “Yeah. You got it. I can fix it. Honest.”

“That would make my day a lot better right now, my friend.”

“On it.”

Two minutes later Burly was squatting and repairing the damaged hinges while another deputy held the door in place for him and strained and sweated in the heat.

Four arrests. Four more chances to lead on to the next connection. Sooner or later the line would lead to Blankenship or someone else just like him.

The storm clouds were still piling higher and higher in the hot, dank air above. Sooner or later that cloud was going to break and the rains were going to come down like the wrath of God.

Kind of the way Blankenship was going to try to come down.

Carl patted Allan on the shoulder and moved to speak to Chief Stack. “Bob, I’d say that was a clean one.”

Bob Stack nodded. He was not happy. Then again, Bob wasn’t exactly known for his beaming smile. “Good and clean.”

“Gonna help Allan with the interrogations again?”

“If that’s okay with you, Carl.”

“I never complain about help, Bob.”

The man looked at him and his brown eyes stared into Carl’s for a few seconds. “Well, you doing this? It means a lot to me.”

“Bob, it’s my town too. I want it safe, same as you do.”

“Well, I keep thinking about—”

“So we’ll make sure it isn’t them. Never is. Not as long as we’re here. Yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay, Carl.”

There was a lot to do. Carl looked around the dingy living room and the littered kitchen and shook his head.

One little step. Blankenship was going to be pissed. That thought made Carl’s day just a little better. He’d savor that later.

After the storm finally broke.

* * *

Griffin had far too much time to think on the long ride home from the church. He had failed the Traylors and it bothered him. It wasn’t some stupid private investigators code, or at least he didn’t think so. It was just that he had promised to find their little girl and he had failed. Failed keeping Paul and Claire Traylor alive too. He felt almost certain the entire family had been inside the old church. Maybe he and Carl had done them a favor. Who could say?

His cell phone chirped. Not his regular phone. The other one. The one he had been carrying since the business with Blankenship had started. Griffin slid the phone from his pocket and spoke.

Without preamble, the expected voice said. “Couple of Blankenship’s men followed your girlfriend to her store today.”

Griffin felt a knot of ice in his gut. “They still there?”

“Nah, sat and watched the place for a while, then left.”

“Okay, I’ll head over there anyway. They might come back.”

“What do you want me to do if they come back before you get here?”

“As long as they just watch the store, nothing.”

“If they try to go in?”

“Kill them.”

“How about I just kill them anyway? I got their license number. No problem to find them.”

“No. I’m trying not to do things that way anymore. My friend Carl wants to bring Blankenship in by the book.”

“Been tried before. The guy’s got a Teflon hide.”

“Have to let Carl try.”

“You going to do anything about Pete sending the goons to watch your woman?”

“I am.”

“You want me involved?”

“I do. But for now, just keep watch until I get to Baba Yaga’s.”

“I’m on it, boss.”

“Never doubted it.”

* * *

When Carl got home the hole in his front yard had been filled and the headstone was gone. Sometimes it was good to have connections. Lyle Harper over in the county roads commission pulled a string or two and the next thing Carl knew the hole was gone and there was even some fresh sod over the spot. It might live, it might die, but at least it was better than a damned hole in his yard. The last thing he needed was some damned fool tripping through his yard and breaking a leg or worse.

“Crap. I sound like Andy. ‘You kids stay offa my lawn’.” He chuckled briefly and then got down to the serious business of resting a little. He was tired. Very, very tired.

Still, alarms were set, certain weapons were set out. He’d pissed off far too many people not to be a little cautious.

And some of the people he’d pissed off were dead and not at all pleasant to deal with.

His mind was racing and it felt like something was missing. Something was wrong. More wrong than dead people moving and having to set a church on fire. Just the thought of what his grandmother would have said about setting a House of the Lord ablaze was enough to make him fidgety, but this?

Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

He checked his phone. No new messages.

The alarms were set. The back-up generator was where it belonged. Was he paranoid to have a generator? Not as far as he was concerned. Too many nasty-ass storms in the past and the simple fact that as the county sheriff he’d managed to piss off a lot of people made him exactly as paranoid as his father had been, and that meant that back-up gennies were a fine idea. Just as right as rain.

After several minutes of mentally cataloguing what might be wrong, Carl gave up and decided to go about his business as usual. In a perfect world that would have meant going to bed. In the real world that meant checking his emails, logging in on the server from the Sheriff ’s Department and filing a few reports, and checking in with the office to make sure the world hadn’t ended while he wasn’t looking.

It hadn’t.

Somewhere out in the night the Reverend Lazarus Cotton was probably up and moving. Carl lay down on his couch – having already decided it was still too early for bed, thank you – and as soon as he closed his eyes he saw the man’s dark eyes, his smile full of too many sharp teeth, and felt his eyes pop back open.

Nope. It wasn’t Lazarus. It was something else. Not what had happened, but what was missing.

He couldn’t place it easily. Hell, he couldn’t place it at all. The knock at his door was unexpected, but not completely. He rose, checked his pistol and then checked the door. “Yeah?”

He’d half expected to hear the good Reverend again. In the long run, he might have preferred it.

Bob Stack spoke through the door. “Carl?”

“Bob?” He frowned. “What’s up?” He opened the door and again his mind flashed on a dozen unpleasant possibilities. Was the Police Chief being held hostage? Had he somehow managed to get himself bitten? Carl hadn’t warned him, hadn’t warned anyone. What could he say? By the way, fellas, be on the lookout for bloodsuckers tonight? Not likely.

Bob was a big enough man, leaner than Carl, but a tall drink. He looked small standing on the porch and blinking away the sudden glare from the porch light and Carl opening the door.

The man shook his head. His face was long and sad and Carl felt his stomach freeze because whatever it was, he knew in his heart that the Reverend Dead Man was suddenly not the worst thing in the world.

“Carl, I got a call. There was an anonymous tip.” He was looking damned worried about a phone tip. Bob looking worried made Carl worried. Bob was a professional. He was very, very good at shutting out the nonsense and staying focused on the job at hand.

“Bob? Did something happen to Cheryl? Is everything okay at home?” Crap, if something had happened to Cheryl or the boys…

Bob shook his head and set his lips for a moment.

“Carl, I know that you and Tammy...” He looked down. He looked at Carl’s feet and then at the wall and then at the porch railing, at damned near anything he could because he did not want to say the words. Carl understood. He’d made the same gesture enough times. “Damn. I know you and Tammy are divorced. I know. But I needed to tell you. I wanted to let you know. She’s dead, Carl.”

Oh yes. Oh, my, yes that was much worse than the dead reverend. Carl felt himself stagger back as surely as if he’d been punched in the chest with a sledgehammer.

“What?” His voice was too small. He couldn’t get a damned breath. He couldn’t make himself speak up and he wasn’t at all sure that Bob could hear him speaking.

There it was; misery and pity and grief all rolling together on Bob’s face. He’d been at the wedding. He’d been one of the voices of reason when Tammy left. Good old Bob had been there, hadn’t he? Just as steady and solid as a man could be. Tammy and Cheryl had been friends for a long time, and there had been a lot of dinners for the two young couples back in the day.

“Jesus, Carl. I’m so sorry.” His mouth moved a few times but no words came out. Maybe it was Carl’s hearing? Was that it? Was the sound of his pulse too much to let him hear the man speaking or was there something else?

“I can’t hear you, Bob.” Well, no, it wasn’t his hearing. He could hear himself a little better now and that was good. He was afraid he’d lost the ability to speak along with his hearing for a second there.

“She hanged herself!” The words were loud and clear that time and Bob looked a little surprised by how loudly he was talking.

“What did you say?” Hanged herself? How the hell could she do something that damned stupid? Her daddy needed her. He didn’t have anyone else. Her mom was gone almost four years now and Carl hadn’t spoken to the man in even longer than that. He hadn’t attended the funeral because, really he didn’t know if he was supposed to attend funerals for ex-mothers-in-law and no one ever told him if it was good form or if it was considered rude and how was he supposed to handle it? How the hell was he supposed to handle any of it?

Shit. Was he going to have to take care of her funeral arrangements? He didn’t know if her old will was the latest one or not. He’d never gotten around to changing his when they divorced. It never seemed all that important and—

Shock setting in. He shook his head and bit the inside of his lower lip. Yep, that did it, the pain flashed through his head and cleared away that damned ringing noise. “What the hell do you mean she hanged herself? Are you sure?”

“Goddamn it, Carl, I saw her body myself. She hanged herself.” Oh, Bob was a wreck. Cheryl and Tammy were still pretty tight. They’d been friends all the way back in elementary school. Small towns made that possible. Not like the big cities. Not like where Tammy had decided to go off to.

Carl tried to move and his legs refused to budge a damned step. Fighting vampires? Piece of cake. Got to stop a mountain of flesh from calling down the apocalypse? You got it. Need to handle the ex cacking herself? Fuck no! You just stay right where you are and freak out.

“That’s not goddamned funny, Bob!”

“Carl. I’m so sorry. I always thought. We wanted you two to get back together so much.”

There was Bob going and being an ass again. Even Carl knew they’d never get back together. Tammy moved to get away from him. Moved and found a new guy and a new life as far from Wellman as she could manage. Not a chance in hell.

What was that noise?

Bob’s hands were on his shoulders and the fool was blinking his eyes and looking like he was going to cry.

And Carl shook his head. Not goddamned funny, Bob. He meant to talk, he wanted to talk, but he couldn’t get any words to work. And that noise, that whining noise was there, coming from his throat instead.

Not that it mattered. Not much did.

He’d told Tammy to go away. Told her they would never be together again and how he couldn’t help her any more.

His mouth finally worked, but the words were mumbled. If he hadn’t been the one speaking he might not have heard them himself. “Got the last word on that one, didn’t you honey? Got me good on that one.”

Bob didn’t hear. He was too busy apologizing again, like somehow it was him and not Carl that had let Tammy down and let her go and hang herself instead of listening when she said she needed help.

No. Fuck that. He shook his head. Not his fault. He had too much else to deal with. There were dead things out there that wanted to take a bite out of him. Wanted to chew into his neck, maybe, or possibly just cut him apart. Helluva day, burned a church, busted a few pedophiles, cut a dead man’s head off and now Tammy went and hanged herself.

Yep. That did it. Carl fell on his ass on the hardwood floor leading to his front door. He dropped the pistol and stared out the door, barely even aware of Bob calling his name.

Off in the distance the sky bellowed out a black, guttural roar of thunder. The way that thunder bounced and echoed off the distance hills made it sound just like laughter.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The weather wasn’t any kinder the next morning. A little after ten Carl sat on the tailgate of his truck and Griffin sat with him, the both of them nursing exactly one cold beer apiece. Neither had ever been drinking machines; drink too much you lose control. You lose control and damned near anything could go wrong and catch you when you weren’t prepared. Life had long since taught them both it was best to be ready.

That was part of the problem, of course. Life had come along and blindsided him when he was looking elsewhere.

The river chattered away contentedly to itself and the sunlight danced from along the ripples and waves and shot beams of itself at both of their faces.

Neither paid the sunlight much mind.

“Thing is, I don’t know if me going to see her would have changed anything.” Carl paused and took a sip of his Sweetwater Ale. “I mean, she called again and this time instead of coming running I told her to leave me alone and the next thing you know…”

Wade nodded and looked out at the water, squinting against the glare. “You can do that if you want. You can sit there and play what if, but what’s it going to do for you?”

Carl didn’t answer. He was thinking. So Griffin answered himself. “You could have gone over and held her hand. And then one thing would lead to another and you’re in bed together and you’re getting together again and everyone’s happy for about three months.”

Carl nodded, closed his eyes, wished Wade would stop, but Wade, being a true friend, did not.

“And then your job leaves you out late, or she sees something that she wants that’s out of the budget, or because she’s a damn fine looking woman someone catches her eye and says the right things and the next thing you know, it’s you calling her and asking for help and she’s not there. Again.”

Carl nodded and took another sip.

Wade paused and took a swig of his own. “She was never strong, Carl.”

“I thought she was stronger than that, Wade. I mean damn, suicide…”

Wade nodded. “I wouldn’t have thought it either, but her dad’s sick, she’s back here without a guy in tow, so that went wrong. Maybe it was just a weak moment. You said it yourself, man, most times suicides are spur of the moment. Given a chance most of them would only try that once.”

“Statistics from a book. Doesn’t mean shit right now.” Carl said the words but they both knew the words were a lie. He was hurt and he was disappointed and he was angry and he was blaming himself, even knowing Wade was right, there was a process that had to be finished.

“Yeah. I know. Just like you know you didn’t do this. She did. Just like she’s the one that dumped you and came back and dumped you again. How many times were you supposed to let her sleep around before it became an issue?”

Carl stood and walked his empty beer bottle over to the trash receptacle set up at the edge of the small scenic detour and picnic area. Technically it was against the law for him or anyone else to drink an alcoholic beverage in the area. He didn’t much feel like writing himself a ticket. Still, he wrapped the bottle in a paper bag to make sure no one else got any ideas before he dropped it.

The alarm on his phone buzzed three times and he reached for it, shut it off. “Thanks for listening, Wade.”

Wade nodded and threw his beer bottle toward the trashcan. Two points. It never even touched the sides. “Got somewhere to be?”

“Yeah. We’re going to be serving about, oh, fifteen or so warrants between the Sheriff’s Department and the Wellman PD. Corey Phillips rolled over on a few guys and they rolled over on a few more. Time to put a hurt on some child traffickers and porn merchants.” The smile he flashed was not kind. “Who says due process never works?”

Wade held up his hands in surrender. “Not me. I’m just an innocent bystander.”

“I’d let you come along if I could.”

“And I’d take you up on it.” Wade’s eyes looked toward the river one more time. “But I have things to handle, too.”

“Funeral’s in two days. I’ll shoot you the details.”

Wade nodded again and headed for his own vehicle. “Talk to you soon.”

* * *

Carl drove, resisting the miniscule paranoia that told him his beer was going to get him killed, or get someone else killed. That voice, damn it, was always there reminding him of his responsibilities. Sometimes he wished it would shut off, but that voice – so much like the voice of his father – was never one to quit pointing out his flaws and weaknesses.

Except Tammy. Damned if it didn’t just ignore that noise all the damned time.

He shook his head and pushed the voice back down. There would be time for that later. For now, a little adrenaline. He cranked the radio and found a station playing a little of the harder stuff. Classics, too. AC/DC’s Bon Scott started screaming about the highway to hell and Carl felt his lips press together. Time to move on.

They weren’t far from where he needed to be, just exactly far enough away that he could have a few moments of peace before everything blew up again.

Nine warrants for different locations. The day was about to get very hairy. Pete Blankenship was not on the warrants. Carl’s best wasn’t that good, not without a lot more manpower and a lot more hours in the day, but he was okay with that. Blankenship would be handled soon enough, but for now what he wanted was to hurt the man’s wallet. There were a lot of people on the task force for the sting and they were all of the same mindset. It was fine to get Blankenship, but there were priorities. Finding out there was an actual circuit for underage prostitutes was bad enough, but finding out that it was running out of Wellman and out of the county? Not to be snobbish, but one expected that sort of shit in the big cities where damned near anything could happen. Brennert County was supposed to be too small for that sort of madness.

And if it wasn’t, well, Carl would have to see about fixing that. It was part of the job.

He pulled into the station’s parking lot and headed for the back door. Everybody was already there and waiting for him. Bob Stack looked at him and nodded. He didn’t have to use any words. He asked with his expression: is everything okay? Can you do this?

Carl nodded yes to both, and Bob was satisfied. No nonsense though, there were things that had to be done this time around. Body armor, appropriate weapons, helmets, etc. No chance for anything to go wrong.

He let Bob and Allan do the assignments and signed off on them. They knew who was where better than he did and, frankly, he might let himself get distracted if he focused on the details. Today he was a grunt. Today he didn’t want to be the leader. He wanted to break some heads.

It’s always best to know what’s on your agenda before you start.

He got lucky. He drew the assignment with the most violence.

* * *

By the time it was all said and done most of the warrants were served with no real problems, but the best laid plans usually have a few issues, don’t they? Carl was given the task of heading into a virtually unknown situation, with Allan and three others from the Sheriff ’s Department. Allan was in charge and everyone knew why. The Sheriff said he was good to go and no one wanted to argue, but everyone also acknowledged that he was under a bit more pressure than most times.

Not too far away from Crawford’s Hollow but up the side of the hill that marked the edge of the same, was a winding access road. According to the paperwork the land belonged to Dwight Jennings. According to the taxes filed on the place, Dwight Jennings was alive and well. There was a metal gate at the edge of the property. It wasn’t in the best shape, but it had a lovely sign that said ‘Private Property. Keep Out. No, really, we mean it’. Judging by the tracks leading to the gate, not a lot of people listened.

The Brennert County Sheriff ’s Department did not listen, either. The gate was blocked. The heavy-duty assault vehicle the Sheriff ’s Department had seized two years earlier did not care in the least about the gate and battered right through it.

There were many circumstances where the risks behind that sort of sign would have warranted a few dozen extra men, but as luck would have it, one of the four men they’d interrogated the night before was a frequent shopper at the facility. There were around five men up at the old ranch-style house. They were there mostly to make sure the fifteen or so girls who were forced to service ‘guests’ did not try to leave without permission.

Two of the men had guns. One of them was foolish enough to consider drawing his. Carl drew first and shot the man in his forearm. He’d been aiming for the chest but Trigger Happy was trying to decide who to shoot first and moved enough to avoid being killed for his troubles. Two of the men were still stupid enough to attempt to flee the scene. It did not go well for them.

When the girls were located at the brothel, they were mostly asleep and recovering from the previous night. If a one of them was over the age of fifteen, Carl could not spot her.

Despite a powerful desire to unload his weapon into each and every man there, Carl still managed to call Allan off before anyone got too brutalized. DFACS was called in, and so was the GBI. The GBI was looking at each individual girl’s situation as a potential kidnapping. It only took a little while to learn that none of the girls were actually local to Brennert County.

Amber Phillips was not among them.

Corey Phillips was not going to learn his daughter’s fate that day, if ever. He had turned evidence in the hopes of getting his little girl back safely.

It was not his lucky day.

Carl’s luck was better. There were cell phones and computers confiscated before the local losers could get to them and destroy any files. There was also a task force just waiting to start a serious search of all the appropriate files.

By noon the raids were done and forty-seven men and women had been arrested. Because of the nature of the crimes they were charged with, Mike Lazenby pushed hard to have the bail raised into the exorbitant range.

Judge Emmet Walton was a long-standing member of the community, and he’d been a good friend of Carl’s father and grandfather alike. It was just possible he realized Carl needed a win after the day he’d had. Maybe he was taking a harder stance on crime than he usually did or was even considering his strategies for the next term’s reelection. Whatever the case, he agreed with Lazenby. The bails started at a quarter of a million dollars. None of the higher-ups in the group were going to get anywhere close to that. Not that it mattered in the immediate future, of course. The raids were scheduled on a Friday morning and the processing procedures were just possibly slower than usual at the Sheriff ’s office.

The judge did not consider any of the cases until the next Monday and by then a few things had changed again.

By then Carl and Wade had attended the barbeque.

* * *

Pete Blankenship was famous for the barbeques he threw the last Sunday of every month during the summer. He invited most of the people who worked for him along with the occasional county employee or celebrity. There was always plenty of food, plenty of booze, and plenty of free tail. Pete was just a fun-loving guy.

Griffin parked his truck on the lawn of Blankenship’s house among a couple of dozen other vehicles. He killed the ignition and looked over at Carl Price and said, “Ready to go in?” Carl looked around and squinted against the glare from the sun. Second day in a row the sun was behaving and showing up to let people know that sunlight was still around from time to time. But there were clouds building on the horizon, gathering columns of darkness that towered like mountains.

“You sure this is a good idea, Wade? I mean the guy has tried to kill you twice in the last week.” Carl’s tone was almost conversational. His eyes had a distant look that Wade knew was grief. He didn’t much like it.

“That’s what makes it a good idea. He isn’t going to expect me to come waltzing in there with the county Sheriff.”

“You’re a crazy bastard. Have I mentioned that lately?”

“About three times on the ride up here.”

The men got out of the truck. Carl said, “And we’re not taking guns in.”

“No point. Most of his crew will be armed. No chance we could shoot our way out even if it came to that.”

Griffin started off towards the house, which was only slightly smaller than some small South American countries. There was a steady stream of people heading around the back of the place and the two men followed them. No one took notice of them at first but as they reached the party proper, a couple of folks took second looks at Carl. He wasn’t in uniform, but he had been Sheriff long enough to be recognized.

Griffin spotted Muscles and Clancy near the pool. Muscles did a double-take when he saw Griffin and then hurried over to the other end of the pool where smoke was rising from a massive brick barbeque grill. Blankenship himself was manning the grill. He had a spatula in one hand and a bottle of dark beer in the other. Muscles said something to him and Blankenship turned and regarded the two newcomers. Blankenship was a big man with a barrel chest and a full head of prematurely white hair.

“Well, will wonders never cease,” Blankenship said. “Sheriff Price and the Lone fucking Ranger right here at my house. What can I do for you boys? Want a beer or something? Some prime pussy?”

“Just want to have a word with you, Pete,” Carl said. “I guess you know I’ve been closing down some of your businesses.”

“Hear you been cleaning up the county a bit, Sheriff, but that don’t involve me in any way. I’m an honest businessman.”

“We won’t argue about what you are,” Griffin said. “But you might want to send the rest of your entourage over to the other side of the pool. I don’t think you’re going to want any of them to hear what we have to say to you.”

Blankenship’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Don’t know that I want to be alone with you two hombres, Griffin. You’ve got something of a reputation.”

“Neither of us is packing,” Griffin said. “Just here to talk.” Blankenship seemed to consider that for a moment. Then he said something to Muscles and Muscles started moving the various hangers-on out of earshot. When they were alone near the barbeque, Blankenship said, “Now what is it you want to say to me? Keep it quick because these ribs are almost done.”

Griffin said, “It won’t take long. It boils down to this. You are officially out of the child prostitution business. The pornography too. It stops now.”

Blankenship said, “The Sheriff here has shut down some operations involved in that sort of thing I know, but what makes you and him think that will stop it?”

“Carl’s arrests have nothing to do with it. He knows nobody will be able to tie you to it. That’s why I’ve come to tell you that it ends now. I don’t care about your gambling or your drugs or your other operations. Those will be dealt with in time. But anything to do with kids stops today.”

“I got to say, Griffin. You got balls the size of melons. What the fuck makes you think I give a damn what you say? I got twenty men here that can shoot you dead before you leave this yard and nobody here would ever say word one about it.”

“Oh, please. Like there aren’t a dozen people that know we’re having a talk. I’m here just to make sure shit stays all civil and peaceful.” Carl looked around the area, his voice never going above the level of a pleasant conversation. “You might be brave and all that shit, but you aren’t stupid enough to shoot the Sheriff of the county when a lot of people saw me on the way in.”

“The answer to both your questions is a card trick,” said Griffin.

“A what?”

“A card trick.” Griffin slid a playing card from the front pocket of his shirt. “Can you tell me what card this is?”

“It’s a fucking Ace of Spades.”

“Good, now take a good look at it. Make sure it’s a normal card in every way.”

Blankenship looked at the card. “Yeah, it’s a normal God damn card. What the fuck are you doing?”

Griffin said, “Keep watching.” He held the card above his head for a couple of seconds, then brought it back down and again showed it to Blankenship. “See anything different about it?”

Blankenship looked at the card again. “It’s got a hole in it now.”

“Right. A bullet hole. And if I told you how far away the shooter is, you’d call me a liar. But keep this in mind as we chat, Pete. Right now that same scope is targeting you right between the eyes. Still think you’ll have us shot down?”

Blankenship scowled. “What do you want?”

Carl smiled broad and bright.

Griffin did not smile. “I already told you. No more kids. Period. Anything that Carl hasn’t already shut down, you’ll close down yourself. If you don’t, that sniper will kill you. He’s going to be keeping an eye on you from now on. Now here’s the deal, Pete. I know how you think. You’re thinking you can agree with me to buy time and then you’ll find out who my shooter is and take him out. Trust me. You won’t. I’m not ever going to contact him again and I can guarantee a search of my background won’t lead you anywhere. You don’t do what I told you and you’re dead. I couldn’t call this guy off even if I wanted to.”

“So this hangs over me for the rest of my life?”

“That’s right. And one more thing. Two of your goons were watching my girlfriend. You come near her again, or near anyone I care about again, and you’re dead.”

Blankenship looked at Carl. “You just going to stand there and let him threaten me? You’re the Sheriff for fuck’s sake.”

Carl shook his head then shrugged. “Wade here doesn’t make threats, Pete. He’s just telling you what’s going to happen. Not a damn thing I can do about it.”

Blankenship glared at the two men and for a moment Griffin knew the man was considering just having them shot and taking his chances. Blankenship’s eyes almost seemed to bulge out of their sockets. Finally he wiped a hand across his forehead and said, “All right. I’m out of that part of the business. I’ll see that it’s taken care of. What about the rest of it?”

Griffin said, “I’ll leave the rest of it to real lawmen like Carl here.”

“And you can bet I’ll do whatever I can to shut you down by the book, Pete,” Carl said. “But like Griffin said, that can wait for another day. Right now, right here, we’re dealing with one thing and one thing only. Make it work.”

“You want anything else? Want me to suck your dicks or something?”

Carl said, “Appreciate the offer, but you’re not really my type. I will need one thing though. Somebody has to take the rap for this. I’m thinking your boy Tadpole.”

“Take him.”

“I already have him. Just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

“We are. Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

“Then get off of my property,” Blankenship said. “Right now.”

“Think your ribs are getting a little singed,” Griffin said, then he turned and started back around the house.

Carl fell in beside him. “For a minute there I thought we were dead.”

“For a minute there we almost were. That’s why I didn’t just tell him to retire. Had to let him save face somehow. There’s always going to be gambling, drugs and whatever else. Might as well let Blankenship run it until you figure out a way to bring him down. But no more kids.”

“You think he’ll stick to his end of the deal?”

“Yeah. He knows I’m not bluffing.”

“I’m assuming this sniper is a fellow mercenary.”

“Carl, this guy makes me look like Elmer Fudd.”

“No shit?”

“None. He’d kill Blankenship and everyone at that barbeque right now and never blink.”

“Jesus.”

“I’ve had him guarding Charon since this whole thing started.”

“And I thought you were a scary bastard.”

“I am, but I like to think I’m still human. My friend? Not so much.”

When they reached the truck Griffin retrieved his Beretta and put it back in its holster. As he started the engine he whispered, “Now I’ve saved you.”

“Say what?” said Carl.

“Nothing, man. Just talking to myself.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Carl looked out at the trees beyond the gate to the cemetery. The preacher had said his mojo and Carl had stood still through it. The sky above them was dark as midnight and the still, damp air was moving enough now that his short hair was ruffled by it.

Cold. There was an edge of cold in the air. Or maybe that was just his imagination.

Tammy was still dead. He’d managed a few hours of sleep the night before and he’d been under exactly long enough to dream that the whole thing was some sort of joke. Turned out he was just dreaming. She was still dead and he still felt like shit about it.

Knowing you’re innocent with your head is not the same as knowing that same truth with your heart. His heart wanted nothing to do with the truth. It preferred to make him suffer for a while.

Tammy had left town a long time ago, but she was still a native of Wellman and a lot of people still showed up for the funeral. Her dad was there, and Carl had trouble looking at the man for more than a few seconds at a time. The coach had been a vital man once, but now he was withered away, shrunken in on himself, consumed by cancer and grief alike.

Carl’s dad had a lot of sayings but the one that rang through his head when he looked at his ex-father-in-law was simply that a parent should never outlive a child. The coach had outlived everyone that mattered to him. His wife, two siblings, and now his only child. He deserved better.

Carl didn’t tell him that. He didn’t begin to know how to approach. Once upon a time the man had been an idol of his, someone he admired. That had been put to rest when Tammy left. Her father had chosen to side with his daughter and never once said a word to Carl. He could forgive that transgression, but he could not forget it. There was simply nothing between them anymore save for a shared sense of loss, and for Carl that wasn’t enough. Not anymore.

There were other, better people standing beside the old coach. Bob Stack was next to him, one hand resting on the man’s withered shoulder.

Carl took a deep breath and remembered to exhale. Then he took another breath. If he wasn’t careful he forgot about that part of the equation.

As Tammy was lowered into the ground a jagged flash of white lit the sky behind the mourners, followed by the first serious peal of thunder. The storm wasn’t going to hold off much longer.

Movement in the distance. Carl looked toward a group of people heading for the cemetery gates and frowned. There was something not right about them. The way they moved, maybe. Or the way the faint light hit them.

The rain started in earnest and the people who had remembered to bring umbrellas opened them. Carl had not bothered. He was dressed for a funeral, in civilian clothes, a decent suit he saved for special occasions, the infrequent wedding, the even less frequent funeral. He squinted against the precipitation and looked around for a moment.

Bob Stack had an umbrella held over the coach’s narrow body. Carl felt himself nod and he looked toward Bob and spoke a thank you with his eyes. Bob nodded back.

There were a lot of cops there. A lot of deputies, too, but no one would have known. They were not in uniform. They were just faces in the crowd, recognizable only by the way they stood, the way they looked around, same as him.

The approaching strangers didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the waterworks. They came closer, half a dozen teens, a few adults and, by God, one nun.

That last made Carl frown. Tammy was a Methodist. Not that it mattered. They could have been there for a different funeral.

They were closer now; he could see how pale they were. All of them, even the kids. They were pale. Beyond pale. They were bloodless.

“Shit.”

Carl looked around, saw Wade and realized the man was looking in the same direction. Good, at least one person was noticing.

The kids were dressed in their Sunday best. Their mouths were opening, baring the most amazing display of teeth. “Fuck. Fuck me.” He could barely make his mouth open, could barely get the words out. He wasn’t prepared. That was all there was to it. They’d burned the Goddamn vampires down. They were supposed to be gone now. “Wade!”

And they came on then, moving, dropping lower to the ground, not running so much as pouncing, bounding, leaping over headstones, hurdling the damned things. Impossible motions for impossible dead things that looked like good, God-fearing children. The rain did not obscure their moves from Carl, but damned near everything else was drowned out as the water came down in hard sheets. People were starting to get freaked out by the sudden torrential downpour. They had no idea.

A girl no older than twelve sank her teeth into Bob Stack’s neck and bit down before Carl could get any closer. Bob barely had time to gasp. The force of the girl striking him drove the police chief to his knees hard enough to let Carl see the impact ripple up his thighs even as he bowed forward. The girl’s hands clutched at his suit, a mockery of a passionate embrace, and blood flowered and trickled across the white of his suit shirt, blossoming into trails of pink in the torrential downpour.

The coach mourned the loss of his daughter for exactly seven additional seconds before something blurred past and grabbed him. Carl was looking right at the poor old bastard and then he was gone. Despite the cancer, he screamed as he was carried away. Oh, how he screamed.

Cops and deputies. Not nearly all of the police were there. Nowhere near all of the deputies. There was work to do and they’d recently pissed off a lot of people. There were prisoners being watched, streets being cruised, accidents being handled, the list went on and on. But there were trained police at the scene. They didn’t have their weapons, not a one of them, but they knew how to fight.

By the time the fourth person had been attacked people were starting to take note. Bob’s wife, Cheryl, tried to peel the girl off her husband. Without even turning the little girl reached back and slapped her hand across Cheryl’s face. Cheryl’s pretty features parted like soft sculpting clay hit by a shovel blade. She fell away screaming.

The nun stood back and watched dispassionately as the children and other members of Lazarus Cotton’s church stormed forward. And they were members of the church. He could tell that now. That was what had clicked in his head, what had let him know something was wrong. He recognized them, even through his grief. It was hard to forget that many dead people staring at you.

They’d looked better before Carl and Wade burned them to death. Now they seemed to actually be showing a little more rot, even as they moved into the crowd of mourners, screeching, feeding, killing.

Carl felt adrenaline kick into his system: Fight or Flight. Carl had been trained to fight.

Really, there wasn’t much choice in the matter anyway. He was feeling a need for carnage.

* * *

They stood at the back of the funeral, four of them all dressed in black and patiently waiting. They were not there to mourn. They were there to watch Carl Price.

It was best to know your enemy. That was what Mother had always said when she was alive.

Before Price and Griffin had killed her.

Gideon Blackbourne held the umbrella over them. The sun was not out, and they were grateful for that. As a unit they were pale. Josias noticed the interlopers first; the scars along the side of his face made it look like he was smiling even when he wasn’t but at that moment a smile touched his features. “This should be interesting.”

Gideon tensed. Even from a distance he could smell the dead things.

She held up her hand and waved for silence. “Barak?”

“Yes?” Barak sidled closer, moving with a grace that most people found unsettling. Even Gideon was unnerved a bit by his cousin.

“Stand guard. No one gets close to us.”

Barak nodded and watched the interlopers as they neared.

“What will we do?” Gideon looked at her and frowned a bit.

“Nothing yet. Just watch.”

“Do you still want to pass Price his message?”

Even as Gideon spoke they heard the Sheriff calling for his friend.

“No. We wait and we watch.”

“Is that all?” Josias sounded disappointed. Josias always sounded disappointed when he wasn’t allowed to play.

Lament did not turn to look at him. She merely shook her head. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. We shall see soon enough.”

No one questioned Lament. No one was that stupid.

* * *

A wave of the undead came rolling into the churchyard and for the first time in years Griffin froze. He had been caught flatfooted, out in the open. He had a gun under his coat, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good against the creatures that were sweeping down on him and the others. Lightning flashed and Griffin saw the vampires in stark relief against the dark trees and leaning tombstones. Then he heard Carl call his name and felt the pressure of Charon’s fingers on his arm and the world snapped back into focus.

Griffin needed a weapon. His machete was in his truck but that was parked at the gates of the cemetery and might as well have been in another state. Griffin glanced around and spotted a shovel near Tammy’s grave. He ran to it and snatched it off the ground. He jammed the blade into the ground, and holding the handle near the end, he brought his foot down on the wooden shaft near where it went into the blade. The handle broke, leaving a suitably jagged end.

Griffin spun just in time to see one of the vampires bearing down on him. In life the man had probably been chubby but now he looked swollen and bloated. His rubbery lips stretched over his sharp teeth and he hissed like some great serpent as he lunged. Griffin drove the sharp tip of the wooden handle directly into the man’s chest. Griffin knew where the heart was and he was sure he hit it. Didn’t matter. Chubby just kept coming, sliding down the shovel handle. Another movie trick shot to hell.

Griffin twisted, and using the handle like a fulcrum, he sent Chubby flying past him. The bloated vampire rolled on the ground, struggling to pull the shaft from his chest. As Griffin was turning back to where he had left Charon, long, slender fingers clamped down on his neck. Griffin felt himself being lifted from the ground. The vampire who had him by the throat looked maybe seventeen. A tall, skinny kid in a dark blue suit. Doubtless his Sunday best. His sartorial splendor was spoiled by the dirt ground into the fabric. This close, Griffin could smell the creature. Could see the decomposing flesh. Were vampires supposed to rot? Griffin twisted, trying to free himself, but held in the air as he was, he couldn’t get any leverage. Darkness crawled at the edge of his vision.

Griffin saw Charon coming up behind the boy. He wanted to warn her away. There was nothing she could do. Lightning flashed again and Griffin saw Charon reach into her small black purse. She came out with a handful of some sort of powder and hurled it at the vampire’s back. As she did so, she said something that sounded like Latin and the powder burst into flame. A second later, the vampire’s suit and hair caught fire and the creature began to howl. Griffin put one foot against the creature’s chest and pushed, freeing his neck from the thing’s grip. Griffin landed in the mud and rolled to his feet. The vampire was screeching and rolling on the ground.

“Got any more of that stuff?” Griffin said. His voice sounded raspy from almost having his trachea crushed.

“Not much.”

“Make it count then.”

Griffin heard a scream and turned toward the sound. One of the vampires, a husky man with a wild mane of dark brown hair, was descending on a woman who looked vaguely familiar to Griffin. Maybe he had known her in high school. She held out one slender hand as if that would ward the creature off. Husky’s head shot forward and his long sharp teeth closed on the woman’s hand, severing her fingers and starting a fountain of blood. Husky opened his mouth wide, letting the blood spurt between his jaws. His eyes glittered like those of some great feral cat. He caught the woman by her hair and bent her head back. Then he tore out her throat with his teeth, and a second later he tossed her aside and turned toward Griffin.

“Come on,” Griffin said. “Come on, you ugly bastard.” Husky hurtled at Griffin with incredible speed, arms out-stretched, fingers hooked like talons. Griffin stepped into the charge, caught Husky’s right wrist, jammed his shoulder against Husky’s chest, and pivoted, bending at the waist as he did so. It was about as good a ju-jitsu throw as Griffin had done in some time. Husky’s feet left the ground and he went spinning away to land on top of an ornamental iron railing. For a few seconds Husky writhed and screeched. Then, much to Griffin’s surprise, the vampire began to disintegrate, just as the others had done when decapitated. It took Griffin a moment to realize the vampire had been impaled on one of the decorative spear points that topped the railing.

“Griffin!” Charon screamed.

He twisted around just in time to see three more vampires coming their way at a dead run. One of them was the one Griffin had stabbed with the shovel handle. He had managed to pull the shaft free and he didn’t look at all happy.

* * *

Carter Decamp was late for the funeral. When he had arrived home, barely an hour earlier, he had checked the dozen or so messages Charon had left him. The last had included the news about the death of Carl Price’s ex-wife, and the funeral arrangements. Decamp didn’t know Price that well, but he respected the man and felt that he owed it to the sheriff to attend the service.

Rain and a minor fender bender had delayed him. Now as he pulled up to the gates of the churchyard he was suddenly very glad that he had been late. Charon’s messages had included a few bits of information about the possibility of vampires loose in Brennert County. That possibility had become a certainty, and even Decamp, who had seen sights few men could behold and maintain their sanity, was taken aback by the carnage beyond the wrought iron gates.

Decamp shoved the door open and stepped out into the downpour. He hurried around to the back of his car and opened the trunk. He lifted a long nylon case and tore the zipper open. Inside was a long, straight sword in a carbon scabbard. Decamp whipped the blade clear and dropped the scabbard without a thought. Then he was running through the rain, his long legs carrying him toward the horrible scene.

Decamp ran through the gate and decapitated the first vampire he reached. The deceptively slender blade had properties that made it almost unbreakable and so sharp that the edge would draw blood at the slightest touch. Decamp cursed as he saw a vampire child, probably less than ten years old, tearing apart a woman who had fallen to the ground. The boy looked up at Carter and hissed, and a second later the child’s head was rolling across the wet grass.

Decamp was glad that it was still daylight. Even overcast as it was it would slow the vampires down, and with this many of them he needed every advantage he could get. Decamp heard a familiar voice cry “Griffin!” He spotted Charon, about a hundred yards away. Several vampires were closing in on the girl and her boyfriend Wade Griffin. From the look of things Griffin and Charon had actually managed to down a couple of the creatures. Decamp made a mental note to be impressed later, if he was still alive. He started toward the couple, cutting at any vampires that came his way.

Thunder rumbled and a dark form rose up in front of Decamp. This vampire, clad in a black leather trench coat and a dark suit, seemed to radiate menace. Pure, cold evil. From what Decamp had seen so far, most of the creatures hadn’t long been turned, and in fact, seemed to be showing some signs of decomposition, which could mean any number of things. But this one? This one was old. Old and dark and full of hatred.

* * *

Carl dug into his pockets, spilling change and a tin of mints. His fingers closed on his keychain and he pulled the small ring of keys into his fist.

The first of the vampires to reach him was gray of hair and skin alike and looked like she might be able to open a car door by herself if she tried really, really hard. That she’d just knocked a headstone over without so much as blinking told him otherwise. He could see the broken granite where the base of the stone was still buried in the ground.

She charged at him with her mouth open and her hands stretched out to grab his body. Carl dodged hard to the left and felt her fingers rip through his jacket. He kept the spin going and slipped in the wet mud next to Tammy’s grave.

He might have made it if the next one hadn’t jumped on him. Carl felt the cold, bony form of a young girl slam into him from the side and gave a yelp as he fell. There was a brief moment of falling, shorter than he would have expected, and then he landed hard on his side. Tammy’s coffin gave a loud drum-like thump as he hit and he felt the wood crack under his elbow.

The girl that fell with him let out a screech and bit at his face. Carl acted on pure instinct and shoved his hand at her face. Her teeth clamped down on his keys instead of his flesh.

Carl’s free hand moved more of its own volition than from any conscious thought, and his hooked fingers sought the girl’s eyes. He let out an involuntary sound of disgust as his fingers dug at her eyes and ruptured the cold, gelid masses.

The sounds the dead girl made were much louder. She reared back, trying to get away from his hand but Carl pressed forward, rolling his body over hers and pushing what little advantage he had.

Yeah, it looked good on paper. The girl was decomposing. He could smell the rot coming from her as it covered him, and his stomach was seriously thinking about rebelling, might have had he managed to eat anything in the last day. That didn’t stop her from kicking the crap out of him. Her skinny legs pushed into his chest and launched him away from her, slamming his bulk into the side of the grave he was now upright in. She roared and swung wildly and he did his best to avoid getting caught, dancing across the top of Tammy’s coffin. The wood was cracking again under him and he felt the surface splintering under his weight. The girl was blind and screaming in outrage and pain. Carl was screaming in terror. The idea of falling onto Tammy’s dead body, the notion that this dead thing might actually rip into him with that mouthful of teeth – horror coiled around his heart, his insides.

The hand that hauled him from the grave was not kind. He was pulled from the depths of the hole by a powerful grip. Fingernails tore through the fabric of his jacket a second time and he heard the material rip with a hard purring noise as he was lifted easily into the air.

The nun looked at him. He knew only that she wore a nun’s habit, he couldn’t have said what she looked like beyond that. The woman was tallish, she had to be to reach down and lift him so easily. Her mouth was open and the teeth were set wide apart and ready to bite down.

He kicked her in the face with all of his strength and felt the impact run from the heel of his foot all the way to his knee. She didn’t even blink. Her chin did not move an inch. But after he was done her mouth stretched into something like a smile as she pulled him closer.

Get the fuck offa me! Get the fuck offa me! Get the fuck offa me! Oh, how he wanted to scream, but there was nothing. Not a sound came out of him. Not that it mattered, plenty of other people around him were screaming, dying. There wasn’t much he could do about that. He couldn’t even save himself.

He kicked again but the nun slapped his foot aside without any real effort and he felt his entire leg go numb from the impact. He tried looking away for a moment, seeking any sort of possible weapon. Instead he saw the hole in the ground where Tammy’s dead, partially caved in face stared up at him from a rent in her casket. The blind girl was scrabbling from the grave, screaming and spitting and bleeding unpleasant colors from her eye sockets. He couldn’t unsee her no matter how hard he tried.

Carl tried to claw at the dead nun’s eyes but she caught his hand and squeezed and he howled in pain.

And then something hit the nun hard enough to stagger her. She let out a hissing noise and dropped him as she turned to face whatever had hit her.

For one second he saw a pale man in a dark suit. And then the nun was grabbing the man and lifting him easily from the ground. The man looked deeply shocked. His light blue eyes were wide, the scars on the side of his face were stretched along his open mouth.

The nun’s fingers hooked into his jacket and she lunged at his face.

And both of them disappeared. They were there and then they were gone and there was a strange blurring of the air where they had been.

Carl fell on his face in wet grass and mud and then scrambled as hard and fast as he ever had as the little, dead, blind bitch popped out of the grave. She was still weeping things he didn’t want to consider from her ruined eyes. Oh yes, this was just getting better and better! He felt laughter screaming in the back of his mind and shook it away. The dead girl turned toward him, alerted, perhaps, by the sound of him scuttling away, and she reached again. He got out of the way.

Another one was coming for him. This one was another of the teenagers, fourteen tops, probably younger, and determined to bite his face off. He hit the thing in the face with his elbow and then backed away. This one at least had the decency to notice it had been hit. Of course it was just pissed off, but hey, every little bit helps. That hysteria was trying to get a grip again and he backed away as the boy came for him, swinging and snarling. Just as it grabbed him, just as the impossibly strong fingers were grabbing his arm – he could feel the fingernails starting to cut his skin – he was grabbed from behind. Carl had exactly long enough to think he was about to get stuck in a tug of war, as the rope, before he felt the world twist away.

Had he ever felt the sensation before? Once. A powerful sense of nausea slammed through his body and Carl felt the damp vanish, the heat vanish, the light disappear for one instant before he was back in the cemetery in a different spot.

The disorientation was complete and Carl fell to his knees and vomited. There was no control of the action. No chance to resist the overwhelming change of pressure around him or the feeling that he was suffering from the worst case of bed-spins ever known to man.

He slumped, coughing, weak-kneed.

The voice was not at all familiar to him. He could only tell it was feminine. “Really, Josias? Him?”

The response was masculine, a deep bass drum of a voice. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted all of them.”

“Whatever. We’re done. Let’s get out of here.”

“What about the rest of them?”

“See the one with the sword? He has this. We’re leaving.”

Carl finally found the strength to open his eyes, but there was nothing to see, merely a few other people who looked exactly as sick as he felt.

And halfway across the cemetery, farther than he could have walked or run, there were vampires. And people screaming and dying.

* * *

The vampire in the trench coat stared at Decamp for several seconds. He said, “You’re not like the others here. You know what I am.”

Oh he knew all right. An old vampire. Decades at least. Not like the berserk things wreaking havoc in the churchyard. A so-called master vampire. This one could do things the others would need years to learn. Decamp shifted his stance slightly.

The vampire wouldn’t be at full strength in the daylight, but the cloud cover would help him.

When the attack came it was so fast Decamp barely saw it in time. The vampire seemed to close the distance without actually moving. Not quite as fast as Isaiah Blackbourne had been, but wickedly, impossibly fast. The vampire had fought men armed with swords before and it was trying to eliminate any advantage Decamp had by getting inside the reach of the blade.

But Decamp, too, had been here before and he reversed his grip on the hilt so that the blade was angled downward in his fist like an outsized butcher knife. With the back of the blade almost against his forearm Decamp brought the sword in front of him at throat level. The vampire leaped backwards at the last second, but his head dangled by the merest thread of muscle and sinew. Still, he could heal if he had the time.

Decamp didn’t give him the time. He lunged forward with the blade still reversed and whipped the edge of the sword across what was left of the vampire’s neck. The head fell, and Decamp moved on.

The encounter with the old vampire had taken only seconds but in that time one of the other vampires had reached Griffin and Charon. Decamp vaulted an old iron railing, trying to reach the pair before the vampire could kill either of them. A half second later the vampire in question burst into flame and went screaming to his knees. The heat of the fire was great enough to ignore the falling rain. Decamp smiled a grim smile. Charon had learned her lessons well.

Griffin, always the opportunist, ran up and kicked the kneeling vampire, causing the blazing creature to roll backwards into one of his brethren. The second vampire caught fire and began backpedaling, slapping at the flames that swept up his pants legs. Decamp cut the second vampire’s head from his shoulders as he passed it. There was still one more vampire coming his way. The angle was wrong for a cut, so Decamp sprang forward in a classic fencer’s lunge and drove the point of his blade into the vampire’s heart. The thing fell back, falling apart as it went.

Charon looked up as Decamp put the third vampire down. She said, “Carter! Thank God.”

“Still too many of these things for me to fight one on one,” Decamp said. “I’m going to have to improvise. Griffin I’m going to need you to cover me.” He spun the sword and tossed it hilt-first to Griffin. “Stab them through the heart or go for the head. Either will work.”

Griffin said, “I ran a shovel handle all the way through one and it didn’t faze him.”

“Wood doesn’t work. Now keep them off of me.”

Wood doesn’t work. Kind of learned that the hard way. What the hell was Decamp going to do now? As Griffin watched, the man sat down in the mud cross-legged and closed his eyes. Was he going to think the vampires away?

Griffin’s attention was pulled away from Decamp as an enormous black woman came lurching his way. Ropey threads of bloody drool trailed from her distended jaw. Griffin didn’t wait for her to close the distance, but instead went to meet her, driving the blade in a glittering arc toward her neck. Griffin had forgotten how amazing Decamp’s sword was. It cut through bone and sinew as easily as it cut through undead flesh.

For a moment Griffin stood without any attackers. In various parts of the churchyard vampires were still attacking mourners. Griffin’s mouth was a tight line. The poor bastards were on their own. No way he could get to them all and he had to watch Decamp’s back, hoping the man could actually do something.

He glanced over his shoulder at Decamp. He was talking in a low voice, repeating something over and over. Charon stood just behind him one hand on his shoulder. Rain washed over the both of them. Griffin heard footfalls splashing through the wet grass and turned. Two more vampires heading his way. Griffin bent his knees, preparing to lunge at whichever one came closest first. Best not to let them get him between them.

Without warning both vampires stopped in their tracks. Then they began to shake, as if suffering some form of seizure. As Griffin watched both of them pitched forward into the mud, to lie there jerking and writhing.

Decamp got to his feet. “I’ll take the sword now, Griffin. I won’t ask you to do this. Go and see to the living.”

Griffin did a slow turn. All of the vampires were down and twitching and shaking like the first two. Wait. Not all of them. Three figures stood near the main gate, glaring Griffin’s way. Their eyes seemed to burn red like coals in a fire. As one all three turned and started toward the gate. Griffin looked around for Decamp. He was walking slowly from one undead creature to the next, running his sword through the heart of each as he reached them. Griffin noted that he stabbed each human corpse he found as well. Of course. Decamp didn’t want the recently dead to become what had killed them. When Griffin looked back the three figures had vanished.

Carl. Griffin began walking around the churchyard, calling his friend’s name.

“Over here,” he heard Carl’s voice from near the gates. How the hell had he gotten all the way over there? He had been standing near the coffin when the attack had come. Griffin looked back to where he had left Charon, but she was busy comforting a small girl who had escaped the carnage. Griffin could see a few other survivors, but all were too shocked to even look his way as he passed.

He found Carl sitting on the ground with his back against a stone bench. “You okay, Carl?”

“Do I look okay?”

“You look like shit.”

“That’s how I feel. What happened? One minute those things were ripping people apart and then they just stopped.”

Griffin shook his head. “Decamp showed up. He did something.”

“I wish to hell he’d done it sooner.”

“I don’t think he could. He needed someone to help him.” Griffin put out his hand. Carl took it and Griffin pulled the man to his feet. He didn’t look any too steady but he stayed upright.

“Jesus, Griffin. Those were the same people we saw in Cotton’s church. Some of them anyway.”

“I agree. Somehow we didn’t kill all of them.”

“How? We burned the fucking church down with them all inside.”

“They must have had some way out.”

Carl looked past Griffin’s shoulder. He said, “Tammy’s coffin. It broke open in the fight. I’ve got to—”

“You’ve got to stay the hell away from it. You don’t need to see that, man. You don’t. The funeral home people will take care of it. You’ve got living people to see to. You’re the goddamn Sheriff.”

Carl looked at Griffin for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said. “I am. Thanks, Wade.”

“Griffin,” Carter Decamp said. “I’ve finished. What’s left of the vampires will soon be washed away by the rain and none of the newly dead will turn.”

Carl said, “Appreciate all you did, Decamp. All of us would be dead if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

Decamp said, “I wasn’t here, Sheriff Price. I’ve no place in whatever story you concoct.”

“Of course,” Carl said. “I’ll keep your name out of it.”

Decamp said, “This is far from over. There were several master vampires among the throng. They seemed to be leading the attack. My holding spell was too low level to bother them. But we’ll see them again. I don’t know what you men did, but you have roused some serious enemies.”

“It’s a long story,” Griffin said.

“I’ll want to hear every word of it. You two and Charon should come to my house tonight.”

“Not me,” said Carl. “I won’t be going anywhere but back to the station. I’m in for a long night and I’ve got to come up with some way to explain all this.”

Decamp said, “I wouldn’t even try, Sheriff. Just tell the rest of the authorities that you were as surprised as anyone when a band of lunatics descended on the funeral.”

Carl shrugged. “I might try that. Now I have to serve and protect. Wade, you let me know what comes of your talk with Decamp here.”

Griffin slapped Carl on the shoulder and said, “Count on it.” He turned back toward Decamp to tell him that he and Charon would swing by Decamp’s house in Marietta later.

But Decamp was gone.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The rain fell in sheets, and the dead looked upon the ruins of their world and knew sorrow.

The church was gone. Burned into nothing but ash.

The deacons had returned with none of their flock left to them. Not all of the deacons. Sister Hope had vanished, dragged away by what the others claimed was a scar-faced albino. Torn from the world and taken so far away that he could not sense her. He had sensed her no matter where in the world she had been and that was an unsettling thing.

The Reverend Lazarus Cotton looked upon the remains of his church and sneered. His eyebrows were knitted with concentration.

The Lord expected mercy. Jesus preached mercy. But there were exceptions. Jesus had taken offense on an occasion or two, oh, yes He had. Say Amen.

Cotton looked at the wasted land and felt his hands clench.

There were things that could be done. He knew that. He had been patient. He had been as kind as he could while carefully reaching out to the innocent and offering his blessings to the righteous.

But even Jesus had limits and it was just possible that Lazarus Cotton had reached the end of his own long fuse.

The Beggar had taught him things, many of which he did not choose to share casually with his followers. Some were too powerful, too easily abused. The faithful were good people, pure and innocent, and that was important. They needed their innocence. They needed to be protected from the temptations that would make their lives too easy, or offer them the chance to grow prideful.

Miracles needed to be offered sparingly, lest they lose their impact.

Lazarus Cotton looked out into the darkness. Many of his congregation looked back to him with expectant faces.

He had learned from past mistakes, hadn’t he? Say Amen. Some had passed from the world, taken to the Lord by the flames of evil men. Others had died mere moments earlier, led by his Deacons in an effort to find and destroy the blasphemers. Others had survived, had endured, though more than one suffered burns that were slow to heal. Slower than they should have been? He was not sure, but he did not like to see the faithful suffering. No. The soil. The soil was corrupted, tainted by the flames of the unfaithful. Fire did not cleanse; it destroyed. “We shall overcome this.” His voice was deep and calm, despite the expression on his face. “This too shall pass, my children. We are the chosen of the Lord, and the Lord shall not forsake us.”

He looked at the faithful and they in turn looked to him, their eyes expectant. They had their faith to sustain them.

“Say Hallelujah!”

“Hallelujah!” They responded; their voices carried through the sounds of rain and the growls of thunder. The sky flared white above them and another roar of God’s fury pealed across the heavens.

“Say Amen!”

“Amen,” they thundered.

“The Lord has seen us through the fires of Perdition, my children! He is with us!” To make his point he moved ten paces to his left and drove his fist into a pine tree that had been scorched by the fires, blackened but not burned. The tree shattered under the force of the blow and the sound of the wood breaking was a satisfying thing to his ears. “We are strong, my children! We are righteous! We shall endure and we shall prevail! Say Amen!”

“Amen! Hallelujah!” Their voices carried, surely as strong and beautiful as the voices of angels.

“The wicked have tried to destroy us, but we will prevail. We will survive and we shall cast them down! We shall smite them with the strength God has given us! We shall fear no evil! We shall overcome!”

They smiled, his children, his beloved followers. They were mighty indeed, and blessed in the eyes of the Lord.

And Lazarus Cotton smiled as well.

For he knew a secret, one that would prove fatal to the faithless.

It was a time of great strife. It was the time for miracles.

And Lazarus Cotton would perform the miracles needed to save the blessed from the wicked, in the name of the Lord.

Say Amen!

Say Hallelujah!

Far above him the sky flashed nearly as bright as the noonday sun and a moment later thunder crashed through the heavens and echoed down toward Wellman and the rest of Brennert County.

Indeed, it was a time for miracles.

* * *

Epic clusterfuck did not begin to cover the situation. The Chief of police for Wellman was dead. The Sheriff of Brennert County was at the scene of his demise. There were several bodies, all of them wounded to one extent or another. All of them. Most had a puncture mark through the heart that the coroner was going to see, going to evaluate, and going to make good and goddamned well sure that everyone knew about.

And behind him, where he could not see it, the people from the funeral home were pulling Tammy’s remains from her ruptured coffin and putting her in another casket.

And a hundred yards away they were bagging her father’s remains. The last of her family was dead, gone. No one left to mourn her but Carl, and he wasn’t a hundred per cent sure he cared any more. How screwed up was that?

There would be plenty of mourning, however. Eighteen dead. Four, maybe even as much as five minutes, and eighteen dead. No way to hide that shit, and even if he could, Carl wouldn’t.

By all rights he should have died. He’d gotten himself right and properly spanked by a twelve-year-old girl and a nun. If they’d been human he might have had to surrender his man card.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know who had saved him, but he was damned if he could figure out why anyone in the Blackbourne family would bother. It was a kindness to say he was not exactly on their list of people who deserved anything like decency.

He refused to reassess his opinion of the clan. There was nothing good about them. They weren’t human and they weren’t good people. They dealt in drugs and human misery and they did it without hesitation.

Also, one of the assholes was currently suing him.

He’d managed to get his rain slicker out of the truck, along with his badge and his gun. Too little and too late. He was soaked head to toe, his gun was useless and dead things didn’t give a good goddamn if he was the sheriff.

“It could have been much worse, you know.” The voice caught him off guard. It shouldn’t have, but he wasn’t really used to seeing Andy away from his house.

Andy looked at him from under an umbrella. The rain was still coming down hard – and he suspected that meant floods in the near future, one more joy to consider – and the old man stared at him with warm, expressive eyes.

“Jesus, Andy. I hate this.”

“I know.” The man started moving, knowing full well Carl would follow him. “I’m sorry for your loss, son.”

“We weren’t married any more.”

“I’m old, you damned fool, not senile.” He led Carl away from the cemetery, only stopping when they’d reached the funeral home. The rain still fell hard, but the sound was lessened as soon as they stepped within the protection of the building. Under a lot of circumstances most of the funeral home would have likely been sealed off, but there was an active investigation going on, and Dale and Wendell Boatwright, the brothers who ran the damned place, were currently waiting in the morgue. It was now their turn to be put in their final resting places.

Andy very fastidiously shook off his umbrella as he closed it. “I know good and damned well you two weren’t married any more. I also know you were still carrying a torch for her despite all common sense.” The man shook his head. “You have no idea how many sad sacks like you I had to counsel when I was teaching classes. Perfectly good students who went straight into the outhouse as soon as their girlfriends or boyfriends ended things.”

Carl had no idea what to say, and so he said nothing.

Andy continued in the silence. “It’s neither here nor there, Carl. My point is, I’m sorry for your loss. And before you go putting this on yourself, and you will, you need to remember that it could have been much worse.”

“How do you even know about this?”

Andy waved his hand, dismissing the question. Then he answered anyway. “Decamp called me. Filled me in on what was going on. I do believe the man was puzzled as to why I wasn’t attending the funeral until I explained to him that not everyone is kept in the loop by the younger generation.”

“Younger generation?”

“Don’t be fooled. Decamp is older than he looks. He’s just well preserved in comparison to me.” A quick scowl. “You are remarkably good at trying to change the subject, you know.” Andy reached into his overcoat and pulled out a sandwich bag. From inside the bag he retrieved a half dozen sheets of paper. “These are notes that might be of assistance to you. Old legends about the sort of uneasy spirit we discussed previously.” He looked over the edge of his glasses at Carl, once again managing to both be shorter than the sheriff and to simultaneously manage to look down at him. It wasn’t a condescending gesture, merely a matter of the diminutive man’s presence. “There are a few notes regarding what might or might not be of use at dispelling them, a couple of references with regard to possible methods of protection. This is really more Decamp’s forte than mine, but a man likes to be of assistance.”

“Well, thank you, Andy.”

“You know your daddy used to do this sort of thing to me too. He’d just pop up with asinine questions pertaining to old legends and then he’d be on his merry way. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I was always talking to Crowley.”

“Andy. You know I don’t want to cause you any troubles.” It was an automatic response. Andy made him feel like he should apologize.

“And if you were being a problem, I’d have told you to leave me be a long time ago. Same with your father. He was a nice enough man, but he always cheated at poker.”

“He did not.” Carl couldn’t keep the shock out of his voice.

Andy sniffed. “Either he cheated or he was a very lucky sonofabitch.”

Carl felt a smile play at the corners of his mouth. Profanity from Andy was as rare as snow in August.

Andy looked him up and down and then patted his arm. “You know where I am should you need to talk about anything. In the meantime, you’d do well to remember that you are an elected official and not the king of the county.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You aren’t wearing a crown, boy. You are not responsible for the lives of your citizens. You are merely a civil servant. If you can’t stop every crime, it doesn’t mean you aren’t doing your job.”

Carl nodded and felt the bands crushing his chest ease just the smallest amount. “Thanks, Andy.”

“Quit thanking me, Carl. It makes me feel like I should be doing something nice and I hate being nice.” A blatant lie if there had ever been one.

“Let me give you a ride home.”

“I have a perfectly good car. I drove it over here. I drove with the windows closed and the doors locked. I’ll be just fine.” Carl could hardly force the man to let him drive. Besides, he was still going to be tied up for a while. The GBI was coming in for additional statements. Too many people killed and the jurisdiction was up in the air. In this case the situation was being taken away from him and he wasn’t about to protest it.

“Then be safe. All right?”

“I always am, Carl. I’m too old to be foolhardy.” The old man headed out into the rain, stopping exactly long enough to unfurl his umbrella before he stepped out into the night.

Carl watched him go and shook his head. He was damned tired. Still, he felt better for seeing the old man. Sometimes comfort came from the damnedest places.

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” Decamp said. “You find out there are vampires in an old church and you and your sheriff buddy get a can of gasoline and burn the place down.”

Griffin said, “We couldn’t just leave them there could we?”

“No, I suppose you couldn’t.”

Decamp, Griffin, and Charon were seated in Decamp’s study. Griffin suspected Decamp had shelled out some serious cash having this part of the interior of his Victorian-era house rebuilt so the study ran the length of the house. Three walls were lined with shelves, all crammed full of books and papers. The fourth wall, the one behind Decamp’s massive desk, held an impressive display of hand weapons, everything from a matched pair of Uzi machine pistols to a matched pair of flintlocks. After several visits to Decamp’s home, Griffin had realized the display wasn’t always the same. Decamp was rotating weapons out of some larger collection.

Griffin said, “It’s not like Carl and me are experts in dealing with vampires like you are, and we couldn’t reach you.”

“You’re right, Griffin, and I’m not really blaming you. I’m just frustrated. If I had been able to catch Cotton unaware, I might have been able to destroy both he and his followers quietly.”

“Using something like you did at the churchyard?” Charon said.

“Something like that.”

“What exactly did you do?” Griffin said. “And can you do it to the rest of them?”

Decamp shook his head. “Like I told you there, I used a low-level spell. More of a charm really, for holding evil spirits in place.”

Charon said, “Folk magic. Like in the Long Lost Friend.”

“Just like that, yes. And I doubt I can use it again. Cotton is aware of me now and he can protect his flock from that sort of thing.”

“He’s that powerful?” Griffin said.

“He is. He’s what we call a master vampire. He’s had decades to build his powers.”

Griffin said, “You spoke of a low-level spell. Don’t you have any higher level ones?”

“You have to understand how what we call magic or sorcery works. Do you remember how I told you the Great Old Ones only have limited power on earth because our reality is naturally resistant to supernatural forces? Same thing applies here. Oh, there was a time, back before recorded history, when the Old Ones still held sway, where magic of all kinds was possible. When the Old Ones were cast out, the fabric of our reality changed. Creatures like Cotton and like the Moon-Eyes are remnants. Relics of a bygone age.”

“So spells are out.”

“Not entirely. But I’m going to have to do some serious research. Which reminds me.”

Decamp got up from his desk and walked to the closest bookshelf. Unlike the others, which were open for inspection, this one had two heavy wooden doors and a serious looking lock. Decamp slid a key from a pocket and unlocked the bookcase. He swung the doors open and the musty, but not unpleasant scent of old books rolled out. Griffin smiled as he saw Charon crane her neck to get a look at the contents of the case. The young woman loved books.

Most of the books were massive and leather bound. There was also what looked like scrolls in a square compartment. Decamp lifted a heavy tome out of the case and plopped it on the desk. Much to Charon’s disappointment, he then relocked the case.

Charon said, “Wait, was that a copy of Unspeakable Cults in there?”

“Shush,” said Decamp. “This is the one we want now. A book of lore and spells dealing with vampires.”

Charon’s eyes grew wider still. “Jesus, Carter. Is that the Ruthvenian?”

“Yes, one of the few surviving copies of the original edition. I only know of two others, both in the possession of a colleague of mine.”

Griffin said, “Here I go again with the questions but what’s the deal with that book?”

Charon said, “The Ruthvenian is sort of a vampire bible. It’s a compendium of knowledge gathered over centuries. But it also has summoning spells and such. To tell you the truth I thought it was a myth like Alhazred’s Necronomicon.”

“Oh that one is a myth is it?” Decamp said.

“What are you saying?” said Charon.

“A subject for another time. Right now we’ve got to figure out what to do about Lazarus Cotton.”

Griffin said, “You think he’ll be making another run at us.”

“Almost certainly. Cotton wasn’t expecting the sort of opposition he ran into at the funeral. He’ll be more wary now, but he has to deal with you and Carl. You’re a continuing threat to his existence. He’s already called in some other master vampires. And that’s hardly the worst he can do.”

“These master vampires are that much worse than the others?” Griffin said.

Decamp said, “You and Carl have been lucky. You’ve mostly dealt with vampires who have been recently turned. An older vampire can do things you wouldn’t believe. You usually wouldn’t even see them coming.”

“Where is Cotton calling these things from?”

“Cotton has been at this for some time. We know this isn’t his first church. He should have some other followers somewhere.”

Charon said, “Carl’s friend Andy said he saw Cotton’s father at a tent revival a long time ago and that he was a preacher too.”

“Andy would know,” said Decamp. “But more than likely it wasn’t Cotton’s father, but rather Cotton himself. He probably falsifies his own death every few decades and continues as his own son.”

Griffin said, “Why does he do it? I mean, why be a preacher? It’s not like he needs to make a living.”

“Well keep in mind I’m speculating here,” Decamp said. “I’ve never met Cotton, but going by his actions, the revivals, the churches, I think the man seriously believes he’s doing God’s will. Otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed at it this long.”

“You mean he doesn’t know he’s a blood sucking monster?” Charon said.

“Monster is in the eye of the beholder,” said Decamp. “He wouldn’t be the first zealot to justify his actions in the name of religion.”

Griffin said, “But he obviously isn’t turning everyone he meets into vampires. There would be thousands of them.”

“For the most part he seems to be choosing specific folk and bringing them into his church. But make no mistake. He possibly has created thousands of vampires over the decades.”

“You mean there are that many of them out there?”

“Yes, but most keep a lower profile. A vampire doesn’t have to kill a victim to feed on them and if they don’t die, they don’t turn.”

“Judging from his actions at the funeral I don’t think Cotton’s worrying much about a low profile.”

Decamp said, “No and he’ll probably be worse once he realizes fully what you and Carl have done.”

“What do you mean? Looks like most of his flock got away, though I can’t see how.”

“Charon found a report that Cotton’s previous church in Florida also burned. That may have been an accident or an attack, but in any case he probably lost his entire congregation. Chances are he took steps to keep that from happening again, probably a tunnel, but he may not have been aware of all the facts.

“As you’ve seen, some of the legends about vampires are true and some aren’t. That’s partly because there is more than one kind of vampire. But one thing that does seem to hold true for all of them is that they must rest in soil from the place where they were turned. In the case of Cotton’s followers that place seems to have been the old church. The sanctuary was acting as a sort of communal coffin where all of them could rest together.”

Griffin said, “We destroyed the church, but the soil is still there.”

“Yes, but you destroyed it with fire. And fire purifies. The vampire host can’t rest there now. And if they can’t rest they begin to deteriorate.”

“That’s why the ones at the funeral looked like they had started to decompose,” Charon said.

“Precisely. And they will continue to deteriorate until they quite literally fall apart.”

Griffin said, “Then all we have to do is wait them out.”

“I doubt it will be that easy, Griffin,” said Decamp. “Cotton won’t be happy about what you’ve done and he’s already called in some old friends. No, we have to consider ourselves at war with this group of vampires. We’ll have to go on the offensive.”

“We? You dealing yourself in, Decamp?”

“I did that when I got out of the car at the funeral.”

Griffin said, “Glad to have you. You can keep me from making the kind of mistakes I made with that shovel.”

“You had the right idea but the wrong material. Wood is movie stuff. You have to go further back into folklore. An iron stake driven through the heart would have stopped him.”

Charon said, “Iron? You mean like the fey folk?”

“There are places where the legends of the alfar and the vampire cross. Iron seems to do the trick in either case.”

“Alfar?” said Griffin.

“Old Norse for white or light, corrupted to alf or elf. The fair folk. Faeries.”

“The things I fought weren’t faeries. They didn’t sparkle like fucking Tinkerbell.”

“No, but as I said, folklore suggests some connections.”

“Okay, so add iron to fire and decapitation as ways to kill them. What else?”

Charon said, “Pursuivant’s Vampiricon suggests garlic for repelling them.”

Decamp nodded. “It won’t kill them, but they seriously don’t like it. We should all probably get a lot of garlic into our diets. We need any edge we can get. I’ll put together a list of things we can use against them and see if I can find some weapons for you and Carl.”

“How do we find Cotton and his crew?” Griffin said. “I doubt he’ll be hanging around the remains of the church.”

“Cotton has to sleep in the soil where he was turned as well, which means he probably has a coffin somewhere. The other master vampires too.”

Charon said, “An honest to Dracula coffin?”

“Indeed,” said Decamp. “We’ll have to find out where Cotton rests if we want to carry the fight to him.”

“Doubt we’ll have to worry much about that,” said Griffin. “He’ll probably come to us again soon enough.”

“You’re probably right,” Decamp said.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Jolene Blackbourne stared at the sheriff ’s house and frowned. She was not at all happy about this. Things were not going the way she wanted them to go, and if there was one elemental truth in this world – at least as far as Jolene was concerned – it was simply that when she wasn’t happy, the rest of the world would know about it sooner or later.

Lament meant to play with Carl Price. That was really very annoying, because as far as Jolene was concerned both he and Wade Griffin were her toys to play with.

For now she’d let it go. She thought about telling him what had happened to his wife, thought about telling him that Lament had killed her to mess with his mind, but instead she decided to wait. Let Lament have her games. She could think she was in control for now.

Jolene was nothing if not patient. That was something she’d learned from her mother.

Besides, the changes that were starting in her body were new to her. It would take a while to adjust to them.

Good things come to those who wait. Better things come to those who prepare.

She stayed in front of the sheriff ’s house for almost an hour before she left. There was no reason to hurry. She had all the time in the world.

* * *

Four hours of sleep. Sort of. There was a lot of waking up at the smallest noises, mixed with a dozen or so flashbacks to his feet falling through Tammy’s coffin lid to keep him company as he tried to doze.

But despite his fears the sun did rise and the world went about its business. And Carl got his ass out of bed, did his morning exercises – except for his jogging because it was still raining and there was no end in sight – and then got ready for the day.

Phone messages: well, he had to call goddamned near everyone in the city of Wellman and in the county of Brennert, because they all wanted to know what had happened. Every last one of them was welcome to kiss his ass. He had a job to do and they could read the report he’d finished and emailed to the department’s server at three in the morning.

By ten he was having a good time following a series of unpleasant phone calls. For a change of pace the latest call had been about something he could possibly handle – a hit and run up near Mooney’s Bluff. He took State Road 214 with caution, because the anonymous tip couldn’t say exactly where the body was located, only that it was near mile marker 17. The area was not comfortable for driving and he couldn’t begin to understand why anyone would have been walking along the stretch of road in the first place. It was too wet, too hot, and too treacherous an area to make wandering around on foot a good notion.

The rain on the windshield tried to hide the world away and the wipers did their part to bring it back into focus. Just the same if he hadn’t seen the flares somebody had laid out near the corpse he would have probably driven straight past it.

Carl turned on the flashers, parked at the very edge of the road and set the parking brake. The road was too damned steep to take any chances. As soon as he stepped from the truck the sound of water striking his hat became a drumming fury. The slicker was doing its job however, and he was mostly dry. A quick phone call to the office got him in contact with Burley, who had managed to get his arm broken during the attack at the cemetery. It was a clean break and they were understaffed; Burley was good enough to come in and answer the phones.

“You find the site, Carl?”

“I did, Burley. Hang on.” He moved closer, looking around the area. There were no skid marks on the road, but that meant nothing in the current weather. There were four flares sputtering and giving off reddish light. Someone had done their best to shelter them from the rain, but that was hardly a necessity. Still, the columns of smoke billowed from under small piles of rocks or other debris that had been used to help stay the waters or maybe to keep the flares from moving away in the steady rains.

Directly between the four flares a dead man stared toward the sky, his eyes open, his mouth hanging loosely agape. The impact had blown half the lower jaw away, and shattered teeth glared from the ruined orifice. The man was heavyset, mid-forties, wearing a suit that said he was likely traveling from somewhere else, and soaked through by the rain. His hair was trailing downhill, waving in the constant stream that surrounded his skull like a halo. A large portion of the back of his head had been shattered by the impact as well, and gray matter seeped into the stream.

“Found him. He’s definitely dead.”

“Well, that’s one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Same person that called before said there’s two more bodies on the same stretch of road, Carl.”

“The same number?”

“Affirmative. It’s a burner. I already checked.”

“Is it listed to anyone?”

“Man named Chet Ellery, from Nacogdoches, Texas.”

Carl stared at the Texas State flag on the dead man’s lapel. “I got a dollar says I just might have found Chet Ellery.”

Burley was starting to answer when the hiss of tires on the road reached past the rain and the conversation and registered in Carl’s mind. He turned, saw the truck coming his way, and sprinted across the road. The truck had seen better days; it was a great white whale of a truck, with faded paint, rust spots and a spider-webbed windshield. Several serious dents along the front end showed where something or several someones had hit the hood, the grill, the bumper. Whoever was driving was only a silhouette inside, but he could make out the motions of the man’s arms as he turned the truck to follow him.

Perfect. Carl felt his mouth pull into a tight smile as he threw himself off the road and into the ravine on the side he was aiming for.

The truck had three choices: follow and go over the side, stop, or swerve back onto the road and head off.

The sound of brakes and hissing tires told Carl what he needed to know. The ravine was deep enough to cause a truck problems, but not so steep that he couldn’t stand back up after he hit the gravel. The ground was properly saturated and his pants were soaked in an instant.

One more reason to be in a bad mood.

Somewhere up on the road, near a dead man, his phone was lying on the ground and getting wet. He wasn’t thrilled about that, either.

Carl rose in time to see the men starting to climb from the truck. He did not recognize them. He did not care. They looked toward the spot where he’d gone over the side and then looked toward him, where he was climbing back to level ground.

They were carrying guns. So was Carl.

“You need to stop right there!” He barked his orders loud and clear. They did not listen.

One of them reached for his back, where he kept his pistol. Carl shot him in the face. The way his mouth exploded immediately made the sheriff think of the dead hit and run victim. The shot was not fatal, but it was definitely enough to change the landscape of the man’s features. He fell back shrieking, all thoughts of going for his gun removed along with his incisors and lips.

“I said ‘Stop!’” He pointed the gun at the other man. The man looked toward his friend where he was lying on the ground and screaming, and then slowly raised his hands above his head. No sudden moves.

He licked his lips as he looked at Carl. “I didn’t do nothing!” Deep Southern accent. Not local. Maybe as far away as Texas.

“You tried to run me down, asshole.”

“It was an accident.”

“Get up against the truck! Don’t make me ask twice.” The man was looking around too much and he was making Carl nervous. People didn’t often feel the need to look at the landscape quite that much unless they were either planning something or expecting someone. Either way, Carl didn’t much like it.

Carl’s shoes squelched as he headed for the man. The wind picked up, the rain fell harder. Everything tried to distract him from what he had to do, what he had to take care of.

And from the other vehicle that came for him.

He likely would have never noticed, but the one he’d told to go up against the truck was looking past his shoulder, looking beyond him. Not just glancing, but actually looking, and so Carl had to look, and was looking when the car with the Texas plates came down the road from the same direction as the truck.

The man in the car didn’t bother with stopping. He barely slowed. The passenger’s side window exploded and Carl dropped. He didn’t try running or ducking or finding cover, because the car was coming too fast and there was only the one option, so he let his legs go and fell toward the ground, catching himself on his one palm and on the butt of his pistol.

The bullets missed him, but they punched three holes in the old white truck, and at least two of them also made holes in said truck’s driver. The man added his own screams to the sounds of the man Carl’d shot.

Carl stayed down but took the time to aim and shoot three rounds of his own at the car as it thundered down the road. The driver didn’t try to fire again. He was too busy keeping his vehicle on the road as it curved into a hairpin.

He could have gone after the man. He could have.

Instead he followed the rules and crawled over to the driver he’d been ready to ask questions.

The man whimpered and looked at where the car had gone past.

The wounds were in his stomach, the bullets in his guts. Even if he lived he’d be fighting sepsis for a while.

“Sit still. I’ll call for an ambulance.”

He looked to the side of the road where his phone was still sitting. Sometimes fate is kind; the device was perched on a couple of rocks that were keeping it out of the worst of the rain.

He moved over to it and checked. Burley was still on the line. “Carl? Answer me damn it!” The man’s voice was justifiably panicked.

“Get me an ambulance. Make it two. We’ve got gunshot victims.” He gave what few details he had on the car that came past and told Burley to send two more cars to come look for it. Some damned fool with a gun was shooting people. As a rule if someone was shooting at cops, they had to be dealt with as quickly as possible. If they’d shoot at cops, they’d shoot at anything.

The man on the ground moaned. “Why’d you do that, Fry? I thought we was friends?”

Fry. The name rang in Carl’s ears. Had Wade said a man named Fry was serving Lazarus Cotton? He’d have to check.

First, however, he had to offer what he could by way of aid to the two men on the ground. He ran to the truck and reached into the back seat, searching for his first aid kit.

And the son of a bitch came back around the corner. He heard the car’s engine whining as it tried to get up the steep hill, heard the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, and jumped the rest of the way into his truck. The vehicle rocked violently as the car smashed into the side panel. Carl bounced around inside, pulling into as much of a ball as he could manage, felt the cushioned back seat take most of the force meant to damage him as glass exploded into the cabin.

He was back up a second later and drawing his second weapon. The car that hit his truck was good enough to take out the windows, so it was easy to aim.

The first bullet hit square where the driver’s head should have been. The second and third made the car’s engine bleed steam. Carl kicked open the door on the far side of the truck and backed out, trying to look everywhere at once.

The driver’s side door opened up on the car and somebody scurried out. Carl moved, trying to get a good angle to shoot the man, but there simply wasn’t one. The truck was too close, the car door blocked too much and the rain was increasing again, falling hard enough to make everything more than three feet away look like it was hidden by heavy silver mists.

“Nice to meet you, Sheriff!” The voice was cheerful! Carl shook his head as he tried to figure out where exactly the voice was coming from. “Reverend Cotton sends his regards. I’m supposed to give you a message. Be up here tomorrow night. Don’t be late. You and your friend Griffin fail to show up, and what happens in Whittaker tonight will be minor in comparison to what happens to Wellman.” The voice was actually getting more distant. The fucker was hiding. Probably in the very ravine Carl had used to avoid getting run down.

“Get up here where I can see you!”

“Soon enough, Sheriff. Until then, remember what happens in Whittaker could happen all over the county if you don’t show up!”

Whittaker wasn’t much of a town. It was more like an oversized trailer park. There were maybe two hundred people all told in the town. Carl reached for his cell phone and cursed. He’d dropped it a second time and he couldn’t see the damned thing.

The truck radio would have to do. He hated having to use the radio. Too many people liked to listen in on the radio in case there was something exciting going on. Something to feed the gossip mills.

Some things couldn’t be helped.

He moved around the truck and paused when he realized that the two men he’d been up against were still alive. The one he’d shot in the face was in the same position, moaning and trying not to choke on his own blood. The other one was pinned under the truck, his legs crushed beneath the front tires. The bumper had slammed his shoulder into the side of Carl’s truck. The odds were good that there were internal damages so severe he wouldn’t live all the way to the hospital, but for now he was alive.

Carl wasn’t feeling particularly cheery. He wasn’t feeling much of anything but shaken again.

Still, he listened when the man pinned to his truck spoke, though it was hard to make out the words at first. The man couldn’t seem to catch his breath.

“That reverend, he’s going to kill you.” The man’s face was white with shock. It’s possible some women would have thought he was a good looking man, but Carl couldn’t see past the fact that the man warning him was staring at him with crazy eyes. He didn’t seem to care that he was pinned. He just wanted to make sure Carl knew he was screwed. “It’s gonna last, too. I seen him do some serious harm before, but you? You killed his flock. He’s gonna make you suffer.”

Carl stood and moved to his truck. Let the fucker die alone.

There were more important matters to contend with. Like warning Wade. And trying to handle Whittaker before it was too late.

By the time he got through on the radio Whittaker was already fated to die. It did not go gently.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Carl got hold of the office easily enough, and Burley was responsive.

“You need at least four cars on the way to Whittaker, Burley. I want the town evacuated.”

“Evacuated?” Burley’s voice carried shock. “That’s a lot of effort, Carl. I mean, of course I’ll get it done, but what’s the reason?”

“Just had a man shooting at me and telling me that Whittaker’s gonna get bombed. I tend to take that sort of thing seriously.”

“You got it.”

“Burley, no playing around. I want that town emptied ASAP.”

“No downtime. I’m getting off the radio.”

“Not yet. Expedite the ambulances. The situation’s worse than it was. Just to be safe, you need to get at least a few of the local medical centers near Whittaker prepared for trouble. Make sure they have extra people on staff.” He had a feeling the situation would get bad, even if they managed to evacuate the town.

That was the end of the call.

That was not the end of the situation.

* * *

Deputy Lee Brumby was the sort of cop most of the other cops admired, even if it was grudgingly. He had no major commendations. He had never stopped a hostage situation. He had never stopped a major drug ring and he did not hold any records of any kind, except one for perfect attendance. Lee was a lifer, pure and simple. He did his job and he did it well, and he made sure he was on time and in uniform. There were no written complaints against the man. He seldom drank, he was faithful to his wife and he had two kids.

He also had a powerful dislike for illegal narcotics, which meant a lot of the people in Whittaker did not like him very much.

Whittaker wasn’t really a town. It barely qualified on any maps, except for the maps created and employed by the North Georgia Power and Water Company, which supplied all of the mobile homes in the area with fresh water, electricity, and in a few cases with natural gas. Most all of the trailers in the area used propane.

If you asked Carl Price to define Whittaker, he’d ruminate for a moment, then come up with what he considered appropriately politically-correct terminology. Something along the lines of “the economically disenfranchised”. He’d say it with a grin, but he’d at least partially mean it. To him a lot of the people living in the area were merely down on their luck.

To Lee Brumby, who’d been raised in deep poverty with a family full of mouths to feed, who’d spent most of his high school years working a job when school was done, the entire place was a pit of losers, crack-heads and the terminally lazy. You could count on business in Whittaker picking up around the same time the unemployment checks and Welfare checks arrived in the mail. Business, by the by, meant either a drive over to Cherry’s Liquor Store or one of several trailers that specialized in trading checks for cash and drugs in varying combinations.

Lee wasn’t quite as liberal as the Sheriff. They did not always see eye to eye.

That said, he was a deputy and knew his place well enough. As he drove into Whittaker with John Hayes beside him, he was in full rant mode. He was sick to death of Whittaker and the people who populated the cesspool.

“Lee, you don’t have to like these folks, but if there’s a threat to them, we have to get them out of their homes.”

Lee shook his head and snorted. “They aren’t going to listen. They never do.”

“We tell them there’s a bomb threat, they’ll get their asses in gear. No one here wants to get blown up.” Hayes was new to the force. He was a rookie as far as Lee was concerned. That meant he was still a little too big a believer in the general good of people. Brumby had long since accepted that most people were only capable of staying well behaved as long as they feared someone in authority locking them away. He never said anything of the sort to civilians, but he knew it in his heart of hearts.

They were both right. Some of the people in trailers were quick to grab a few belongings and head for the road. Others wanted to argue. Lee didn’t mind arguing right back and Hayes did his best to mediate.

They’d managed a total of seventeen trailers between them and the other six deputies – who were going door to door and using bullhorns when they couldn’t get answers – before they became aware they were already far too late to save the people of Whittaker, or themselves for that matter.

John noticed first. Lee was busy telling a woman in her late-forties that she had to grab her purse and head for the road. The lady in question was trying to explain that her husband, Larry, had the car and wouldn’t be home until after sunset. Larry’d found work in Wayfield – which was a metropolis in comparison to Whittaker, thank you very much – and he couldn’t possibly come home any sooner than that if they were going to get back on their feet. Lee was annoyed by the woman, who was currently disproving his theories about the trashy people of Whittaker and their bad intentions. So he was maybe less than kind when he told her to start hoofing it.

And she was equally unkind when she told him where he could shove his hooves.

And that was when John tugged at Lee’s sleeve until Lee conceded there might be a reason for the boy to not actually be speaking.

Lee turned to tell John to stop pulling on his arm like a damned baby and shut his mouth when he saw the wave coming toward them.

The wave was mostly black, and a little gray, with a splash of brown. Considering the rain that was still falling all around them, he should have expected something, but what he expected, if anything, would have been a flood of waters coming from the slopes above the collection of trailers.

But the wave that came for them was furry. It roiled over the tires of cars and swelled, washing past the grills of parked vehicles, sliding over the connection lines for gas and electrical power to various trailers. He could see the little black eyes, the tiny teeth, the nasty little tails like snakes, but he didn’t have time to study them, because there were just too damned many of the things.

Lee had exactly enough time to realize that what he was looking at was a massive surge of rats before it was too late to do anything about them. Oh, he tried. He reached for his pistol and he fired and he, by God, hit one of the bastards, a massive thing with a body that was almost two feet long without the tail. The rat blew up in a very satisfying spray of meat and bone, and an instant later there was no proof that anything had been shot, because the moving carpet of rodents swept over their dead companion without any concern at all.

John Hayes might have been a rookie, but he had a great sense of self-preservation. He shoved the woman into her trailer and pushed past Lee, moving inside with her. “Come on you damned fool!”

Lee might have considered taking offense to having a snotnose call him a damned anything, but fear was making him very compliant. He practically dove through the open door and John slammed it behind him. He wasn’t as fast as he maybe would have liked as two of the rodents got caught in the jamb, and they screamed and screeched as their heads were crushed in the narrow space.

John was taking no chances. He pulled the door shut and looked around for anything that could be used as a weapon.

“What the hell is that? What the fuck?” The lady’s attitude perfectly matched Lee’s. Both of them were looking everywhere at once and trying to make sense of what they’d seen. They were not having much luck.

Lee reached for his radio where it was clipped to his shoulder. The sheriff preferred phone calls. Not today. This was too damned big, too damned much. Carl Price could kiss every square inch of his ass.

“This is Deputy Brumby! We need back up! We need back up! We’ve got—” What did they have? He searched for the right words as the rodents hit the sides of the trailer with what seemed like a thousand tiny little thumps. Surely it wasn’t that many. Surely his mind was exaggerating what he’d seen outside. “We’ve got a damned plague of rats!”

Dina Merriman responded from the station with, “Say what, Lee? A plague? Come back.”

“A goddamned plague! Send backup Dina!”

The lady of the trailer let loose with a scream that made the fillings in Lee’s teeth ache. She had that sort of voice. He was about to yell at her, but she pointed at the slatted glass windows of the trailer, and when Lee looked, he thought about screaming himself.

The windows were easily four feet from the trailer’s floor, which meant easily six feet off the actual ground. That didn’t stop the rats from pushing through the openings between the slats. The things were relentless, pushing in and falling to the ground as more came after them. Had there ever been that many rodents in the whole damned county? Surely not.

Lee tried firing again. He might have hit a rat. He might not have. Either way, he managed to blow out the window slats that had offered a modicum of protection from the surge.

The rats came in like water flooding through an open window. Unlike water they did not simply puddle at the base of the windowsill.

Instead they came for Lee and John and the screaming woman.

She did not scream alone.

Lee fired every bullet in his weapon before it was all said and done. At least one of those bullets hit the propane tank outside of the trailer. Ultimately that was probably a mercy. The explosion was much faster than the rats would have been.

* * *

Carl heard about the destruction second-hand. He had fired his weapon and hit a man. By county regulations he was supposed to be forced into desk duty pending an investigation.

Sure. That was a wonderful notion.

He and the county commissioners came to an understanding. He had to take the rest of the night off. His firearms had to be held. He accepted their decree, but as he was turning in his weapons he heard all about the attack on Whittaker.

That bastard, Fry, had lied to him. He said the attack would happen at night.

Maybe that was deliberate. Maybe it was a miscommunication. Either way, if he saw the man again, Fry was going down.

Eight deputies went into Whittaker. None of them came out. Suddenly going home wasn’t an option. Carl stayed at the office, ordering the forces available to him and helping to move things as smoothly as possible in the examination of what was left of Whittaker.

The people who tried to come into the town were not allowed back in. The deputies who examined the remains did so with HAZMAT suits in place until they ran out of suits.

There were human remains aplenty. There were ruined trailers galore. Several fires had destroyed a number of the trailers, and it would be days at the very least before the disaster was completely catalogued.

The GBI was called in, as was the National Guard, because the Sheriff ’s Department was already spread too thin to manage the situation.

More HAZMAT suits were brought in.

It was possible they would never completely understand what had happened in Whittaker, but Carl had heard the recording of Lee Brumby screaming about a plague of rats. Brumby had been a bit of an ass, but he’d been a good deputy in his own right and he was not known for exaggerating.

The skies were still dropping heavy rains. There was a good chance most of the physical evidence of a rat infestation would have been washed away.

Carl doubted that was a coincidence. What could vampires do?

He didn’t know.

But he needed to know.

And that meant he’d have to deal with Wade’s friend Decamp. That one was hiding things, but he seemed to be on the side of the angels and that was good enough for now.

Wade called him even as he was thinking about the situation. They had a lot to talk about. More than Carl wanted to think about.

Rats. A damned plague of rats. What else did Lazarus Cotton have waiting in the wings?

Carl shook his head and looked toward the evidence lockers. The one that had the best locks had more than drugs and other contraband stored in it.

One of them had an amazing collection of items confiscated from various busts. Sometimes it terrified him the things they found inside the houses they searched. But now and then, just when he least expected it, Carl saw something in that room that made him smile.

It was not a pretty smile that lit his face as he unlocked the weapons locker and pulled a few items, but it was most decidedly a smile.

* * *

“Rats,” Decamp said, shaking his head. “He summoned an army of rats.”

“Vampires can do that?” Griffin said.

“Only the most powerful ones. They can control lower orders of animals. We’re lucky that wolves aren’t native to this area.”

Carl said, “So how do we fight someone like that, Decamp? Wade and I have to keep an appointment with that fucker tonight or he’s going to do the same thing all over the county. Hell, Wellman could be next.”

The three men were sitting in Decamp’s study. Mid-morning light filtered through the blinds, casting dark shadows on the floor. Griffin could see dust motes drifting in the shafts of light.

Decamp said, “I have some weapons for you, borrowed from a friend. They may seem a bit strange to you, but hear me out.” He brought out a long sword in a leather scabbard. “This one’s for you, Sheriff.”

“A sword?”

“An iron sword. Much better than the machete you were using.” Decamp drew the blade from its sheath. “You can stab them through the heart with this, or use it to cut off their heads. In addition, the blade has some, er... special properties that will allow you to damage the vampires anywhere you cut them.”

Carl said, “Don’t you have any long range weapons? Special bullets or something?”

“Sadly, no. There aren’t any bullets I’ve found to be effective against vampires.”

“So you’ve fought them before?”

“Oh yes.”

“What about crossbows?” said Griffin.

“I’ve heard of crossbows with iron tipped shafts, but a crossbow takes too long to reload and the vampires move too damn fast. Up close and personal is how they have to be dealt with. Which reminds me. I have an iron spike for each of you that you can use like a knife if you end up that close. Try not to. Remember how strong they are.”

“Do you have a sword for me?” Griffin asked.

“For you I have something special, since you’re the only man I know who’s big enough to wield it.” He lifted a wide leather case from the floor and placed it on his desk. Griffin noted the case was old and battered. Decamp opened it and drew out a big, double-bladed ax. The blades gleamed as if they had been recently polished.

Griffin whistled. “That’s beautiful. How old is it?”

“A few thousand years. It and the sword belong to a man named Kharrn.”

“Thousand? You’re kidding right? They didn’t have that kind of metallurgical knowledge that far back.”

“This comes from the time of the Moon-Eyes, Griffin.”

“Jesus.”

“Long before him as well. Neither of these weapons will rust, and so far they’ve proved indestructible. The ax has the same properties as the sword. Anywhere you cut the vampires, they’ll feel it and it will take their heads off as cleanly as my own sword.”

“Speaking of which,” Carl said. “Wade tells me you’re going with us tonight.”

“I’ll be there, but I’ll go there on my own. Best if Cotton thinks it’s just the two of you.”

“Makes sense,” Carl said.

Decamp said, “Charon is currently cooking up some spaghetti sauce from a special recipe I gave her. Plenty of garlic. The three of us will need to smear cloves of garlic on our exposed skin as well. Like I told Griffin earlier, it won’t kill them but it will bother the hell out of them. Could give you an edge in close quarters.”

“We’re going to be a smelly bunch,” said Carl.

“Indeed. My plan is to head up to Mooney’s Bluff in the afternoon and conceal myself. Hopefully I’ll be there before Cotton and his crew arrive. I’ll call you if I see anything that could help us. You two should probably arrive before dusk.”

Carl said, “I wonder why they chose the bluff? Do you think Cotton isn’t aware of the Blackbournes? That’s pretty damn close to Crawford’s Hollow.”

Decamp shrugged. “He may not be aware or he may not consider them a threat.”

“That would be a mistake. They took out one of his master vampires at the funeral,” said Carl. “They won’t like Cotton and his goons being in their territory.”

“Again, he may not know that. Keep in mind, though, he’s a sort of evil spirit, whether he realizes it or not. Lazarus Cotton isn’t any sort of expert in the supernatural. His religious beliefs would classify most of the supernatural as Satan spawned. He wouldn’t likely be well-versed in the actuality.”

Carl hefted the sword. “A magic sword. God damn.”

Decamp said, “I know it seems archaic, but trust me, it will get the job done.”

“I believe you. I may have a trick or two of my own to add, though.”

“Just ensure it isn’t based on any movies you may have seen,” said Decamp.

Griffin said, “I’m going out to your back yard and give this thing a few practice swings.” He brandished the ax. “Heavy. Certainly seems well balanced enough though.”

“Kharrn uses it one handed.”

“Jeez. Who is this guy?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you about him another day.”

Carl followed Griffin out behind Decamp’s house. They could smell the garlic-infused spaghetti cooking as they passed through. Outside the rain had finally stopped, but dark clouds still filled the sky. The air felt hot and sticky.

Griffin took a stance and gave the ax a slow swing. He made a turn and shifted his grip on the haft, rotating the ax for a backhanded cut. The weapon was indeed beautifully balanced.

Carl said, “Is there any hand weapon you don’t know how to use, Wade?”

“Nope. And don’t act like you didn’t fence in college.”

“That was a saber. This is what? A broadsword?”

“Technically speaking it’s a longsword.”

“Ah.” Carl made a couple of quick cuts through the air, then lunged as if he were stabbing an opponent. “I like it. Do you believe it’s actually as old as Decamp says?”

“Everything he’s told me has panned out so far. Amazing as it seems, I believe him.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I trust him to do what he says he’ll do. He has his secrets, but he’ll stand up when things go south.”

“Kind of like you and me.”

“Yes. Like you and me.”

Carl shook his head and regarded the sword. “You ever think, back in Wellman High, that we’d be fighting vampires and extra-dimensional creatures?”

“Don’t think I even knew what extra-dimensional meant back then.”

“No, me neither.”

* * *

A few hours later, full of garlic-laced spaghetti, Griffin and Charon drove back to Wellman. Carl had his own errands to run but he told Griffin he would pick him up about five and they would head up to Mooney’s Bluff together.

Charon was quiet for much of the ride home, but finally she said, “I’m about to sound like the schoolmarm in High Noon again, Griffin, but I really wish you didn’t have to do this.”

“I wish I didn’t either,” Griffin said. “But we both know there’s no one else. Just like last time, we won’t be able to convince the authorities of the situation before it’s too late. Cotton didn’t give Carl and me much choice. If we don’t show up tonight, people could die.”

Charon smiled, though Griffin could see tears forming. “And you wondered if you were a good man.”

“None of this changes what I’ve done in the past.”

“No, but what you were, what you are, is what allows you to do this sort of thing. If you didn’t have the training you have, you and I would have died at the funeral. You held those creatures off until Decamp got there. And now, you’re going to go up against them again with a god damned ax.”

The tears came then and Griffin slowed the truck and pulled over. He unhooked his safety belt and reached across and put his arms around her. “I walked away from the fight with the Moon-Eyes. I’ll come back from this too.”

Charon looked up, her dark eyes clouded with fear. “What if you don’t?”

“Then I want you to get out of town and go far away. Cotton knows who you are, but I don’t think he would spend much time looking for you if you were gone. Empty my safe and go.”

“That’s not what I meant, you idiot. How do I go on if you’re gone?”

“People go on, kiddo. You will too. But listen, I’m coming back okay? I am a seriously bad man and a bunch of blood-sucking holy rollers aren’t going to keep me from coming back to you.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Good. Now let’s go home and you can smear garlic on my naked body.”

“Kinky.”

“And then some.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Sometimes people make horrible, horrible mistakes.

Take for example Dillon Harris, a small-time loser with ambition. Dillon heard almost as soon as it happened that Pete Blankenship was out of the trafficking business. That little tidbit did not make the local news – the arrests at the lodge where many under-aged girls were being forced to work made it to the news, but Blankenship’s retirement did not – but that sort of information tends to get around all by itself.

Dillon heard it from a man he supplied with cocaine, who happened to be fond of girls who were too young and liked to struggle. Dillon did not consider himself a pervert, but he most decidedly considered himself an entrepreneur. To that end, he listened when the man went on and on about how miserable his life was going to be if he had to go all the way to Atlanta to satisfy his needs, and Dillon got an idea.

For the right money, he could probably supply what his client wanted. He was a dealer, after all. Why not simply expand what he offered?

Of course, Dillon liked to think he was shrewd, so he got himself a partner in his endeavors. That partner was a big guy – not very smart but hellishly good in a fight – by the name of Rico Alvarez. Rico’s family was from New York. They’d moved down to Wellman when Rico was fifteen and by then he’d developed something of a reputation as a bad ass. He made sure to keep up with his reputation by joining the Marines for two stints and then coming back home and working as a bouncer at a club frequented by bikers. Some of the bikers were the sort that lawmen feared and others just dressed that way on the weekends, but most of them came to respect Rico’s abilities as an amateur pugilist and a shit-kicker.

That in place, Dillon decided the best way to start his new business as a pimp was to procure girls for his clients that would suit their particular needs. His first client liked young girls. Not too young, but young. He liked them to be the sort who could put up a fight, but not exactly the sort that could get too violent. In his words, he liked “a good screamer, but no biters”.

Far be it from Dillon to argue with what his clients wanted. Happy clients paid well and Dillon was pretty sure he could accommodate. He even knew where to look for girls that wouldn’t be missed too easily. Not in Wellman, because there were too many cops. Gatesville was the same way. But, hey, he thought he knew just the right girl. Looked to be around thirteen, liked to walk by herself, came from an area that even the cops seldom seemed to notice.

Sometimes people aren’t nearly as sharp as they think they are.

Adina was a very pretty girl indeed. She took after her mother that way, and even though she was barely beginning to develop she had flawless skin, a gorgeous stream of flaxen hair, blue eyes and the sort of mouth that promised a perfect kiss without even trying. She was so damned pretty, in fact, that Dillon, who had never once in his life been the sort who couldn’t woo a girl, considered sampling the wares before handing her over to his first client. Ultimately he decided he could wait, but mostly because he knew if he did anything with her, Rico would want to as well and if half the stories about Rico were true, he might leave the girl in such a damaged state that they’d have to discount her.

Also, he’d heard that virgins were worth more and he intended to bank on that.

Adina put up a fight, but after he hit her the third time in the stomach she stopped fighting so much, and putting her in the trunk was easy enough once they got her tied up.

All of which made Dillon reprehensible, but failed to prove his stupidity. No, his mistake came in thinking Adina’s family didn’t know she was pretty, and in assuming they weren’t watching.

Dillon’s Uncle Lucas was doing time in the state penitentiary for dealing. As Dillon had taken over the family business, and as he needed a good place, he also took advantage of Luke’s residence – put in Dillon’s name to avoid any unfortunate seizures by the authorities – and got the place prettied up before he even got there. Clean sheets, a new mattress, even a few decent curtains to hide the bars on the windows. Just to be on the safe side, he even installed a pair of bondage cuffs – complete with pink furry interiors to prevent broken skin – which he used to make sure Adina did not go anywhere until her new paramour arrived. Now and then a man has to invest in order to make a good profit; Dillon was no fool. He understood economics.

One phone call and he had a very happy client on the way to meet a cute little girl who was going to earn Dillon and Rico a lot of money. Because he understood economics so well, he did, indeed, tell his client that Adina was a virgin. If it turned out he was wrong, they could worry about a partial refund. Otherwise, he was guaranteed to make a lot of money off of the girl’s cherry.

Unfortunately for Dillon, Adina’s sister understood human nature even better than he understood economics. She and four of her brothers were waiting in the bedroom when Dillon opened the door to allow his client access.

Rico was there, too. A large albino was playing with his entrails when they opened the door. Rico would have screamed about the situation, but one of the silk pillowcases had been rammed into his mouth and he couldn’t get a noise out past it. “Who the fuck are you?” It took Dillon a second to realize he’d spoken to the five pale strangers. It took him another second to realize that Adina was currently standing behind a woman who made it clear that he’d been right: she’d grow up to be an amazing beauty. That they were related was impossible to miss.

The woman did not speak. Instead she simply looked at the red-haired bruiser next to her and pointed.

Gideon Blackbourne delivered a blow that could have been called legendary. His single punch into Dillon’s stomach left the entrepreneur on all fours and vomiting all over the floor. The second blow was aimed at his client. The client screamed as his collarbone was shattered.

Uncle Lucas’s house was in the woods, well away from prying neighbors. Both men had a lot of reasons to scream before Lament Blackbourne and her brothers were done discussing why it would never be prudent to touch their sister Adina again.

Dillon Harris lived through the lesson. Why?

Because sometimes you want someone out there to help spread the word that there’s a new player in town. It stops the wannabes from getting too grabby.

* * *

The Deacons gathered with Lazarus Cotton in the mine shaft he’d commandeered as his new church for the next few days. They did not question him, though surely they had earned the right as his disciples. They listened, and for that he was grateful. Say Amen.

“I have no doubt they will be waiting for us when we arrive at the chosen location.”

The Deacons nodded.

“When we get there we must, of course, expect cowardice and duplicity. We shall be prepared, children. We must be. We are the chosen of God. We will not fail Him in His mission. We shall go forth and we shall multiply. We shall punish the wicked. We shall be His light in the darkness.”

“Amen,” they agreed.

“They have a witch with them. A charlatan who knows some of the old ways. Enough that he hurt the faithful who are already suffering.” Lazarus shook his head and frowned. He was hurt that it could come to this. He clenched his beefy hands into fists and held them before his face. “‘Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Witch to Live.’ I do not believe they are capable of facing us as righteous men. They are not righteous. They consort with the devil himself.”

The Deacons’ faces were grim. They understood all too well that the devil was constantly around them, constantly ready to strike against them.

“To that end, we must attack in waves. We must be prepared to make sacrifices.” He sighed and looked toward the burnt-out shell of his church. He could not see it, not where he was currently standing, but he could almost feel its presence. A sad reminder of what the wicked could do.

“My brethren here have been tainted. The damnable witch has done something to them and they rot. The very soil where they were made to live forever has been taken from them, and in the process they have lost their way. I have spoken with them at length, and they know what is happening, they know these… heathens… have taken from them the most sacred blessing of the Lord. They also know their sacrifices shall not go in vain. They are willing to die for the Lord. They understand they have been resurrected once and could well be raised a second time if Jesus sees fit to allow it.”

“Amen.” The solemn voice of his children filled Lazarus with hope. And with his children beside him, little could stand in his way. The Lord’s will would be done.

“I have made a demonstration to the unfaithful. I have let them see what happens to those who defy the Lord. I am prepared to make an example of every person in this county if I must. We will have our justice. The Lord will be appeased. We shall overcome.”

He did not need to speak loudly. His children listened to his words as they always had.

“I can no longer hear Sister Hope in my heart. Whatever sort of demons took her, they have either killed her or hidden her so well that even I cannot find her.” He felt his lip tremble. Sister Hope was so special to him, the very first of his children, one of the most faithful women he had ever known. Her work in Mexico was not finished, but she had children as well, and they would surely continue to spread the gospel. “But even if we cannot find her, we must remember that she is a servant of the Lord and will be taken by Him if her time on this mortal planet is done.”

Oh, how his children seethed at the thought that she had been destroyed. Sister Hope was well loved and respected.

“When the sun sets tomorrow, my children, we shall go forth and do the Lord’s work. We shall overcome if it is His will.”

“Amen!”

Lazarus nodded. Amen indeed. And Hallelujah.

All around him his Deacons listened as he laid out his plans.

And at their feet the rats moved, cleaning themselves and waiting for the words that would release them.

Those words would not come just yet.

There were a few heathens and witches that had to be taught a lesson first.

Amen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Griffin and Charon hadn’t been home half an hour when Griffin’s cell phone buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number, but he took the call.

“Guess who this is,” the caller said.

“Someone who doesn’t know I don’t like to play guess who.”

“That’s no way to be, Hoss. It’s your old pal Fry, calling to do you a favor.”

Griffin checked to see that Charon was out of earshot. “What do you want?”

“I just told you. I want to help you out.”

“And why would you want to do that?”

“I’m blowing town, Hoss. Things have gotten too hot for me now that the Reverend has brought in his deacon buddies. That’s what he calls those bad boy vampires. Deacons. I think old Fry is starting to look a mite tasty to some of them. So I’m going to rabbit before things get worse.”

“Why tell me?”

“Well now, before I go I thought you might like to know where the Reverend sleeps in the daytime. You still got plenty of hours of day left, Griffin. You could end this before it really gets started.”

“Fry, you tried to kill my friend Carl yesterday. Why would you decide to help us now?”

“Well it ain’t out of the goodness of my heart, old buddy. See, I need a little traveling fund. I figure a fellow like you, a merc like myself, would have some cash stashed away. If you were to give me, oh say, twenty grand, I’d sing you a song like Muddy Waters himself. Tell you where you could find all those vampires so you could get the jump on them.”

“You would, eh?”

“I surely would. Now here’s the deal. I’m parked behind that burned-out Shell station about three miles from your place. You know the one?”

“Yeah, near where all the construction is going on.”

“That’s the spot. Now you bring me the cash in half an hour and I’ll give you those bloodsuckers on a plate. What do you say?”

Griffin didn’t believe anything Fry was saying but he wondered about the man’s motivations. Cotton wanted revenge on Griffin and Carl, and Griffin was pretty sure he wanted to witness their demises up on the bluff. Why would he send Fry to try and draw Griffin into a trap? Didn’t make much sense.

On the other hand, were Griffin to meet with Fry, he might be able to apprehend Fry and get him to tell him the very things Fry was holding out as bait.

Griffin said, “I’ll be there. Be out of your car and standing in plain sight when I get there.”

“You don’t trust me? I’m hurt, Hoss. Don’t worry though. I’ll do just what you said.”

Griffin turned off the phone. He stepped into the kitchen where Charon was cutting up several cloves of garlic. “I have to step out for about an hour. Think I may have a lead that could help Carl and me tonight.”

“Oh? What would that be?”

“Just got to talk to a guy.”

“A guy, eh? I get the feeling you’re holding out on me, buster.”

“Maybe a little. But don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

“You’d better be. I don’t want to miss out on the naked garlic smearing.”

Her tone was light, but Griffin could see concern in her dark eyes. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way and then headed for his truck.

* * *

“You didn’t bring the money, did you?” Fry said. The lanky man was leaning on an old-model Corvette. He wore loose jeans and a t-shirt. Griffin could hear the twangy sounds of an old Robert Johnson song coming from the Corvette’s stereo. Appropriately it was Hellhound on My Trail. He had chosen his location well. Behind the husk of the old service station no one could see them from the road.

Griffin had gotten out of his truck with his .357 in his hand. He held the gun down by one leg. Not pointing it, but being sure Fry could see it. He said, “I didn’t bring the money because we both know your story is bullshit.”

“It is, but it got you out here.”

“I see any of your vampire pals and I’ll be sure and shoot you first.”

Fry pushed off the car. “No vampires, Hoss. Just me and you.”

“And what do you want?”

Fry grinned. “Want a piece of you, Griffin. You’ve been a pain in my ass since you showed up at the church. You and your Sheriff buddy have made me look pretty bad.”

“You want to fight me?”

“I want to beat the shit out of you. I’ve heard you’re hell on wheels in a fight, but I been all over this here world and I ain’t met anyone I couldn’t give a good stomping.”

So that was it. Fry had been wondering since they had met if he could take Griffin. Griffin had known other mercs like that. Guys who had to be the alpha wolf and couldn’t stand the idea that there might be someone tougher or better. Add that to Fry’s obviously unstable mental state and you got a seriously messed up situation like this one.

“Fry, I’m holding a gun and you’re not. How about I just shoot you in both knees and get you to tell me where Cotton is?”

Fry shook his head. “You know that won’t work, Hoss. We’re enough alike. I don’t think you got the stones to try and torture it out of me, and if you did, I can just about guarantee I’d die before I’d tell you shit.”

“And if I just get back in my truck and drive away?”

“I got a LAWS Rocket in the ’vette, Griffin. You leave and I’ll put it through your front door, blow the hell out of you and that pretty little girl of yours. And you know I’d do it.”

The threat to Charon started a cold fire in the center of Griffin’s chest. For a moment he considered just shooting the son of a bitch and getting it over with. But he was trying not to do things that way. Besides, he still might get some information out of Fry if he got the chance. Some men did have amazingly high thresholds for pain, but Griffin knew a thing or three about interrogation.

“All right,” Griffin said. “We do this your way.” He popped open the cylinder of the .357 and let the bullets fall into his hand, then pocketed them and placed the gun on the hood of his truck.

Fry grinned and started toward Griffin, his shambling gait gone, replaced by a loose-limbed sort of readiness. He rolled his shoulders. Flexed his hands. He said, “When this is done, I might just stop by and see your girl anyway. Sure is a pretty thing.”

He was trying to make Griffin angry. It was working, but not in the way Fry hoped. Griffin had long since learned to hold his rage. To channel it rather than let it control him.

The man was fast. Griffin barely saw the swift, straight kick that Fry aimed at his groin. But he did see it and he slapped it aside, causing Fry to overbalance. Griffin threw an elbow strike at Fry’s head but the lanky man twisted away with snake-like quickness.

“Damn,” Fry said. “You’re a fast bastard.”

Griffin didn’t answer. If Fry wanted to waste his breath talking, he could do a monologue. But Fry, apparently seeing that his jibes weren’t having the desired effect, got down to business. He went into a crouch and shuffled in, snapping a high roundhouse kick at Griffin’s head. It was a feint, of course. No one of Fry’s experience would expect to land a high kick in this sort of fight. He expected Griffin to lean away from it which would open Griffin up to a more serious attack.

Griffin did the opposite. He moved into the kick, taking the impact on his shoulder and allowing him to get close enough to deliver a straight punch to Fry’s solar plexus. Fry stumbled back, with the wind knocked out of him. Griffin moved forward, but Fry aimed a vicious kick at Griffin’s forward knee that Griffin just managed to dodge.

Fry waded back in, launching a combination of punches. Griffin blocked and parried but one punch got through, striking a glancing blow on the side of Griffin’s skull. Griffin shook it off and landed a hammer blow with the bottom of his fist on Fry’s jaw. Griffin had long since learned not to use his knuckles on an opponent’s head. Compared to the heavy bone of the skull, the smaller bones of the fingers and knuckles were too easily broken.

Fry was starting to breathe hard, grunting with each punch he threw. He snarled in frustration at being unable to get past Griffin’s guard and bulled in, trying to grapple. Griffin faked an attempt at a hip throw and when Fry resisted, Griffin caught the back of Fry’s head with one hand and pulled it down while snapping his knee up, catching Fry full in the face.

Fry fell backwards and slammed into the side of the Corvette. Before he could recover Griffin kicked him in the stomach and then whipped his elbow across Fry’s temple. Fry slid down the side of the car and slumped on the asphalt.

Griffin stepped back, just in case Fry was pretending to be hurt worse than he was, but then the red-haired man spit a tooth out and glared up at Griffin.

“Guess those stories about you were true,” Fry said. “Nobody ever gave me an ass whipping like that before.”

“Happens to everyone sooner or later,” Griffin said.

Fry spat again. “Won’t do you no good, Hoss. Reverend Cotton will take care of you tonight.”

“Maybe. But you won’t be there to see it.”

“Going to call your sheriff pal and have me arrested? Don’t matter. I’ll get some time for assault, but I’ll be back out before you know it and you’ll still be dead.”

“Why don’t you tell me where Cotton sleeps in the daytime, Fry?”

“No can do, Compadre. Nothing you can do to me will be worse than what the Reverend will do if I sell him out. Hell, he ain’t going to be happy about me doing this.”

“Then I guess I’ll call the sheriff.”

“You do that. Like I said, I’ll be out in no time. You’ll be dead and that sweet little girl of yours will be all alone.”

Griffin shook his head. Fry was right. If Cotton managed to kill him, Fry would still be around. Even Griffin’s sniper pal couldn’t watch Charon all the time. Griffin blew out a long breath, then took a sudden step forward and kicked Fry in the face, knocking the back of Fry’s head against the Corvette. This time Fry was out cold.

Griffin opened the door of the Corvette and looked inside. Fry hadn’t been kidding. There was a LAWS rocket in the back seat. Griffin pulled the anti-tank weapon out and set it on the ground. There was also an army green canvas bag in the back. Griffin opened this and found six Thermite incendiary grenades. Good. That would make things easier. He took the LAWS and the bag and put them in his truck. He removed one of the grenades and went back to the Corvette.

Griffin got Fry off the ground and shoved him inside the car. He closed the door, popped the pin on the grenade and dropped it through the open window. Then he moved away fast. Incendiaries weren’t meant to be thrown, so they had shorter fuses than other types of grenades. Griffin felt a wave of heat at his back as the grenade raised the temperature inside the ’Vette to 3,992 degrees. The windows were blown out but the grenade was more about heat than concussive force. It would burn hot but fast and that would be that. No body for Carl or anyone else to worry about and not enough of the car left to identify.

Griffin got into his truck and headed for home. He was trying hard to be a better man, but sometimes the old ways were best.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Carl and Wade got up to Mooney’s Bluff well before the sun set. And then they got to work. There were things that had to be done, an assortment of surprises they might or might not ever get to use, but they would have them as ready as they could just the same.

They were just finishing with what they hoped would be a proper concealment of their special surprises when Carl looked over at Wade and cleared his throat.

“So, seems like somebody put a car near your place to the torch. I mean seriously to the torch.”

“Yeah?”

“Sort of fire I figure might be made with one of those little grenades you were nice enough to share out.”

“Weird how that could happen.”

“Yeah. I was just gonna recommend being on the lookout for the sort of maniac that would burn a car into slag.”

“No worries, Carl. I tend to keep my eyes peeled for that sort of thing.”

“I thought you might, what with being a detective and all that.”

Griffin looked around the area instead of answering. Carl did likewise. There were trees but no real shade, and it was hotter than Hell. To their left was a very large pit in the ground, carved out years ago by the Mayhew Granite Company. These days the abandoned quarry was half-filled with water in some of the lower areas, and back in their teen years both of them had gone skinny-dipping there a few times with the appropriate female companions.

Carl looked away for a second as he thought on Tammy back in the day. Best not to think about that. Not to think about her. “Goddamned ghosts are everywhere these days.”

“What’s that, Carl?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged and looked around the area in the other direction. Hills and dirt and kudzu. Everywhere with the damned kudzu. If they weren’t careful that vine really would swallow the entire southeast. He had no doubt of it. “You think they picked this spot for a reason?”

“I think they want their privacy. Want to do this without witnesses.”

“I don’t know, man.” Carl’s lips pressed together. “What was that shit about buried on their native soil? Lots of areas around here where they could put people down if they wanted to start all over again.”

Wade looked toward him for a moment and then did a slow stretch to keep his muscles limber. “Maybe. I won’t go that way.”

“Not on my plans, either. Don’t worry, if they get you and I get away, I’m coming back to take your head off.”

Wade nodded. “Good. I’ll do the same.”

“I’d expect no less. Hell, I figure to keep one of the grenades with me. They go too far with the feeding I’ll pull the pin.”

“You’re getting too damned defeatist, Carl.”

“No. Realistic.”

“Same difference. I intend to walk away from this shit. I don’t intend to leave you behind, either.”

Carl spit. “Not on my plans either, Wade. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“No, you’re giving up.”

“If I was giving up I’d have put a fucking bullet through my head by now, Wade!” His voice was louder than he planned as he looked toward his friend. “I feel particularly like doing myself in, I’ll do it when I have the spare fucking time. Right now I’m a bit too fucking busy.”

Wade shook his head and a slow grin ran across his face for a moment. “Now, see, anger is okay. Just don’t go getting whiny.”

“We’ll see about whiny when this is done. We both walk out of this I’m gonna kick your ass for calling me whiny.”

“I’m not calling you whiny. Just suggesting that you might be heading into that particular neighborhood.”

“I’m having a very bad week, Wade.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“You bury your wife this week?”

“Ex-wife. And no.”

“Well make sure you don’t. It’s not exactly a good time.”

“Save it for the vampires, Carl. Take it out on them.”

“I intend to. And when we’re done I’m still gonna kick your ass for calling me whiny.”

“I got a really big ax, Carl.”

“Ass ain’t looking that small these days either.”

“I really don’t need to have you looking at my ass, Carl. Charon’s a bit on the jealous side.”

Carl looked away and chuckled. He couldn’t keep angry with Wade. Not when he knew his friend was merely telling him the truth of the matter. “I don’t think this is going to end well.”

“It’ll end one way or another.”

“No. I mean this whole thing. I’m not sure if I’m gonna be the sheriff much longer. This shit is getting too messy.”

“It’s a job, Carl.”

“I kind of like the pension plan.”

“Well, I don’t suppose a good 401k would suck.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I really don’t much feel like losing my job.”

“So I guess you better start campaigning.”

“Well, there’s good news on that front.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“Pretty much isn’t anyone else wants to inherit my shit. So far there’s no one making big plans for running against me.”

“See? There’s always a bright side.”

“Wade Griffin, Optimist. It doesn’t have a very good ring to it.” Carl thought about it for a second. “Must be Charon rubbing off on you.”

“Might be.”

“That or your exciting new eau de Garlic cologne.”

“It is a bit smelly,” he agreed.

Carl wandered back to the sack of goodies he’d brought along. There were a dozen or more road flares. He also brought along two sets of night vision goggles. They were still trying to decide if those would be a wise choice when one considered everything else they’d brought along.

Time would tell.

Instead of bothering with those just yet, he reached into the sack and pulled out two bottles of water that hadn’t quite made it to lukewarm yet.

There was a while to wait yet, and killing monsters was thirsty work.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The sun crept down to the edge of the mountains, and as it did the dead began to rise. Lazarus Cotton moved from his resting place and made the journey at a speed that would have terrified his enemies if they knew how very quickly he could move. Likely they would find out soon enough.

He met with his Deacons at the base of a tree that looked like a man in agony. Twin limbs rose in supplication and a collection of knots in the wood looked for all the world like a wretched face twisted into a mask of pain. Jesus suffered. It seemed somehow fitting to know that the very trees sometimes remembered His pain.

“I take no pleasure in what we must do, my brethren. The men we are up against feel that they are in the right and they are ignorant of the desires of our Lord, and of the blessings He has bestowed upon us. I do not believe they are malignant, but merely misguided. That said, it is time to put an end to their foolish and wicked interruptions.”

He looked to his children and felt their love, their adoration. They were blessings in his life.

“They seek to destroy us. We will surely seek the same. I might even offer some of them the blessings of the Lord, but not their wizard. We have called for them to meet us, and I have no doubt the sorcerous imp who crippled our young before will be there. I shall do my best to seek him out. It is best if I handle the one who has been so close to the devil’s black heart.”

The Deacons nodded, fully aware of the wisdom of his words. They were strong. He was stronger. It was exactly that simple.

He recited the Lord’s Prayer and the Deacons spoke the words with him. There was no fear in their hearts. They were the blessed of the Lord. The unbelievers would fall.

All would be right with the world. Amen.

And when the prayer was done, the Reverend Lazarus Cotton reached out to his wounded children, those who would not last much longer, and offered them the first chance to work as the instruments of God’s vengeance.

And from deep within the waters at the bottom of the quarry, where the sun could not reach them even at the height of the brightest day, the wounded rose toward the night above, and their last chance at redemption in the eyes of the Lord.

Say Amen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Griffin smelled them before he saw them. A hot, moist breeze came blowing across the quarry, and with it came a deep, cloying stench of death. He looked down the gentle slope toward the water and saw figures breaking the surface of the man-made lake in the failing light.

“Carl,” Griffin said.

Carl turned and looked to where Griffin was pointing. “Jesus.”

Decamp had said the vampires, deprived of their native soil, would fall literally apart, and he hadn’t been wrong. Griffin counted just over a dozen of them – all that was left of Cotton’s congregation – and not a one of them was whole. Some were missing limbs. One was just an upper torso, dragging itself along on rotting arms. All of them had turned dark and discolored, and their flesh seemed to sag on their bones like wax running from a candle.

And in the front of the line walked what had once been Paul Traylor. Most of the flesh was gone from his face, and his fangs stood out from the naked white bone of his skull. He spotted Griffin and snarled.

“You did this to me, Griffin,” Traylor said. His voice sounded as if his tongue had mostly rotted away too. “You let them take me.”

“You didn’t hire me as a bodyguard, Traylor,” Griffin said. Why the hell was he arguing with this thing? He had to keep in mind that while these creatures might look like something from a George Romero nightmare, they weren’t slow-motion zombies. They were vampires. Still fast. Still strong.

Traylor proved this a second later by rushing up the slope at Griffin, wasted hands extended like claws. Hell, they were claws since they were mostly bone. Griffin swept the ax up in a backhanded arc and those claws went flying. Decamp had been telling the truth about that too. The ax could not only kill these things. It could damage them as well. Griffin’s return swing struck Traylor in the neck and his head went flying, disintegrating as it rolled back down the slope.

“Daddy! Daddy!” a shrill voice screeched.

Oh no. Jesus Christ, no. But he made himself look at the misshapen figure that was lurching up the slope. Lynn Traylor. One of her feet was gone and it was slowing her down some but she was still scrabbling toward Griffin like a rabid animal. Her pale, gaunt face was coming apart but her deep-set eyes burned with a feral light.

Griffin gritted his teeth and lunged forward. He had failed the child but he wouldn’t fail her here. He swung the ax in a long arc, aimed at Lynn’s neck but she darted to one side and lunged at him, knocking him from his feet. How could anything that small be that fast and that strong?

He had lost the ax, but it wouldn’t do him any good at close quarters like this anyway. Lynn Traylor had her bony fingers at his throat and her mouth opened wide, baring her long, sharp teeth. Griffin fumbled at his belt for the iron spike Decamp had given him. He had wrapped the end with leather cord to give it a better grip, and he was glad that he had, since he doubted he could have wielded the spike with his sweat-slicked hand. Wield it he did though, pulling it free of its makeshift sheath and driving it into the damaged girl’s chest. The pressure on his throat went away as the child’s body crumbled to dust.

Griffin rolled to his feet, snatching up the ax as he did so.

That was well and good, because two more of the rotting undead were almost on top of him. Griffin swung low, taking the legs out from under the closest. As it toppled he leaped high and brought the ax straight down on the head of the other, splitting its skull. He swung again and the shattered head flew away. He spun to the one he had dismembered. The vampire, who in life might have been someone’s grandmother, was trying to get up. Griffin brought the ax down on the old woman’s neck.

He looked around for Carl, saw him several yards away driving the tip of the iron sword through the chest of a vampire in a ragged three-piece suit. Carl had popped two of the flares and the vampires, wary of fire, were circling and looking for an opening. The one he had stabbed crumbled away and Carl looked around for his next attacker. Griffin started toward him but another vampire lurched into his path. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

He was supposed to be terrified, and he knew it, but Carl saw the dead things and every nervous twitch in his body simply faded away. “Time to dance.”

Wade swung that oversized axe of his like it was a toy. Carl stepped out of his range and saw some of the dead things coming at him. The fact that they were rotting actually made it easier for him. It was less like dealing with people and more like stepping into a nightmare. Just lately that made life easier to handle.

Or maybe he was going a little crazy.

The first of them came toward him, shrieking. He struck a flare and threw it toward the soggy thing. It flinched back just a bit as the road flare struck it in the chest and rolled toward the ground. While it was distracted, Carl swung the blade he’d been loaned and cleaved its dead heart in half.

That trick was going to work exactly once, so when the next one came for him he scrambled backward and defended himself hastily. He was feeling a little on the dark side, but that didn’t mean he was much in the mood to die. He dodged, and the thing that had been a teenaged girl once upon a time jumped for him. She cleared the flare, the thing that was falling to pieces where he’d dealt it a death blow, and the remaining distance between them as if ready to embrace him.

“Hell no!” He shivered at the thought of it touching him, and whipped the sword through the air, cutting an arc through the creature as he dodged under it. Wet and dark things spilled across his back as he cleared the spot the she-corpse had been aiming for. The cut had wounded but not killed, and the thing’s torso and spindly arms came for him, clawing trenches in the dirt. The ruined face snarled as it gnashed the impossibly wide mouth in his direction. It took two more swings to finally chop the head away from the thrashing body.

By then three more were coming. He tried the flare trick again, this time just to stop them from flanking him, and it worked. They were afraid of the fire.

He kicked the first flare in the direction of one of the things and parried a swing with the sword as the other one reached for him. An arm fell away. The other arm managed to catch his shirt and would have pulled him in close if he hadn’t cut it down on the backswing.

He was moving for the next one when something came from behind and slammed into him. He knew it wasn’t a car, but damn it felt like one. Carl stumbled and flailed and rolled, bouncing as he pulled himself into a fetal position.

When he came to rest he was staring at the sky and wondering exactly what the hell had just happened. He was nearly twenty feet away from where he’d been a second before. Worse, the sword was around the halfway mark between point a and point b.

The thing that came for him was fast, impossibly fast, but it stopped long enough for him to see it pick up the weapon he’d been given, the damned near miraculous weapon that had already proven worth its weight in gold.

The flares backlit his enemy, letting him see only the silhouette as it came closer, testing the weight of the weapon.

“Did a bit of fencing myself back in the day.” The voice was cold, passionless. The stride of the thing said it was confident that it had the upper hand.

Carl wasn’t sure it wasn’t right.

It dropped back into a proper stance, and swept the blade into position. “En garde.”

Carl didn’t have a sword any more.

That didn’t stop the thing coming at him. It smiled as it came forward a second time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Carter Decamp had miscalculated. He had thought the half-ruined buildings of the old granite quarry a possible resting place for Cotton and his vampires, but instead they had been sleeping in the dark waters of the quarry itself. As a result, when the creatures rose and started up the slope toward where Griffin and Price waited, Decamp was on the far side of the quarry. That was bad.

It wasn’t that Decamp didn’t have faith in the two men. For a couple of guys who had only recently been introduced to the reality of the supernatural they had done amazingly well. The fact that they had survived their encounter with the Moon-Eyes proved them capable. But the Moon-Eyes, at least the majority of them, could be killed with conventional weapons.

Griffin and Price were gunmen. They knew their way around ordnance, maybe even better than Decamp. Here though, they were out of their depth. Griffin perhaps less than Price because he spent a lot of time training in various martial arts. However, though he was good with hand weapons, he didn’t know how to deal with the nosferatu, and that was half the battle.

Decamp had seen several run-ins with the undead and they still amazed him sometimes. He still didn’t entirely understand them. No one did. He had spent many hours in discussion with his various colleagues about just what the things were.

‘Supernatural’ didn’t really explain it. Some considered them spirits and others thought they were reanimated corpses – not like zombies, but some other form of living dead.

One occult specialist thought the vampires were a sort of plague. A disease that was transferred by the mixing of a vampire’s blood with that of their victim, but only taking effect after the victim was dead, and going dormant after a while if the victim survived. It was an interesting theory, but it didn’t explain the various folklore elements about what vampires could and could not do or what would and would not kill them. If the vampires were some form of ambulatory virus, then why would iron hurt them but not wood? Why could they do some things that were physically impossible? A virus couldn’t generate the extra matter necessary for the teeth to expand and it couldn’t explain the vampire’s strength, which was beyond anything human muscle mass was capable of.

Decamp crossed the ground as quickly as he could, skirting the edge of the black water, being careful not to slip on the loose rock. It wouldn’t do to break his ankle at this point. He had just reached the other side of the lake when he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Decamp spun away, drawing his sword from the sheath on his back as he moved. A dark blur shot past him, narrowly missing him.

The blur morphed into the figure of a tall man with straw-colored hair and burning red eyes. “You’re the one that killed Deacon Street at the funeral,” the vampire said.

“He didn’t give me much choice,” said Decamp.

“We all have a choice, my friend. You’ve made the wrong one, siding with Satan and reveling in your powers of witchcraft.”

Decamp said, “As opposed to your choice, which is killing innocent people in the name of your faith.”

“I do the Lord’s work and His plans are not for the mind of man.”

“That’s handy isn’t it? Anything you can’t explain is one of those mysterious ways the Lord works in.”

The vampire looked pained. “Will you add blasphemy to your sins?”

“Yes, Deacon,” Decamp said, smiling. “I rather think I will.” It had the desired effect. The Deacon leaped forward, again becoming a blur of motion. Decamp had learned the hard way that there was little point in attacking a master vampire. Their speed and reaction time allowed them to evade most attacks with ease. The trick was to get them off balance. To catch them in motion. Not that this was by any means an easy thing to do, but Decamp had been a gold medalist Olympic fencer, and his reflexes, though slowed a bit now that he was in his fifties, were still far better than average. And he had other advantages. As the Deacon leaped, Decamp sidestepped and tossed a handful of powder into the air. He spoke a word in a long-forgotten language. The powder burst into flame as the Deacon passed through it.

The master vampire fell to the ground, screeching and trying to put out the flames. Decamp watched for an opening, and when the vampire rolled to his back Decamp drove his silver edged sword through the Deacon’s heart. The vampire was still screaming as he fell to dust. Decamp didn’t waste time admiring his work. He turned and started up the slope where he could now see two flares burning. He hoped Griffin and Price were still alive.

* * *

The vampire was too close for Griffin to make an effective swing of the ax. There was a long point on the top of the weapon, and he shifted his grip on the haft so he could stab with it like a spear. The point penetrated deeply enough to reach the creature’s heart and it expired with a whispering scream.

Griffin looked back to where he had last seen Carl and cursed. One of the master vampires, the ones Fry had called Deacons, stood there and he had somehow gotten hold of Carl’s sword. Griffin started cutting his way toward his friend, letting his reflexes take over so that he slashed and cut anything that came across his path. He almost wanted to laugh at his situation. He was trained with virtually every modern piece of death-dealing equipment known, and here he was, chopping his way through a bunch of rotting vampires like someone escaped from an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie.

He sent the head of a short, fat vampire rolling and then hurled himself toward the Deacon with the sword. The iron blade rang on Griffin’s ax, sending shock waves down his arms and knocking the weapon from his grasp. Griffin snatched the iron spike from his belt and lunged. The Deacon backhanded him and Griffin went rolling across the ground. He came to rest near the water’s edge, and managed to get to hands and knees, but his head was spinning and he was sure at least a couple of ribs were cracked or broken.

The Deacon smiled, showing his long teeth. “So may all your enemies perish, oh Lord.”

“Judges, chapter five, verse thirty one,” said Carter Decamp, stepping into the flickering crimson light thrown by the flares.

“The devil may quote the scriptures, witch,” said the Deacon. “I see you bear a sword. As you can see, the Lord has seen fit to give me an instrument of justice as well.”

“That blade was blessed by a god, but not yours,” Decamp said.

“There is no other God!”

“There’s something else you should know about that sword too, Deacon. It’s made of iron. Cold iron. Ancient iron, forged before the memory of man. Something that a creature such as you should never, ever touch.”

Griffin heard Decamp mutter some words in what sounded like the same language Charon had used at the funeral. The sword began to glow with a baleful light, and the Deacon started to scream. His scream was cut short as his body went rigid, as if he were caught in the grip of some paralyzing seizure. As Griffin watched, fine lines began to appear all over the vampire’s body like cracks in a volcano. Light glared through those cracks as if the Deacon were burning up from within. The master vampire toppled over and his body, instead of crumbling to dust like the others, shattered as it struck the ground.

Decamp turned toward Carl and said, “Are you all right, Sheriff?”

The next instant Decamp seemed to disappear. A moment later Griffin saw him tumbling across the rocky ground as if he had been thrown by some lunatic giant. Then Griffin saw the third Deacon. He was an elegant looking man with iron-gray hair and beard and he was standing where Decamp had been only seconds before. Griffin looked back at Decamp. He wasn’t moving and some of the remaining half dozen or so rotting vampires were headed his way. Griffin tried to get to his feet, stumbled, and fell. He began trying to crawl up the slope, but Carl and Decamp might as well have been a thousand miles away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Carl leaped for the sword that had fallen to the ground. His head was still ringing, his body still felt stiff.

The dead man in front of him was a different one, but the math was the same: he was about to get his ass handed to him in a very big way.

“No.” The Deacon caught him by the throat and lifted him from the ground with the greatest of ease. Last time he’d been to the doctor’s office and gotten himself weighed, Carl was a bit over two hundred pounds. He would never, ever be a slender man – he was solid. So he found it a bit annoying that the bastard picked him up with one hand and carried him like he was maybe about as heavy as a house cat.

He’d have made comments to that effect, but the bastard with the impossible strength was choking off his air supply. “Kkk. Hllg.” His argument did not seem to sway the Deacon’s feelings on the matter of strangling him.

“You and your filthy friends are abominations in the eyes of the Lord. You could have sought forgiveness, but instead you have killed the faithful. It is time for you to die.” The vampire’s fingers were squeezing and Carl grabbed hold of the man’s hand with both of his and tried to break the grip. It wasn’t going to happen. Instead of trying to pry a finger back he decided to go with physics and hope that helped. He still had his iron spike. It was currently pinned against the bastard’s hand by Carl’s fingers. He let go with one hand as his vision started to gray a bit around the edges and he drove the spike into the Deacon’s hand at the spot where his thumb joined the wrist. It was the only spot he could really hit and even then he felt the iron scraping his own flesh as it punched into the Deacon.

He couldn’t hope to break the grip, but he could aim for a single digit. In this case the one that held him in place. The Deacon hissed in pain and tried to squeeze harder. Carl grunted and pushed with both hands, working the iron spike with as much of his weight as he could manage.

He got lucky. The Deacon’s thumb broke before the bastard could break his neck. Carl fell on his ass as the vampire screamed. That was about all the luck he figured he was good for, and the iron spike was stuck properly in the monster’s wounded hand.

The Deacon expressed his disapproval by trying to punt Carl’s head across the quarry. Carl blocked with his leg and let out a scream of his own as the meat of his leg was nearly pulped by the impact. Christ, but his leg was howling in pain.

On the bad news front, he wasn’t sure if he could stand. On the good news front the nice monster kicked him twenty feet with the one blow. That was far enough to let him go for another weapon.

Now and then you just have to improvise. Carl figured there was a damned good chance he was going to get stuck in a clinch with one of the dead things, and to that end he’d done what he could with what he had lying around the house. The high tension copper wire wasn’t iron, but it was strong, and the two dowels he’d wrapped it around were good pieces of oak. Hopefully strong enough to do the job.

The Deacon whipped his hand around and screamed a second time as the iron spike broke away from his hand and sailed into the air. An instant later he was grabbing Carl again, both of his hands wrapping into Carl’s shirt as he was hauled into the air. As the Deacon brought Carl up, Carl moved his arms over the vampire’s head in a mockery of a close embrace. It might have looked to anyone close by as if he were trying to put his hands around the vampire’s neck to pull him in for a kiss.

Instead of trying for a little love, he wrapped the makeshift garrote around the elegant man’s neck and crossed the dowels from one hand to the other: left dowel to right hand, right dowel to left.

The Deacon was leaning in to take a very large bite of Carl’s neck, or maybe his face. It was hard to tell as the mouth opened wider and wider and the teeth grew impossibly long.

Carl yanked his arms in opposite directions as hard as he could and felt the copper wire saw into the Deacon’s neck.

The vampire’s face pulled back a bit, his expression growing puzzled for a moment before he realized what was going on. The wire cut deep, would surely have drawn blood from a living man, but that wasn’t enough and Carl knew it. The hands on his shirt released and the Deacon reached for Carl’s hands, but as he did, Carl raised his legs and pushed his feet against the vampire’s chest.

Had the Deacon needed to breathe, the fight would have been over, but the vampire had no need of air. Powerful fingers scrabbled, trying to get hold of Carl’s wrists but Carl moved as best he could, slipping the attempted grip with a twist of his hands. And he pushed with all of the strength in his legs, shoving off again from the Deacon’s torso. The wire cut deeper, and the Deacon let out a strangled screech as his vocal chords got hacked apart by the copper wire.

Carl let out a screech too, his arms felt like they were getting torn from their sockets and his battered leg was threatening to buckle. Carl Price worked out regularly and could leg press something in the neighborhood of twelve hundred pounds. The dead man’s neck should have given out, should have been severed with ease, but the damned thing was tough, and it was fighting back as best it could.

It might well have killed him, but physics once again proved his savior. The Deacon reacted instinctively and tried to push Carl away. Both of those impossibly strong arms braced against Carl’s chest and the Deacon shoved him backward.

Carl let out a scream as several muscles in his left hand stretched further than they should have, and the dowel ripped free from his grip. It was just possible he’d broken a few fingers, too, but he really couldn’t tell. All he knew was that it hurt, goddamn it, it hurt a lot!

He screamed hard, and he sailed back as the force of the Deacon’s brutal shove knocked him away from the undead thing. And the wire that had wrapped around the vampire’s neck finished its task, and cut through the vertebrae, beheading the Deacon.

Carl soared. He didn’t mean to, and he surely couldn’t control it, but oh, my, he flew through the air and hit the ground hard, rolling, scraping and finally coming to a stop with his left leg in the water of the quarry and his ass in the air.

He looked at the Deacon’s body as it fell to its knees and began to decompose. He wanted to get up, to help Wade or even just to cheer the fact that he had survived the fucking nightmare trying to eat his face. Instead he faded into darkness for a moment.

Only a moment.

Just a second to rest. That was all he needed. Just a moment to catch his breath.

Damn. Everything hurt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The important thing now was not to pass out. Griffin was tumbling toward the water. Damn, the Deacons were treating them all like rag dolls. No, make that had been treating them that way. Carl had managed to take out the third Deacon. Griffin hoped he had survived the effort. He would check on him as soon as he could, but there were still five of the rotting vampires in action and they were closing on Carter Decamp, who still lay where he had been thrown.

Griffin took a slow breath, feeling his damaged ribs grinding. He pushed the pain aside, the way he had been taught, and got to his feet. For a moment the world swam in his view, but he managed not to keel over. He spotted the ax and limped toward it. Grunting, he stooped and retrieved the weapon. It seemed to weigh about twice as much as it had earlier in the evening.

He stumbled forward, hefting the ax. One of the vampires was far too close to Decamp, and Griffin knew he wasn’t moving fast enough to head him off. At the same moment he realized this he also spotted Decamp’s sword a few feet away. Griffin took a deep, painful breath, lifted the ax above his head, and with an explosive grunt of effort, hurled it end over end. It struck the vampire in the back of the head, cleaving the skull and sending the creature sprawling. Even as he released the ax, Griffin caught up Decamp’s sword and used it to run through another of the creatures who had its back to Griffin.

Two down, but the other three had abandoned Decamp and were heading Griffin’s way. He angled to the right of the closest of the trio, trying not to let them surround him. But his movements were hampered by pain and exhaustion.

The closest vampire, a thin balding man, stopped moving forward and stared at Griffin. He said, “You’re Wade Griffin, aren’t you?”

Griffin nodded. The other two vampires had stopped, perhaps wondering how their companion knew him.

“I’m Ron Phelps. You used to keep the other football players from beating me senseless when we were in high school.”

Griffin had thought the guy looked familiar. He said, “I don’t suppose you’d care to repay the favor.” Anything to buy a little time.

“I would, Wade. I truly would. But the reverend says you’re evil. A tool of the devil.”

Griffin shook his head. “Reverend Cotton thinks anyone who isn’t one of his flock is evil, Ron.” The other two vampires were getting restless. Griffin could see them looking at each other, wondering if they should just run right over their comrade.

“He’s not like that. Reverend Cotton is a good man. He wants to do the Lord’s will.”

Griffin said, “It’s his interpretation of the Lord’s will I have issues with.” Behind the three vampires, Carter Decamp was sitting up and looking directly at Griffin. Griffin was careful not to let his expression change.

“I’m sorry, Wade,” said Ron. “I really am. You were good to me when everyone else treated me like shit, but Reverend Cotton, he saved my soul.”

“Saved? Ron, you’re a fucking vampire.”

One of the other vampires hissed. Ron said, “It’s not like that. Reverend Cotton said some people would think that. We’re not undead. We have eternal life. We’re part of God’s kingdom right here on Earth.”

“Enough,” one of the other vampires said. He was a big one. Had probably been a weightlifter when he was alive. It was hard to tell because most of the flesh had melted from his bones.

Ron said, “I can’t kill this man, Henry. You and Alice will have to do it.”

Henry nodded and one of his eyes slid down his cheek. “We’ll take this burden from you, Ron.” Henry had a slight limp, but seemed otherwise unharmed. The vampire had picked up the ax and though he couldn’t use it as easily, Griffin knew the wiry man was stronger than he looked.

Griffin took a slow breath in through his nose and blew it out and downward through his mouth. Classic martial arts breathing. A way to push back pain and nervousness. The few moments of rest had allowed him to regain a little strength. He said, “Goodbye, Ron.”

“Huh?” Ron said.

Griffin lunged forward and drove the sword through Ron’s heart. He spun as he cleared the blade, shooting between Henry and Alice so that he was behind them. The sword sang again and Henry’s head went flying even as he turned. Decamp struck Alice with the ax before she realized he was there.

Griffin looked at Decamp. “Is that all of them?”

“For the moment,” Decamp said. “Where’s the Sheriff?” Griffin felt a stab of concern. He had forgotten Carl during the fight. “Down near the water. Let’s go check on him.”

Decamp said, “Let’s trade weapons. This thing weighs a ton.”

Not without some reluctance, Griffin handed over the exquisitely balanced sword.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Ow. Fuck. Ow. Fuck. Ow. Ow.” Carl stood and headed for the top of the quarry. There was too damned much going on and not nearly enough evidence that everything was done to his satisfaction.

Lazarus Cotton had not shown up, and that was a problem. The bastard behind everything going to shit just lately was supposed to be making an appearance and he didn’t much like their chances if he was meaner than the Deacons.

And according to Decamp it was almost certain that he was meaner than the Deacons.

The air had that annoyingly still quality he hated about summertime in Georgia. There was no breeze, no hint of a breeze, and the clouds had blown away over the last day or so, but the humidity was still obscene.

So how come he was hearing a lot of rustling noises? Decamp and Wade had finished with the last of the dead things, near as he could tell. He didn’t quite want to slow down yet. If he stopped he might not be ready to start again. As he walked up the hill Carl flexed his fingers. Most of them worked. Two on his left hand were too busy screaming out their agony to pay any attention at all to his attempts to move them. Never a good sign.

Also, his damned leg hurt. A lot. At least it was supporting his weight.

He managed to get back to the top of the quarry and over to the supplies he’d stashed away. He also managed to be pleasantly surprised they were still where he’d put them. A few decent sized chunks of granite were all that hid them from view and if anyone had taken the time to actually look around – hey, they were underwater, he supposed that took away from the whole reconnaissance thing – they’d have found his special surprise for the Reverend.

Just in case he took a look at the device and hoisted it in place. He’d take it off when Wade and Decamp were back up at the top.

Sword. He needed to make sure someone remembered Decamp’s sword. He was just getting ready to call out about that when he saw two things that stopped him. First, Decamp already had the sword in his hand. Second, there was a big wave of darkness heading into the quarry from the other side. He didn’t have to look hard to figure out what the wave was made of. He could smell them from here, a wild gamey stench that was deeply unsettling.

“Get your asses up here! Now!” The two men looked his way. Wade started moving sooner, probably because he knew Carl well enough to know he’d never try bossing them around without a solid reason.

Decamp looked around, saw what Carl had seen and poured on a little extra speed.

They were up the hill in a damned big hurry. The good news was that the rats were coming from the other side of the manmade pond and they had to either go around or swim it. Most of them went around. God only knew what those waters smelled like after dead things had been stewing in them all day long.

He made a mental note to see about having the quarry waters drained. He didn’t much like the notion of kids swimming in that shit.

“Nope. Worry about that later.” He shook his head to clear out a few last cobwebs and then checked that the ole’ pilot light was burning.

And as soon as Wade and Decamp were out of the way, Carl aimed with his confiscated flamethrower and pulled the trigger. He’d been on the raid that took the device from the house of a drug dealer who was maybe a little too much of a survivalist for comfort. He’d even played with the controls a time or two, but Carl had never actually used the device before. He knew how it worked. Aim, step back and watch out for fire.

He just hadn’t expected how much territory the thing covered. The flame that roared from the business end of the nozzle gouted almost twenty feet, and the light and heat alike were stunning in the growing darkness.

The rats never had a chance. The front of the wave caught fire almost instantly and whatever hold the master vampire might have, it wasn’t really stronger than their survival instinct. The rest of the rats stopped their forward motion and then scattered.

Carl chose not to take any chances and bathed the quarry in fire. Any slow moving vermin paid the price for thinking he was just bluffing. A few moments after he started there were a couple of hundred small burning bodies and a whole lot of scorched spots on the ground at the base of the quarry.

Wade moved up next to him, looking dirty, winded and sore. Decamp looked wounded and sore, but managed not to look quite as dirty.

Carl looked at the flamethrower’s nozzle and then looked at Wade. “I seriously want to keep one of these in my truck. Bet it would end a lot of arguments.”

Wade nodded. “Problem with that is somebody has to clean up when you’re done.”

“Nope. The little dead rats are staying there.”

“Well, I meant if you use it in a town.”

“Screw that. They got fire departments.”

* * *

When Carl had shown Griffin the flamethrower, Griffin had suspected it might come in handy, though he had figured it would be against the vampires themselves, and not against an army of rats. Still, it was a damn good thing Carl had brought it.

Griffin could smell the reek of singed flesh and fur. It reminded him a bit too much of other battlefields, when the burning corpses were something far worse than rats. He pushed those memories away before they could take hold and said, “So where the hell is Cotton?”

“If I had to guess,” said Decamp, “he’s decided not to enter the fray. Both his cannon fodder and his elite troops have failed. If anything, he’s gone to ground to consider his options.”

“That’s just fucking wonderful,” Carl said. “Now we have to wait and wonder when that bastard will pop up again.”

Decamp said, “Considering how many injuries the three of us have sustained, it might be just as well.”

“I’d agree,” said Griffin, “but we don’t know where he is and that’s bad. Hell, he can start all over again.”

“No, he can’t do that,” said Decamp. “Not here. There are too many people aware of him now. It’s not like he can just start having tent revivals again. Maybe a few states away under another name, but he’s done in Georgia.”

“Do you think he’ll just go then?” Griffin said. “Just like that?”

Decamp shrugged. “I don’t know enough about the man’s pattern. He’s a fanatic, and he may feel the need to seek revenge. But he’s also been around a long time and that means he’s smart. He may know when it’s time to walk away.”

“So we just have to live with the knowledge that he could drop by some dark night?” said Griffin. “That’s not how I operate. Somebody makes a run at me, I go after them.”

“What he said,” said Carl.

Decamp smiled. “No, we won’t just wait for him to reappear. I can find him. It may take time, but there are ways. I’ll find where he’s gone and then we’ll hunt him down. The three of us.”

Carl said, “I’m starting to like you, Decamp.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. Right now though, I suggest you go home or to the emergency room. That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Probably good advice,” said Griffin.

Decamp handed the iron sword back to Carl. “You two hang on to Kharrn’s weapons for now. We shouldn’t drop our guard yet.”

“Sure he won’t mind?” said Griffin.

“He left the ax and sword with me many years ago, saying to use them as I would. I haven’t heard from him since. But I think I’ll see him again one day. For now, gentlemen, I’ll say good night.”

“Sure you don’t want us to drive you back to your car, Decamp?” Carl said. “Like you said, we shouldn’t drop our guard.”

Decamp smiled again. “I haven’t dropped my guard in decades.” He turned and disappeared into the trees.

“That is one odd guy,” Griffin said.

Carl said, “You should talk, Wade. Now, help me pick up my gear and I’ll drive you home.”

“Let’s swing by your place first. I’d like to take assessment of how bad I’m fucked up before I let Charon see me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Job suffered too. That was the thing he had to remember. It was best not to question the Lord’s motives.

Lazarus was alive, and much as it pained him, he would have to move on and begin anew. There was Mexico to consider, of course. Sister Hope’s followers would be looking for a leader.

Cotton fell to his knees and clenched his hands together as he sought the Lord’s wisdom. The pain of feeling his children falter and die was overwhelming. There was surely a reason, wasn’t there? For everything he believed in to be tested again and again? There had to be.

And yet he felt forsaken, hollowed out and torn asunder. How long since his faith had been this sorely tested? Had he grown too sure of his place in God’s schemes? Had he allowed himself to suffer arrogance and call it faith?

“Surely not, Lord. Surely not that.” Tears stung at his eyes, but could not fall. His tear glands had not worked properly since he came back from Death. He’d thought that too a sign of the Lord’s blessings. He needed to remind himself of all that had gone right since he’d been brought back, since The Beggar had raised him.

But sometimes it was so hard to do.

His lips barely moved as he prayed. He knew that words were not truly necessary. God knew what was in his heart, what he felt, what he feared.

He prayed for a very long time, it seemed, without a response. Had he been looking at a watch he’d have known it was only an hour. It merely felt like more. Finally he lay back and closed his eyes, the weight of his sorrow almost too much to bear, and let his mind flow from him.

His awareness was greatest when he let himself drift, and so that was what he did. The signs that the Lord offered might not always be easy to see, but he was safe in the ground, hidden where none would think to look for him.

The night air was heavy with humidity, and as he rose through the night he saw the flames that sputtered and died out where the plague he’d sent to finish the sheriff, the soldier and the wizard had faltered and been defeated. His fault, surely, and not the Lord’s failure. He was given gifts, granted powers, and any failures that came were a result of his hubris, not the Lord’s errors. Did not Moses have his moments of doubt? Did not the devil try to tempt Jesus away from His path?

One tried to do one’s best to live by the example offered by Jesus Christ. He offered hope and salvation, He offered a place to the lost, and He offered the gift of eternal salvation.

Anger bloomed within his heart. He did not push it aside. In return for faithful devotion a small herd of unbelievers, bureaucrats and heathens comes along, sees the Lord’s work and reacts with petty minds!

He searched for them. The warlock was hidden from him. That was not a surprise. Satan’s minions had many ways of hiding themselves away. The Sheriff and the cutthroat, however, were not as difficult to locate.

They were coming right toward him. Sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways.

And sometimes when you want something done the right way, you simply had to take care of it yourself.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

There was a certain edge of hysteria to their laughter, but the two of them were laughing and it felt good. You know, where it wasn’t causing them pain. Even as he spoke, even as he tried to suppress his laughter, Wade was holding his side where his ribs were tender. “I’m just saying now and then it would be nice if the creepy crawly things would, I don’t know, be slower. Maybe just sort of meander where they’re going instead of coming on like freight trains.”

Carl chuckled and agreed. His right hand was firm on the wheel. His left was there too, but sort of just to have a place to be.

“I’m just glad the rats weren’t all vampires too.”

“That’s not even funny, Carl.” Wade laughed as he said it. And winced.

“No, think about it. All of ’em running around with little capes, or in this case carrying little Bibles.”

“Gotta say, I thought the flamethrower was overkill when you first hauled it out.”

“Well, I thought if there was a lot of vampires left, you know, but I never even got to the damned thing for them. They were all too fast.” He shook his head. “Even the half one.” His eyes were wide and a little shocky, but he started laughing. “That little bastard was trucking! I thought he was gonna take out your kneecaps for sure!”

Wade started laughing again too, and it got bad enough that Carl pulled over while the two of them laughed and shook and tried their best to get past the freak show they’d just survived. They’d been there before, of course. They’d shared a couple of beers after the incident in Crawford’s Hollow and spent most of the time comparing notes and cracking wise about things that simply weren’t funny until you looked at them in the right light.

When Carl could drive again they moved, carefully, back onto the road. Ten minutes of comfortable silence followed as they wound their way back to Carl’s house and the very extensive collection of first aid bandages he had there. It wasn’t that he was overly prepared for taking care of himself, more that he tended to prefer mending his own wounds when he could, to waiting at the hospital’s emergency room.

Besides, bandages were cheap. Also, he had better coffee. He parked the truck just a little after nine in the evening.

There were spots where the faint glow of the sunset could still be seen, but mostly in Wellman the mountains around them had long since hidden the dusk away.

“Got to tell you, I really hope that bastard ran. I don’t want to deal with any more dead things.” Carl wasn’t really sure if he was talking to himself or to Wade. Either way, Wade made a noise of agreement as he reached for the passenger’s side door handle.

Carl looked at his lawn and frowned. Somebody was messing with his property again. The grass was bulged out around the same spot where the bastards had put the grave marker before.

Even as he thought that, the ground exploded. That was the only word for it, really. The lawn and the sod and the fresh soil all exploded outward in a geyser.

And while he was watching chunks of dirt flowing, Lazarus Cotton reached the side of the truck closest to him, grabbed the lower edge of the whole damned thing and flipped the truck with him and Wade still in it.

He came out of the damned ground! He came out of the damned ground where some bastard had dug a grave and I never once thought to double check on who fixed my lawn.

And then the world turned over.

* * *

Griffin sagged against the seatbelt as the truck came to rest on its roof. What the hell had just happened? No time to worry about it. He couldn’t reach the latch for the seatbelt from his current position so he popped open the lock blade knife he kept clipped to his left pocket and cut the belt away. The windshield had collapsed inward, but the safety film manufacturers used on them had kept the glass from shattering. It didn’t do shit for the passenger side window however, which shattered as a hand reached through and grabbed a fistful of Griffin’s shirt. A moment later he was pulled through the window.

Lazarus Cotton held Griffin at arm’s length, keeping Griffin’s feet just off the ground. Folding knife still in hand, he jammed it into Cotton’s forearm. That did no good whatsoever and Cotton smiled at him before pitching him across the yard.

Griffin wasn’t caught off guard this time so he managed to land a bit more gracefully than the last time a vampire had sent him flying, though the impact was still considerable. Griffin got up cursing. He was getting God damned tired of being tossed around. At two hundred and thirty-five pounds he was used to being the one doing the tossing.

He stalked across the yard, pulling the iron spike from its sheath as he went. He went into a crouch, what the Nam vets called ‘short timer’ stance. Knife held low in the rear hand, front hand extended to block or grab. He moved in fast, trying for Cotton’s heart.

With embarrassing ease, the gray haired, chubby preacher slipped out of the way. He caught Griffin’s arm and twisted and Griffin felt the bone break. He stumbled back as a wave of nausea swept across him.

“Thank you, Lord,” Cotton said, “for seeing fit to deliver thine enemies before me.”

“Deliver this,” Griffin heard Carl say and then the air was filled with gunfire. It was a nice tight grouping. Five out of six rounds from Carl’s .357 struck Cotton in the face. It bothered the man not at all. It did, however, distract him from Griffin and he started toward Carl, who was standing in a shooter’s crouch in front of the upturned truck. Griffin tried to remember where the iron sword and the ax were. They had been in the back of the truck, which meant they were probably out of reach. With his right arm useless, Griffin caught up the iron spike with his left hand. He was starting to really feel his broken arm now. Don’t pass out. Don’t go into shock. He kept inwardly repeating this mantra as he stumbled after Lazarus Cotton.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Cotton looked at him and sneered, the man’s fat face showing exactly how little he thought of Carl.

Carl spit on the ground at the preacher’s feet. “Know what I’m sick of, you fat old fart?”

Cotton’s face grew angrier, which was exactly what Carl wanted. If he was looking at Carl he wasn’t looking at Wade. Carl didn’t look at Wade either. He made good and damned sure not to telegraph the way his friend was moving in. Wade was looking a bit beyond pasty. His arm was broken at the very least.

The vampire took a step toward him. “Living? Is that what you’re tired of?”

“Mostly I’m sick of greasy old fucks like you using the Lord’s name to justify being assholes. Ten Commandments, you bastard. One of them was ‘Thou shalt not kill’.”

“And have you not slain my followers?” Lazarus Cotton stormed forward and slapped the weapon from Carl’s hand. Something in his right wrist snapped and he felt his knees threaten to give out.

“You and your filthy fucking followers are murderers! I’m the Sheriff of Brennert County, asshole. You get me? I’m the goddamned law!” He chose the words carefully, wanting to make the man angrier. Needing to. Wade was moving very carefully in order to avoid being noticed and he intended to keep it that way.

“God’s law means more than the law of you or any of your kind, boy.” The reverend came closer, his mouth peeled down in a scowl of contempt that showed the fangs in his mouth. The bullet wounds in his face were already almost closed, the flesh reknitting like a film run backwards.

“What would you know about it? You’re godless if ever anyone was.” Oh yes, that did it. The man’s eyes were absolutely murderous.

“Watch your tongue, boy, or I’ll tear it from your filthy mouth.”

“Bring it, fat man! You bring it! You desecrated my wife’s funeral. You murdered good people! You come on down here and try to take anything else from me!” The anger roared inside of him and somewhere, far away from where it should have been, the voice of his reason told him he might want to tone it down if he wanted to live.

He should have listened.

Lazarus Cotton’s thick-fingered hands gripped Carl at his face and crotch. Cotton was squeezing the jaw hard enough to shatter bone, and oh, the fingers that squeezed his testicles felt like they were pulping any chance he’d ever had of having children.

Carl brought his knee up into the reverend’s face as he was lifted from the ground. Might as well have kicked a stone wall for all the good it did. He tried breaking the grip on his face, but his best swings were useless.

“Damn you, boy! You’ve brought this on yourself!” He looked at the man’s face, watched it stretch in ways that defied all logic. The mouth opened so damnably wide, and the man’s eyes grew black, literally, black, as he roared his words.

Carl kicked him in the face again. A third time. “You get bent you fucking bastard! You want to have a Come-to-Jesus meeting? You just bought yourself the chance!” His foot slammed into the man’s face a fourth time and slid across the opened mouth. The teeth cut into the leather of his shoe and then scraped across bared flesh under the sock that snagged in those impossible teeth.

Carl was trying to pull his foot back yet again when the reverend threw him. No way around it. This wasn’t a light toss. The man hurled him at the ground with a deep roar.

His one saving grace was that the ground he hit was a water-soaked lawn. The turf under him sank with the impact and he felt a few ribs pop in ways that just plain hurt. Whatever air had been in his lungs vanished under the impact. The sky was dark, but all Carl saw for a moment was white stars filling his eyes.

And when he could see again a long metal post was sticking through the reverend’s chest.

The man was solid, a barrel-chested bear of a preacher if ever there was one. He was husky to be sure, but not nearly all of it was flab. And even if it had been there was a lot of it to push through.

He heard Wade grunt as he shoved the iron stake even further through Lazarus Cotton’s heart.

Cotton blurred as he swung his arm at Wade. Wade almost managed to get away, but the part of the arm that connected drove him backward and he hit the ground with a wounded yelp of his own.

Had Cotton still been alive at that point they’d have both been dead men.

The leader of the dead staggered and fell forward, his body hitting the ground and Carl alike. The black eyes looked toward him, and the mouth moved, but no sound escaped. Carl had a thousand things he wanted to say as the man died for the second time, but not a one of them came to his mind at that moment, and his voice had been taken when the breath was knocked from his body.

Instead he stared in horror as the man’s considerable weight pinned him to the ground and then the preacher rotted above him, spilling into chucks of corrupted flesh that then fell into a thick dust. The iron spike fell from the rotting body and promptly thumped Carl in his nuts, just in case there might be any part of them that didn’t already feel broken.

Carl managed to kick himself backward with a frantic push of his legs. He held his breath lest any part of the dead man somehow creep into his mouth, his nose, or his lungs.

Oh, God, how he hurt.

“You got him, Wade.” The words were croaked out in a rasp. He looked toward Wade on the ground and saw the man looking back. His friend nodded.

Carl fell back on the lawn and groaned. Damn. Everything hurt.

Everything.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

It seemed to Griffin that it took a couple of hours for him to reach into his pocket and get his cell. He was glad Decamp’s number was programmed in because he was reasonably sure that punching the number was beyond his current capabilities.

Decamp picked up on the second ring and Griffin said, “It’s Griffin. Cotton showed up at Carl’s place. He’s dead or re-dead or whatever, but I figure you might want to get over here and do some damage control before we call an ambulance.”

“I’m on my way,” Decamp said. “How badly are you two injured? Griffin? Griffin?”

But Griffin had finally given up on his mantra. Okay, he’d told himself. Now you can pass out.

* * *

“He’s awake,” Griffin heard Charon say. He got his eyes all the way open and there she was, leaning over him. Her dark eyes were red rimmed and her mascara was smeared. She still looked beautiful to him.

“Hey, wild man,” she said.

“Hey kiddo,” Griffin said. Or rather he croaked. His voice sounded as raw as his throat felt. “How long was I out?”

“About six hours.” That voice belonged to Carter Decamp. “The doctors said you weren’t in a coma, but just exhausted. How do you feel?” Decamp’s features swam into view as he stepped up to the bed.

“Probably about as good as I look. How’s Carl? He took a serious beating.”

“Ask him yourself,” Decamp said, pointing to Griffin’s right.

Griffin turned his head slowly, about all he could manage. Carl Price was in another bed just a few feet away. “I can’t even get rid of you in the hospital.”

“I’m the proverbial fucking bad penny,” said Carl.

“You look terrible,” Griffin said.

“Wait until you see yourself, Wade. Docs say you have two broken ribs and three cracked ones. Your arm’s broken and you got a couple of other bones fractured.”

“I believe it. What’s your score?”

“I win the bones broken category. Wrist. Ribs. One ankle. Bunch of fingers. Got some torn ligaments and various contusions.”

Charon said, “Is everything a contest with the two of you?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” said Griffin.

“We should call the doctor in now that you’re awake,” Charon said. “Make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

“Let me give them a few bits of information first, my dear,” Decamp said. “I did damage control as you suggested, Griffin. Kharrn’s weapons are safely stored away again. Some of the Sheriff ’s more, um, questionable weapons are at my place until you two are released.”

“Thanks for that,” Carl said.

Decamp nodded. “I’m afraid I couldn’t give the various authorities much information about what happened to you two. There will be a lot of questions.”

Carl said, “Par for the course.”

Griffin said, “Do you think that’s the end of it, Decamp?”

“I would think so. Cotton and his Deacons are gone and I doubt any other old followers of his are likely to come around. I plan to do a little digging into his movements over the past few years and see if there’s anything I can do about any other congregations Cotton might have left behind.”

“So what are you, Decamp?” Carl said. “Some sort of monster hunter?”

Decamp smiled. “I’m a retired English Lit professor, Sheriff. Now, you gentlemen need your rest. I’ll be in touch.” Decamp limped out of the room.

Carl said, “That guy makes you look like Mister Forthcoming, Wade.”

“He does,” Griffin said.

Charon said, “Okay, I’m getting the doctor.” She leaned over and kissed Griffin on the jaw, then hurried out of the room.

Griffin said, “Any idea what you’re going to tell the authorities, Carl?”

“Tell them to go fuck themselves if it comes to it.”

“How do you keep getting re-elected?”

“Nobody else wants the job.”

“I can see that.”

Carl took a long breath. “You think we’re really done with vampires, Wade?”

“Decamp seemed to think so. I’d sure as hell like to think so too. Maybe we’re done with the supernatural.”

“The Blackbournes are still out there. They let me know they weren’t done with me. With you either.”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” said Griffin. “Don’t really know what else we can do.”

Carl nodded.

Both men were quiet for a long time.

Thanks for reading this Cohesion book.

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Further titles are shown over the next few pages.

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Geoff Brown - Director, Cohesion Press.

Mayday Hills Lunatic Asylum

Beechworth, Australia

Amanda J Spedding - Editor-in-chief, Cohesion Press

Sydney, Australia

Man with the Iron Heart by Mat Nastos

ISBN - 9781925623062

Nazis, Norse Gods, and Lovecraftian monsters: what more could you ask for in the midst of World War 2?

“... Hellboy meets Inglorious Basterds.”

— Alan Baxter, best-selling author of the Alex Caine series

SNAFU: Black Ops by Geoff Brown & Amanda J. Spedding

ISBN - 9781925623024

The best of Special Forces face their greatest challenge. The undead, monsters, mutations… no-one believed, and now they’re trying to kill us.

“…every SNAFU delivers the goods.”

— Tim Miller, director of Deadpool

Primordial by David Wood & Alan Baxter

ISBN - 9780994630445

When an eccentric billionaire and a renegade marine biologist meet a legendary lake monster, what could possibly go wrong?

“Primordial has everything... a thriller that is hard to put down.”

— Jeremy Robinson, best-selling author of the Chess Team series

Table of Contents

- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
- CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
- CHAPTER THIRTY
- CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
- CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR